20923	----	A NEGRO EXPLORER AT THE NORTH POLE [Illustration: MATTHEW A. HENSON] A NEGRO EXPLORER AT THE NORTH POLE BY MATTHEW A. HENSON WITH A FOREWORD BY ROBERT E. PEARY REAR ADMIRAL, U. S. N., RETIRED AND AN INTRODUCTION BY BOOKER T. WASHINGTON _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS_ NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS _Copyright, 1912, by_ FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY _All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian_ _February, 1912_ FOREWORD Friends of Arctic exploration and discovery, with whom I have come in contact, and many whom I know only by letter, have been greatly interested in the fact of a colored man being an effective member of a serious Arctic expedition, and going north, not once, but numerous times during a period of over twenty years, in a way that showed that he not only could and did endure all the stress of Arctic conditions and work, but that he evidently found pleasure in the work. The example and experience of Matthew Henson, who has been a member of each and of all my Arctic expeditions, since '91 (my trip in 1886 was taken before I knew Henson) is only another one of the multiplying illustrations of the fact that race, or color, or bringing-up, or environment, count nothing against a determined heart, if it is backed and aided by intelligence. Henson proved his fitness by long and thorough apprenticeship, and his participation in the final victory which planted the Stars and Stripes at the North Pole, and won for this country the international prize of nearly four centuries, is a distinct credit and feather in the cap of his race. As I wired Charles W. Anderson, collector of internal revenue, and chairman of the dinner which was given to Henson in New York, in October, 1909, on the occasion of the presentation to him of a gold watch and chain by his admirers: "I congratulate you and your race upon Matthew Henson. He has driven home to the world your great adaptability and the fiber of which you are made. He has added to the moral stature of every intelligent man among you. His is the hard-earned reward of tried loyalty, persistence, and endurance. He should be an everlasting example to your young men that these qualities will win whatever object they are directed at. He deserves every attention you can show him. I regret that it is impossible for me to be present at your dinner. My compliments to your assembled guests." It would be superfluous to enlarge on Henson in this introduction. His work in the north has already spoken for itself and for him. His book will speak for itself and him. Yet two of the interesting points which present themselves in connection with his work may be noted. Henson, son of the tropics, has proven through years, his ability to stand tropical, temperate, and the fiercest stress of frigid, climate and exposure, while on the other hand, it is well known that the inhabitants of the highest north, tough and hardy as they are to the rigors of their own climate, succumb very quickly to the vagaries of even a temperate climate. The question presents itself at once: "Is it a difference in physical fiber, or in brain and will power, or is the difference in the climatic conditions themselves?" Again it is an interesting fact that in the final conquest of the "prize of the centuries," not alone individuals, but _races_ were represented. On that bitter brilliant day in April, 1909, when the Stars and Stripes floated at the North Pole, Caucasian, Ethiopian, and Mongolian stood side by side at the apex of the earth, in the harmonious companionship resulting from hard work, exposure, danger, and a common object. R. E. PEARY. _Washington, Dec., 1911._ TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE FOREWORD v INTRODUCTION xv CHAPTER I THE EARLY YEARS: SCHOOLBOY, CABIN-BOY, SEAMAN, AND LIEUTENANT PEARY'S BODY-SERVANT--FIRST TRIPS TO THE ARCTIC 1 CHAPTER II OFF FOR THE POLE--HOW THE OTHER EXPLORERS LOOKED--THE LAMB-LIKE ESQUIMOS--ARRIVAL AT ETAH 15 CHAPTER III FINDING OF RUDOLPH FRANKE--WHITNEY LANDED--TRADING AND COALING--FIGHTING THE ICE-PACKS 26 CHAPTER IV PREPARING FOR WINTER AT CAPE SHERIDAN--THE ARCTIC LIBRARY 35 CHAPTER V MAKING PEARY SLEDGES--HUNTING IN THE ARCTIC NIGHT--THE EXCITABLE DOGS AND THEIR HABITS 40 CHAPTER VI THE PEARY PLAN--A RAIN OF ROCKS--MY FRIENDS, THE ESQUIMOS 46 CHAPTER VII SLEDGING TO CAPE COLUMBIA--HOT SOLDERING IN COLD WEATHER 52 CHAPTER VIII IN CAMP AT COLUMBIA--LITERARY IGLOOS--THE MAGNIFICENT DESOLATION OF THE ARCTIC 62 CHAPTER IX READY FOR THE DASH TO THE POLE--THE COMMANDER'S ARRIVAL 70 CHAPTER X FORWARD! MARCH! 75 CHAPTER XI FIGHTING UP THE POLAR SEA--HELD UP BY THE "BIG LEAD" 78 CHAPTER XII PIONEERING THE WAY--BREAKING SLEDGES 93 CHAPTER XIII THE SUPPORTING-PARTIES BEGIN TO TURN BACK 103 CHAPTER XIV BARTLETT'S FARTHEST NORTH--HIS QUIET GOOD-BY 116 CHAPTER XV THE POLE! 127 CHAPTER XVI THE FAST TREK BACK TO LAND 140 CHAPTER XVII SAFE ON THE ROOSEVELT--POOR MARVIN 145 CHAPTER XVIII AFTER MUSK-OXEN--THE DOCTOR'S SCIENTIFIC EXPEDITION 153 CHAPTER XIX THE ROOSEVELT STARTS FOR HOME--ESQUIMO VILLAGES--NEW DOGS AND NEW DOG FIGHTS 161 CHAPTER XX TWO NARROW ESCAPES--ARRIVAL AT ETAH--HARRY WHITNEY--DR. COOK'S CLAIMS 170 CHAPTER XXI ETAH TO NEW YORK--COMING OF MAIL AND REPORTERS--HOME! 180 APPENDIX I--NOTES ON THE ESQUIMOS 189 APPENDIX II--LIST OF SMITH SOUND ESQUIMOS 196 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS MATTHEW A. HENSON _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE ROBERT E. PEARY IN HIS NORTH POLE FURS 76 THE FOUR NORTH POLE ESQUIMOS 77 CAMP MORRIS K. JESUP AT THE NORTH POLE 122 MATTHEW A. HENSON IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE SLEDGE JOURNEY TO THE POLE AND BACK 123 THE "ROOSEVELT" IN WINTER QUARTERS AT CAPE SHERIDAN 138 MATTHEW A. HENSON IN HIS NORTH POLE FURS, TAKEN AFTER HIS RETURN TO CIVILIZATION 139 INTRODUCTION One of the first questions which Commander Peary was asked when he returned home from his long, patient, and finally successful struggle to reach the Pole was how it came about that, beside the four Esquimos, Matt Henson, a Negro, was the only man to whom was accorded the honor of accompanying him on the final dash to the goal. The question was suggested no doubt by the thought that it was but natural that the positions of greatest responsibility and honor on such an expedition would as a matter of course fall to the white men of the party rather than to a Negro. To this question, however, Commander Peary replied, in substance: "Matthew A. Henson, my Negro assistant, has been with me in one capacity or another since my second trip to Nicaragua in 1887. I have taken him on each and all of my expeditions, except the first, and also without exception on each of my farthest sledge trips. This position I have given him primarily because of his adaptability and fitness for the work and secondly on account of his loyalty. He is a better dog driver and can handle a sledge better than any man living, except some of the best Esquimo hunters themselves." In short, Matthew Henson, next to Commander Peary, held and still holds the place of honor in the history of the expedition that finally located the position of the Pole, because he was the best man for the place. During twenty-three years of faithful service he had made himself indispensable. From the position of a servant he rose to that of companion and assistant in one of the most dangerous and difficult tasks that was ever undertaken by men. In extremity, when both the danger and the difficulty were greatest, the Commander wanted by his side the man upon whose skill and loyalty he could put the most absolute dependence and when that man turned out to be black instead of white, the Commander was not only willing to accept the service but was at the same time generous enough to acknowledge it. There never seems to have been any doubt in Commander Peary's mind about Henson's part and place in the expedition. Matt Henson, who was born in Charles County, Maryland, August 8, 1866, began life as a cabin-boy on an ocean steamship, and before he met Commander Peary had already made a voyage to China. He was eighteen years old when he made the acquaintance of Commander Peary which gave him his chance. During the twenty-three years in which he was the companion of the explorer he not only had time and opportunity to perfect himself in his knowledge of the books, but he acquired a good practical knowledge of everything that was a necessary part of the daily life in the ice-bound wilderness of polar exploration. He was at times a blacksmith, a carpenter, and a cook. He was thoroughly acquainted with the life, customs, and language of the Esquimos. He himself built the sledges with which the journey to the Pole was successfully completed. He could not merely drive a dog-team or skin a musk-ox with the skill of a native, but he was something of a navigator as well. In this way Mr. Henson made himself not only the most trusted but the most useful member of the expedition. I am reminded in this connection that Matthew Henson is not the first colored man who by his fidelity and devotion has made himself the trusty companion of the men who have explored and opened up the western continent. Even in the days when the Negro had little or no opportunity to show his ability as a leader, he proved himself at least a splendid follower, and there are few great adventures in which the American white man has engaged where he has not been accompanied by a colored man. Nearly all the early Spanish explorers were accompanied by Negroes. It is said that the first ship built in America was constructed by the slaves of Vasquez de Ayllon, who attempted to establish a Spanish settlement where Jamestown, Virginia, was later founded. Balboa had 30 Negroes with him, and they assisted him in constructing the first ship on the Pacific coast. Three hundred slaves were brought to this country by Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico, and it is said that the town of Santiago del Principe was founded by Negro slaves who later rebelled against their Spanish masters. Of the story of those earlier Negro explorers we have, aside from the Negro Estevan or "little Steve," who was the guide and leader in the search for the fabulous seven cities, almost nothing more than a passing reference in the accounts which have come down to us. Now, a race which has come up from slavery; which is just now for the first time learning to build for itself homes, churches, schools; which is learning for the first time to start banks, organize insurance companies, erect manufacturing plants, establish hospitals; a race which is doing all the fundamental things for the first time; which has, in short, its history before it instead of behind; such a race in such conditions needs for its own encouragement, as well as to justify the hopes of its friends, the records of the members of the race who have been a part of any great and historic achievement. For this reason, as well as for others; for the sake of my race as well as the truth of history; I am proud and glad to welcome this account of his adventure from a man who has not only honored the race of which he is a member, but has proven again that courage, fidelity, and ability are honored and rewarded under a black skin as well as under a white. BOOKER T. WASHINGTON. Principal, Tuskegee Normal and Industrial Institute. A NEGRO EXPLORER AT THE NORTH POLE CHAPTER I THE EARLY YEARS: SCHOOLBOY, CABIN-BOY, SEAMAN, AND LIEUTENANT PEARY'S BODY-SERVANT--FIRST TRIPS TO THE ARCTIC When the news of the discovery of the North Pole, by Commander Peary, was first sent to the world, a distinguished citizen of New York City, well versed in the affairs of the Peary Arctic Club, made the statement, that he was sure that Matt Henson had been with Commander Peary on the day of the discovery. There were not many people who knew who Henson was, or the reason why the gentleman had made the remark, and, when asked why he was so certain, he explained that, for the best part of the twenty years of Commander Peary's Arctic work, his faithful and often only companion was Matthew Alexander Henson. To-day there is a more general knowledge of Commander Peary, his work and his success, and a vague understanding of the fact that Commander Peary's sole companion from the realm of civilization, when he stood at the North Pole, was Matthew A. Henson, a Colored Man. To satisfy the demand of perfectly natural curiosity, I have undertaken to write a brief autobiography, giving particularly an account of my Arctic work. I was born in Charles County, Maryland, August 8, 1866. The place of my birth was on the Potomac River, about forty-four miles below Washington, D. C. Slavery days were over forever when I was born. Besides, my parents were both free born before me, and in my mother's veins ran some white blood. At an early age, my parents were induced to leave the country and remove to Washington, D. C. My mother died when I was seven years old. I was taken in charge by my uncle, who sent me to school, the "N Street School" in Washington, D. C., which I attended for over six years. After leaving school I went to Baltimore, Md., where I shipped as cabin-boy, on board a vessel bound for China. After my first voyage I became an able-bodied seaman, and for four years followed the sea in that capacity, sailing to China, Japan, Manilla, North Africa, Spain, France, and through the Black Sea to Southern Russia. It was while I was in Washington, D. C., in 1888, that I first attracted the attention of Commander Peary, who at that time was a civil engineer in the United States Navy, with the rank of lieutenant, and it was with the instinct of my race that I recognized in him the qualities that made me willing to engage myself in his service. I accompanied him as his body-servant to Nicaragua. I was his messenger at the League Island Navy Yard, and from the beginning of his second expedition to the Arctic regions, in 1891, I have been a member of every expedition of his, in the capacity of assistant: a term that covers a multitude of duties, abilities, and responsibilities. The narrative that follows is a record of the last and successful expedition of the Peary Arctic Club, which had as its attainment the discovery of the North Pole, and is compiled from notes made by me at different times during the course of the expedition. I did endeavor to keep a diary or journal of daily events during my last trip, and did not find it difficult aboard the ship while sailing north, or when in winter-quarters at Cape Sheridan, but I found it impossible to make daily entries while in the field, on account of the constant necessity of concentrating my attention on the real business of the expedition. Entries were made daily of the records of temperature and the estimates of distance traveled; and when solar observations were made the results were always carefully noted. There were opportunities to complete the brief entries on several occasions while out on the ice, notably the six days' enforced delay at the "Big Lead," 84° north, the twelve hours preceding the return of Captain Bartlett at 87° 47' north, and the thirty-three hours at North Pole, while Commander Peary was determining to a certainty his position. During the return from the Pole to Cape Columbia, we were so urged by the knowledge of the supreme necessity of speed that the thought of recording the events of that part of the journey did not occur to me so forcibly as to compel me to pay heed to it, and that story was written aboard the ship while waiting for favorable conditions to sail toward home lands. * * * * * It was in June, 1891, that I started on my first trip to the Arctic regions, as a member of what was known as the "North Greenland Expedition." Mrs. Peary accompanied her husband, and among the members of the expedition were Dr. Frederick A. Cook, of Brooklyn, N. Y., Mr. Langdon Gibson, of Flushing, N. Y., and Mr. Eivind Astrüp, of Christiania, Norway, who had the honor of being the companion of Commander Peary in the first crossing of North Greenland--and of having an Esquimo at Cape York become so fond of him that he named his son for him! It was on this voyage north that Peary's leg was broken. Mr. John M. Verhoeff, a stalwart young Kentuckian, was also an enthusiastic member of the party. When the expedition was ready to sail home the following summer, he lost his life by falling in a crevasse in a glacier. His body was never recovered. On the first and the last of Peary's expeditions, success was marred by tragedy. On the last expedition, Professor Ross G. Marvin, of Cornell University, lost his life by being drowned in the Arctic Ocean, on his return from his farthest north, a farther north than had ever been made by any other explorers except the members of the last expedition. Both Verhoeff and Marvin were good friends of mine, and I respect and venerate their memories. Naturally the impressions formed on my first visit to the Land of Ice and Snow were the most lasting, but in the coming years I was to learn more and more that such a life was no picnic, and to realize what primitive life meant. I was to live with a people who, the scientists stated, represented the earliest form of human life, living in what is known as the Stone Age, and I was to revert to that stage of life by leaps and bounds, and to emerge from it by the same sudden means. Many and many a time, for periods covering more than twelve months, I have been to all intents an Esquimo, with Esquimos for companions, speaking their language, dressing in the same kind of clothes, living in the same kind of dens, eating the same food, enjoying their pleasures, and frequently sharing their griefs. I have come to love these people. I know every man, woman, and child in their tribe. They are my friends and they regard me as theirs. After the first return to civilization, I was to come back to the savage, ice- and rock-bound country seven times more. It was in June, 1893, that I again sailed north with Commander Peary and his party on board the _Falcon_, a larger ship than the _Kite_, the one we sailed north in on the previous expedition, and with a much larger equipment, including several burros from Colorado, which were intended for ice-cap work, but which did not make good, making better dog-food instead. Indeed the dogs made life a burden for the poor brutes from the very start. Mrs. Peary was again a member of the expedition, as well as another woman, Mrs. Cross, who acted as Mrs. Peary's maid and nurse. It was on this trip that I adopted the orphan Esquimo boy, Kudlooktoo, his mother having died just previous to our arrival at the Red Cliffs. After this boy was washed and scrubbed by me, his long hair cut short, and his greasy, dirty clothes of skins and furs burned, a new suit made of odds and ends collected from different wardrobes on the ship made him a presentable Young American. I was proud of him, and he of me. He learned to speak English and slept underneath my bunk. This expedition was larger in numbers than the previous one, but the results, owing to the impossible weather conditions, were by no means successful, and the following season all of the expedition returned to the United States except Commander Peary, Hugh J. Lee, and myself. When the expedition returned, there were two who went back who had not come north with us. Miss Marie Ahnighito Peary, aged about ten months, who first saw the light of day at Anniversary Lodge on the 12th of the previous September, was taken by her mother to her kinfolks in the South. Mrs. Peary also took a young Esquimo girl, well known among us as "Miss Bill," along with her, and kept her for nearly a year, when she gladly permitted her to return to Greenland and her own people. Miss Bill is now grown up, and has been married three times and widowed, not by death but by desertion. She is known as a "Holy Terror." I do not know the reason why, but I have my suspicions. The memory of the winter of 1894 and 1895 and the summer following will never leave me. The events of the journey to 87° 6' in 1906 and the discovery of the North Pole in 1909 are indelibly impressed on my mind, but the recollections of the long race with death across the 450 miles of the ice-cap of North Greenland in 1895, with Commander Peary and Hugh Lee, are still the most vivid. For weeks and weeks, across the seemingly never-ending wastes of the ice-cap of North Greenland, I marched with Peary and Lee from Independence Bay and the land beyond back to Anniversary Lodge. We started on April 1, 1895, with three sledges and thirty-seven dogs, with the object of determining to a certainty the northeastern terminus of Greenland. We reached the northern land beyond the ice-cap, but the condition of the country did not allow much exploration, and after killing a few musk-oxen we started on June 1 to make our return. We had one sledge and nine dogs. We reached Anniversary Lodge on June 25, with one dog. The Grim Destroyer had been our constant companion, and it was months before I fully recovered from the effects of that struggle. When I left for home and God's Country the following September, on board the good old _Kite_, it was with the strongest resolution to never again! no more! forever! leave my happy home in warmer lands. * * * * * Nevertheless, the following summer I was again "Northward Bound," with Commander Peary, to help him secure, and bring to New York, the three big meteorites that he and Lee had discovered during the winter of 1894-1895. The meteorites known as "The Woman" and "The Dog" were secured with comparative ease, and the work of getting the large seventy-ton meteor, known as "The Tent," into such a position as to insure our securing it the following summer, was done, so it was not strange that the following summer I was again in Greenland, but the meteorite was not brought away that season. It is well known that the chief characteristic of Commander Peary is persistency which, coupled with fortitude, is the secret of his success. The next summer, 1897, he was again at the island after his prize, and he got it this time and brought it safely to New York, where it now reposes in the "American Museum of Natural History." As usual I was a member of the party, and my back still aches when I think of the hard work I did to help load that monster aboard the _Hope_. It was during this voyage that Commander Peary announced his determination to discover the North Pole, and the following years (from 1898 to 1902) were spent in the Arctic. In 1900, the American record of Farthest North, held by Lockwood and Brainard, was equaled and exceeded; their cairn visited and their records removed. On April 21, 1902, a new American record of 84° 17' was made by Commander Peary, further progress north being frustrated by a lack of provisions and by a lane of open water, more than a mile wide. This lead or lane of open water I have since become more familiarly acquainted with. We have called it many names, but it is popularly known as the "Big Lead." Going north, meeting it can be depended upon. It is situated just a few miles north of the 84th parallel, and is believed to mark the continental shelf of the land masses in the Northern Hemisphere. During the four years from 1898 to 1902, which were continuously spent in the regions about North Greenland, we had every experience, except death, that had ever fallen to the lot of the explorers who had preceded us, and more than once we looked death squarely in the face. Besides, we had many experiences that earlier explorers did not meet. In January, 1899, Commander Peary froze his feet so badly that all but one of his toes fell off. After the return home, in 1902, it was three years before Commander Peary made another attack on the Pole, but during those years he was not resting. He was preparing to launch his final and "sincerely to be hoped" successful expedition, and in July, 1905, in the newly built ship, _Roosevelt_, we were again "Poleward-bound." The following September, the _Roosevelt_ reached Cape Sheridan, latitude 82° 27' north, under her own steam, a record unequaled by any other vessel, sail or steam. Early the next year, the negotiation of the Arctic Ocean was commenced, not as oceans usually are negotiated, but as this ocean must be, by men, sledges, and dogs. The field party consisted of twenty-six men, twenty sledges, and one hundred and thirty dogs. That was an open winter and an early spring, very desirable conditions in some parts of the world, but very undesirable to us on the northern coast of Greenland. The ice-pack began disintegrating much too early that year to suit, but we pushed on, and had it not been for furious storms enforcing delays and losses of many precious days, the Pole would have been reached. As it was, Commander Peary and his party got to 87° 6' north, thereby breaking _all records_, and in spite of incredible hardships, hunger and cold, returned safely with all of the expedition, and on Christmas Eve the _Roosevelt_, after a most trying voyage, entered New York harbor, somewhat battered but still seaworthy. Despite the fact that it was to be his last attempt, Commander Peary no sooner reached home than he announced his intention to return, this time to be the last, and this time to win. However, a year intervened, and it was not until July 6, 1908, with the God-Speed and good wishes of President Roosevelt, that the good ship named in his honor set sail again. The narrative of that voyage, and the story of the discovery of the North Pole, follow. The ages of the wild, misgiving mystery of the North Pole are over, to-day, and forever it stands under the folds of Old Glory. CHAPTER II OFF FOR THE POLE--HOW THE OTHER EXPLORERS LOOKED--THE LAMB-LIKE ESQUIMOS--ARRIVAL AT ETAH July 6, 1908: We're off! For a year and a half I have waited for this order, and now we have cast off. The shouting and the tumult ceases, the din of whistles, bells, and throats dies out, and once again the long, slow surge of the ocean hits the good ship that we have embarked in. It was at one-thirty P. M. to-day that I saw the last hawse-line cast adrift, and felt the throb of the engines of our own ship. Chief Wardwell is on the job, and from now on it is due north. Oyster Bay, Long Island Sound: We are expecting President Roosevelt. The ship has been named in his honor and has already made one voyage towards the North Pole, farther north than any ship has ever made. July 7: At anchor, the soft wooded hills of Long Island give me a curious impression. I am waiting for the command to attack the savage ice- and rock-bound fortress of the North, and here instead we are at anchor in the neighborhood of sheep grazing in green fields. Sydney, N. S., July 17, 1908: All of the expedition are aboard and those going home have gone. Mrs. Peary and the children, Mr. Borup's father, and Mr. Harry Whitney, and some other guests were the last to leave the _Roosevelt_, and have given us a last good-by from the tug, which came alongside to take them off. Good-by all. Every one is sending back a word to some one he has left behind, but I have said my good-bys a long time ago, and as I waved my hand in parting salutation to the little group on the deck of the tug, my thoughts were with my wife, and I hoped when she next heard of me it would be with feelings of joy and happiness, and that she would be glad she had permitted me to leave her for an absence that might never end. The tenderfeet, as the Commander calls them, are the Doctor, Professor MacMillan, and young Mr. Borup. The Doctor is a fine-looking, big fellow, John W. Goodsell, and has a swarthy complexion and straight hair; on meeting me he told me that he was well acquainted with me by reputation, and hoped to know me more intimately. Professor Donald B. MacMillan is a professor in a college in Massachusetts, near Worcester, and I am going to cultivate his acquaintance. Mr. George Borup is the kid, only twenty-one years old but well set up for his age, always ready to laugh, and has thick, curly hair. I understand he is a record-breaker in athletics. He will need his athletic ability on this trip. I am making no judgments or comments on these fellows now. Wait; I have seen too many enthusiastic starters, and I am sorry to say some of them did not finish well. All of the rest of the members of the expedition are the same as were on the first trip of the _Roosevelt_:--Commander Peary, Captain Bartlett, Professor Marvin, Chief Engineer Wardwell, Charley Percy the steward, and myself. The crew has been selected by Captain Bartlett, and are mostly strangers to me. Commander Peary is too well known for me to describe him at length; thick reddish hair turning gray; heavy, bushy eyebrows shading his "sharpshooter's eyes" of steel gray, and long mustache. His hair grows rapidly and, when on the march, a thick heavy beard quickly appears. He is six feet tall, very graceful, and well built, especially about the chest and shoulders; long arms, and legs slightly bowed. Since losing his toes, he walks with a peculiar slide-like stride. He has a voice clear and loud, and words never fail him. Captain Bartlett is about my height and weight. He has short, curly, light-brown hair and red cheeks; is slightly round-shouldered, due to the large shoulder-muscles caused by pulling the oars, and is as quick in his actions as a cat. His manner and conduct indicate that he has always been the leader of his crowd from boyhood up, and there is no man on this ship that he would be afraid to tackle. He is a young man (thirty-three years old) for a ship captain, but he knows his job. Professor Marvin is a quiet, earnest person, and has had plenty of practical experience besides his splendid education. He is rapidly growing bald; his face is rather thin, and his neck is long. He has taken great interest in me and, being a teacher, has tried to teach me. Although I hope to perfect myself in navigation, my knowledge so far consists only of knot and splice seamanship, and I need to master the mathematical end. The Chief Engineer, Mr. Wardwell, is a fine-looking, ruddy-complexioned giant, with the most honest eyes I have ever looked into. His hair is thinning and is almost pure white, and I should judge him to be about forty-five years old. He has the greatest patience, and I have never seen him lose his temper or get rattled. Charley Percy is Commander Peary's oldest hand, next to me. He is our steward, and sees to it that we are properly fed while aboard ship, and he certainly does see to it with credit to himself. From Sydney to Hawks Harbor, where we met the _Erik_, has been uneventful except for the odor of the _Erik_, which is loaded with whale-meat and can be smelled for miles. We passed St. Paul's Island and Cape St. George early in the day and through the Straits of Belle Isle to Hawks Harbor, where there is a whale-factory. From here we leave for Turnavik. We have been racing with the _Erik_ all day, and have beaten her to this place. Captain Bartlett's father owns it, and we loaded a lot of boots and skins, which the Captain's father had ready for us. From here we sail to the Esquimo country of North Greenland, without a stop if possible, as the Commander has no intention of visiting any of the Danish settlements in South Greenland. Cape York is our next point, and the ship is sailing free. Aside from the excitement of the start, and the honor of receiving the personal visit of the President, and his words of encouragement and cheer, the trip so far has been uneventful; and I have busied myself in putting my cabin in order, and making myself useful in overhauling and stowing provisions in the afterhold. July 24: Still northward-bound, with the sea rolling and washing over the ship; and the _Erik_ in the distance seems to be getting her share of the wash. She is loaded heavily with fresh whale-meat, and is purposely keeping in leeward of us to spare us the discomfort of the odor. July 25 and 26: Busy with my carpenter's kit in the Commander's cabin and elsewhere. There has been heavy rain and seas, and we have dropped the _Erik_ completely. The _Roosevelt_ is going fine. We can see the Greenland coast plainly and to-day, the 29th, we raised and passed Disco Island. Icebergs on all sides. The light at midnight is almost as bright as early evening twilight in New York on the Fourth of July and the ice-blink of the interior ice-cap is quite plain. We have gone through Baffin's Bay with a rush and raised Duck Island about ten A. M. and passed and dropped it by two P. M. I was ashore on Duck Island in 1891, on my first voyage north, and I remember distinctly the cairn the party built and the money they deposited in it. I wonder if it is still there? There is little use for money up here, and the place is seldom visited except by men from the whalers, when their ships are locked in by ice. From here it is two hundred miles due north to Cape York. August 1: Arrived at Cape York Bay and went ashore with the party to communicate with the Esquimos of whom there were three families. They remembered us and were dancing up and down the shore, and waving to us in welcome, and as soon as the bow of the boat had grazed the little beach, willing hands helped to run her up on shore. These people are hospitable and helpful, and always willing, sometimes too willing. As an example, I will tell how, at a settlement farther north, we were going ashore in one of the whale-boats. Captain Bartlett was forward, astraddle of the bow with the boat-hook in his hands to fend off the blocks of ice, and knew perfectly well where he wanted to land, but the group of excited Esquimos were in his way and though he ordered them back, they continued running about and getting in his way. In a very short while the Captain lost patience and commenced to talk loudly and with excitement; immediately Sipsoo took up his language and parrot-like started to repeat the Captain's exact words: "Get back there, get back--how in ---- do you expect me to make a landing?" And thus does the innocent lamb of the North acquire a civilized tongue. It is amusing to hear Kudlooktoo in the most charming manner give Charley a cussing that from any one else would cause Charley to break his head open. For the last week I have been busy, with "Matt! The Commander wants you," "Matt do this," and "Matt do that," and with going ashore and trading for skins, dogs, lines, and other things; and also walrus-hunting. I have been up to my neck in work, and have had small opportunity to keep my diary up to date. We have all put on heavy clothing; not the regular fur clothes for the winter, but our thickest civilized clothing, that we would wear in midwinter in the States. In the middle of the day, if the sun shines, the heat is felt; but if foggy or cloudy, the heavy clothing is comfortable. All of the Esquimos want to come aboard and stay aboard. Some we want and will take along, but there are others we will not have or take along on a bet, and the pleasant duty of telling them so and putting them ashore falls to me. It is not a pleasant job to disappoint these people, but they would be a burden to us and in our way. Besides, we have left them a plentiful supply of needfuls, and our trading with them has been fair and generous. The "Crow's-Nest" has been rigged upon the mainmast, and this morning, after breakfast, Mr. Whitney, three Esquimos, and myself started in Mr. Whitney's motor-boat to hunt walrus. The motor gave out very shortly after the start, and the oars had to be used. We were fortunate in getting two walrus, which I shot, and then we returned to the ship for the whale-boat. We left the ship with three more Esquimos in the whale-boat, and got four more walrus. Sunday, at Kangerdlooksoah; the land of the reindeer, and the one pleasant appearing spot on this coast. Mr. Whitney and his six Esquimo guides have gone hunting for deer, and I have been ashore to trade for dogs and furs, and have gotten twenty-seven dogs, sealskin-lines for lashings, a big bearskin, and some foxskins. I try to get furskins from animals that were killed when in full fur and before they have started to shed, but some of the skins I have traded in are raw, and will have to be dried. I have had the disagreeable job of putting the undesirable ashore, and it was like handling a lot of sulky school children. Seegloo, the dog-owner, is invited to bring his pack aboard and is easily persuaded. He will get a Springfield rifle and loading-outfit and also a Winchester, if he will sell, and he is more than willing. And this is the story of day after day from Cape York to Etah Harbor, which we reached on August 12. CHAPTER III FINDING OF RUDOLPH FRANKE--WHITNEY LANDED--TRADING AND COALING--FIGHTING THE ICE-PACKS At Etah we take on the final load of coal from the _Erik_ and the other supplies she has for us, and from now on it will be farewell to all the world; we will be alone with our company, and our efforts will be towards the north and our evasive goal. At Etah, on going ashore, we were met by the most hopelessly dirty, unkempt, filth-littered human being any of us had ever seen, or could ever have imagined; a white man with long matted hair and beard, who could speak very little English and that only between cries, whimperings, and whines, and whose legs were swollen out of all shape from the scurvy. He was Rudolph Franke and had been left here the year before by Dr. F. A. Cook, an old acquaintance of mine, who had been a member of other expeditions of the Commander's. Franke was in a bad way, and the burden of his wail was, "Take me away from this, I have permission, see, here is Dr. Cook's letter," and he showed a letter from Dr. Cook, authorizing him to leave, if opportunity offered. Dr. Goodsell looked him over and pronounced him unfit to remain in the Arctic any longer than it would take a ship to get him out, and the Commander had him kindly treated, cleaned, medicated, and placed aboard the _Erik_. The poor fellow's spirits commenced to rise immediately and there is good chance of his recovery and safe return home. We learn that Dr. Cook, with two Esquimo boys, is over on the Grant Land side, and in probably desperate circumstances, if he is still alive. The Commander has issued orders in writing to Murphy and Billy Pritchard to be on the lookout for him and give him all the help he may need, and has also instructed the Esquimos to keep careful watch for any traces of him, while on their hunting trips. There is a cache of Dr. Cook's provisions here, which Franke turned over to the Commander, and Mr. Whitney has agreed to help Murphy and Billy to guard it. Mr. Harry Whitney is one of the party of men who came here on the _Erik_ to hunt in this region, and he has decided to stay here at Etah for the winter and wait for a ship to take him out next summer. The other two members of the hunting-party, Mr. Larned and Mr. Norton, returned on the _Erik_. If Mr. Whitney had asked me my advice, I would not have suggested that he remain, because, although he has a fine equipment, there will not be much sport in his experience, and there will be a great deal of roughness. He will have to become like the Esquimos and they will be practically his only companions. However, Mr. Whitney has had a talk with the Commander in the cabin of the _Roosevelt_, and the Commander has given his consent and best wishes. Mr. Whitney's supplies have been unloaded and some additions from the _Erik_ made, and there is no reason to fear for his safety. August 8, 1908: My forty-second birthday. I have not mentioned it to any one, and there's only one other besides myself who knows that to-day I am twice three times seven years of age. Seventeen years ago to-day, Commander Peary, hobbling about on his crutches with his right leg in a sling, insisted on giving me a birthday party. I was twenty-five years old then, and on the threshold of my Arctic experience. Never before in my life had the anniversary of my birth been celebrated, and to have a party given in my honor touched me deeply. Mrs. Peary was a member of the expedition then, and I suppose that it was due to her that the occasion was made a memorable one for me. Last year, I was aboard the _Roosevelt_ in the shadow of the "Statue of Liberty" in New York Bay, and was treated to a pleasant surprise by my wife. Commander Peary gave me explicit instructions to get Nipsangwah and Myah ashore as quick as the Creator would let them, but to be sure that their seven curs were kept aboard; these two huskies having exalted ideas as to their rights and privileges. Egingwah, or Karko as we knew him, and Koodlootinah and his family were to come aboard. Acting under orders, I obeyed, but it was not a pleasant task. I have known men who needed dogs less to pay a great deal more for one pup than was paid to Nipsangwah for his pack of seven. The dogs are a valuable asset to this people and these two men were dependent on their little teams to a greater extent than on the plates and cups of tin which they received in exchange for them. August 8-9, 1908: Have been trading with the natives without any trouble; they will give anything I want for anything that I have that they want. "It's a shame to take the money," or, as money is unknown up here and has no value, I should say that I should be ashamed to take such an advantage of them, but if I should stop to consider the freight-rates to this part of the world, no doubt a hatchet or a knife is worth just what it can be traded in for. The ship has been rapidly littering up until it is now in a most perfect state of dirtiness, and in order to get the supplies from the _Erik_, coal, etc., the movable articles, dogs, Esquimos, etc., will have to be shifted and yours truly is helping. The dogs have been landed on a small island in the bay, where they are safe and cannot run away, and they can have a glorious time, fighting and getting acquainted with each other. Some of the Esquimos' goods are ashore, some aboard the _Erik_, and the rest forward on the roof of the deck-house, while the _Roosevelt_ is getting her coal aboard. The loading of the meat and coal has been done by the crews of the ships, assisted and _hampered_ by some of the Esquimos, and I have been walrus-hunting, and taxidermizing; that is, I have skinned a pair of walrus so that they can be stuffed and mounted. This job has been very carefully, and I think successfully, done and the skins have been towed ashore. The hearts, livers, and kidneys have been brought aboard and the meat is to be loaded to-morrow. Two boat-loads of bones have been rowed over to Dog Island for dog-food. Coaling and stowing of whale-meat aboard the _Roosevelt_ was finished at noon, August 15, and all day Sunday, August 16, all hands were at the job transferring to the _Erik_ the boxes of provisions that were to be left at the cache at Etah. Bos'n Murphy and Billy Pritchard, the cabin-boy, are to stay as guard until the return of the _Roosevelt_ next summer. A blinding storm of wind and snow prevented the _Roosevelt_ from starting until about two-thirty P. M., when, with all the dogs a-howling, the whistle tooting, and the crew and members cheering, we steamed out of the Harbor into Smith Sound, and a thick fog which compelled half-speed past Littleton Island and into heavy pack-ice. Captain Bartlett was navigating the ship and his eagle eye found a lane of open water from Cape Sabine to Bache Peninsula and open water from Ellesmere Land half-way across Buchanan Bay, but this lead closed on him, and the _Roosevelt_ had to stop. Late in the evening, the ice started to move and grind alongside of the ship, but did no damage except scaring the Esquimos. Daylight still kept up and we went to sleep with our boots on! From Etah to Cape Sheridan, which was to be our last point north in the ship, consumed twenty-one days of the hardest kind of work imaginable for a ship; actually fighting for every foot of the way against the almost impassable ice. For another ship it would have been impassable, but the _Roosevelt_ was built for this kind of work, and her worth and ability had been proven on the voyage of 1905. The constant jolting, bumping, and jarring against the ice-packs, forwards and backwards, the sudden stops and starts and the frequent storms made work and comfort aboard ship all but impossible. Had it been possible to be ashore at some point of vantage, to witness the struggles of our little ship against her giant adversaries would have been an impressive sight. I will not dwell on the trying hours and days of her successful battle, the six days of watching and waiting for a chance to get out of our dangerous predicament in Lincoln Bay, the rounding of the different capes en route, or the horrible jams in Lady Franklin Bay. The good ship kept at the fight and won by sheer bulldogged tenacity and pluck. Life aboard her during those twenty-one days was not one sweet song, but we did not suffer unusually, and a great deal of necessary work was done on our equipments. The Esquimo women sewed diligently on the fur clothing we were to wear during the coming winter and I worked on the sledges that were to be used. Provisions were packed in compact shape and every one was busy. Two caches of provisions were made ashore in the event of an overland retreat, and the small boats were fully provisioned as a precaution against the loss of the ship. We did not dwell on the thought of losing it, but we took no chances. Meeting with continual rebuffs, but persistently forging ahead and gaining deliberately day by day, the _Roosevelt_ pushed steadily northward through the ice-encumbered waters of Kane Basin, Kennedy and Robeson Channels, and around the northeast corner of Grant Land to the shelter of Cape Sheridan, which was reached early in the afternoon of September 5, 1908. CHAPTER IV PREPARING FOR WINTER AT CAPE SHERIDAN--THE ARCTIC LIBRARY Now that we had reached Cape Sheridan in the ship, every one's spirits seemed to soar. It was still daylight, with the sun above the horizon, and although two parties had been landed for hunting, no one seemed to be in any particular hurry. The weather was cold but calm, and even in the rush of unloading the ship I often heard the hum of songs, and had it not been for the fur-jacketed men who were doing the work, it would not have been difficult for me to imagine myself in a much warmer climate. Of course! in accordance with my agreement with some other members of this expedition I kept my eye on the Commander, and although it was not usual for him to break forth into song, I frequently heard him humming a popular air, and I knew that for the present all was well with him. With the ship lightened, by being unloaded, to a large extent, of all of the stores, she did not very appreciably rise, but the Commander and the Captain agreed that she could be safely worked considerably closer to the shore, inside of the tide-crack possibly; and the _Roosevelt_ was made fast to the ice-foot of the land, with a very considerable distance between her and open water. Her head was pointed due north, and affairs aboard her assumed regulation routine. The stores ashore were contracted, and work on getting them into shape for building temporary houses was soon under way. The boxes of provisions themselves formed the walls, and the roofing was made from makeshifts such as sails, overturned whale-boats, and rocks; and had the ship got adrift and been lost, the houses on shore would have proved ample and comfortable for housing the expedition. A ship, and a good one like the _Roosevelt_, is the prime necessity in getting an expedition within striking distance of the Pole, but once here the ship (and no other boat, but the _Roosevelt_ could get here) is not indispensable, and accordingly all precautions against her loss were taken. It is a fact that Arctic expeditions have lost their ships early in the season and in spite of the loss have done successful work. The last Ziegler Polar Expedition of 1903-1905 is an example. In the ship _America_ they reached Crown Prince Rudolph Island on the European route, and shortly after landing, in the beginning of the long night, the _America_ went adrift, and has never been seen since. It is not difficult to imagine her still drifting in the lonely Arctic Ocean, with not a soul aboard (a modern phantom ship in a sea of eternal ice). A more likely idea is that she has been crushed by the ice, and sunk, and the skeleton of her hulk strewn along the bottom of the sea, full many a fathom deep. * * * * * However, the depressing probabilities of the venture we are on are not permitted to worry us. The _Roosevelt_ is a "Homer" and we confidently expect to have her take us back to home and loved ones. In the meantime, I have a steady job carpentering, also interpreting, barbering, tailoring, dog-training, and chasing Esquimos out of my quarters. The Esquimos have the run of the ship and get everywhere except into the Commander's cabin, which they have been taught to regard as "The Holy of Holies." With the help of a sign which tersely proclaims "No Admittance," painted on a board and nailed over the door, they are without much difficulty restrained from going in. The Commander's stateroom is a _state_ room. He has a piano in there and a photograph of President Roosevelt; and right next door he has a private bath-room with a bath-tub in it. The bath-tub is chock-full of impedimenta of a much solider quality than water, but it is to be cleared out pretty soon, and every morning the Commander is going to have his cold-plunge, if there is enough hot water. There is a general rule that every member of the expedition, including the sailors, must take a bath at least once a week, and it is wonderful how contagious bathing is. Even the Esquimos catch it, and frequently Charley has to interrupt the upward development of some ambitious native, who has suddenly perceived the need of ablutions, and has started to scrub himself in the water that is intended for cooking purposes. If the husky has not gone too far, the water is not wasted, and our stew is all the more savory. On board ship there was quite an extensive library, especially on Arctic and Antarctic topics, but as it was in the Commander's cabin it was not heavily patronized. In my own cabin I had Dickens' "Bleak House," Kipling's "Barrack Room Ballads," and the poems of Thomas Hood; also a copy of the Holy Bible, which had been given to me by a dear old lady in Brooklyn, N. Y. I also had Peary's books, "Northward Over the Great Ice," and his last work "Nearest the Pole." During the long dreary midnights of the Arctic winter, I spent many a pleasant hour with my books. I also took along with me a calendar for the years 1908 and 1909, for in the regions of noonday darkness and midnight daylight, a calendar is absolutely necessary. But mostly I had rougher things than reading to do. CHAPTER V MAKING PEARY SLEDGES--HUNTING IN THE ARCTIC NIGHT--THE EXCITABLE DOGS AND THEIR HABITS I have been busy making sledges, sledges of a different pattern from those used heretofore, and it is expected that they will answer better than the Esquimo type of open-work sledge, of the earlier expeditions. These sledges have been designed by Commander Peary and I have done the work. The runners are longer, and are curved upwards at each end, so that they resemble the profile of a canoe, and are expected to rise over the inequalities of the ice much better than the old style. Lashed together with sealskin thongs, about twelve feet long, by two feet wide and seven inches high, the load can be spread along their entire length instead of being piled up, and a more even distribution of the weights is made. The Esquimos, used to their style of sledge, are of the opinion that the new style will prove too much for one man and an ordinary team to handle, but we have given both kinds a fair trial and it looks as if the new type has the old beaten by a good margin. The hunting is not going along as successfully as is desired. The sun is sinking lower and lower, and the different hunting parties return with poor luck, bringing to the ship nothing in some cases, and in others only a few hares and some fish. The Commander has told me that it is imperative that fresh meat be secured, and now that I have done all that it is positively necessary for me to do here at the ship, I am to take a couple of the Esquimo boys and try my luck for musk-oxen or reindeer, so to-morrow, early in the morning, it is off on the hunt. This from my diary: Eight days out and not a shot, not a sight of game, nothing. The night is coming quickly, the long months of darkness, of quiet and cold, that, in spite of my years of experience, I can never get used to; and up here at Sheridan it comes sooner and lasts longer than it does down at Etah and Bowdoin Bay. Only a few days' difference, but it _is_ longer, and I do not welcome it. Not a sound, except the report of a glacier, broken off by its weight, and causing a new iceberg to be born. The black darkness of the sky, the stars twinkling above, and hour after hour going by with no sunlight. Every now and then a moon when storms do not come, and always the cold, getting colder and colder, and me out on the hunt for fresh meat. I know it; the same old story, a man's work and a dog's life, and what does it amount to? What good is to be done? I am tired, sick, sore, and discouraged. The main thing was game, but I had a much livelier time with some members of the Peary Arctic Club's expedition known as "our four-footed friends"--the dogs. The dogs are ever interesting. They never bark, and often bite, but there is no danger from their bites. To get together a team that has not been tied down the night before is a job. You take a piece of meat, frozen as stiff as a piece of sheet-iron, in one hand, and the harness in the other, you single out the cur you are after, make proper advances, and when he comes sniffling and snuffling and all the time keeping at a safe distance, you drop the sheet-iron on the snow, the brute makes a dive, and you make a flop, you grab the nearest thing grabable--ear, leg, or bunch of hair--and do your best to catch his throat, after which, everything is easy. Slip the harness over the head, push the fore-paws through, and there you are, one dog hooked up and harnessed. After licking the bites and sucking the blood, you tie said dog to a rock and start for the next one. It is only a question of time before you have your team. When you have them, leave them alone; they must now decide who is fit to be the king of the team, and so they fight, they fight and fight; and once they have decided, the king is king. A growl from him, or only a look, is enough, all obey, except the females, and the females have their way, for, true to type, the males never harm the females, and it is always the females who start the trouble. The dogs when not hitched to the sledges were kept together in teams and tied up, both at the ship and while we were hunting. They were not allowed to roam at large, for past experience with these customers had taught us that nothing in the way of food was safe from the attack of Esquimo dogs. I have seen tin boxes that had been chewed open by dogs in order to get at the contents, tin cans of condensed milk being gnawed like a bone, and skin clothing being chewed up like so much gravy. Dog fights were hourly occurrences, and we lost a great many by the ravages of the mysterious Arctic disease, piblokto, which affects all dog life and frequently human life. Indeed, it looked for a time as if we should lose the whole pack, so rapidly did they die, but constant care and attention permitted us to save most of them, and the fittest survived. Next to the Esquimos, the dogs are the most interesting subjects in the Arctic regions, and I could tell lots of tales to prove their intelligence and sagacity. These animals, more wolf than dog, have associated themselves with the human beings of this country as have their kin in more congenial places of the earth. Wide head, sharp nose, and pointed ears, thick wiry hair, and, in some of the males, a heavy mane; thick bushy tail, curved up over the back; deep chest and fore legs wide apart; a typical Esquimo dog is the picture of alert attention. They are as intelligent as any dog in civilization, and a thousand times more useful. They earn their own livings and disdain any of the comforts of life. Indeed it seems that when life is made pleasant for them they get sick, lie down and die; and when out on the march, with no food for days, thin, gaunt skeletons of their former selves, they will drag at the traces of the sledges and by their uncomplaining conduct, inspire their human companions to keep on. Without the Esquimo dog, the story of the North Pole, would remain untold; for human ingenuity has not yet devised any other means to overcome the obstacles of cold, storm, and ice that nature has placed in the way than those that were utilized on this expedition. CHAPTER VI THE PEARY PLAN--A RAIN OF ROCKS--MY FRIENDS THE ESQUIMOS The story of the winter at Cape Sheridan is a story unique in the experience of Arctic exploration. Usually it is the rule to hibernate as much as possible during the period of darkness, and the party is confined closely to headquarters. The Peary plan is different; and constant activity and travel were insisted on. There were very few days when all of the members of the expedition were together, after the ship had reached her destination. Hunting parties were immediately sent out, for it was on the big game of the country that the expedition depended for fresh meat. Professor Marvin commenced his scientific work, and his several stations were all remote from headquarters; and all winter long, parties were sledging provisions, equipment, etc., to Cape Columbia, ninety-three miles northwest, in anticipation of the journey to the Pole. Those who remained at headquarters did not find life an idle dream. There was something in the way of work going on all of the time. I was away from the ship on two hunting trips of about ten days each, and while at headquarters, I shaped and built over two dozen sledges, besides doing lots of other work. Naturally there were frequent storms and intense cold, and in regard to the storms of the Arctic regions of North Greenland and Grant Land, the only word I can use to describe them is "terrible," in the fullest meaning it conveys. The effect of such storms of wind and snow, or rain, is abject physical terror, due to the realization of perfect helplessness. I have seen rocks a hundred and a hundred and fifty pounds in weight picked up by the storm and blown for distances of ninety or a hundred feet to the edge of a precipice, and there of their own momentum go hurtling through space to fall in crashing fragments at the base. Imagine the effect of such a rainfall of death-dealing bowlders on the feelings of a little group of three or four, who have sought the base of the cliff for shelter. I have been there and I have seen one of my Esquimo companions felled by a blow from a rock eighty-four pounds in weight, which struck him fairly between the shoulder-blades, literally knocking the life out of him. I have been there, and believe me, I have been afraid. A hundred-pound box of supplies, taking an aërial joy ride, during the progress of a storm down at Anniversary Lodge in 1894, struck Commander Peary a glancing blow which put him out of commission for over a week. These mighty winds make it possible for the herbivorous animals of this region to exist. They sweep the snow from vast stretches of land, exposing the hay and dried dwarf-willows, that the hare, musk-oxen, and reindeer feed on. The Esquimo families who came north to Cape Sheridan with us on the _Roosevelt_ found life much more ideal than down in their native land. It was a pleasure trip for them, with nothing to worry about, and everything provided. Some of the families lived aboard ship all through the winter, and some in the box-house on shore. They were perforce much cleaner in their personal habits than they were wont to be in their own home country, but never for an instant does the odor or appearance of an Esquimo's habitation suggest the rose or geranium. The aroma of an East Side lunch-room is more like it. There were thirty-nine Esquimos in the expedition, men, women and children; for the Esquimo travels heavy and takes his women and children with him as a matter of course. The women were as useful as the men, and the small boys did the ship's chores, sledging in fresh water from the lake, etc. They were mostly in families; but there were several young, unmarried men, and the unattached, much-married and divorced Miss "Bill," who domiciled herself aboard the ship and did much good work with her needle. She was my seamstress and the thick fur clothes worn on the trip to the Pole were sewn by her. The Esquimos lived as happily as in their own country and carried on their domestic affairs with almost the same care-free irregularity as usual. The best-natured people on earth, with no bad habits of their own, but a ready ability to assimilate the vices of civilization. Twenty years ago, when I first met them, not one used tobacco or craved it. To-day every member of the tribe has had experience with tobacco, craves it, and will give most everything, except his gun, to get it. Even little toddlers, three and four years old, will eat tobacco and, strange to say, it has no bad effect. They get tobacco from the Danish missionaries and from the sailors on board the whaling, seal, and walrus-ships. Whisky has not yet gotten in its demoralizing work. It is my conviction that the life of this little tribe is doomed, and that extinction is nearly due. It will be caused partly by themselves, and partly by the misguided endeavors of civilized people. Every year their number diminishes; in 1894, Hugh J. Lee took the census of the tribe, and it numbered two hundred and fifty-three; in 1906, Professor Marvin found them to have dwindled to two hundred and seven. At this writing I dare say their number is still further reduced, for the latest news I have had from the Whale Sound region informs me that quite a number of deaths have occurred, and the birth-rate is not high. It is sad to think of the fate of my friends who live in what was once a land of plenty, but which is, through the greed of the commercial hunter, becoming a land of frigid desolation. The seals are practically gone, and the walrus are being quickly exterminated. The reindeer and the musk-oxen are going the same way, for the Esquimos themselves now hunt inland, when, up to twenty years ago, their hunting was confined to the coast and the life-giving sea. They are very human in their attributes, and in spite of the fact that their diet is practically meat only, their tempers are gentle and mild, and there is a great deal of affection among them. Except between husband and wife, they seldom quarrel; and never hold spite or animosity. Children are a valuable asset, are much loved, never scolded or punished, and are not spoiled. An Esquimo mother washes her baby the same way a cat washes her kittens. There are lots of personal habits the description of which might scatter the reading circle, so I will desist with the bald statement, that, for them, dirt and filth have no terrors. CHAPTER VII SLEDGING TO CAPE COLUMBIA--HOT SOLDERING IN COLD WEATHER If you will get out your geography and turn to the map of the Western Hemisphere you will be able to follow me. Take the seventieth meridian, west. It is the major meridian of the Western Hemisphere, its northern land extremity being Cape Columbia, Grant Land; southward it crosses our own Cape Cod and the island of Santo Domingo, and runs down through the Andes to Cape Horn, the southern extremity of South America. The seventieth meridian was our pathway to the Pole, based on the west longitude of 70°. Both Professor Marvin and Captain Bartlett took their observations at their respective farthests, and at the Pole, where all meridians meet, Commander Peary took his elevations of the sun, based on the local time of the Columbian meridian. Cape Columbia was discovered over fifty years ago, by the intrepid Captain Hall, who gave his life to Arctic exploration, and lies buried on the Greenland coast. From the time of the arrival of the _Roosevelt_ at Cape Sheridan, the previous September, communications with Cape Columbia were opened up, the trail was made and kept open all through the winter by constant travel between the ship and the cape. Loads of supplies, in anticipation of the start for the Pole, were sledged there. The route to Cape Columbia is through a region of somber magnificence. Huge beetling cliffs overlook the pathway; dark savage headlands, around which we had to travel, project out into the ice-covered waters of the ocean, and vast stretches of wind-swept plains meet the eye in alternate changes. From Cape Sheridan to Cape Columbia is a distance of ninety-three miles. In ordinary weather, it took about three and a half marches, although on the return from the Pole it was covered in two marches, men and dogs breezing in. On February 18, 1909, I left the _Roosevelt_ on what might be a returnless journey. The time to strike had come. Captain Bartlett and Dr. Goodsell had already started. The Commander gave me strict orders to the effect that I must get to Porter Bay, pick up the cache of alcohol left there late in the previous week, solder up the leaks, and take it to Cape Columbia, there to await his arrival. The cause of the alcohol-leakage was due to the jolting of the sledges over the rough ice, puncturing the thin tin of the alcohol-cases. I wish you could have seen me soldering those tins, under the conditions of darkness, intense cold, and insufficient furnace arrangement I had to endure. If there ever was a job for a demon in Hades, that was it. I vividly recall it. At the same instant I was in imminent danger of freezing to death and being burned alive; and the mental picture of those three fur-clad men, huddled around the little oil-stove heating the soldering-iron, and the hot solder dripping on the tin, is amusing now; but we were anything but amused then. The following is transcribed from my diary: February 18, 1909: Weather clear, temperature 28° at five A. M. We were ready to leave the ship at seven-thirty A. M., but a blinding gale delayed our start until nine A. M. Two parties have left for Columbia: Professor MacMillan, three boys, four sledges, and twenty-four dogs; and my party of three boys and the same outfit. Each sledge is loaded with about two hundred and fifty pounds of provisions, consisting of pemmican, biscuits, tea, and alcohol. The Arctic night still holds sway, but to-day at noon, far to the south, a thin band of twilight shows, giving promise of the return of the sun, and every day now will increase in light. Heavy going to Porter Bay, where we are to spend the night, and as soon as rested start to work soldering up the thirty-six leaky alcohol tins left there by George Borup last week. Professor MacMillan and his party have not shown up yet. They dropped behind at Cape Richardson and we are keeping a watch for them. Snow still drifting and the wind howling like old times. Have had our evening meal of travel-rations; pemmican, biscuits, and tea and condensed milk, which was eaten with a relish. Two meals a day now, and big work between meals. No sign of Professor MacMillan and his crew, so we are going to turn in. The other igloo is waiting for him and the storm keeps up. February 19, 1909: It was six A. M. when I routed out the boys for breakfast. I am writing while the tea is brewing. Had a good sleep last night when I did get to sleep. Snoring, talk about snoring! Sleeping with Esquimos on either side, who have already fallen asleep, is impossible. The only way to get asleep is to wake them up, get them good and wide-awake, inquire solicitously as to their comfort, and before they can get to sleep fall asleep yourself. After that, their rhythmic snores will only tend to soothe and rest you. Worked all day soldering the tins of alcohol, and a very trying job it was. I converted the oil-stove into an alcohol-burner, and used it to heat the irons. It took some time for me to gauge properly the height above the blue flame of the alcohol at which I would get the best results in heating the irons, but at last we found it. A cradle-shaped support made from biscuit-can wire was hung over the flame about an inch above it, and while the boys heated the irons, I squatted on my knees with a case of alcohol across my lap and got to work. I had watched Mr. Wardwell aboard the ship solder up the cases and I found that watching a man work, and doing the same thing yourself, were two different matters. I tried to work with mittens on; I tried to work with them off. As soon as my bare fingers would touch the cold metal of the tins, they would freeze, and if I attempted to use the mittens they would singe and burn, and it was impossible to hold the solder with my bearskin gloves on. But keeping everlastingly at it brings success, and with the help of the boys the work was slowly but surely done. Early this evening Professor MacMillan and his caravan arrived. He complimented me on the success of my work and informed me that they camped at Cape Richardson last night and that the trail had been pretty well blown over by the storm, but that the sledge-tracks were still to be seen. Dead tired, but not cold or uncomfortable. The stew is ready and so am I. Goodnight! February 20: Wind died down, sky clear, and weather cold as usual. Our next point is Sail Harbor and after breakfast we set out. The Professor has asked me the most advisable way; whether to keep to the sea-ice or go overland, and we have agreed to follow the northern route, overland across Fielden Peninsula, using Peary's Path. By this route we estimate a saving of eight miles of going, and we will hit the beach at James Ross Bay. Five P. M.: Sail Harbor. Stopped writing to eat breakfast, and then we loaded up and started. Reached here about an hour ago and from the fresh tracks in the snow, the Captain's or the Doctor's party have just recently left. It was evidently Doctor Goodsell and his crew who were here last; for Captain Bartlett left the _Roosevelt_ on February 15 and the Doctor did not leave until the 16th. The going has been heavy, due to loose snow and heavy winds. Also intense cold; the thermometers are all out of commission, due to bubbles; but a frozen bottle of brandy proves that we had at least 45° of cold. The igloo I built last December 5 is the one my party are camped in. Professor MacMillan and his party kept up with us all day, and it was pleasant to have his society. Writing is difficult, the kettle is boiled, so here ends to-day's entry. February 21: Easy wind, clear sky, but awful cold. Going across Clements Markham Inlet was fine, and we were able to steal a ride on the sledges most of the way, but we all had our faces frosted, and my short flat nose, which does not readily succumb to the cold, suffered as much as did MacMillan's. Even these men of iron, the Esquimos, suffered from the cold, Ootah freezing the great toe of his right foot. Perforce, he was compelled to thaw it out in the usual way; that is, taking off his kamik and placing his freezing foot under my bearskin shirt, the heat of my body thawing out the frozen member. Cape Colan was reached about half past nine this morning. There we reloaded, and I fear overloaded, the sledges, from the cache which has been placed there. Our loads average about 550 pounds per sledge and we have left a lot of provisions behind. We are at Cape Good Point, having been unable to make Cape Columbia, and have had to build an igloo. With our overloaded sledges this has been a hard day's work. The dogs pulled, and we pushed, and frequently lifted the heavily loaded sledges through the deep, soft snow; but we did not dump any of our loads. Although the boys wanted to, I would not stand for it. The bad example of seeing some piles of provision-cases which had been unloaded by the preceding parties was what put the idea in their heads. We will make Cape Columbia to-morrow and will have to do no back-tracking. We are moving forward. I have started for a place, and do not intend to run back to get a better start. February 22, 1909: Cape Columbia. We left Cape Good Point at seven A. M. and reached Cape Columbia at eight P. M. No wind, but weather thick and hazy, and the same old cold. About two miles from Good Point, we passed the Doctor's igloo. About a mile beyond this, we passed the "Crystal Palace" that had been occupied by the Captain. Six miles farther north, we passed a second igloo, which had been built by the Doctor's party. How did we know who had built and occupied these igloos? It was easy, as an Esquimo knows and recognizes another Esquimo's handwork, the same as you recognize the handwriting of your friends. I noted the neat, orderly, shipshape condition of the Captain's igloo, and the empty cocoa-tins scattered around the Doctor's igloo. The Doctor was the only one who had cocoa as an article of supply. Following the trail four miles farther north, we passed the Captain's second igloo. He had unloaded his three sledges here and gone on to Parr Bay to hunt musk-oxen. We caught up with the Doctor and his party at the end of the ice-foot and pushed on to Cape Columbia. We found but one igloo here and I did the "after you my dear Alphonse," and the Doctor got the igloo. My boys and I have built a good big one in less than an hour, and we are now snug and warm. CHAPTER VIII IN CAMP AT COLUMBIA--LITERARY IGLOOS--THE MAGNIFICENT DESOLATION OF THE ARCTIC Our heavy furs had been made by the Esquimo women on board the ship and had been thoroughly aired and carefully packed on the sledges. We were to discard our old clothes before leaving the land and endeavor to be in the cleanest condition possible while contending with the ice, for we knew that we would get dirty enough without having the discomfort of vermin added. It is easy to become vermin-infested, and when all forms of life but man and dog seem to have disappeared, the bedbug still remains. Each person had taken a good hot bath with plenty of soap and water before we left the ship, and we had given each other what we called a "prize-fighter's hair-cut." We ran the clippers from forehead back, all over the head, and we looked like a precious bunch but we had hair enough on our heads by the time we came back from our three months' journey, and we needed a few more baths and new clothes. When I met Dr. Goodsell at Cape Columbia, about a week after he had left the ship, he had already raised quite a beard, and, as his hair was black and heavy, it made quite a change in his appearance. The effect of the long period of darkness had been to give his complexion a greenish-yellow tinge. My complexion reminded him of a ginger cake with too much saleratus in it. February 23: Heavy snow-fall but practically no wind this morning at seven o'clock, when Dr. Goodsell left his igloo for Cape Colan to pick up the load he had left there when he lightened his sledges, also some loads of pemmican and biscuits that had been cached. We had supper together and also breakfast this morning, and as we ate we laughed and talked, and I taught him a few tricks for keeping himself warm. In spite of the snow, which was still falling, I routed out my boys, and in the dark we left camp for the western side of the cape, to get the four sledge-loads of rations that had been taken there the previous November. Got the loads and pushed south to Cape Aldrich, which is a point on the promontory of Cape Columbia. From Cape Aldrich the Commander intends to attack the sea-ice. After unloading the supplies on the point, we came back to camp at Cape Columbia. Shortly afterwards Captain Bartlett came into camp from his musk-ox-hunt around Parr Bay. He had not shot a thing and was very tired and discouraged, but I think he was glad to see me. He was so hungry that I gave him all the stew, which he swallowed whole. MacMillan and his party showed up about an hour after the Captain, and very shortly after George Borup came driving in, like "Ann Eliza Johnson, a swingin' down the line." I helped Mr. Borup build his igloo, for which he was grateful. He is a plucky young fellow and is always cheerful. He told us that Professor Marvin, according to the schedule, had left the ship on the 20th, and the Commander on the 21st, so they must be well on the way. While waiting in this camp for the Commander and Professor Marvin to arrive, we had plenty of work; re-adjusting the sledge-loads and also building snow-houses and banking them with blocks of snow, for the wind had eroded one end of my igloo and completely razed it to the level of the ground, and a more solidly constructed igloo was necessary to withstand the fury of the gale. We kept a fire going in one igloo and dried our mittens and kamiks. Though the tumpa, tumpa, plunk of the banjo was not heard, and our camp-fires were not scenes of revelry and joy, I frequently did the double-shuffle and an Old Virginia break-down, to keep my blood circulating. The hours preceding our advance from Cape Columbia were pleasantly spent, though we lost no time in literary debates. There were a few books along. Out on the ice of the Polar ocean, as far as reading matter went, I think Dr. Goodsell had a very small set of Shakespeare, and I know that I had a Holy Bible. The others who went out on the ice may have had reading matter with them, but they did not read it out loud, and so I am not in a position to say what their literary tastes were. Even on shipboard, we had no pigskin library or five-foot shelf of sleep-producers, but each member had some favorite books in his cabin, and they helped to form a circulating library. * * * * * While we waited here, we had time to appreciate the magnificent desolation about us. Even on the march, with loaded sledges and tugging dogs to engage attention, unconsciously one finds oneself with wits wool-gathering and eyes taking in the scene, and suddenly being brought back to the business of the hour by the fiend-like conduct of his team. There is an irresistible fascination about the regions of northern-most Grant Land that is impossible for me to describe. Having no poetry in my soul, and being somewhat hardened by years of experience in that inhospitable country, words proper to give you an idea of its unique beauty do not come to mind. Imagine gorgeous bleakness, beautiful blankness. It never seems broad, bright day, even in the middle of June, and the sky has the different effects of the varying hours of morning and evening twilight from the first to the last peep of day. Early in February, at noon, a thin band of light appears far to the southward, heralding the approach of the sun, and daily the twilight lengthens, until early in March, the sun, a flaming disk of fiery crimson, shows his distorted image above the horizon. This distorted shape is due to the mirage caused by the cold, just as heat-waves above the rails on a railroad-track distort the shape of objects beyond. The south sides of the lofty peaks have for days reflected the glory of the coming sun, and it does not require an artist to enjoy the unexampled splendor of the view. The snows covering the peaks show all of the colors, variations, and tones of the artist's palette, and more. Artists have gone with us into the Arctic and I have heard them rave over the wonderful beauties of the scene, and I have seen them at work trying to reproduce some of it, with good results but with nothing like the effect of the original. As Mr. Stokes said, "it is color run riot." To the northward, all is dark and the brighter stars of the heavens are still visible, but growing fainter daily with the strengthening of the sunlight. When the sun finally gets above the horizon and swings his daily circle, the color effects grow less and less, but then the sky and cloud-effects improve and the shadows in the mountains and clefts of the ice show forth their beauty, cold blues and grays; the bare patches of the land, rich browns; and the whiteness of the snow is dazzling. At midday, the optical impression given by one's shadow is of about nine o'clock in the morning, this due to the altitude of the sun, always giving us long shadows. Above us the sky is blue and bright, bluer than the sky of the Mediterranean, and the clouds from the silky cirrus mare's-tails to the fantastic and heavy cumulus are always objects of beauty. This is the description of fine weather. Almost any spot would have been a fine one to get a round of views from; at Cape Sheridan, our headquarters, we were bounded by a series of land marks that have become historical; to the north, Cape Hecla, the point of departure of the 1906 expedition; to the west, Cape Joseph Henry, and beyond, the twin peaks of Cape Columbia rear their giant summits out to the ocean. From Cape Columbia the expedition was now to leave the land and sledge over the ice-covered ocean four hundred and thirteen miles north--to the Pole! CHAPTER IX READY FOR THE DASH TO THE POLE--THE COMMANDER'S ARRIVAL The Diary--February 23: Heavy snow-fall and furious winds; accordingly intense darkness and much discomfort. There was a heavy gale blowing at seven o'clock in the morning, on February 22, and the snow was so thick and drifty that we kept close to our igloos and made no attempt to do more than feed the dogs. My igloo was completely covered with snow and the one occupied by Dr. Goodsell was blown away, so that he had to have another one, which I helped to build. The wind subsided considerably, leaving a thick haze, but after breakfast, Professor MacMillan, Mr. Borup, and their parties, left camp for Cape Colan, to get the supplies they had dumped there, and carry them to Cape Aldrich. I took one Esquimo, Pooadloonah, and one sledge from the Captain's party, and with my own three boys, Ooblooyah, Ootah, and I-forget-his-name, and a howling mob of dogs, we left for the western side of Cape Columbia, and got the rest of the pemmican and biscuits. On the way back, we met the Captain, who was out taking exercise. He had nothing to say; he did not shake hands, but there was something in his manner to show that he was glad to see us. With the coming of the daylight a man gets more cheerful, but it was still twilight when we left Cape Columbia, and melancholy would sometimes grip, as it often did during the darkness of midwinter. Captain Bartlett helped us to push the loaded sledges to Cape Aldrich and nothing was left at Cape Columbia. When we got back to camp we found Professor Marvin and his party of three Esquimos there. They had just reached the camp and were at work building an igloo. Professor Marvin came over to our igloo and changed his clothes; that is, in a temperature of at least 45° below zero, by the light of my lantern he coolly and calmly stripped to the pelt, and proceeded to cloth himself in the new suit of reindeerskin and polar bearskin clothing, that had been made for him by the Esquimo woman, Ahlikahsingwah, aboard the _Roosevelt_. It had taken him and his party five days to make the trip from Sheridan to Columbia. February 26: This from my log: "Clear, no wind, temperature 57° below zero." Listen! I will tell you about it. At seven A. M. we quit trying to sleep and started the pot a-boiling. A pint of hot tea gave us a different point of view, and Professor Marvin handed me the thermometer, which I took outside and got the reading; 57° below; that is cold enough. I have seen it lower, but after forty below the difference is not appreciable. I climbed to the highest pinnacle of the cape and in the gathering daylight gazed out over the ice-covered ocean to get an idea of its condition. At my back lay the land of sadness, just below me the little village of snow-houses, the northern-most city on the earth (Commander Peary give it the name Crane City), and, stretching wide and far to the northward, the irresistible influence that beckoned us on; broken ice, a sinister chaos, through which we would have to work our way. Dark and heavy clouds along the horizon gave indication of open water, and it was easy to see that the rough and heavy shore-ice would make no jokes for us to appreciate. About an hour or so after the midday meal, a loud outcry from the dogs made me go outside to see what was up. This was on the afternoon of February 26. I quickly saw what the dogs were excited about. With a "Whoop halloo," three Komaticks were racing and tearing down the gradient of the land to our camp, and all of us were out to see the finish. Kudlooktoo and Arkeo an even distance apart; and, heads up, tails up, a full five sledge-lengths ahead, with snowdust spinning free, the dog-team of the ever victorious Peary in the lead. The caravan came to a halt with a grandstand finish that it would have done you good to witness. The Commander didn't want to stop. He immediately commenced to shout and issue orders, and, by the time he had calmed down, both Captain Bartlett and George Borup had loaded up and pushed forward on to the ice of the Arctic Ocean, bound for the trophy of over four hundred years of effort. The Peary discipline is the iron hand ungloved. From now on we must be indifferent to comfort, and like poor little Joe, in "Bleak House" we must always be moving on. CHAPTER X FORWARD! MARCH! Commander Peary was an officer of the United States Navy, but there never was the slightest military aspect to any of his expeditions. No banners flying, no trumpets blaring, and no sharp, incisive commands. Long ago, crossing the ice-cap of North Greenland, he carried a wand of bamboo, on one end of which was attached a little silk guidon, with a star embroidered on it, but even that had been discarded and the only thing military about this expedition was his peremptory "Forward! March!" What flags we had were folded and stowed on Commander Peary's sledge, and broken-out only at the North Pole. Captain Bartlett and Mr. George Borup were all alert and at attention, the command of preparation and the command of execution were quickly given in rapid succession, and they were off. From the diary. February 28, 1909: A bright, clear morning. Captain Bartlett and his crew, Ooqueah, Pooadloonah, and Harrigan; and George Borup and Karko, Seegloo, and Keshungwah, have set sail and are on their way. Captain Bartlett made the trail and George Borup was the scout, and a rare "Old Scout" he was. He kept up the going for three days and then came back to the land to start again with new loads of supplies. The party that stayed at Crane City until March 1, consisted of Commander Peary, MacMillan, Goodsell, Marvin, myself, and fourteen Esquimos, whom you don't know, and ninety-eight dogs, that you may have heard about. The dogs were double-fed and we put a good meal inside ourselves before turning-in on the night of February 28, 1909. The next morning was to be our launching, and we went to sleep full of the thought of what was before us. From now on it was keep on going, and keep on--and we kept on; sometimes in the face of storms of wind and snow that it is impossible for you to imagine. [Illustration: ROBERT E. PEARY IN HIS NORTH POLE FURS] [Illustration: THE FOUR NORTH POLE ESKIMOS (From Henson's own Photograph)] Day does not break in the Arctic regions, it just comes on quietly the same as down here, but I must say that at daybreak on March 1, 1909, we were all excitement and attention. A furious wind was blowing, which we took as a good omen; for, on all of Commander Peary's travelings, a good big, heavy, storm of blinding snow has been his stirrup-cup and here he had his last. Systematically we had completed our preparations on the two days previous, so that, by six A. M. of the 1st of March, we were ready and standing at the upstanders of our sledges, awaiting the command "Forward! March!" Already, difficulties had commenced. Ooblooyah and Slocum (Esquimo name, Inighito, but, on account of his dilatory habits, known as Slocum) were incapacitated; Ooblooyah with a swelled knee, and Slocum with a frozen heel. The cold gets you in most any place, up there. I and my three boys were ordered to take the lead. We did so, at about half past six o'clock in the morning. Forward! March! and we were off. CHAPTER XI FIGHTING UP THE POLAR SEA--HELD UP BY THE "BIG LEAD" Following the trail made by Captain Bartlett, we pushed off, every man at the upstander of his sledge to urge his team by whip and voice. It was only when we had perfect going over sheets of young ice that we were able to steal a ride on the sledges. The trail led us over the glacial fringe for a quarter of a mile, and the going was fairly easy, but, after leaving the land ice-foot, the trail plunged into ice so rough that we had to use pickaxes to make a pathway. It took only about one mile of such going, and my sledge split. "Number one," said I to myself, and I came to a halt. The gale was still blowing, but I started to work on the necessary repairs. I have practically built one sledge out of two broken ones, while out on the ice and in weather almost as bad as this; and I have almost daily during the journey had to repair broken sledges, sometimes under fiercer conditions; and so I will describe this one job and hereafter, when writing about repairing a sledge, let it go at that. Cold and windy. Undo the lashings, unload the load, get out the brace and bit and bore new holes, taking plenty of time, for, in such cold, there is danger of the steel bit breaking. Then, with ungloved hands, thread the sealskin thongs through the hole. The fingers freeze. Stop work, pull the hand through the sleeve, and take your icy fingers to your heart; that is, put your hand under your armpit, and when you feel it burning you know it has thawed out. Then start to work again. By this time the party has advanced beyond you and, as orders are orders, and you have been ordered to take the lead, you have to start, catch up, and pass the column before you have reached your station. Of course, in catching up and overtaking the party, you have the advantage of the well-marked trail they have made. Once again in the lead; and my boy, Ootah, had to up and break his sledge, and there was some more tall talking when the Commander caught up with us and left us there mending it. A little farther on, and the amiable Kudlooktoo, who was in my party at the time, busted his sledge. You would have thought that Kudlooktoo was the last person in Commander Peary's estimation, when he got through talking to him and telling him what he thought of him. The sledge was so badly broken it had to be abandoned. The load was left on the spot where the accident happened, and Kudlooktoo, much chastened and crestfallen, drove his team of dogs back to the land for a new sledge. We did not wait for him, but kept on for about two hours longer, when we reached the Captain's first igloo, twelve miles out; a small day's traveling, but we were almost dead-beat, from having battled all day with the wind, which had blown a full-sized gale. No other but a Peary party would have attempted to travel in such weather. Our breath was frozen to our hoods of fur and our cheeks and noses frozen. Spreading our furs upon the snow, we dropped down and endeavored to sleep, but sound sleep was impossible. It was a night of Plutonian Purgatory. All through the night I would wake from the cold and beat my arms or feet to keep the circulation going, and I would hear one or both of my boys doing the same. I did not make any entries in the diary that day, and there was many a day like it after that. It was cold and dark when we left camp number one on the morning of March 2, at half past six o'clock. Breakfast had warmed us up a bit, but the hard pemmican had torn and cut the roofs and sides of our mouths so that we did not eat a full meal, and we decided that at our next camp we would boil the pemmican in the tea and have a combination stew. I will say now that this experiment was tried, but it made such an unwholesome mess that it was never repeated. The Captain's and Borup's trail was still evident, in spite of the low drifts of the snow, but progress was slow. We were still in the heavy rubble-ice and had to continuously hew our way with pickaxes to make a path for the sledges. While we were at work making a pathway, the dogs would curl up and lie down with their noses in their tails, and we would have to come back and start them, which was always the signal for a fight or two. We worked through the belt of rubble-ice at last, and came up with the heavy old floes and rafters of ice-blocks, larger than very large flag-stones and fully as thick as they were long and wide; the fissures between them full of the drifted snow. Even with our broad snow-shoes on, we sank knee-deep, and the dogs were in up to their breasts, the sledges up to the floors and frequently turning over, so it was a long time before we had covered seven miles, to be stopped by open water. I took no chances on this lead, although afterwards I did not hesitate at more desperate looking leads than this was. Instead of ferrying across on a block of ice, I left one of my boys to attend the dogs and sledges, and with Ootah I started to reconnoiter. We found that there were two leads, and the safest way to cross the first was to go west to a point where the young ice was strong enough to bear the weight of the sledges. We got across and had not gone very far before the other lead, in spite of a detour to the east, effectually blocked us. Starting back to the sledges, Ootah said he was "_damn feel good_," and in Esquimo gave me to understand that he was going back to the ship. I tried to tell him different, as we walked back; and when we reached camp we found the Commander and his party, who had just come in; and the Commander gave Ootah to distinctly understand that he was not going back just yet. Orders were given to camp, and while the igloos were being built, Marvin and MacMillan took soundings. There had been more daylight than on the day before, and the gale had subsided considerably, but it was dark when we turned in to have our evening meal and sleep. March 3: Right after breakfast, my party immediately started, taking the trail I had found the day previous. Examining the ice, we went to the westward, until we came to the almost solid new ice, and we took a chance. The ice commenced to rafter under us, but we got across safely with our loads, and started east again, for two miles; when we found ourselves on an island of ice completely surrounded by the heavy raftered ice. Here we halted and mended sledges and in the course of an hour the whole party had caught up. The ice had begun to rafter and the shattering reports made a noise that was almost ear-splitting, but we pushed and pulled and managed to get out of the danger-zone, and kept going northwestward, in the hope of picking up the trail of the Captain and Borup, which we did after a mile of going. Close examination of the trail showed us that Borup and his party had retraced their steps and gone quite a distance west in order to cross the lead. It was on this march that we were to have met Borup and his party returning, so Marvin and his boy Kyutah were sent to look them up. The rest of the party kept on in the newly found trail and came to the igloo and cache that had been left there by Borup. The Commander went into the igloo, and we made the dogs fast and built our own igloos, made our tea and went to sleep. March 4: Heavy snow fall; but Commander Peary routed out all hands, and by seven o'clock we were following the Captain's trail. Very rough going, and progress slow up to about nine o'clock, when conditions changed. We reached heavy, old floes of waving blue ice, the best traveling on sea ice I had ever encountered in eighteen years' experience. We went so fast that we more than made up for lost time and at two o'clock, myself in the lead, we reached the igloo built by Captain Bartlett. It had been arranged that I should stop for one sleep at every igloo built by the Captain, and that he should leave a note in his igloo for my instructions; but, in spite of these previous arrangements, I felt that with such good traveling it would be just as wise to keep on going, and so we did, but it was only about half or three-quarters of an hour later when we were stopped by a lead, beside which the Captain had camped. With Ootah and Tommy to help, we built an igloo and crawled inside. Two hours later, the Commander and his party arrived, and we crawled out and turned the igloo over to him. Tommy, Ootah, and I then built another igloo, crawled inside, and blocked the doorway up with a slab of snow, determined not to turn out again until we had had a good feed and snooze. From my diary, the first entry since leaving the land; with a couple of comments added afterward: March 5: A clear bright morning, 20° below zero; quite comfortable. Reached here yesterday at two-forty-five P. M., after some of the finest going I have ever seen. Commander Peary, Captain Bartlett, and Dr. Goodsell here, and fourteen Esquimos. First view of the sun to-day, for a few minutes at noon, makes us all cheerful. It was a crimson sphere, just balanced on the brink of the world. Had the weather been favorable, we could have seen the sun several days earlier. Every day following he will get higher and higher, until he finally swings around the sky above the horizon for the full twenty-four hours. Early in the morning of the 5th, Peary sent a detachment of three Esquimos, in charge of MacMillan, back to bring in Borup's cache, left by him at the point where he turned back to return to the land for more loads. This detachment was back in camp by four o'clock in the afternoon of the same day. Nothing left to do but to rearrange the loads and wait for the lead to close. The land is still in sight. Professor Marvin has gone back with two boys and is expected to keep on to the alcohol cache at Cape Columbia, turn back and meet us here, or, if the ice freezes, to follow us until he catches up with us. We are husbanding our fuel, and two meals a day is our programme. We are still south of the Big Lead of 1906, but to all intents and purposes this is it. I am able to recognize many of the characteristics of it, and I feel sure it is the same old lead that gave us many an anxious hour in our upward and downward journey three years ago. Fine weather, but we are still south of the 84th parallel and this open water marks it. 8° below zero and all comfortable. We should be doing twenty or twenty-five miles a day good traveling, but we are halted by this open water. March 7: Professor MacMillan came into camp to-day with the cache he had picked up. There was quite a hullabaloo among the boys, and a great deal of argument as to who owned various articles of provender and equipment that had been brought into camp by MacMillan, and even I was on the point of jumping into the fracas in order to see fair play, until a wink from MacMillan told me that it was simply a put-up job of his to disconcert the Esquimos. Confidentially and on the side he has been dressing his heel, which in spite of all keeps on freezing, and is in very bad shape. His kamiks stick to the loose flesh and the skin will not form. All of the frost has been taken out, but I think skin-grafting is the only thing that will cure it. He wants to keep on going and asks me how far we have gone and wants to know if he shall tell Commander Peary about his injury. I have advised him to make a clean breast of it, but he feels good for a week or so more, and it is up to him. We eat, and sleep, and watch the lead, and wonder. Are we to be repulsed again? Is the unseen, mysterious guardian of this mist-covered region foiling us? The Commander is taking it with a great deal more patience than he usually has with obstacles, but in the face of this one he probably realizes the necessity of a calm, philosophic mood. Captain Bartlett has been here longer than any of us, and he is commencing to get nervous. Commander Peary and he have done what is nautically known as "swinging the ship," for the purpose of correcting compass errors, and after that there is nothing for them to do but wait. Captain Bartlett describes it as "Hell on Earth"; the Commander has nothing to say, and I agree with him. Dr. Goodsell reads from his little books, studies Esquimo language, writes in his diary and talks to me and the rest of the party, and waits. Professor MacMillan, with his eye ever to the south, and an occasional glance at his frozen heel, cracks a joke and bids us be cheerful. He is one _man_, and has surely made good. His first trip to this forsaken region, yet he wakes up from his sleep with a smile on his face and a question as to how a nice, large, juicy steak would go about now. This is no place for jokes, yet his jokes are cheering and make us all feel more light-hearted. He is the "life of the funeral" and by his cheerfulness has kept our spirits from sinking to a dead level, and when the Esquimos commenced to get cranky, by his diplomacy he brought them to think of other subjects than going back to the ship. He has started to kid us along by instituting a series of competitions in athletic endeavors, and the Esquimos fall for it like the Innocents that they are, and that is the object he is after. They have tried all of their native stunts, wrestling, boxing, thumb-pulling, and elbow-tests; and each winner has been awarded a prize. Most of the prizes are back on the ship and include the anchors, rudders, keel, and spars. Everything else has long since been given away, and these people have keen memories. The Big Lead has no attraction for the Esquimos and the waiting for a chance to cross it has given them much opportunity to complain of cold feet. It is fierce, listening to their whines and howls. Of all yellow-livered curs deliver me. We have the best Esquimos in the tribe with us, and expect them to remain steadfast and loyal, but after they have had time to realize their position, the precariousness of it begins to magnify and they start in to whimper, and beg to be allowed to go back. They remember the other side of this damnable open water and what it meant to get back in 1906. I do not blame them, but I have had the Devil's own time in making my boys and some of the others see it the way the Commander wants us to look at it. Indeed, two of the older ones, Panikpah and Pooadloonah, became so fractious that the Commander sent them back, with a written order to Gushue on the ship, to let them pack up their things and take their families and dogs back to Esquimo land, which they did. When the _Roosevelt_ reached Etah the following August, on her return, these two men were there, fat and healthy, and merrily greeted us. No hard feelings whatever. March 10: We could have crossed to-day, but there was a chance of Marvin and Borup catching up with their loads of alcohol, etc. Whether they catch up or not, to-morrow, early, we start across, and the indications are that the going will be heavy, for the ice is piled in rafters of pressure-ridges. * * * * * It was exasperating; seven precious days of fine weather lost; and fine weather is the exception, not the rule, in the Arctic. Here we were resting in camp, although we were not extremely tired and nowhere near exhausted. We were ready and anxious to travel on the 5th, next morning after we reached the "Big Lead," but were perforce compelled to inaction. And so did we wait for nearly seven days beside that lead, before conditions were favorable for a crossing. But early in the morning of March 11th the full party started; through the heaviest of going imaginable. Neither Borup nor Marvin had caught up, but we felt that unless something had happened to them, they would surely catch up in a few more days. CHAPTER XII PIONEERING THE WAY--BREAKING SLEDGES March 11, 1909: Clear, 45°. Off we go! Marvin and Borup have not yet shown up, but the lead is shut and the orders since yesterday afternoon have been to stand by for only twelve hours more; and while the tea is brewing I am using the warmth to write. We could have crossed thirty hours ago, but Commander Peary would not permit us to take chances; he wants to keep the party together as long as possible, and expects to have to send at least eight men back after the next march. MacMillan is not fit, and there are four or five of the natives who should be sent away. Three Esquimos apiece are too many, and I think Commander Peary is about ready to split the different crews of men and dogs. He himself is in very good shape and, due to his example, Captain Bartlett has again taken the field. A heavy storm of wind and snow is in progress, but the motion of the ice remains satisfactory. This is not a regular camp. We are sheltered north of a huge paleocrystic floeberg; and the dogs are at rest, with their noses in their tails. Dr. Goodsell has set his boys to work building an igloo, which will not be needed, for I see Ooqueah and Egingwah piling up the loads on their sledges, and Professor MacMillan is very busy with his own personal sledge. No halt, only a breathing spell and, as I have predicted, we are on our way again. This is an extremely dangerous zone to halt or hazard in. The ice is liable to open here at any moment and let us either sink in the cold, black water or drift on a block of frozen ice, much too thin to enable us to get on to the heavy ice again. Three miles wide at least. The foregoing was written while out on the ice of the Arctic Ocean, just after crossing the raftered hummocks of the ice of the Big Lead. While we were waiting for the rest of the expedition to gather in, I slumped down behind a peak of land or paleocrystic ice, and made the entry in my diary. We were not tired out; we had had more than six days' rest at the lead; and when it closed we pushed on across the pressure-ridges on to the heavy and cumbrous ice of the circumpolar sea. We were sure that we had passed the main obstruction, and in spite of the failure of Marvin and Borup to come in with the essentials of fuel-alcohol and food, Commander Peary insisted on pushing forward. Prof. Donald B. MacMillan was with the party, but Commander Peary knew, without his telling him, that he was really no longer fit to travel, and Dr. Goodsell was not as far north of the land as original plans intended, so when both MacMillan and Goodsell were told that they must start back to the ship, I was not surprised. It was on March 14 that the first supporting-party finally turned back. It was my impression that Professor MacMillan would command it, but Commander Peary sent the Doctor back in charge, with the two boys Arco and Wesharkoupsi. A few hours before the turning back of Dr. Goodsell, an Esquimo courier from Professor Marvin's detachment had overtaken us, with the welcome news that both Borup and Marvin, with complete loads, were immediately in our rear, safe across the lead that had so long delayed us. I was given instructions to govern my conduct for the following five marches and I was told to be ready to start right after breakfast. Dr. Goodsell came to me, congratulated me and, with the best wishes for success, bade me good-by. He was loath to go back, but he returned to the ship with the hearty assurance of every one that he had done good and effective work, equal to the best efforts of the more experienced members of the party. My boys, Ootah, Ahwatingwah, and Koolootingwah, under my command started north, to pioneer the route for five full marches, and it was with a firm resolve that I determined to cover a big mileage. We had been having extreme cold weather, as low as 59° below zero, and on the morning my party started the thermometers in the camp showed 49° below zero. An hour's travel brought us to a small lead, which was avoided by making a detour, and about four miles beyond this lead we came up to heavy old floes, on which the snow lay deep and soft. The sledges would sink to the depth of the cross-bars. Traveling was slow, and the dogs became demons; at one time, sullen and stubborn; then wildly excited and savage; and in our handling of them I fear we became fiendlike ourselves. Frequently we would have to lift them bodily from the pits of snow, and snow-filled fissures they had fallen into, and I am now sorry to say that we did not do it gently. The dogs, feeling the additional strain, refused to make the slightest effort when spoken to or touched with the whip, and to break them of this stubbornness, and to prevent further trouble, I took the leader or king dog of one team and, in the presence of the rest of the pack, I clubbed him severely. The dogs realized what was required of them, and that I would exact it of them in spite of what they would do, and they became submissive and pulled willingly, myself and the Esquimos doing our share at the upstanders. We got over the heavy floe-ice, to find ourselves confronted with jagged, rough ice, where we had to pickax our way. In one place we came to pressure-ridges separated by a deep gulch of very rough and uneven ice, in crossing which it took two men to manage each sledge, and another man to help pull them up on to the more even ice. We crossed several leads, mostly frozen over, and kept on going for over twelve hours. The mileage was small and, instead of elation, I felt discouragement. Two of the sledges had split their entire length and had to be repaired, and the going had been such that we could not cover any distance. We had a good long rest at the Big Lead for over six days, but at the end of this, my first day's pioneering, I was as tired out as I have ever been. It should be understood that while I was pioneering I was carrying the full-loaded sledges with about 550 pounds, while the other parties that were in the lead never carried but half of the regular load, which made our progress much slower. March 15: Bright, clear, and I am sure as cold as the record-breaking cold of the day previous. We made an early start, with hopes high; but the first two hours' traveling was simply a repetition of the going of the day before. But after that, and to the end of the day's march, the surface of the ice over which we traveled was most remarkably smooth. The fallen snow had packed solid into the areas of rough ice and on the edges of the large floes. The dogs, with tails up and heads out, stamped off mile after mile in rapid succession, and when we camped I conservatively made the estimate fifteen miles. It has to be good going to make such a distance with loaded sledges, but we made it and I was satisfied. March 16: We started going over ice conditions similar to the good part of the day before, but our hopes were soon shattered when the ice changed completely and, from being stationary, a distinct motion become observable. The movement of the ice increased, and the rumbling and roaring, as it raftered, was deafening. A dense fog, the sure indication of open water, overhung us, and in due time we came to the open lead, over which small broken floes were scattered, interspersed with thin young ice. These floes were hardly thick enough to hold a dog safely, but, there being no other way, we were obliged to cross on them. We set out with jaws squared by anxiety. A false step by any one would mean the end. With the utmost care, the sledges were placed on the most solid floes, and, with Ootah, the most experienced, in the lead, we followed in single file. Once started, there was no stopping; but push on with the utmost care and even pressure. You know that we got across, but there were instants during the crossing when I had my strongest doubts. After crossing the lead, the ice condition became horrible. Almost at the same time, three of the sledges broke, one sledge being completely smashed to pieces. We were forced to camp and start to work making two whole sledges from the wreckage of the three broken ones. We had barely completed this work when the Commander, the Captain, Marvin, Borup, and Esquimos came in. I was glad to see them all again, especially the smiling face of George Borup, whom I had not seen since the day he left Cape Columbia. We learned that MacMillan had been sent back to the ship on the 15th, that the party had been delayed on the second day's march by a new lead, which widened so rapidly and to such an extent that it was feared to be the twin sister of the Big Lead farther back. March 17: The whole party, with the exception of Professor Marvin and his detachment, remained in camp. Marvin was sent ahead to plot a route for the next marches of the column, and the party in camp busied itself in the general work of repairing sledges and equipment. The morning of the 18th found the main column ready to start, and start it did, in spite of the dreary outlook due to the condition of the weather and of the ice. Thermometer 40° below zero, and the loose ice to our right and in front distinctly in motion, but fortunately moving to the northward. A heavy wind of the force of a gale was at our backs, and for the first three miles our progress was slow. The hummocks of ice in wild disarrangement, and so difficult to cross that repeatedly the sledges were overturned; and one sledge was broken so badly that a halt had to be made to repair it. While repairing the sledge, our midday lunch of crackers was eaten. The dogs were not fed anything, experience having taught us that dogs will work better with hope for a reward in the future than when it is past. All that day the air was thick with haze and frost and we felt the cold even more than when the temperature was lower with the air clear. The wind would find the tiniest opening in our clothing and pierce us with the force of driving needles. Our hoods froze to our growing beards and when we halted we had to break away the ice that had been formed by the congealing of our breaths and from the moisture of perspiration exhaled by our bodies. When we finally camped and built our igloos, it was not with any degree of comfort that we lay down to rest. Actually it was more comfortable to keep on the march, and when we did rest it was fatigue that compelled. CHAPTER XIII THE SUPPORTING-PARTIES BEGIN TO TURN BACK March 19: We left camp in a haze of bitter cold; the ice conditions about the same as the previous day; high rafters, huge and jagged; and we pickaxed the way continuously. By noontime, we found ourselves alongside of a lead covered by a film of young ice. We forced the dogs and they took it on the run, the ice undulating beneath them, the same as it does when little wanton boys play at _tickley benders_, often with serious results, on the newly formed ice on ponds and brooks down in civilization. Our _tickley benders_ were not done in the spirit of play, but on account of urgent necessity, and as it was I nearly suffered a serious loss of precious possessions. One of the sledges, driven by Ahwatingwah, broke through the ice and its load, which consisted of my extra equipment, such as kamiks, mittens, etc., was thoroughly soaked. Luckily for the boy, he was at the side of the sledge and escaped a ducking. Foolishly I rushed over, but, quickly realizing my danger, I slowed down, and with the utmost care he fished out the sledge, and the dogs, shaking as with palsy, were gently urged on. Walking wide, like the polar bear, we crept after, and without further incident reached the opposite side of the lead. My team had reached there before me and, with human intelligence, the dogs had dragged the sledge to a place of safety and were sitting on their haunches, with ears cocked forward, watching us in our precarious predicament. They seemed to rejoice at our deliverance, and as I went among them and untangled their traces I could not forbear giving each one an affectionate pat on the head. For the next five hours our trail lay over heavy pressure ridges, in some places sixty feet high. We had to make a trail over the mountains of ice and then come back for the sledges. A difficult climb began. Pushing from our very toes, straining every muscle, urging the dogs with voice and whip, we guided the sledges. On several occasions the dogs gave it up, standing still in their tracks, and we had to hold the sledges with the strength of our bones and muscles to prevent them from sliding backwards. When we had regained our equilibrium the dogs were again started, and in this way we gained the tops of the pressure-ridges. Going down on the opposite side was more nerve-racking. On the descent of one ridge, in spite of the experienced care of Ootah, the sledge bounded away from him, and at a declivity of thirty feet was completely wrecked. The frightened dogs dashed wildly in every direction to escape the falling sledge, and as quickly as possible we slid down the steep incline, at the same time guiding the dogs attached to the two remaining sledges. We rushed over, my two boys and I, to the spot where the poor dogs stood trembling with fright. We released them from the tangle they were in, and, with kind words and pats of the hand on their heads, quieted them. For over an hour we struggled with the broken pieces of the wreck and finally lashed them together with strips of _oog-sook_ (seal-hide). We said nothing to the Commander when he caught up with us, but his quick eye took in at a glance the experience we had been through. The repairs having been completed, we again started. Before us stretched a heavy, old floe, giving us good going until we reached the lead, when the order was given to camp. We built our igloos, and boiled the tea and had what we called supper. Commander Peary called me over to his igloo and gave me my orders: first; that I should at once select the best dogs of the three teams, as the ones disqualified by me would on the following morning be sent back to the ship, in care of the third supporting party, which was to turn back. Secondly; that I should rearrange the loads on the remainder of the sledges, there now being ten in number. It was eight P. M. when I began work and two the following morning when I had finished. March 20: During the night, the Commander had a long talk with Borup, and in the morning my good friend, in command of the third supporting party, bade us all good-by and took his detachment back to land and headquarters. There were three Esquimos and seventeen dogs in his party. A fine and plucky young man, whose cheerful manner and ready willingness had made him a prime favorite; and he had done his work like an old campaigner. At the time of Borup's turning southward, Captain Bartlett, with two Esquimos, started out to the north to make trail. He was to act as pioneer. At ten-thirty A. M., I, with two Esquimos, followed; leaving at the igloos the Commander and Professor Marvin, with four Esquimos. The system of our marches from now on was that the first party, or pioneers, which consisted of Captain Bartlett, myself, and our Esquimos, should be trail-making, while the second party, consisting of Commander Peary and Marvin, with their Esquimos, should be sleeping; and while the first party was sleeping, the second should be traveling over the trail previously made. The sun was above the horizon the whole twenty-four hours of the day, and accordingly there was no darkness. Either the first or second party was always traveling, and progress was hourly made. March 21: Captain Bartlett got away early, leaving me in camp to await the arrival of Commander Peary and Marvin, with their party; and it was eight A. M. when they arrived. Commander Peary instructed me to the effect that, when I overtook the Captain, I should tell him to make as much speed as possible. The going was, for the first hour, over rough, raftered ice. Great care and caution had to be observed, but after that we reached a stretch of undulated, level ice, extending easily fifteen miles; and the exhilarating effect made our spirits rise. The snow-covering was soft, but with the help of our snow-shoes we paced off the miles, and at noon we caught up with the Captain and his boys. Together we traveled on, and at the end of an hour's going we halted for our noon-meal, consisting of a can of tea and three biscuits per man, the dogs doing the hungry looking on, as dogs have done and do and will do forever. As we sat and ate, we joshed each other, and the Esquimo boys joined in the good-natured raillery. The meal did not detain us long, and soon we were pushing on again as quickly as possible over the level ice, fearing that if we delayed the condition of the ice would change, for changes come suddenly, and frequently without warning. At nine P. M. we camped, the Captain having been on the go for fifteen hours, and I for thirteen; and we estimated that we had a good fourteen miles to our credit. March 22 was the finest day we had, and it was a day of unusual clearness and calm; practically no wind and a cloudless sky. The fields of ice and snow sparkled and glistened and the daylight lasted for the full twenty-four hours. It was six A. M. when Egingwah, the Commander's Esquimo courier, reached our camp, with the note of command and encouragement; and immediately the Captain and I left camp. Stretching to the northward was a brilliantly illuminated, level, and slightly drifted snow-plain, our imperial highway, presenting a spectacle grand and sublime; and we were truly grateful and inwardly prayed that this condition would last indefinitely. Without incident or accident, we marched on for fifteen hours, pacing off mile after mile in our steady northing, and at nine P. M. we halted. It was then we realized how utterly fatigued and exhausted we were. It took us over an hour and a half to build our igloos. We had a hard time finding suitable snow conditions for building them, and the weather was frightfully cold. The evening meal of pemmican-stew and tea was prepared, the dogs were fed, and we turned in. March 23: Our sleep-banked eyes were opened by the excitement caused by the arrival of Marvin and his division. He reported the same good going that we had had the day before, and also that he had taken an elevation of the sun and computed his latitude as 85° 46' north. We turned the igloos over to Marvin and his Esquimos, who were to await the arrival of the Commander, and Captain Bartlett and myself got our parties under way. Conditions are never similar, no two days are the same; and our going this day was nothing like the paradise of the day before. At a little distance from the igloos we encountered high masses of heavily-rubbled, old ice. The making of a trail through these masses of ice caused us to use our pickaxes continuously. It was backing and filling all of the time. First we would reconnoiter, then we would hew our way and make the trail, then we would go back and, getting in the traces, help the dogs pull the sledges, which were still heavily loaded. This operation was repeated practically all the day of March 23, except for the last hour of traveling, when we zigzagged to the eastward, where the ice appeared less formidable, consisting of small floes with rubble ice between and a heavy, old floe beyond. There we camped. The latitude was 85° 46' north. The course from the land to the Pole was not direct and due north, for we followed the lines of least resistance, and frequently found ourselves going due east or west, in order to detour around pressure ridges, floebergs, and leads. March 24: Commander Peary reached camp shortly after six A. M., and after a few brief instructions, we started out. The going not as heavy as the day previous; but the sky overcast, and a heavy drift on the surface made it decidedly unpleasant for the dogs. For the first six hours the going was over rough, jagged ice, covered with deep, soft snow; for the rest of the day it improved. We encountered comparatively level ice, with a few hummocks, and in places covered with deep snow. We camped at eight P. M., beside a very heavy pressure-ridge as long as a city street and as high as the houses along the street. March 25: Turned out at four-thirty A. M., to find a steadily falling snow storm upon us. We breakfasted, and fifteen minutes later we were once more at work making trail. Our burly neighbor, the pressure-ridge, in whose lee we had spent the night, did not make an insuperable obstacle, and in the course of an hour we had made a trail across it, and returned to the igloo for the sledges. We found that the main column had reached camp, and after greetings had been given, Commander Peary called me aside and gave me my orders; to take the trail at once, to speed it up to the best of my ability and cover as much distance as possible; for he intended that I should remain at the igloo the following day to sort out the best dogs and rearrange the loads, as Marvin was to turn back with the fourth supporting-party. My heart stopped palpitating, I breathed easier, and my mind was relieved. It was not my turn yet, I was to continue onward and there only remained one person between me and the Pole--the Captain. We knew Commander Peary's general plan: that, at the end of certain periods, certain parties would turn south to the land and the ship; but we did not know who would comprise or command those parties and, until I had the Commander's word, I feared that I would be the next after Borup. At the same time, I did not see how Marvin could travel much longer, as his feet were very badly frozen. Obedient to the Commander's orders, the Captain, I, and our Esquimos, left camp with loaded sledges and trudged over the newly made trail, coming to rough ice which stretched for a distance of five miles, and kept us hard at back-straining, shoulder-wrenching work for several hours. The rest of the day's march was over level, unbroken, young ice; and the distance covered was considerable. March 26: The Commander and party reached the igloo at ten-forty-five A. M. Captain Bartlett had taken to the trail at six A. M., and was now miles to the northward, out of sight. I immediately started to work on the task assigned me by the Commander, assorting the dogs first, so that the different king dogs could fight it out and adjust themselves to new conditions while I was rearranging the loads. At twelve, noon, Professor Marvin took his final sight, and after figuring it out told me that he made it 86° 38' north. The work of readjusting the loads kept me busy until seven P. M. While doing this work I came across my Bible that I had neglected so long, and that night, before going to sleep, I read the twenty-third Psalm, and the fifth chapter of St. Matthew. March 27: I was to take the trail at six A. M., but before starting I went over to Marvin's igloo to bid him good-by. In his quiet, earnest manner, he advised me to keep on, and hoped for our success; he congratulated me and we gave each other the strong, fraternal grip of our honored fraternity and we confidently expected to see each other again at the ship. My good, kind friend was never again to see us, or talk with us. It is sad to write this. He went back to his death, drowned in the cold, black water of the Big Lead. In unmarked, unmarbled grave, he sleeps his last, long sleep. CHAPTER XIV BARTLETT'S FARTHEST NORTH--HIS QUIET GOOD-BY Leaving the Commander and Marvin at the igloos, my party took up the Captain's trail northward. It was expected that Peary would follow in an hour and that at the same time Marvin would start his return march. After a few minutes' going, we came to young ice of this season, broken up and frozen solid, not difficult to negotiate, but requiring constant pulling; leaving this, we came to an open lead which caused us to make a detour to the westward for four miles. We crossed on ice so thin that one of the sledge-runners broke through, and a little beyond one of the dogs fell in so completely that it was a precarious effort to rescue him; but we made it and, doglike, he shook the water out of his fur and a little later, when his fur froze, I gave him a thorough beating; not for falling in the water, but in order to loosen the ice-particles, so that he could shake them off. Poor brute, it was no use, and in a short while he commenced to develop symptoms of the dread piblokto, so in mercy he was killed. One of the Esquimo boys did the killing. Dangerous as the crossing was, it was the only place possible, and we succeeded far better than we had anticipated. Beyond the lead we came to an old floe and, beyond that, young ice of one season's formation, similar to that which had been encountered earlier in the day. Before us lay a heavy, old floe, covered with soft, deep snow in which we sank continually; but it was only five P. M. when we reached the Captain's igloo. Anticipating the arrival of the Commander, we built another igloo, and about an hour and a half later the Commander and his party came in. March 28: Exactly 40° below zero when we pushed the sledges up to the curled-up dogs and started them off over rough ice covered with deep soft snow. It was like walking in loose granulated sugar. Indeed I might compare the snow of the Arctic to the granules of sugar, without their saccharine sweetness, but with freezing cold instead; you can not make snowballs of it, for it is too thoroughly congealed, and when it is packed by the wind it is almost as solid as ice. It is from the packed snow that the blocks used to form the igloo-walls are cut. At the end of four hours, we came to the igloo where the Captain and his boys were sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion. In order not to interrupt the Captain's rest, we built another igloo and unloaded his sledge, and distributed the greater part of the load among the sledges of the party. The Captain, on awakening, told us that the journey we had completed on that day had been made by him under the most trying conditions, and that it had taken him fourteen hours to do it. We were able to make better time because we had his trail to follow, and, therefore, the necessity of finding the easiest way was avoided. That was the object of the scout or pioneer party and Captain Bartlett had done practically all of it up to the time he turned back at 87° 48' north. March 29: You have undoubtedly taken into consideration the pangs of hunger and of cold that you know assailed us, going Poleward; but have you ever considered that we were thirsty for water to drink or hungry for fat? To eat snow to quench our thirsts would have been the height of folly, and as well as being thirsty, we were continuously assailed by the pangs of a hunger that called for the fat, good, rich, oily, juicy fat that our systems craved and demanded. Had we succumbed to the temptations of thirst and eaten the snow, we would not be able to tell the tale of the conquest of the Pole; for the result of eating snow is death. True, the dogs licked up enough moisture to quench their thirsts, but we were not made of such stern stuff as they. Snow would have reduced our temperatures and we would quickly have fallen by the way. We had to wait until camp was made and the fire of alcohol started before we had a chance, and it was with hot tea that we quenched our thirsts. The hunger for fat was not appeased; a dog or two was killed, but his carcass went to the Esquimos and the entrails were fed to the rest of the pack. We ate no dogs on this trip, for various reasons, mainly, that the eating of dog is only a last resort, and we had plenty of food, and raw dog is flavorless and very tough. The killing of a dog is such a horrible matter that I will not describe it, and it is permitted only when all other exigencies have been exhausted. An Esquimo does not permit one drop of blood to escape. The morning of the 29th of March, 1909, a heavy and dense fog of frost spicules overhung the camp. At four A. M., the Captain left camp to make as far a northing as possible. I with my Esquimos followed later. On our way we passed over very rough ice alternating with small floes, young ice of a few months' duration, and one old floe. We were now beside a lead of over three hundred feet in width, which we were unable to cross at that time because the ice was running steadily, though to the Northward. Following the trail of the Captain, which carried us a little to the westward of the lead, within one hundred feet of the Captain's igloo, the order to camp was given, as going forward was impossible. The whole party was together farther north than had ever been made by any other human beings, and in perfectly good condition; but the time was quickly coming when the little party would have to be made smaller and some part of it sent back. We were too fatigued to argue the question. We turned in for a rest and sleep, but soon turned out again in pandemonium incomprehensible; the ice moving in all directions, our igloos wrecked, and every instant our very lives in danger. With eyes dazed by sleep, we tried to guide the terror-stricken dogs and push the sledges to safety, but rapidly we saw the party being separated and the black water begin to appear amid the roar of the breaking ice floes. To the westward of our igloo stood the Captain's igloo, on an island of ice, which revolved, while swiftly drifting to the eastward. On one occasion the floe happened to strike the main floe. The Captain, intently watching his opportunity, quickly crossed with his Esquimos. He had scarcely set foot on the opposite floe when the floe on which he had been previously isolated swung off, and rapidly disappeared. Once more the parties were together. Thoroughly exhausted, we turned in and fell asleep, myself and the Esquimos too dumb for utterance, and Commander Peary and Bartlett too full of the realization of our escape to have much to say. The dogs were in very good condition, taking everything into consideration. [Illustration: CAMP MORRIS K. JESUP AT THE NORTH POLE (From Henson's own Photograph)] [Illustration: MATTHEW A. HENSON IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE SLEDGE JOURNEY TO THE POLE AND BACK (Showing the effect of the excessive strain. Compare with frontispiece and with portrait facing page 139)] When we woke up it was the morning of another day, March 30, and we found open water all about us. We could not go on until either the lead had frozen or until it had raftered shut. Temperature 35° below zero, and the weather clear and calm with no visible motion of the ice. We spent the day industriously in camp, mending foot-gear, harness, clothing, and looking after the dogs and their traces. This was work enough, especially untangling the traces of the bewildered dogs. The traces, snarled and entangled, besides being frozen to the consistency of wire, gave us the hardest work; and, owing to the activity of the dogs in leaping and bounding over each other, we had the most _unideal_ conditions possible to contend with, and we were handicapped by having to use mitted instead of ungloved fingers to untangle the snarls of knots. Unlike Alexander the Great, we dared not cut the "Gordian Knots," but we did get them untangled. About five o'clock in the afternoon, the temperature had fallen to 43° below zero, and at the same time the ice began to move again. Owing to the attraction of the moon, the mighty flanks of the earth were being drawn by her invisible force, and were commencing again to crack and be rent asunder. We loaded up hurriedly and all three parties left the camp and crossed over the place where recently had been the open lead, and beyond for more than five miles, until we reached the heavier and solid ice of the large floes. Northward our way led, and we kept on in that direction accordingly, at times crossing young ice so thin that the motion of the sledges would cause the ice to undulate. Over old floes of the blue, hummocky kind, on which the snow had fallen and become packed solid, the rest of this day's journey was completed. We staggered into camp like drunken men, and built our igloos by force of habit rather than with the intelligence of human beings. It was continuously daylight, but such a light as never was on land or sea. The next day was April 1, and the Farthest North of Bartlett. I knew at this time that he was to go back, and that I was to continue, so I had no misgivings and neither had he. He was ready and anxious to take the back-trail. His five marches were up and he was glad of it, and he was told that in the morning he must turn back and knit the trail together, so that the main column could return over a beaten path. Before going to sleep, Peary and he (Captain Bartlett) had figured out the reckoning of the distance, and, to insure the Captain's making at least 88° north, Peary let him have another go for a short distance northward, and at noon on the day of his return, the observations showed that Captain Bartlett had made 87° 47' North Latitude, or practically 88° north. "Why, Peary," he said, "it is just like every day," and so it was, with this exception, like every day in the Arctic, but with all of every day's chances and hazards. The lion-like month of March had passed. Captain Bartlett bade us all farewell. He turned back from the Farthest North that had ever been reached by any one, to insure the safe return of him who was to go to a still Farther North, the very top of the world, the Pole itself. While waiting for Bartlett to return from his forced march, the main party had been at work, assorting dogs (by this time without much trouble, as only one was found utterly unfit to make progress), and rearranging loads, for the Captain had almost three hundred miles of sea-ice to negotiate before he would reach _terra firma_, and he had to have his food-supply arranged so that it would carry him to the land and back to the ship, and dogs in good enough condition to pull the loads, as well as enough sledges to bear his equipment. When he did come back to our camp, before the parting, he was perfectly satisfied, and with the same old confidence he swept his little party together and at three P. M., with a cheery "Good-by! Good Luck!" he was off. His Esquimo boys, attempting in English, too, gave us their "Good-bys." The least emotional of all of our partings; and this brave man, who had borne the brunt of all of the hardships, like the true-blue, dead-game, unconquerable hero that he was, set out to do the work that was left for him to do; to knit the broken strands of our upward trail together, so that we who were at his rear could follow in safety. I have never heard the story of the return of Captain Bartlett in detail; his Esquimo boys were incapable of telling it, and Captain Bartlett is altogether too modest. CHAPTER XV THE POLE! Captain Bartlett and his two boys had commenced their return journey, and the main column, depleted to its final strength, started northward. We were six: Peary, the commander, the Esquimos, Ootah, Egingwah, Seegloo and Ooqueah, and myself. Day and night were the same. My thoughts were on the going and getting forward, and on nothing else. The wind was from the southeast, and seemed to push us on, and the sun was at our backs, a ball of livid fire, rolling his way above the horizon in never-ending day. The Captain had gone, Commander Peary and I were alone (save for the four Esquimos), the same as we had been so often in the past years, and as we looked at each other we realized our position and we knew without speaking that the time had come for us to demonstrate that we were the men who, it had been ordained, should unlock the door which held the mystery of the Arctic. Without an instant's hesitation, the order to push on was given, and we started off in the trail made by the Captain to cover the Farthest North he had made and to push on over one hundred and thirty miles to our final destination. The Captain had had rough going, but, owing to the fact that his trail was our track for a short time, and that we came to good going shortly after leaving his turning point, we made excellent distance without any trouble, and only stopped when we came to a lead barely frozen over, a full twenty-five miles beyond. We camped and waited for the strong southeast wind to force the sides of the lead together. The Esquimos had eaten a meal of stewed dog, cooked over a fire of wood from a discarded sledge, and, owing to their wonderful powers of recuperation, were in good condition; Commander Peary and myself, rested and invigorated by our thirty hours in the last camp, waiting for the return and departure of Captain Bartlett, were also in fine fettle, and accordingly the accomplishment of twenty-five miles of northward progress was not exceptional. With my proven ability in gauging distances, Commander Peary was ready to take the reckoning as I made it and he did not resort to solar observations until we were within a hand's grasp of the Pole. The memory of those last five marches, from the Farthest North of Captain Bartlett to the arrival of our party at the Pole, is a memory of toil, fatigue, and exhaustion, but we were urged on and encouraged by our relentless commander, who was himself being scourged by the final lashings of the dominating influence that had controlled his life. From the land to 87° 48' north, Commander Peary had had the best of the going, for he had brought up the rear and had utilized the trail made by the preceding parties, and thus he had kept himself in the best of condition for the time when he made the spurt that brought him to the end of the race. From 87° 48' north, he kept in the lead and did his work in such a way as to convince me that he was still as good a man as he had ever been. We marched and marched, falling down in our tracks repeatedly, until it was impossible to go on. We were forced to camp, in spite of the impatience of the Commander, who found himself unable to rest, and who only waited long enough for us to relax into sound sleep, when he would wake us up and start us off again. I do not believe that he slept for one hour from April 2 until after he had loaded us up and ordered us to go back over our old trail, and I often think that from the instant when the order to return was given until the land was again sighted, he was in a continual daze. Onward we forced our weary way. Commander Peary took his sights from the time our chronometer-watches gave, and I, knowing that we had kept on going in practically a straight line, was sure that we had more than covered the necessary distance to insure our arrival at the top of the earth. It was during the march of the 3d of April that I endured an instant of hideous horror. We were crossing a lane of moving ice. Commander Peary was in the lead setting the pace, and a half hour later the four boys and myself followed in single file. They had all gone before, and I was standing and pushing at the upstanders of my sledge, when the block of ice I was using as a support slipped from underneath my feet, and before I knew it the sledge was out of my grasp, and I was floundering in the water of the lead. I did the best I could. I tore my hood from off my head and struggled frantically. My hands were gloved and I could not take hold of the ice, but before I could give the "Grand Hailing Sigh of Distress," faithful old Ootah had grabbed me by the nape of the neck, the same as he would have grabbed a dog, and with one hand he pulled me out of the water, and with the other hurried the team across. He had saved my life, but I did not tell him so, for such occurrences are taken as part of the day's work, and the sledge he safeguarded was of much more importance, for it held, as part of its load, the Commander's sextant, the mercury, and the coils of piano-wire that were the essential portion of the scientific part of the expedition. My kamiks (boots of sealskin) were stripped off, and the congealed water was beaten out of my bearskin trousers, and with a dry pair of kamiks, we hurried on to overtake the column. When we caught up, we found the boys gathered around the Commander, doing their best to relieve him of his discomfort, for he had fallen into the water also, and while he was not complaining, I was sure that his bath had not been any more voluntary than mine had been. When we halted on April 6, 1909, and started to build the igloos, the dogs and sledges having been secured, I noticed Commander Peary at work unloading his sledge and unpacking several bundles of equipment. He pulled out from under his _kooletah_ (thick, fur outer-garment) a small folded package and unfolded it. I recognized his old silk flag, and realized that this was to be a camp of importance. Our different camps had been known as Camp Number One, Number Two, etc., but after the turning back of Captain Bartlett, the camps had been given names such as Camp Nansen, Camp Cagni, etc., and I asked what the name of this camp was to be--"Camp Peary"? "This, my boy, is to be Camp Morris K. Jesup, the last and most northerly camp on the earth." He fastened the flag to a staff and planted it firmly on the top of his igloo. For a few minutes it hung limp and lifeless in the dead calm of the haze, and then a slight breeze, increasing in strength, caused the folds to straighten out, and soon it was rippling out in sparkling color. The stars and stripes were "nailed to the Pole." A thrill of patriotism ran through me and I raised my voice to cheer the starry emblem of my native land. The Esquimos gathered around and, taking the time from Commander Peary, three hearty cheers rang out on the still, frosty air, our dumb dogs looking on in puzzled surprise. As prospects for getting a sight of the sun were not good, we turned in and slept, leaving the flag proudly floating above us. This was a thin silk flag that Commander Peary had carried on all of his Arctic journeys, and he had always flown it at his last camps. It was as glorious and as inspiring a banner as any battle-scarred, blood-stained standard of the world--and this badge of honor and courage was also blood-stained and battle-scarred, for at several places there were blank squares marking the spots where pieces had been cut out at each of the "Farthests" of its brave bearer, and left with the records in the cairns, as mute but eloquent witnesses of his achievements. At the North Pole a diagonal strip running from the upper left to the lower right corner was cut and this precious strip, together with a brief record, was placed in an empty tin, sealed up and buried in the ice, as a record for all time. Commander Peary also had another American flag, sewn on a white ground, and it was the emblem of the "Daughters of the Revolution Peace Society"; he also had and flew the emblem of the Navy League, and the emblems of a couple of college fraternities of which he was a member. It was about ten or ten-thirty A. M., on the 7th of April, 1909, that the Commander gave the order to build a snow-shield to protect him from the flying drift of the surface-snow. I knew that he was about to take an observation, and while we worked I was nervously apprehensive, for I felt that the end of our journey had come. When we handed him the pan of mercury the hour was within a very few minutes of noon. Laying flat on his stomach, he took the elevation and made the notes on a piece of tissue-paper at his head. With sun-blinded eyes, he snapped shut the _vernier_ (a graduated scale that subdivides the smallest divisions on the sector of the circular scale of the sextant) and with the resolute squaring of his jaws, I was sure that he was satisfied, and I was confident that the journey had ended. Feeling that the time had come, I ungloved my right hand and went forward to congratulate him on the success of our eighteen years of effort, but a gust of wind blew something into his eye, or else the burning pain caused by his prolonged look at the reflection of the limb of the sun forced him to turn aside; and with both hands covering his eyes, he gave us orders to not let him sleep for more than four hours, for six hours later he purposed to take another sight about four miles beyond, and that he wanted at least two hours to make the trip and get everything in readiness. I unloaded a sledge, and reloaded it with a couple of skins, the instruments, and a cooker with enough alcohol and food for one meal for three, and then I turned in to the igloo where my boys were already sound asleep. The thermometer registered 29° below zero. I fell into a dreamless sleep and slept for about a minute, so I thought, when I was awakened by the clatter and noise made by the return of Peary and his boys. The Commander gave the word, "We will plant the stars and stripes--_at the North Pole!_" and it was done; on the peak of a huge paleocrystic floeberg the glorious banner was unfurled to the breeze, and as it snapped and crackled with the wind, I felt a savage joy and exultation. Another world's accomplishment was done and finished, and as in the past, from the beginning of history, wherever the world's work was done by a white man, he had been accompanied by a colored man. From the building of the pyramids and the journey to the Cross, to the discovery of the new world and the discovery of the North Pole, the Negro had been the faithful and constant companion of the Caucasian, and I felt all that it was possible for me to feel, that it was I, a lowly member of my race, who had been chosen by fate to represent it, at this, almost the last of the world's great _work_. The four Esquimos who stood with Commander Peary at the North Pole, were the brothers, Ootah and Egingwah, the old campaigner, Seegloo, and the sturdy, boyish Ooqueah. Four devoted companions, blindly confident in the leader, they worked only that he might succeed and for the promise of reward that had been made before they had left the ship, which promise they were sure would be kept. Together with the faithful dogs, these men had insured the success of the master. They had all of the characteristics of the dogs, including the dogs' fidelity. Within their breasts lingered the same infatuations that Commander Peary seemed to inspire in all who were with him, and though frequently complaining and constantly requiring to be urged to do their utmost, they worked faithfully and willingly. Ootah, of my party, was the oldest, a married man, of about thirty-four years, and regarded as the best all around member of the tribe, a great hunter, a kind father, and a good provider. Owing to his strong character and the fact that he was more easily managed by me than by any of the others, he had been a member of my party from the time we left the ship. Without exaggeration, I can say that we had both saved each other's lives more than once, but it had all gone in as part of the day's work, and neither of us dwelt on our obligations to the other. My other boy, Ooqueah, was a young man of about nineteen or twenty, very sturdy and stocky of build, and with an open, honest countenance, a smile that was "child-like and bland," and a character that _was_ child-like and bland. It was alleged that the efforts of young Ooqueah were spurred on by the shafts of love, and that it was in the hopes of winning the hand of the demure Miss Anadore, the charming daughter of Ikwah, the first Esquimo of Commander Peary's acquaintance, that he worked so valiantly. His efforts were of an ardent character, but it was not due to the ardor of love, as far as I could see, but to his desire to please and his anxiety to win the promised rewards that would raise him to the grade of a millionaire, according to Esquimo standards. [Illustration: THE ROOSEVELT IN WINTER QUARTERS AT CAPE SHERIDAN] [Illustration: MATTHEW A. HENSON IN HIS NORTH POLE FURS, TAKEN AFTER HIS RETURN TO CIVILIZATION] Commander Peary's boy, Egingwah, was the brother of my boy Ootah, also married and of good report in his community, and it was he who drove the Morris K. Jesup sledge. If there was any sentiment among the Esquimos in regard to the success of the venture, Ootah and Seegloo by their unswerving loyalty and fidelity expressed it. They had been members of the "Farthest North party" in 1906, the party that was almost lost beyond and in the "Big Lead," and only reached the land again in a state of almost complete collapse. They were the ones who, on bidding Commander Peary farewell in 1906, when he was returning, a saddened and discouraged man, told him to be of good cheer and that when he came back again Ootah and Seegloo would go along, and stay until Commander Peary had succeeded, and they did. The cowardice of their fellow Esquimos at the "Big Lead" on this journey did not in the least demoralize them, and when they were absolutely alone on the trail, with every chance to turn back and return to comfort, wife, and family, they remained steadfast and true, and ever northward guided their sledges. CHAPTER XVI THE FAST TREK BACK TO LAND The long trail was finished, the work was done, and there was only left for us to return and tell the tale of the doing. Reaction had set in, and it was with quavering voice that Commander Peary gave the order to break camp. Already the strain of the hard upward-journey was beginning to tell, and after the first two marches back, he was practically a dead weight, but do not think that we could have gotten back without him, for it was due to the fact that he was with us, and that we could depend upon him to direct and order us, that we were able to keep up the break-neck pace that enabled us to cover three of our upward marches on one of our return marches, and we never forgot that he was still the heart and head of the party. It was broad daylight and getting brighter, and accordingly I knew little fear, though I did think of the ghosts of other parties, flitting in spectral form over the ice-clad wastes, especially of that small detachment of the Italian expedition of the Duke D'Abruzzi, of which to this day neither track, trace, nor remembrance has ever been found. We crossed lead after lead, sometimes like a bare-back rider in the circus, balancing on cake after cake of ice, but good fortune was with us all of the way, and it was not until the land of recognizable character had been lifted that we lost the trail, and with the land in sight as an incentive, it was no trouble for us to gain the talus of the shore ice and find the trail again. When we "hit the beach for fair" it was early in the morning of April 23, 1909, nearly seventeen days since we had left the Pole, but such a seventeen days of haste, toil, and misery as cannot be comprehended by the mind. We who experienced it, Commander Peary, the Esquimos, and myself, look back to it as to a horrid nightmare, and to describe it is impossible for me. Commander Peary had taken the North Pole by conquest, in the face of almost insuperable natural difficulties, by the tremendous fighting-power of himself. The winning of the North Pole was a fight with nature; the way to the Pole that had been covered and retraced by Commander Peary lay across the ever moving and drifting ice of the Arctic Ocean. For more than a hundred miles from Cape Columbia it was piled in heavy pressure ridges, ridge after ridge, some more than a hundred feet in height. In addition, open lanes of water held the parties back until the leads froze up again, and continually the steady drift of the ice carried us back on the course we had come, but due to his deathless ambition to know and to do, he had conquered. He had added to the sum of Earth's knowledge, and proven that the mind of man is boundless in its desire. The long quest for the North Pole is over and the awful space that separated man from the _Ultima Thule_ has been bridged. There is no more beyond; from Cape Columbia to Cape Chelyuskin, the route northward to the Pole, and southward again to the plains of Asia, is an open book and the geographical mind is at rest. We found the abandoned igloos of Crane City and realized that Captain Bartlett had reached the land safely. The damage due to the action of the storms was not material. We made the necessary repairs, and in a few minutes tea was boiled and rations eaten, and we turned in for sleep. For practically all of the two days following, that was what we did: sleep and eat; men and dogs thoroughly exhausted; and we slept the sleep of the just, without apprehensions or misgivings. Our toboggan from the Pole was ended. * * * * * Different from all other trips, we had not on this one been maddened by the pangs of hunger, but instead we felt the effects of lack of sleep, and brain- and body-fatigue. After reaching the land again, I gave a keen searching look at each member of the party, and I realized the strain they had been under. Instead of the plump, round countenances I knew so well, I saw lean, gaunt faces, seamed and wrinkled, the faces of old men, not those of boys, but in their eyes still shone the spark of resolute determination. Commander Peary's face was lined and seamed, his beard was fully an inch in length, and his mustaches, which had been closely cropped before he left the ship, had again attained their full flowing length. His features expressed fatigue, but the heart-breaking look of sadness, that had clung to him since the failure of the 1906 expedition, had vanished. From his steel-gray eyes flashed forth the light of glorious victory, and though he always carried himself proudly, there had come about him an air of erect assurance that was exhilarating. When I reached the ship again and gazed into my little mirror, it was the pinched and wrinkled visage of an old man that peered out at me, but the eyes still twinkled and life was still entrancing. This wizening of our features was due to the strain of travel and lack of sleep; we had enough to eat, and I have only mentioned it to help impress the fact that the journey to the Pole and back is not to be regarded as a pleasure outing, and our so-called jaunt was by no means a cake-walk. CHAPTER XVII SAFE ON THE ROOSEVELT--POOR MARVIN If you will remember, the journey from Cape Sheridan to Cape Columbia was with overloaded sledges in the darkness preceding the dawn of the Arctic day, mostly over rough going and up-hill, and now the tables were turned. It was broad day and down-hill with lightened sledges, so that we practically coasted the last miles from the twin peaks of Columbia to the low, slanting fore-shore of Sheridan and the _Roosevelt_. After the forty hours' rest at Cape Columbia, Commander Peary had his sledges loaded up, and with Egingwah and the best of the remaining dogs, he got away. I was told I could remain at the camp for another twelve hours. A large and substantial cache of supplies had been dropped at Cape Columbia by various members of the expedition and when the Commander was gone, I gave the boys full permission to turn in and eat all they wanted, and I also gave the dogs all they could stuff, and it was not until all of us had gorged ourselves to repletion that I gave the order to _vamoose_. We were loaded to capacity, outward and inward, and we saw a bountiful supply still lying there, but we could not pack another ounce. It was early in the morning of April 25 when Peary started for the ship; it was about four or five hours later, about noon, when I gave the word, and Ootah, Seegloo, Ooqueah, and myself left Crane City, Cape Columbia, Grant Land, for the last time. We overtook the Commander at Point Moss, and we traveled with him to Cape Colan, where we camped. Peary continued on to Sail Harbor, and we stayed in our comfortable camp and rested. We again caught up with the Commander at Porter Bay, where we camped for a few hours. The following morning I rearranged the sledges and left two of them at Porter Bay. It was my intention to reach the ship on this evening. We made a short stop at Black Cliff Bay and had lunch, and without further interruption we traveled on and at about eight-forty-five P. M. we sighted the _Roosevelt_. The sighting of the ship was our first view of home, and far away as she was, our acutely developed senses of smell were regaled with the appetizing odor of hot coffee, and the pungent aroma of tobacco-smoke, wafted to us through the clear, germ-free air. The Esquimo boys, usually excited on the slightest provocation, were surprisingly stolid and merely remarked, "_Oomiaksoah_" ("The ship") in quiet voices, until I, unable to control myself, burst forth with a loud "hip! hip! hurrah!" and with all that was left of my energy hurried my sledge in to the ship. We had been sighted almost as quickly as we had sighted the ship, and a party of the ship's crew came running out to meet us, and as we rushed on we were told about the safe arrival of Commander Peary, Bartlett, Borup, MacMillan, and Dr. Goodsell. Transported with elation and overjoyed to find myself once more safe among friends, I had rushed onward and as I recognized the different faces of the ship's company, I did not realize that some were missing. Chief Wardwell was the first man to greet me, he photographed me as I was closing in on the ship, and with his strong right arm pulled me up over the side and hugged me to his bosom. "Good boy, Matt," he said; "too bad about Marvin," and then I knew that all was wrong and that it was not the time for rejoicing. I asked for Peary and I was told that he was all right. I saw Captain Bartlett and I knew that he was there; but where was Borup, where were MacMillan, Marvin, and where was Dr. Goodsell? Dr. Goodsell was right by my side, holding me up, and I realized that it was of him I was demanding to know of the others. Reason had not left me, the bonds of sanity had not snapped, but for the time I was hysterical, and I only knew that all were well and safe excepting Marvin, who was drowned. A big mug of coffee was given to me, I drank a spoonful; a glass of spirits was handed me, I drank it all, and I was guided to my cabin, my fur clothes were taken off, and for the first time in sixty-eight days, I allowed myself to relax and I fell into a sleep. When I awoke, I had the grandest feast imaginable set before me, and after eating, I had the most luxurious bath possible, and then some more to eat, and afterwards, some more sleep; then I shaved myself, combed my hair, and came out of my cabin and crossed over to the galley, and sat on a box and watched Charley at work. Then I thought of the dogs and went outside and found that they had been cared for. I wondered when the Commander would want to see me. All of the time the sailors and Charley and the Esquimo folks were keeping up a running fire of conversation, and I was able to gather from what they said that my dear, good friend, Professor Marvin, was indeed lost; that Peary had reached the _Roosevelt_ about seven hours ahead of me; that Captain Bartlett was suffering with swollen legs and feet; that MacMillan and Borup with their own and Marvin's boys had gone to Cape Jesup; and that Pooadloonah and Panikpah had taken their families and returned to Esquimo land. For days after I reached the _Roosevelt_, I did nothing but rest and eat. The strain was over and I had all but collapsed, but with constant eating and sleeping, I was quickly myself again. The pains and swellings of my limbs did not come as they had on all of the other returnings, and neither was Peary troubled. Captain Bartlett was the only one of the expedition that had been out on the sea-ice who felt any after effects. Every day, a few minutes after rising, he would notice that his ankle-, knee- and hip-joints were swollen; and while the pain was not excessive, he was incapacitated for more than ten days, and he spent the most of his time in his cabin. When he came out of his cabin and did talk to me, it was only to compare notes and agree that our experiences proved that there was absolutely no question about our having discovered the Pole. * * * * * Captain Bartlett, Dr. Goodsell, Chief Wardwell, Percy--they could talk as they would; but the one ever-present thought in my mind was of Marvin, and of his death. I thought of him, and of his kindness to me; and the picture of his widowed mother, patiently waiting the return of her son, was before me all of the time. I thought of my own mother, whom I scarcely remembered, and I sincerely wished that it had been me who had been taken. When MacMillan and Borup returned, I learned all about the sad affair, from Kudlooktoo and Harrigan, and I feel that had he been with civilized companions the sad story of Marvin's death would not have to be told. On breaking camp he had gone on, leaving the boys to load up and follow him. They were going south to the land and the ship, and there was no need for him to stay with them, and when they came up to where he had disappeared, they saw the ice newly formed about him, his head and feet beneath, and nothing showing but the fur clothing of his back and shoulders. They made no effort to rescue him, and had they succeeded in getting his body out, there is little chance that they could have kept him alive, for the temperature was far below zero, and they knew nothing about restoring life to the drowned. No blame can be laid to his childish companions. He died alone, and he passed into the great unknown alone, bravely and honorably. He is the last of Earth's great martyrs; he is home; his work is done; he is where he longed to be; the Sailor is Home in the Sea. It is poor satisfaction to those that he left behind that his grave is the northern-most grave on the earth; but they realize that the sacrifice was not made in vain, for it was due to him that those who followed were able to keep the trail and reach the land again. The foolish boys, in accordance with Esquimo tradition, had unloaded all of Prof. Marvin's personal effects on the ice, so that his spirit should not follow them, and they hurried on back to land and to the ship, where they told their sad story. CHAPTER XVIII AFTER MUSK-OXEN--THE DOCTOR'S SCIENTIFIC EXPEDITION From the time of my arrival at the _Roosevelt_, for nearly three weeks, my days were spent in complete idleness. I would catch a fleeting glimpse of Commander Peary, but not once in all of that time did he speak a word to me. Then he spoke to me in the most ordinary matter-of-fact way, and ordered me to get to work. Not a word about the North Pole or anything connected with it; simply, "There is enough wood left, and I would like to have you make a couple of sledges and mend the broken ones. I hope you are feeling all right." There was enough wood left and I made three sledges, as well as repaired those that were broken. The Commander was still running things and he remained the commander to the last minute; nothing escaped him, and when the time came to slow-down on provisions, he gave the orders, and we had but two spare meals a day to sustain us. The whole expedition lived on travel rations from before the time we left Cape Sheridan until we had reached Sidney, N. S., and like the keen-fanged hounds, we were always ready and fit. It was late in May when Prof. MacMillan and Mr. Borup, with their Esquimo companions returned from Cape Jesup, where they had been doing highly important scientific work, taking soundings out on the sea-ice north of the cape as high as 84° 15' north, and also at the cape. They had made a trip that was record-breaking; they had visited the different cairns made by Lockwood and Brainard and by Commander Peary, and they had also captured and brought into the ship a musk-ox calf; and they had most satisfactorily demonstrated their fitness as Arctic explorers, having followed the Commander's orders implicitly and secured more than the required number of tidal-readings and soundings. Prof. MacMillan, with Jack Barnes, a sailor, and Kudlooktoo, left for Fort Conger early in June, and continued the work of tidal-observations. They rejoined the _Roosevelt_ just before she left Cape Sheridan. A little later in the month, Borup went to Clements Markham Inlet to hunt musk-oxen, and from there he went to Cape Columbia, where he erected the cairn containing the record of the last and successful expedition of the "Peary Arctic Club." The cairn was a substantial pile of rocks, surmounted by a strong oaken guide-post, with arms pointing "North 413 miles to the Pole"; "East, to Cape Morris K. Jesup, 275 miles"; "West to Cape Thomas H. Hubbard, 225 miles"; while the southern arm pointed south, but to no particular geographical spot; it was labeled "Cape Columbia." Underneath the arms of the guide-post, which had been made by Mate Gushue, was a small, glass-covered, box-like arrangement, in which was encased the record of Peary's successful journey to the Pole, and the roster of the expedition, my name included. From the cross-bars, guys of galvanized wire were stretched and secured to heavy rocks, to help sustain the monument from the fury of the storms. Borup did good work, photographed the result, and the picture of the cairn, when exhibited, proved very satisfactory to the Commander. Dr. Goodsell with two teams, and the Esquimo men, Keshungwah and Tawchingwah, left the ship on May 27, to hunt in the Lake Hazen and Ruggles River regions. They were successful in securing thirteen musk-oxen in that neighborhood, and in Bellows Valley they shot a number of the "Peary" caribou, the species "_Rangifer Pearyi_," a distinct class of reindeer inhabiting that region. On the return of Dr. Goodsell, he told of his fascinating experiences in that wonderland. Leaving the _Roosevelt_, he had turned inland at Black Cliff Bay. Past the glaciers he went with his little party, down the Bellows Valley to the Ruggles River, an actual stream of clear-running water, alive with the finest of salmon trout. Adopting the Esquimo methods, he fished for these speckled beauties with joyful success. Here he rounded up and shot the herd of musk-oxen, and here he bagged his caribou. He was in a hunter's paradise and made no haste to return, but crossed overland to Discovery Harbor and the barn-like structure of Fort Conger, the headquarters of General Greely's "Lady Franklin Bay Expedition" of 1882-1883. Professor MacMillan was on his way to Fort Conger and it was with much surprise, on arriving there, that he found that Dr. Goodsell had reached it an hour before him. It was an unexpected meeting and quite a pleasure to the Professor to find the Doctor there, ready to offer him the hospitality of the fort. Dr. Goodsell returned to the _Roosevelt_ on June 15, with a load of geological, zoölogical, and botanical specimens almost as heavy as the loads of meat and skins he brought in. He was an ardent scientist, and viewed nearly every situation and object from the view-point of the scientist. Nothing escaped him; a peculiar form of rock or plant, the different features of the animal life, all received his close and eager attention, and he had the faculty of imparting his knowledge to others, like the born teacher that he was. He evinced an eager interest in the Esquimos and got along famously with them. His physical equipment was the finest; a giant in stature and strength, but withal the gentlest of men having an even, mellow disposition that never was ruffled. In the field the previous spring he had accompanied the expedition beyond the "Big Lead" to 84° 29', and with the strength of his broad shoulders he had pickaxed the way. On account of his calm, quiet manner I had hesitated to form an opinion of him at first, but you can rest assured this was a "Tenderfoot" who made good. During this time I left the ship on short hunting trips, but I was never away from the ship for more than ten or twelve hours. * * * * * On July 1 quite a lead was opened in the channel south from Cape Sheridan to Cape Rawson. The ice was slowly moving southward, and the prospects for freeing the _Roosevelt_ and getting her started on her homeward way were commencing to brighten. The following day a new lead opened much nearer shore, and on July 3 the Esquimos, who had been out hunting, returned from Black Cliff Bay, without game, but with the good news that as far south as Dumb Bell Bay there stretched a lead of open water. July 4, a new lead opened very close to the _Roosevelt_. The spring tides, with a strong southerly wind, had set in so very much earlier, three years before, that on July 4, 1906, the _Roosevelt_ had been entirely free of ice, with clear, open water for quite a distance to the south; but this year the ship was still completely packed in the ice, and furthermore she was listed at the same angle as during the winter. On July 5, I was detailed to help Gushue repair the more or less damaged whale-boats. The heavy and solidly packed snow of the winter had stove them in. On July 6, the anniversary of our departure from New York a year before, the greater part of the day was spent in pumping water from the top of a heavy floeberg into the ship's boilers. This work was not completed until the morning of the 7th, when the fires were started. Due to the cold, the process of getting up steam was slow work. The ice had been breaking up daily, new leads were noticed, and on this day, July 7, a new lead opened at a distance of fifty yards from the ship, and open water stretched as far south as the eye could see. All hands were put to work reloading the supplies that had been placed on shore the fall previous, for it was easy to see that the time for departure was at hand. With the boilers in order, an attempt was made to revolve the shaft, but the propeller was too securely frozen in the ice to move, and so Captain Bartlett got out the dynamite and succeeded in freeing the bronze blades. From the 10th of July to the 13th, a fierce storm raged, clouds of freeing spray broke over the ship, incasing her in a coat of icy mail, and the tempest forced all of the ice out of the lower end of the channel and beyond as far as the eye could see, but the _Roosevelt_ still remained surrounded by ice. The morning of the 15th, a smart breeze from the northeast was blowing, and proved of valuable assistance to us, for it caused the huge blocks of ice that were surrounding the ship to loosen their hold, and for the first time since October, 1908, the _Roosevelt_ righted herself to an even keel. By this time all of our supplies had been loaded and stored, and from the crow's-nest a stretch of open water could be seen as far as Cape Rawson. From there to Cape Union the ice was packed solid. CHAPTER XIX THE ROOSEVELT STARTS FOR HOME--ESQUIMO VILLAGES--NEW DOGS AND NEW DOG FIGHTS It was two-thirty P. M., July 17, 1909, that the _Roosevelt_ pointed her bow southward and we left our winter quarters and Cape Sheridan. We were on our journey home, all hands as happy as when, a year previous, we had started on our way north, with the added satisfaction of complete success. The ship had steamed but a short distance, when, owing to the rapidly drifting ice in the channel, she had to be made fast to a floeberg. At ten-thirty P. M., the lines were loosed and a new start made. Without further incident, we reached Black Cape. In rounding the cape the ship encountered a terrific storm, and it was with the greatest difficulty that she made any headway. The storm increased and the _Roosevelt_ had to remain in the channel, surrounded by the tightly wedged floes, at the mercy of the wind. The gale continued until the evening of the 20th. The constant surging back and forth of the channel-pack, with the spring tides and the several huge masses of ice, which repeatedly crashed against the ship's sides, caused a delay of twelve days in Robeson Channel opposite Lincoln Bay. Throughout the width of the entire channel nothing could be seen but small pools of open water; two seals were seen sporting in one of these pools, and one of the Esquimos attempted to kill them, but his aim proved false. It was not until the 25th that the ship was able to move of her own free will, small leads having opened in close proximity to her. Ootah shot a seal in one of the leads, and also harpooned a narwhal, but he did not succeed in securing either. His brother Egingwah on the following day shot two seals and harpooned a narwhal, and he secured all three of his prizes. The Esquimos had a grand feast off the skin of the narwhal, which they esteem as a great delicacy. By the 27th the _Roosevelt_ had drifted as far south as Wrangell Bay, and it was here that Slocum (Inighito) shot and secured a hood-seal, which weighed over six hundred pounds, and seal-steaks were added to the bill-of-fare. The snow storms of the two days ceased on the 28th, and when the weather cleared sufficiently for us to ascertain our whereabouts, we were much surprised to find that we had drifted back north, opposite Lincoln Bay. During the day the wind shifted to the north. Again we drifted southward, until, just off Cape Beechey, the narrowest part of Robeson Channel, a lead stretching southward for a distance of five miles was sighted, and into this open water the ship steamed until the lead terminated in Kennedy Channel, opposite Lady Franklin Bay, where the _Roosevelt_ was ice-bound until August 4, drifting with the pack until we were in a direct line with Cape Tyson and Bellot Isle. Three seals were captured, one a hood-seal weighing 624 pounds, being eight feet eleven inches in length; the other two were small ring-seals. By ten A. M. of the 4th, the ice had slackened so considerably that the _Roosevelt_, under full steam, set out and rapidly worked her way down Kennedy Channel. From Crozier Island to Cape D'Urville she steamed through practically open water, but a dense fog compelled us to make fast to a large floe when almost opposite Cape Albert. It was not until one A. M. of the 7th, despite several attempts, that the ship got clear and steamed south again. Several small leads were noticed and numerous narwhals were seen, but none were captured. At three-thirty A. M., when nearing Cape Sabine, we observed that the barometer had dropped to 29.73. A storm was coming, and every effort was made to reach Payer Harbor, but before half of the distance had been covered, the storm broke with terrific violence. The force of the gale was such that, while swinging the boats inboard, we were drenched and thoroughly chilled by the sheets of icy spray, which saturated us and instantly froze. The _Roosevelt_ was blown over to starboard until the rails were submerged. To save her, she was steered into Buchanan Bay, under the lee of the cliffs, where she remained until the morning of August 8. At an early hour, we steamed down Buchanan Bay, passed Cocked Hat Island, and a little later, Cape Sabine. At Cape Sabine was located Camp Clay, the starvation camp of the Lady Franklin Bay expedition of 1881-1883, where the five survivors of the twenty-three members of the expedition were rescued. We entered Smith Sound. Instead of sailing on to Etah, Peary ordered the ship into Whale Sound, in order that walrus-hunting could be done, so that the Esquimos should have a plentiful supply of meat for the following winter. Three walrus were captured, when a storm sprang up with all of the suddenness of storms in this neighborhood, and the ship crossed over from Cape Alexander to Cape Chalon. Cape Chalon is a favorite resort of the Esquimos, and is known as Peter-ar-wick, on account of the walrus that are to be found here during the months of February and March. At Nerke, just below Cape Chalon, we found the three Esquimo families of Ahsayoo, Tungwingwah, and Teddylingwah, and it was from these people we first learned of Dr. Cook's safe return from Ellesmere Land. In spite of the fact that the _Roosevelt_ was overloaded with dogs, paraphernalia, and Esquimos, these three families were taken aboard. With them were several teams of dogs. The dogs aboard ship were the survivors of the pack that had been with us all through the campaign, and a number of litters of puppies that had been whelped since the spring season. Our dogs were well acquainted with each other and dog fights were infrequent and of little interest, but the arrival of the first dog of the new party was the signal for the grandest dog fight I have ever witnessed. I feel justified in using the language of the fairy Ariel, in Shakespeare's "Tempest": "Now is Hell empty, and all the devils are here." Backward and forward, the foredeck of the ship was a howling, snarling, biting, yelping, moving mass of fury, and it was a long round of fully ten or fifteen minutes before the two king dogs of the packs got together, and then began the battle for supremacy of the pack. It lasted for some time. It would have been useless to separate them. They would decide sooner or later, and it was better to have it over, even if one or both contestants were killed. At length the fight was ended; our old king dog, Nalegaksoah, the champion of the pack, and the laziest dog in it, was still the king. After vanquishing his opponent and receiving humble acknowledgments, King Nalegaksoah went stamping up and down before the pack and received the homage due him; the new dogs, whining and fawning and cringingly submissive, bowed down before him. The chief pleasure of the Esquimo dogs is fighting; two dogs, the best of friends, will hair-pull and bite each other for no cause whatever, and strange dogs fight at sight; team-mates fight each other on the slightest of provocations; and it seems as though sometimes the fights are held for the purpose of educating the young. When a fight is in progress, it is the usual sight to see several mother dogs, with their litters, occupying ring-side seats. I have often wondered what chance a cat would stand against an Esquimo dog. The ship kept on, and I had turned in and slept, and on arising had found that we had reached a place called Igluduhomidy, where a single family was located. Living with this family was a very old Esquimo, Merktoshah, the oldest man in the whole tribe, and not a blood-relation to any member of it. He had crossed over from the west coast of Smith Sound the same year that Hall's expedition had wintered there, and has lived there ever since. He had been a champion polar bear and big game hunter, and though now a very old man, was still vigorous and valiant, in spite of the loss of one eye. We stopped at Kookan, the most prosperous of the Esquimo settlements, a village of five tupiks (skin tents), housing twenty-four people, and from there we sailed to the ideal community of Karnah. Karnah is the most delightful spot on the Greenland coast. Situated on a gently southward sloping knoll are the igloos and tupiks, where I have spent many pleasant days with my Esquimo friends and learned much of the folk-lore and history. Lofty mountains, sublime in their grandeur, overtower and surround this place, and its only exposure is southward toward the sun. In winter its climate is not severe, as compared with other portions of this country, and in the perpetual daylight of summer, life here is ideal. Rivulets of clear, cold water, the beds of which are grass- and flower-covered, run down the sides of the mountains and, but for the lack of trees, the landscape is as delightful as anywhere on earth. CHAPTER XX TWO NARROW ESCAPES--ARRIVAL AT ETAH--HARRY WHITNEY--DR. COOK'S CLAIMS From Karnah the _Roosevelt_ sailed to Itiblu, where hunting-parties secured thirty-one walrus and one seal. By the 11th of August we had reached the northern shore of Northumberland Island, where we were delayed by storm. It was shortly before noon of this day that we barely escaped another fatal calamity. Chief Wardwell, while cleaning the rifle of Commander Peary, had the misfortune to have the piece explode while in his hands. From some unknown cause a cartridge was discharged, the projectile pierced two thick partitions of inch-and-a-half pine, and penetrated the cabin occupied by Professor MacMillan and Mr. Borup. The billet of that bullet was the shoulder and forearm of Professor MacMillan, who at the time was sound asleep in his berth. He had been lying with his arm doubled and his head resting on his hand. A half inch nearer and the bullet would have entered his brain. As is always the case with narrow escapes, I, too, had a narrow escape, for that same bullet entered the partition on its death-dealing mission at identically the same spot where a few minutes previously _my_ head had rested. Dr. Goodsell was quickly aroused, he attended Professor MacMillan, and in a short time he diagnosed the case as a "gun-shot wound." Finding no bones broken, or veins or arteries open, he soon had the Professor bandaged and comfortable. At the time of the accident to Professor MacMillan the ship was riding at anchor, but with insufficient slack-way, so in the afternoon, when the excitement had somewhat abated, Captain Bob decided to give the ship more chain, for a storm was imminent, and he gave the order accordingly. The boatswain, in his haste to execute the order, and overestimating the amount of chain in the locker, permitted all of it to run overboard. We were in a predicament, with the storm upon us, no anchor to hold the boat, and a savage, rocky shore on which we were in danger of being wrecked. There was a small five-hundred-pound anchor with a nine-inch cable of about one hundred and fifty fathoms remaining, which was repeatedly tried, but the ship was too much for this feather-weight anchor, and dragged it at will. Commander Peary, with his usual foresight, had ordered steam as soon as the approach of the storm was noticed, and now that the steam was up, he ordered that the ship be kept head-on, and steam up and down the coast until the storm abated. The storm lasted until the night of August 13, and the best part of the following day was spent by two boat-crews of twelve men, in grappling for the lost anchor and chain, and not until they had secured it and restored it once more to its locker were they permitted to rest. With the anchor secure, walrus-hunting commenced afresh, and on the ice-floes between Hakluyt and Northumberland Islands thirty more walrus were secured. On August 16, the _Roosevelt_ steamed back to Karnah, and the Esquimo people who intended living there for the following winter were landed. A very large supply of meat was landed also; in addition to the meat quite a number of useful presents, hatchets, knives, needles, some boards for the making and repairing of sledges, and some wood for lance-and harpoon-staves, and a box full of soap were landed. This inventory of presents may seem cheap and paltry to you, but to these natives such presents as we made were more appreciated than the gift of many dollars would be by a poverty-stricken family in this country. With the materials that Commander Peary furnished would be made the weapons of the chase, the tools of the seamstress, and the implements of the home-maker. The Esquimos have always known how to utilize every factor furnished by nature, and what has been given to them by the Commander has been given with the simple idea of helping them to make their life easier, and proves again the axiom, "The Lord helps those who help themselves." After disembarking the Karnah contingent, the ship steamed to Etah, arriving there on the afternoon of August 17. As the _Roosevelt_ was entering the harbor of Etah, all hands were on deck and on the lookout, for it was here that we were again to come in touch with the world we had left behind a year before. A large number of Esquimos were running up and down the shore, but there was no sign of the expected ship. Quickly a boat was lowered, and I saw to it that I was a member of the crew of that boat, and when we reached the beach the first person to greet me was old Panikpah, greasy, smiling, and happy as if I were his own son. I quickly recognized my old friend Pooadloonah, who greeted me with a merry laugh, and my misgivings as to the fate of this precious pair were dispelled. If you will remember, Panikpah and Pooadloonah were the two Esquimos who found, when on our Poleward journey, just about the time we had struck the "Big Lead," that there were a couple of fox-traps, or something like that, that they had forgotten to attend to, and that it was extremely necessary for them to go back and square up their accounts. Here they were, fat, smiling, and healthy; and I apprehend somewhat surprised to see us, but they bluffed it out well. Murphy and the young man Pritchard were also here. Murphy and Pritchard were the members of the crew who had been left here to guard the provisions of the expedition, and to trade with the Esquimos. Another person also was there to greet us; but who had kept himself alive and well by his own pluck and clear grit, and who reported on meeting the Commander of having had a most satisfactory and enjoyable experience. I refer to Mr. Harry Whitney, the young man from New Haven, Conn., who had elected at the last hour, the previous autumn, to remain at Etah, to hunt the big game of the region. When the _Roosevelt_ had sailed north from Etah, the previous August, he had been left absolutely alone; the _Erik_ had sailed for home, and there was no way out of this desolate land for him until the relief ship came north the following year, or the _Roosevelt_ came south to take him aboard. His outfit and equipment were sufficient for him and complete, but he had shared it with the natives until it was exhausted, and after that he had reverted to the life of the aborigines. When the _Roosevelt_ reached Etah, Mr. Whitney was an Esquimo; but within one hour, he had a bath, a shave, and a hair-cut, and was the same mild-mannered gentleman that we had left there in the fall. He had gratified his ambitions in shooting musk-oxen, but he had not killed a single polar bear. At Etah there were two boys, Etookahshoo and Ahpellah, boys about sixteen or seventeen years old, who had been with Dr. Cook for a year, or ever since he had crossed the channel to Ellesmere Land and returned again. These boys are the two he claims accompanied him to the North Pole. To us, up there at Etah, such a story was so ridiculous and absurd that we simply laughed at it. We knew Dr. Cook and his abilities; he had been the surgeon on two of Peary's expeditions and, aside from his medical ability, we had no faith in him whatever. He was not even good for a day's work, and the idea of his making such an astounding claim as having reached the Pole was so ludicrous that, after our laugh, we dropped the matter altogether. On account of the world-wide controversy his story has caused, I will quote from my diary the impressions noted in regard to him: "August 17, 1909, Etah, North Greenland. "Mr. Harry Whitney came aboard with the boatswain and the cabin-boy, who had been left here last fall on our way to Cape Sheridan. Murphy is the boatswain and Pritchard the boy, both from Newfoundland, and they look none the worse for wear, in spite of the long time they have spent here. Mr. Whitney is the gentleman who came up on the _Erik_ last year, and at the last moment decided to spend the winter with the natives. He had a long talk with the Commander before we left for the north, and has had quite a lengthy session with him since. I learn that Dr. Cook came over from Ellesmere Land with his two boys, Etookahshoo and Ahpellah, and in a confidential conversation with Mr. Whitney made the statement that he had reached the North Pole. Professor MacMillan and I have talked to his two boys and have learned that there is no foundation in fact for such a statement, and the Captain and others of the expedition have questioned them, and if they were out on the ice of the Arctic Ocean it was only for a very short distance, not more than twenty or twenty-five miles. The boys are positive in this statement, and my own boys, Ootah and Ooqueah, have talked to them also, and get the same replies. It is a fact that they had a very hard time and were reduced to low limits, but they have not been any distance north, and the Commander and the rest of us are in the humor to regard Mr. Whitney as a person who has been hoodwinked. We know Dr. Cook very well and also his reputation, and we know that he was never good for a hard day's work; in fact he was not up to the average, and he is no hand at all in making the most of his resources. He probably has spun this yarn to Mr. Whitney and the boatswain to make himself look big to them. "The Commander will not permit Mr. Whitney to bring any of the Dr. Cook effects aboard the _Roosevelt_ and they have been left in a cache on shore. Koolootingwah is here again, after his trip to North Star Bay with Dr. Cook, and tells an amusing story of his experience." It is only from a sense of justice to Commander Peary and those who were with him that I have mentioned Dr. Cook. The outfitting of the hunting expedition of Mr. Bradley was well known to us. Captain Bartlett had directed it and had advised and arranged for the purchase of the Schooner _John R. Bradley_ to carry the hunting party to the region where big game of the character Mr. Bradley wished to hunt could be found. We knew that Dr. Cook was accompanying Mr. Bradley, but we had no idea that the question of the discovery of the North Pole was to be involved. I have reason to be grateful to Dr. Cook for favors received; I lived with his folks while I was suffering with my eyes, due to snow blindness, but I feel that all of the debts of gratitude have been liquidated by my silence in this controversy, and I will have nothing more to say in regard to him or to his claims. CHAPTER XXI ETAH TO NEW YORK--COMING OF MAIL AND REPORTERS--HOME! At Etah we expected to meet the relief ship. Sixty tons of coal and a small quantity of provisions had been left there during the previous summer, to be used by us on our homeward voyage. This coal was loaded on board and the Esquimos who desired to remain at Etah were landed. Just at the time we were ready to sail a heavy storm of wind and snow blew up, and it was not until six P. M. on the 20th that we left the harbor. Farewells had been said to the Esquimos, all that had been promised them for faithful services had been given to them, and we commenced the final stage of our journey home. From Etah, August 20, the ship sailed along the coast, landing Esquimos at the different settlements, and on the 23rd of August at two A. M., we met the Schooner _Jeanie_, of St. John, N. F., commanded by Samuel Bartlett. The schooner was supplied with provisions and coal for the relief of the _Roosevelt_, and was executing the plan of the Peary Arctic Club. There was mail aboard her and we had our first tidings of home and friends in a twelve-month. From newspaper clippings I learned that the British Antarctic Expedition, commanded by Sir Ernest H. Shackleton, had reached within 111 miles of the South Pole. The mail contained good news for all but one of us. Mr. Borup, in his bunk above the Professor's, read his letters, and in the course of his reading was heard to emit a deep sigh, then to utter an agonizing groan. Prof. MacMillan, thinking that Borup had received bad news indeed, endeavored to console him, and at the same time asked what was the bad news, feeling sure it could be nothing less than the death of Colonel Borup or some other close relative of his. "What is the matter, George? Tell me." "HARVARD BEAT YALE!" The _Roosevelt_, accompanied by her consort, sailed south to North Star Bay and while entering the harbor ran ashore. Late in the afternoon, however, the rising tide floated her. While waiting for the tide, a party of six, I among the number, went ashore and visited the Danish Missionary settlement established there, the Esquimos acting as our interpreters, we being unable to speak Danish and the missionaries being unable to speak English. It was in North Star Bay that the coal and provisions from the _Jeanie_ were transferred to the _Roosevelt_. Aboard the _Jeanie_, there was a young Esquimo man, Mene, who for the past twelve years had lived in New York City, but, overcome by a strong desire to live again in his own country, had been sent north by his friends in the States. He was almost destitute, having positively nothing in the way of an equipment to enable him to withstand the rigors of the country, and was no more fitted for the life he was to take up than any boy of eighteen or twenty would be, for he was but a little boy when he first left North Greenland. However, Commander Peary ordered that he be given a plentiful supply of furs to keep him warm, food, ammunition and loading outfit, traps and guns, but, I believe, he would have gladly returned with us, for it was a wistful farewell he made, and an Esquimo's farewell is usually very barren of pathos. Mr. Whitney transferred his augmented equipment to the _Jeanie_, intending to remain with her down the Labrador, for her Captain had agreed to use every effort to help Mr. Whitney secure at least one polar bear. Cape York was reached on the morning of August 25, and from the two Esquimo families, living at the extreme point of the Cape, we obtained the mail which had been left there by Captain Adams of the Dundee Whaling Fleet _Morning Star_. Our letters, although they bore no more recent a date than that of March 23, 1909, were eagerly read. At Cape York we landed the last of the Esquimos. The decks were now cleared. The boats were securely lashed in their davits, and nine A. M., August 26, in a gale of wind, the _Roosevelt_ put out to sea, homeward-bound, but not yet out of danger, for the gale increased so considerably that the _Roosevelt_ was forced to lay to under reefed foresail, in the lee of the middle pack, until the 29th, when the storm subsided and the ship got under way again. On September 4 the Labrador was sighted. Under full steam we passed the Farmyard, a group of small islands which lie off the coast. We arrived at Turnavik at seven-thirty P. M. Once again we saw signs of civilization. The men and women appeared in costumes of the Twentieth Century instead of the fur garments of the Esquimos. Here we loaded nineteen tons of coal. Here we feasted on fresh codfish, fresh vegetables, and other appetizing foods to which our palates had long been strangers. You know the rest, for from Turnavik to Indian Harbor was only a few hours' sailing. At Indian Harbor was located the wireless telegraph station from where Commander Peary flashed to the civilized world his laconic message, "Stars and Stripes nailed to the North Pole." Within half an hour of our arrival, the British cutter _Fiona_ entered the harbor and the officers came aboard the _Roosevelt_. Thereafter for every hour there was continuous excitement and reception of visitors. On September 13th the steamer _Douglas H. Thomas_, of Sydney, C. B., arrived, having on board two representatives of the Associated Press, accompanied by Mr. Rood, a representative of _Harper's Magazine_. The next day the cable-boat _Tyrian_ arrived, with seventeen newspaper reporters, five photographers, and one stenographer. The _Tyrian_ anchored outside the harbor and in five life-boats the party was brought aboard the _Roosevelt_. As they rowed they cheered, and when they sighted Commander Peary three ringing cheers and a tiger were given. The newspaper men requested an interview with the Commander. He granted their request, at the same time suggesting that they accompany him ashore to a fish-loft at the end of the pier, where there would be more room than aboard the ship. Accompanied by the members of the expedition, the Commander and the reporters left the ship. Arriving at the loft Commander Peary sat on some fishnets at the rear end of the loft, some of the reporters sat on barrels and nets, others squatted on the floor. They formed a semi-circle around him and eagerly listened to the first telling of his stirring story. Before leaving Battle Harbor, we received a visit from the great missionary, Dr. Grenfell, the effect of whose presence was almost like a benediction. On the morning of the 18th we left Battle Harbor accompanied by the tug _Douglas H. Thomas_, amidst the salutes of the many vessels and boats in the harbor and the cannon on the hill. Through the Straits of Belle Isle we steamed, with a fair wind and a choppy sea. In the meantime I was busily engaged in making a strip to sew upon a large American flag. This was a broad white bar which was to extend from the upper right to the lower left corner of the flag, with the words "North Pole" sewed on it. About six A. M. on the 21st, a large white, steam-yacht was seen approaching, flying an American flag from her foremast and the English flag from the mizzenmast. We were close enough to her to distinguish Mrs. Peary and the children on board. A boat was quickly lowered from the yacht and the Peary family was soon united aboard the _Roosevelt_. All kinds of sailing craft now met the _Roosevelt_ and by them she was escorted into the harbor of Sydney, C. B. Whistles were blown, thousands of people lined the shores of the harbor, cheering enthusiastically and waving flags, and as the _Roosevelt_ was moored alongside the pier, a delegation of school-girls met the Commander, made an address, and presented him with a magnificent bouquet. The streets were gorgeously decorated and a holiday had been declared. A ripe, royal welcome was accorded the _Roosevelt_ and the members of the expedition. Visitors boarded the ship and looted successfully for souvenirs. It was at Sydney that the expedition commenced to disband. Commander Peary and his family returned to the United States via railroad-train. The _Roosevelt_ left Sydney on September 22 for New York City. A stop was made at Eagle Island, in Casco Bay, off the coast of Maine, where is located the summer home of Commander Peary, and here we landed most of his paraphernalia, some sledges and dogs. From Eagle Island we steamed direct to Sandy Hook, reaching there at noon on October 2. The next day the _Roosevelt_ took her place with the replica of those two historic ships, the _Half Moon_ and the _Clermont_, in the lead of the great naval parade. And now my story is ended; it is a tale that is told. "Now is Othello's occupation gone." I long to see them all again! the brave, cheery companions of the trail of the North. I long to see again the lithe figure of my Commander! and to hear again his clear, ringing voice urging and encouraging me onward, with his "Well done, my boy." I want to be with the party when they reach the untrod shores of Crocker Land; I yearn to be with those who reach the South Pole, the lure of the Arctic is tugging at my heart, to me the trail is calling! "The Old Trail! The Trail that is always New!" APPENDIX I NOTES ON THE ESQUIMOS The origin of the Esquimos is not known to a certainty. In color they are brown, their hair is heavy, straight, coarse, and black. In appearance they are short, fat, and well-developed; and they bear a strong resemblance to the Mongolian race. Among the men of this tribe, quarrels and fights very rarely occur; but it is a very noticeable fact that while the men of the tribe do not make war on each other, the man of the family will, at the least provocation on the part of his better-half, without hesitation apply brute force to show his authority. The tribe of these, the North Greenland Esquimos, numbers two hundred and eighteen. Great interest was shown by the men when working implements, such as we used on board ship, were shown them. Eagerly they listened while the uses of many of these tools were explained to them. The women also showed great interest in any article that was foreign to them. They have a special liking for fancy beads of the smaller variety. The Esquimos show a great capacity for imitation. They have also a marked sense of humor. An Esquimo's sense of imitation is so keen that it is only necessary for him to observe a sledge-maker at work but once, when the same type of sledge will be reproduced in a very short time. On my last trip north, I noticed that the shirts worn by the Esquimos were similar in style and cut to our own. In 1906, the style had been entirely different. The Esquimos show no desire to acquire the English language. With the exception of Kudlooktoo and Inighito, none of the tribe could speak English intelligently. The Esquimos' vocabulary is a complication of prefixes and suffixes, and many words in his language are very hard to pronounce. The _tupiks_ (tents) are made of sealskin, and are used in summer. The igloos are built of snow, and are used in winter. A few igloos built of bowlders can be seen. The workmanship of this latter type of igloos is necessarily crude, for the bowlders are used in the rough state. On entering the _tuscoonah_ (entrance), a bed-platform of stones five feet long, and six feet wide, confronts one. On each side of this platform are seen smaller platforms, each holding a _koodlah_ (fire-pot). This _koodlah_ is made of a stone so soft that before it comes in contact with fire it can easily be cut with a knife. The name given by the Esquimos to it is _okeyoah_. Cooking utensils are first formed in the desired shape, then heat is applied, as a result of which the stone quickly hardens. The method of cooking as employed by the Esquimos is to suspend the _kooleesoo_ (cooking-pot) over the _koodlah_ (fire-pot). The _koodlah_ is the only means by which light can be secured in an Esquimo igloo. As fuel, the blubber of the narwhal is used. The clothing of the male Esquimo consists of a _kooletah_ (deerskin coat with hood attached), _nanookes_ (foxskin trousers) and _kamiks_ (sealskin boots); that of the female Esquimo, a _kopetah_ (foxskin coat with hood attached), _nanookes_ (foxskin trousers) and hip length _kamiks_ (sealskin boots). The shirts of the male and female Esquimo are made from the skin of the auks, and one hundred and fifty of these little birds are used in the manufacture of one shirt. The largest Esquimo family known among the North Greenland tribe, numbers six; as a rule, an Esquimo family rarely outnumbers three. An Esquimo family is not stationary. Rarely does a family remain in one place longer than one season, which is nine months. The principal reason for this constant moving is the scarcity of game; for after a season of hunting in one place, game becomes very scarce; and there is no other alternative but for the family to move on. Transportation is by means of sledges drawn by a team of dogs. Alcoholic drinks are not known among this tribe; but, of late, tobacco is extensively used. Previous to 1902, before the arrival of the Danes, tobacco was an unknown quantity. The cleanliness of the Esquimos leaves room for much improvement. With reference to their morals, strictly speaking they are markedly lax. The wife of an Esquimo is held in no higher esteem than are the goods and chattels of the household. She may at any time be loaned, borrowed, sold, or exchanged. They have no marriage ceremony. The amusements of the Esquimos are few. Tests of strength and endurance occur between the men of the tribe; and visits are paid to the various settlements, during the long winter nights; and songs and choruses are sung, accompanied by a kind of tambourine which is made from the bladder of a walrus or seal, and stretched across the antlers of a reindeer. The Esquimos are a very superstitious people. In the event of a fatal illness, the victim, just before death, is removed to a place outside the igloo, for should death enter the igloo that dwelling would instantly be destroyed. If the deceased be a man, he is rolled up in a sealskin, and strips of rawhide are lashed around the body to keep the skin intact. He is then carried to his last resting place. A low stone structure is built around the body to protect it from the foxes. His sledge, containing all his belongings, is placed close beside this structure, and his dogs harnessed to his sledge are strangled, and stretched their full length, with their forepaws extended. In the event of the deceased being a woman, her cooking utensils are placed beside her, and should she be the mother of a very young infant, its life is taken. In the case of a widower, the bereaved Esquimo remains in the igloo for three days, during which time a new suit of wearing apparel is made, and worn by him, and all clothing made by the deceased, is, by him, destroyed. His term of mourning now being ended, the Esquimo, without more ado, takes unto himself a new wife. Members of the tribe who have the same name as the deceased have to change that name until the arrival of a new-born babe, to whom the name is given, whereby the ban is removed. The Esquimos have no decided form of religion. When questioned as to where the soul of the good Esquimo will go, they reply by pointing upward; and by pointing downward, the question is answered as to the final dwelling-place of the wicked. The main cause of death amongst the Esquimos is from a disease the symptoms of which are a cough, nausea, and fever, which disease quickly causes death. It is true that the Esquimos are of little value to the commercial world, due probably to their isolated position; but these same unlearned and uncivilized people have rendered valuable assistance in the discovery of the North Pole. APPENDIX II LIST OF SMITH SOUND ESQUIMOS (Males marked by an asterisk) Ac-com-o-ding´-wah * Ah-ding´-ah-loo Ah-dul-ah-ko-tee´-ah * Ah-dul-ah-ko-tee´-ah * Ah-ga-tah´ Ah-go´-tah * Ah-kah-gee´-ah-how A-ka-ting´-wah A-ka-ting´-wah Ah-li-kah-sing´-wah Ah-li-kah-sing´-wah Ah-li-kah-sing´-wah Ah´-mah Ah-mame´-ee Ah-mo-ned´-dy Ah-mung´-wah Ah-nad´-doo Ah-nah´-we Ah-nah-wing´-wah Ahng-een´-yah * Ahng-een´-yah Ahng´-ing-nah Ahng-ma-lok´-to * Ahng-nah´-nia Ahng-no-ding´-wah Ahng-o-do-blah´-o * Ahng-o-di-gip´-so Ahng´-od-loo * Ah-ni-ghi´-to Ah-ni-ghi´-to Ah-ning´-wah Ah-ning´-wah Ah-now´-kah * Ah-now´-kah * Ah´-pel-lah * Ah´-pel-lah * Ah-pu-ding´-wah * Ah-say´-oo * Ah´-te-tah Ah´-te-tah Ah-took-sung´-wah Ah-tung´-ee-nah Ah-tung´-ee-nah Ah-wa-ting´-wah * Ah-wa-tok´-suah * Ah-wee´-ah Ah-wee´-ah Ah-wee-ah-good´-loo Ah-wee-aung-o´-nah Ah-wee´-i-ah * Ah-we-ging´-wah * Ah-we-shung´-wah * Ah-wok-tun´-ee-ah Ak-pood-ah-shah´-o * Ak-pood-ah-shah´-o * Ak-pood´-ee-ark * Ak-pood-e-uk´-ee A-le´-tah * Al´-nay-ah Al-nay-du´-ah Ar-ke´-o * Ar-ke´-o * Ar-ke´-o * E-gee´-ah * E-ging´-wah * E-ging´-wah * E-lay-ting´-wah E-ling´-wah * E-meen´-yah * E-she-a´-too E-shing´-wah E-tood´-loo * E-took´-ah-shoo * E-took´-ah-shoo * E-too-shok´-swah E´-vah-loo E´-vah-loo E´-we I-ah-ping´-wah * I-ah-ping´-wah * Ig-lood-ee-ark´-swee * Ihr´-lee * Ik´-wah * Ik-kile-e-oo´-shah Il-kah-lin´-ah Il-kli-ah´ * Il-kli-ah´ * In-ad-lee´-ah In-ad-lee´-ah In´-ah-loo In-i-ghi´-to * In-i-ghi´-to * In-i-ghi´-to * In-noo´-i-tah * In-noo-tah´ In-noo-tah´ In-u-ah-pud´-o * In-u-ah´-o In-yah-lung´-wah I-on´-ah I-o-wit´-ty * Jacok-su´-nah * Kah´-dah * Kah-ko-tee´-ah Kah-ko-tee´-ah * Kah-shad´-doo Kah-shoo´-be-doo * Kai-o-ang´-wah * Kai-o-ang´-wah * Kai´-oh * Kai-o-look´-to * Kai-o´-tah * Kai-we-ark´-shah * Kai-we-ing´-wah * Kai´-we-kah * Kai-ung´-wah * Kang-nah´ * Kes-shoo´ * Ke-shung´-wah * Klay´-oo Klay´-oo Klay-ung´-wah Klip-e-sok´-swah * Kood´-ee-puck Kood-loo-tin´-ah * Kood-loo-tin´-ah * (or Koolatoonah) Koo-e-tig´-e-to * Koo´-lee Kool-oo-ting´-wah * Koo-u-pee´ Koo-u-pee´ Kud´-ah-shah * Kud´-lah * Kud´-lah * Kud-lun´-ah * Kud-look´-too * Ky-u-tah * Ma-gip´-soo Mah-so´-nah * Mah-so´-nah * Mah-so´-nah * Mah-so´-nah * Mark-sing´-wah * Mee´-tik * Mee´-tik * Me-gip´-soo Mek´-kah Me´-ne * Merk-to-shah´ * Mok´-sah * Mok-sang´-wah Mok-sang´-wah Mon´-nie Mon´-nie Micky´-shoo My´-ah * My-o´-tah * Nay-dee-ing´-wah Nel-lee´-kah Nel-lee-ka-tee´-ah Net´-too Net´-too New-e-king´-wah New-e-king´-wah New-e-king´-wah New-hate´-e-lah´-o * New-hate´-e-lah´-o * New-kah-ping´-wah * Nip-sang´-wah * Now-o-yat´-loe Nup´-sah Og´-we * Oo-ah-oun´ * Oo-bloo´-yah * Oo-bloo´-yah * Oo´-mah * Oo-que´-ah * Oo´-tah* Oo-tun´-iah Oo-we´-ah-oop * Oo-we-she-a´-too Pan´-ik-pah * Pee-ah-wah´-to * Poo-ad-loo´-nah* Poo-ad-loo´-nah * Poo-ad-loo´-nah * Poob´-lah * Poob´-lah * Pood-lung´-wah Poo´-too Sag´-wah Sat´-too * Seeg´-loo * Seen-o-ung´-wah See-o-dee-kah´-to Shoo-e-king´-wah Sim´-e-ah Sin-ah´-ew Sip´-soo Sow´-nah Suk´-kun * Sul-ming´-wah * Tah´-tah-rah * Tah´-wah-nah * Taw-ching´-wah * Taw-ching´-wah * Teddy-ling´-wah * Toi-tee´-ah * Took-e-ming´-wah Too´-koom-ah Tu-bing´-wah Tung-wing´-wah Tung´-we * Ung´-ah * We´-ark We-shark´-oup-si * Two female babies not named Male 122 Female 96 ---- Total 218 THE END * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The illustrations have been moved out of the middle of paragraphs so as to not interrupt the flow of reading. Obvious punctuation errors have been repaired. Page xiii, "ESKIMOS" changed to "ESQUIMOS". (NORTH POLE ESQUIMOS) Page 76, "Equimos" changed to "Esquimos". (fourteen Esquimos) One instance each of the following was retained: fiendlike/fiend-like forepaws/fore-paws readjusting/re-adjusting 
38968	----	[Illustration: "And now, a cheer for the first boys at the North Pole!"] FIRST AT THE NORTH POLE OR TWO BOYS IN THE ARCTIC CIRCLE BY EDWARD STRATEMEYER Author of Oliver Bright's Search, Richard Dare's Venture, The Last Cruise of the Spitfire, True to Himself, Joe, the Surveyor, Shorthand Tom, Etc. ILLUSTRATED BY CHARLES NUTTALL GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK Published, December, 1909 Copyright, 1909, by Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. All rights reserved CONTENTS CHAPTER I--ANDY AND HIS UNCLE CHAPTER II--AT THE LUMBER CAMP CHAPTER III--SOME PAPERS OF VALUE CHAPTER IV--CHET GREENE'S PAST CHAPTER V--THE MAN ON THE LEDGE CHAPTER VI--A WORLD-WIDE HUNTER CHAPTER VII--CHET AND THE MOOSE CHAPTER VIII--A TALK OF IMPORTANCE CHAPTER IX--SOMETHING ABOUT THE NORTH POLE CHAPTER X--BRINGING IN SOME GAME CHAPTER XI--A SERIOUS LOSS CHAPTER XII--A LETTER OF INTEREST CHAPTER XIII--BARWELL DAWSON REACHES A DECISION CHAPTER XIV--THE FIRE ON THE STEAMER CHAPTER XV--THE START OF THE COOK EXPEDITION CHAPTER XVI--A TRICK, AND WHAT FOLLOWED CHAPTER XVII--AN ENCOUNTER WITH ICEBERGS CHAPTER XVIII--SHOOTING WILD GEESE CHAPTER XIX--GREENLAND AND THE ESQUIMAUX CHAPTER XX--FAST IN THE ICE CHAPTER XXI--A FIGHT WITH POLAR BEARS CHAPTER XXII--THROUGH THE LONG NIGHT CHAPTER XXIII--"NORTH POLE OR BUST!" CHAPTER XXIV--THE LAST HUNT CHAPTER XXV--CROSSING THE GREAT LEAD CHAPTER XXVI--ON A FLOATING MASS OF ICE CHAPTER XXVII--HOW COMMANDER PEARY REACHED THE POLE CHAPTER XXVIII--THE TOP OF THE WORLD AT LAST CHAPTER XXIX--FIGHTING OFF STARVATION CHAPTER XXX--HOME AGAIN CHAPTER XXXI--GOOD NEWS--CONCLUSION PREFACE "First at the North Pole," relates the particulars of a marvelous journey from our New England coast to that portion of our globe sometimes designated as "the top of the world." Filled with such dreams as come to all explorers, Barwell Dawson fitted out the _Ice King_ for a trip to the north. Because of what had happened, it was but natural that he should invite Andy and Chet to accompany him, and equally natural that they should hasten to accept the invitation. The boys knew that they would have no easy time of it, yet they did not dream of the many perils that awaited the entire party. Once the staunch steamer was in danger of being crushed by an immense iceberg, in which event this chronicle would not have been written. Again, the boys and the others had a fierce fight with polar bears and with a savage walrus. When the ship was jammed hard and fast in the ice a start was made by the exploring party, accompanied by some Esquimaux and several dog sledges. All had heard of the marvelous achievements of Cook and Peary, and all were fired with a great ambition to go and do likewise. With the thermometer often at fifty degrees below zero, they pushed on steadily, facing death more than once. To add to their troubles they had sickness in camp, and snow-blindness, and once some Esquimaux, becoming scared, rebelled and tried to run off with their supplies. Then, when the North Pole was at last gained, it became the gravest kind of a problem how to return to civilization alive. In penning this volume I have had a twofold purpose in mind: the first to show what pure grit and determination can do under the most trying of circumstances, and the second to give my readers an insight into Esquimaux life and habits, and to relate what great explorers like Franklin, Kane, Hall, DeLong, Nansen, Cook, and Peary have done to open up this weird and mysterious portion of our globe. Edward Stratemeyer. November 15, 1909. CHAPTER I ANDY AND HIS UNCLE "What be you a-goin' to do today, Andy?" "I'm going to try my luck over to the Storburgh camp, Uncle Si. I hardly think Mr. Storburgh will have an opening for me, but it won't hurt to ask him." "Did you try Sam Hickley, as I told you to?" continued Josiah Graham, as he settled himself more comfortably before the open fireplace of the cabin. "Yes, but he said he had all the men he wanted." Andy Graham gave something of a sigh. "Seems to me there are more lumbermen in this part of Maine than there is lumber." "Humph! I guess you ain't tried very hard to git work," grumbled the old man, drawing up his bootless feet on the rungs of his chair, and spreading out his hands to the generous blaze before him. "Did you see them Plover brothers?" "No, but Chet Greene did, day before yesterday, and they told him they were laying men off instead of taking 'em on." "Humph! I guess thet Chet Greene don't want to work. He'd rather fool his time away in the woods, huntin' and fishin'." "Chet is willing enough to work if he can get anything to do. And hunting pays, sometimes. Last week he got a fine deer and one of the rich hunters from Boston paid him a good price for it." "Humph! Thet ain't as good as a stiddy, payin' job. I don't want you to be a-lazin' your time away in the woods,--I want you to grow up stiddy an' useful. Besides, we got to have money, if we want to live." "Aren't you going to try to get work, Uncle Si?" asked the boy anxiously, as he gazed at the large and powerful-looking frame of the man before him. "To be sure I'm a-goin' to go to work--soon as I'm fit. But I can't do nuthin with my feet an' my stomach goin' back on me, can I?" "I thought your dyspepsia was about over--you've eaten so well the past week. And you've walked considerably lately. If you got something easy----" "Now, don't you go to tellin' me what to do!" cried the old man, wrathfully. "I'm a sick man, that's what I am. I ain't able to work, an' it's up to you as a dootiful nevvy to git work an' support us both. Now you jest trot off to the Storburgh camp, an' don't you come home till you git work. An' after this, you better give up havin' anything to do with thet good-fer-nuthin, lazy Chet Greene." The boy's eyes flashed for an instant and he was on the point of making a bitter reply to his relative. But then his mouth closed suddenly and he turned away. In silence he drew off his slippers, donned his big boots, and put on his overcoat and his winter cap. Then he pulled on his gloves, slung a game bag over his shoulder, and reached for a gun that stood behind a door. "Wot you takin' thet fer?" demanded Josiah Graham, with his eyes on the gun. "Didn't I tell you to look fer a job?" "That's what I'm going to do," was the reply. "But if I come across any game on the way I want the chance to bring it down." "Humph! I know how boys are! Rather loaf around the woods than work, any time." "Uncle Si, if you say another word----" began the youth, and then he stopped short, turned on his heel, and walked from the cabin, closing the door none too gently behind him. It was certainly a trying situation, and as he stepped out into the snow Andy felt as if he never wanted to go back and never wanted to see his Uncle Si again. "It's his laziness, nothing else," murmured the boy to himself, as he trudged off. "He's as able to work as I am. He always was lazy--father said so. Oh, dear; I wish he had never come to Pine Run!" Andy was a youth of seventeen, of medium height, but with well-developed chest and muscles. His face was a round one, and usually good to look at, although at present it was drawn down because of what had just occurred. The boy was an orphan, the son of a man who in years gone by had bought and sold lumber throughout the northern section of Maine. His mother had been taken away when he was a small lad, and then he and his father had left town and come to live in the big cabin from which Andy was now trudging so rapidly. An old colored woman had come along, to do the cooking and other household work. A log jam on the river had caused Mr. Graham's death two years before this tale opens, and for a short time Andy had been left utterly alone, there being no near neighbors and no relatives to take care of the orphan. True, he had been offered a home by a lumber dealer of Bangor, but the man was such a harsh fellow that Andy shrank from going with him. Then, one day, much to everybody's surprise, Josiah Graham appeared on the scene and announced his intention to settle down and live with his nephew. Josiah was an older half-brother to Andy's father, and the boy had often heard of him as a shiftless, lazy ne'er-do-well, who drifted from one town to another, seldom keeping a job longer than two or three weeks or a month. He did not drink, but he loved to smoke, and to tell stories of what he had done or was going to do. "I'm a-goin' to take Andy in hand an' make a man of him," he declared, shortly after his arrival. "A young feller like him needs a guardeen." And then he had his trunk carted to the cabin and, without asking Andy's permission, proceeded to settle down and make himself comfortable. At first it looked as if matters might go along smoothly enough, for Josiah Graham managed to obtain a position as time-keeper at one of the lumber camps, where Andy was employed as a chopper. But soon the man's laziness manifested itself, and when he did not do his work properly he was discharged. "It was the boss's fault, 'twasn't mine," he told Andy, but the youth knew better. Then he got into a quarrel with the negro woman who did the housework and told her to go away. "'Twill be one less to feed," he said to his nephew. "We can do our own work." But he did not do a stroke extra, and it fell to Andy's share to sweep, and wash dishes, and make his own bed. Uncle Si wanted him to make the other bed too, but he refused. "If you want it made, you can make it yourself!" declared Andy, with spirit. "You are not working at the camp, while I am." This led to a lively quarrel. After that Josiah Graham did make up the bed a few times, but usually when he crawled into it at night it was in the same mussed-up condition as when he had crawled out in the morning. Another quarrel came over the question of money. The uncle wanted Andy to hand over all his earnings, but this the lad refused to do. Josiah Graham had already gotten possession of the fifteen hundred dollars left by Andy's father, but this was lost in a wildcat speculation in lumber for which the old man was morally, if not legally, responsible. The youth felt that he must be cautious or his uncle might make him penniless. "I'll pay the bills and give you a dollar a week," he told Josiah Graham. "That will buy those tablets you take for your dyspepsia. You had better give up smoking." "Smoking is good for the dyspepsy," was the reply. "You give me the money an' I'll pay the bills," and then, when Andy still refused, the uncle waited until pay-day and went to the lumber camp and collected his nephew's wages. This brought on more trouble, and, because of this, Andy lost his position. It was midwinter, and to get another job was by no means easy. The youth tramped from place to place, but without success. The money in the hands of Josiah Graham was running low, and he was constantly "nagging" Andy to go and do something. He was perfectly able to look for work himself, but was too indolent to make the effort. He preferred to sit in front of the blazing fire and give advice. Once or twice a week he would shuffle off to the village, two miles away, to sit behind the pot stove in the general store and listen to the news. "The laziest man in the whole district," declared the storekeeper. "It's a pity he showed up to bother Andy Graham. I think the boy could have done better without him." And this verdict was shared by many. But nobody dared to tell Josiah Graham, for fear of provoking a quarrel with the man. As mentioned before, Andy's father had left fifteen hundred dollars. He had also bequeathed to his son, when he should become of age, an interest in a large timber tract in upper Michigan. On his deathbed the father had secretly given his son some papers referring to the land, telling him to beware or some "lumber sharks" would get the better of him and take his property away. Andy now had these papers hidden in a box under his bed. He had not told his uncle of them, feeling that his relative was not capable of looking after his rights. Andy's education was somewhat limited, yet he knew a great deal more than did Josiah Graham, who had been too lazy to attend school, even when he had the chance. "I'll keep the papers secret," the lad told himself, "and some day, when I get the chance and have the money, I'll go down to Bangor or Portland and get a lawyer to look into the matter for me. If I let Uncle Si have them he'll allow the land sharks to cheat me out of everything." Andy's father had been more or less of a hunter, and the boy took naturally to a rifle and a shotgun. He was a fair marksman, and the winter previous had laid low three deer and a great variety of small game. One of the deer had been brought down on a windy day and at long range, and of that shot he was justly proud. The venison and other meat had come in handy at the cabin, and the deer skins and the horns of a buck had brought him in some money that was badly needed. "If I can't get a job, I'm going hunting for a few days," said Andy half aloud, as he trudged through the snow. "It's better than doing nothing, Uncle Si to the contrary. Maybe I can get Chet to go along. I don't think he has anything else to do. Somehow or other, it seems to be awfully dull around here this winter. Maybe I would have done better if I had tried my luck down in one of the towns." Andy had to pass through the village of Pine Run, consisting of a general store, blacksmith shop, church, and a score of houses. As he approached the settlement he saw a horse and cutter coming toward him at a smart rate of speed. In the cutter sat a man of about thirty, dressed in a fine fur overcoat. "Whoa!" called the man to his steed, as he approached the youth, and the horse soon came to a halt. "Say, can you tell me, is this the road to Moose Ridge?" he asked. "It's one of the roads," answered Andy. "Then there is another?" "Yes, sir, just beyond that fringe of trees yonder." "Which is the best road?" "What part of the Ridge do you want to go to?" "Up to a place called the Blasted Pines." "Then you had better take the other road. You won't get through this way." "You are sure of that? I don't want to make any mistake." "Yes, I am sure. I've been up there hunting myself," added Andy. He saw that the cutter contained a game bag and two gun cases. "Is the hunting any good?" "It was last year. I haven't been up there this year. I got a fine big deer up there. Maybe I'll get up there later--if I can't find work." "Out of employment, eh?" "Yes, sir." "Well, if you come up there perhaps we'll meet again," said the man, and started to turn the cutter back to the other road. "Much obliged for the information." "You're welcome," answered Andy. And then he watched the turnout swing around and dash away for the other road. Little did he dream of the strange circumstances under which he was to meet this man again, or of what that encounter was to bring forth. CHAPTER II AT THE LUMBER CAMP Leaving the village behind him, Andy struck out bravely for the Storburgh lumber camp, three miles up the river. The thermometer was low but there was no wind, and he did not mind the cold, for he had plenty of good red blood in his veins. All he was worried about was the question of getting work. He knew that he must have money, and that it could not very well be obtained without employment. "If I were a fellow in a fairy story book I might find a bag of gold," he mused. "But as I'm only a Yankee lad, I guess I'll have to hustle around for all I get. Even if I went hunting and brought down a deer or two, or a moose, that wouldn't bring in enough. If I were a regular guide I might get a job with that gentleman in the cutter. He looked as if he had money to spend. He must be a stranger in these parts, or he wouldn't ask about the road to Moose Ridge." It was nearly noon when Andy came in sight of the lumber camp. From a distance he heard the ringing sounds of the axes, and the shouts of the men to "stand from under" as a mighty monarch of the forest was about to fall. Skirting the "yard," he approached the building which was known as the office. "Is Mr. Storburgh around?" he asked, of the young man in charge. "He is not," was the reply, and the clerk scarcely looked up from the sheet upon which he was figuring. "When will he be here?" "I don't know--he's gone to New York." "Do you know if he has an opening for a chopper, or on the teams?" "No opening whatever. We laid off four men last week, and we're going to lay off four more this coming Saturday." The clerk went on figuring, and in silence Andy withdrew. He had had a walk of nearly five miles for nothing. Was it any wonder that he was disheartened? "It's the same story everywhere," he told himself, as he moved away slowly. "I might tramp to the Elroy place--that's six miles from here--but what's the use? I'll wear out boot-leather for nothing. I guess Uncle Si and I will have to pull up stakes or starve." Not knowing what else to do, Andy walked along to where a number of men were at work. Just then the twelve o'clock whistle sounded, and the workers "knocked off" for their midday meal. "Hello, Andy!" sung out a cheery voice, and, turning, the boy saw a brawny chopper named Bill Carrow approaching. Carrow had once worked with Mr. Graham, and knew the son fairly well. "Hello," returned the youth. "Going to feed the inner man?" and he smiled. "That's what, son. How are you?" And the lumberman shook hands. "Fairly well, but I'd feel better if I had a job." "Out of work, eh? That's too bad. I don't suppose there is any opening here." "The clerk said there wasn't any--said they were discharging hands instead of taking 'em on." "That's true. Business is bad--account of the panic last year, you know." Bill Carrow paused a moment. "Had your dinner?" "No, but I can wait until----" "You ain't going to wait. You come with me and I'll fill you up. Your father did the same for me many a time. Come on." Andy was hungry, and could not resist this kindly invitation. Soon the pair were eating a plain but substantial dinner, which Carrow procured from the camp cook. It was disposed of in a corner of the mess cabin, apart from the other lumbermen. As they ate the lumberman asked the youth about himself and his uncle. "That uncle of yours ought to be ashamed of himself, that's my opinion of it," said Bill Carrow. "If I was you, I'd not lift my finger to support him. He was the laziest young feller I ever knew, and it's nothing but laziness now. He ought to be supporting you instead of you supporting him." "I can support myself--if he'd only leave me alone and not try to get my money away from me." "He squandered that money your father left--I know all about it. I'd make him go to work." "I can't make him do anything." "The boys ought to go over and ride him on a rail, or tar and feather him. I guess that would wake him up." "Oh, I hope they don't do that! He's a bad man when he gets in a rage." Andy did not want any more trouble than had already fallen to his portion. "By the way, Andy, did a man named Hopton call on you lately?" asked Carrow, after a pause. "Hopton? I never heard of him. Who is he?" "Why, as near as I can learn, he is a real estate man--deals in timber and farm lands. He came here a week or so ago, thinking you had a job here. I told him where you lived, and I supposed he called on you." "I didn't see him. What did he want?" "He wouldn't say--leastwise, I didn't ask him, seeing's it was none of my business. But he did ask me, confidential like--after he found out that I had known your father well--if your folks had any timber lands over in Michigan." "Oh!" Andy uttered the exclamation before he had time to think. "Did he--that is, did he ask about any land in particular?" "No. I told him I didn't think you owned any land anywhere. He looked satisfied at that and went away. But I thought he called on you." "Where was he from?" "I don't know. But they might tell you at the office. Have you got any land?" It was an awkward question. Andy did not wish to tell a falsehood, nor did he wish to disclose the secret left by his parent. He bit off a mouthful of bread and pretended to choke upon it. "Hi, look out, or you'll choke to death!" cried Bill Carrow, slapping him on the back. Then Andy ran to the door and continued to cough, until the awkward question was forgotten. Other workmen came up, and the talk became general. Perhaps Carrow suspected that the boy did not wish to answer him, for he did not refer to the matter again. After thanking his friend for the dinner, Andy walked back to the office. He found the clerk smoking a pipe and reading a Bangor newspaper, having finished his midday meal a few minutes previously. "It's no use," he said, as Andy came in. "We can't possibly take you on." "I came back to get a little information, if you'll be kind enough to give it. Do you know a man named Hopton?" "Why, yes. I suppose you mean A. Q. Hopton, the real estate dealer." "Does he deal in timber lands?" "I think he does." "Where is he from?" "He has an office in Portland, and another in Grand Rapids, Michigan." "Do you know where he is now?" "No. He was here on business some days ago. Perhaps he went back to Portland." "Thank you." "Want to buy a few thousand acres of land?" and the clerk chuckled at his joke. "No, I thought I could sell him a linen duster to keep the icicles off when he's on the road," answered Andy, with a grin. And then, as there seemed nothing more to say, he walked away, and was soon leaving the Storburgh lumber camp behind him. What he had heard set him to thinking deeply. What did this A. Q. Hopton know about the lumber tract in Michigan? Was it valuable, and did it really belong to his father's estate? "I wish I knew more about such things," mused Andy. "The last time I tried to read the papers over I couldn't make head or tail of them. I guess it would take a smart lawyer to get to the bottom of it--and a lawyer would want a lot of money for the work. I wonder----" And then Andy came to a sudden halt. Was it possible that Mr. A. Q. Hopton had called at the cabin during his absence and interviewed Uncle Si? And if so, how much had Uncle Si been able to tell the real estate dealer? Had the two gone on a hunt for the papers, and, if so, had they found the documents? "If Uncle Si has gone into any kind of a deal on this without consulting me, I'll--I'll bring him to account for it!" cried the youth, vehemently. "After this he has got to leave my affairs alone. He lost that fifteen hundred dollars--he's not going to lose that timber land, too." It occurred to Andy that the best thing he could do would be to get home at once and interview his uncle. For the time being he lost his interest in looking for work, and also lost his desire to go gunning. "I've tramped far enough for one day, anyway," he told himself. "I'll just stop at the store for a few things, and then go straight home." It was a long walk to the village, and once there he was glad enough to rest while the storekeeper put up the few things he desired. These he paid for in cash, for he did not wish to risk a refusal should he ask for trust. "Your uncle was here--got some tobacco," said the storekeeper. "He said you would pay for it." "He'll have to pay for it himself, Mr. Sands," answered Andy, firmly. "Yes? All right, Andy, just as you say." "I pay for what I buy, and he can do the same." "Well, I don't blame you, my boy." And the look of the storekeeper spoke volumes. He handed over some change that was due. "By the way, did you know there was a real estate dealer in town to see you?" he inquired. "A Mr. Hopton?" "That's the man." "When?" "To-day,--only a few hours ago. I was telling him where you lived when your uncle came along for the tobacco. They talked a while together, and then went off." "Towards our place?" "Yes, they took that road. The real estate man had a sleigh, and your uncle got in with him." "What did Mr. Hopton want?" "I don't know exactly. I heard some words about papers, and your uncle said he had them. Mr. Hopton said something about three hundred dollars in cash--but I don't know what it was." Andy's heart leaped into his throat. Was it possible that his uncle had found the timber claim papers, and was going to let Mr. A. Q. Hopton have them for three hundred dollars? "He sha'n't do it--I'll stop him--I must stop him!" the boy told himself, and catching up his bundles he left the general store, and struck out for home as fast as his tired limbs would carry him. CHAPTER III SOME PAPERS OF VALUE Ever since his father had left him the papers Andy had thought they might be of considerable value, but now he was more convinced than ever of their importance. "For all I know, that claim may be worth a fortune," he reasoned. "Anyway, it's worth something, or that man wouldn't be so anxious to get the papers." The youth tried his best to increase his speed, but the snow was deep in spots, and his long journey to the Storburgh camp had tired him, so it took some time to get even within sight of the cabin that was his home. To the rear, under the shed, he saw a horse and cutter. "He is there, that's sure," he told himself. "I wonder what they are doing?" The path to the cabin wound in and out among some trees, so that those inside could not witness his approach unless they were on the watch. As the youth came closer a sudden thought struck him, and he darted behind some bushes, made a detour, and came up in the shed. Here there was a back door opening into a summer kitchen. Placing his bundles on a shelf in the shed, Andy softly opened the door to the summer kitchen and entered the place. Here there was another door, opening into the general living room of the cabin. It was not well hung, and stood open several inches. "Well, I know something about timber lands," he heard his uncle saying. "If they are wuth anything, they are generally wuth considerable." "I am offering you more than this claim is worth," was the reply from Mr. A. Q. Hopton. He was standing in front of the fire warming himself, while Josiah Graham was hunched up in his usual attitude in the easy chair. Both men were smoking cigars, the real estate man having stood treat. "Wot makes you so anxious to git the papers?" went on Josiah Graham. "My client simply wants to clear away this flaw, as I told you," answered A. Q. Hopton, smoothly. "Of course he could go ahead and claim everything just as it is, and I don't think you could do a thing, but he prefers to treat everybody right. Mr. Graham gave a hundred dollars for this claim, so when you get three hundred for it you are getting a big price." "Humph!" Josiah Graham fell back on his favorite exclamation. "If I--that is, if I let you have them papers, Andy may object." "How can he? You're his guardian, aren't you?" "Sure I am, but----" "Then you have a right to do as you please. You don't want me to buy the papers from him, do you?" "No! no! You give the money to me!" cried Josiah Graham, in alarm. "He don't know the vally of a dollar, an' I do. If he had thet three hundred dollars he'd squander it in no time." "Very well, give me the papers and I'll write you out a check." "Can't you give me cash? It ain't no easy matter fer me to git a check cashed up here." Josiah Graham did not add that he was afraid the check might be worthless, although that was in his mind. "I don't carry three hundred dollars in my clothes. I can give you fifty in cash though," went on the real estate agent, as he saw the old man's face fall. "And if you wish, I'll get one of the lumber bosses up here to vouch for the check." "Humph! I suppose thet will have to do then. But--er--one thing more, Mr. Hopton----" "What is that?" Josiah Graham leaned forward anxiously. "Don't you let the boy know about this right away. You give me a chanct to tell him myself." "Just as you wish. You're his guardian, and I'll not interfere with you. Get the papers and I'll give you the check and the cash right now." And the real estate agent drew a pocketbook and a checkbook from his inside coat. Andy had listened to the conversation with bated breath. So far as worldly experience went he was but a boy, yet he realized that, in some way, this Mr. A. Q. Hopton was trying to swindle him out of his inheritance, and that his Uncle Si was willing to aid the schemer just for the sake of getting possession of the three hundred dollars. As his uncle arose to enter the room in which his nephew slept, the boy slipped into the cabin. Like a flash he darted to his bedroom, jumped inside, and shut and bolted the door after him. "Hi there! What's this?" cried the real estate dealer, in astonishment. "It's--it's the boy, my nevvy!" gasped Josiah Graham. "He come in through the back door! He must have been a-listenin' to our talk." "Is that so? That's too bad." The real estate agent was dazed by the sudden turn of affairs. "He had a gun with him." "Yes, he took it with him when he went for work." Josiah Graham walked over to the door and tried it. "Andy, open that door." "I will not," was the answer. "Was you a-listenin' to our talk?" "I was." "Humph! Nice thing fer a boy to do!" "I guess I had a right to listen," was the cool answer. As he spoke, Andy was examining the box in which he had stored the papers. He found things much disarranged, showing that his uncle had gone through the contents during his absence. But the papers were there, and the sight of them caused him to breathe a sigh of relief. "They sha'n't have these papers, no matter what happens," he said to himself, and stuffed the documents into an inside pocket. "Open thet door!" commanded Josiah Graham, and his voice now sounded harsh and threatening. "I guess you had better teach that boy manners," was Mr. A. Q. Hopton's comment. "I'll teach him sumthin'!" answered the old man. "Open thet door, I say, an' come out here." "You want to get those papers," said Andy. He was wondering what to do next. "Well, ain't I your guardeen, an' ain't I got a right to 'em?" "The papers are mine, and I'm not going to give them up," answered Andy, doggedly. "I don't like that Mr. Hopton, and he's not going to get the papers. I'm going to turn them over to a lawyer." At these words the real estate man was much disturbed. "That boy is an imp," he said, in a low voice. "I'd not let him talk to me that way if I were you." "I ain't goin' to," answered Josiah Graham. "Andy, you open thet door, or I'll bust it in!" "Don't you dare break down the door!" answered Andy, in increased alarm. "If you do--I'll--I'll--Well, remember, I've got my gun--and it's loaded, too." "Don't ye shoot! Don't ye shoot!" yelled Uncle Si, in sudden terror, and he backed away several steps. "Don't ye dare! Oh, was ever there sech a boy!" "Do you think he'd dare to shoot?" asked the real estate dealer. "I dunno. He's got lots o' spirit sometimes." "Maybe we had better try to reason with him." "All right." Josiah Graham raised his voice. "Andy, this is all--er--foolishness. Come out o' there." To this the youth did not answer. He was considering what he had best do next. He did not want to shoot anybody, and he was afraid that the two men would in some manner get the better of him and take away the papers. "Andy, do ye hear me? Come out--I ain't goin' to hurt ye." "You'll take those papers away from me." "He is going to sell me the papers, and at a good price," broke in A. Q. Hopton. "I don't want to sell--to you," answered Andy. He was moving around the bedroom rapidly, having decided on a course of action. "I'm your guardeen, an' I know wot's best," broke in Josiah Graham. "Open the door, an' no more foolin' about it." "I don't recognize you as my guardian," was Andy's reply. As he spoke he tiptoed his way to the window and opened it. Then he threw out a small bundle, and his gun and game bag followed. "I am your guardeen!" stormed Josiah Graham. "You open the door!" Instead of answering, Andy pushed a chair to the window. In another instant he had mounted it, and then he crawled through the opening. He landed in a heap in the snow, and scrambled up immediately. With bundle, gun, the game bag in his possession, he ran back of the shed and then down the road leading to the village. At that minute he did not know where he was going, or what he was going to do. He had the precious papers in his pocket, and his one idea was to keep these away from his uncle and Mr. A. Q. Hopton. "I'll not go back until I've stored the papers in a safe place," he told himself, finally. "I wonder who would keep them for me without asking too many questions?" Although the sun hung low in the west, it was still light, and reaching a turn in the road, Andy stopped to look back. Much to his chagrin, he saw that his flight had already been discovered. "They are coming after me!" he murmured, as he saw the horse and cutter flash into view. His uncle and the real estate dealer were on the seat, and the latter was urging the horse into a run through the heavy snow. Unfortunately for Andy, there was but one road in that vicinity, and that ended at the Graham cabin. On all sides were the pine woods, with their scrub timber and underbrush, still partly laden with the fall of snow of the week previous. "If I stick to the road they'll catch me sure, and if I leave it I'll have to go right into the woods, and they'll easily see my trail," he reasoned. He broke into a run, and thus managed to pass another bend of the highway. Behind him he heard the jingle of the sleighbells as the cutter drew closer. In a few minutes more his pursuers would be upon him. "I'll chance it in the woods," he muttered, and, reaching a spot where the undergrowth was thick, he leaped between the bushes and then walked on to a clump of pines. He was barely under the pines when he heard the cutter dash past. The men were talking excitedly, but he could not make out what was being said. As the jingle of the sleighbells grew more distant, another thought came to Andy's mind, one that made him smile grimly in spite of the seriousness of the situation. "Might as well return and get something to eat," he told himself. "They won't come back right away." It did not take him long to retrace his steps to the cabin. The cutter, with its occupants, had kept on towards the village, so he had the place entirely to himself. He quickly found something to eat and to drink, and made a substantial meal. Then he placed a few more of his belongings in his bundle. "It won't do for me to stay here as long as I have the papers with me," he told himself. "I guess I'd better try to get to the old Smith cabin for tonight. Then I can make up my mind what to do in the morning." The Smith cabin was a deserted place nearly a mile away. To reach it, Andy had to tramp directly through the woods. But the youth did not mind this, for he had often been out hunting in the vicinity. "I might get a shot at something," he mused. "A rabbit or a couple of birds wouldn't go bad for breakfast." He lost no time in striking out. Half the distance was covered when he saw a big rabbit directly in his path. He blazed away, and the game fell dead. Then he caught sight of a squirrel, and brought that down also. "Now I'll have something besides crackers and bacon when I'm hungry," he told himself, with satisfaction. Soon he came in sight of the old Smith place. Much to his surprise, smoke was curling from the chimney, and he saw the ruddy glare of an open fire within. "Somebody is here," he thought. "Some hunter most likely. Wonder who it can be." And he strode forward to find out. CHAPTER IV CHET GREENE'S PAST "Hello, Andy!" "Hello, Chet! I never expected to find you here! This is a real pleasure!" And Andy rushed into the old cabin, threw down his luggage, and grasped another lad by the hand. "And I never expected you to come here tonight," said Chetwood Greene, as a smile lit up his somewhat square face. "I thought I was booked to camp here alone. What brought you, hunting?" "Not exactly. It's a long story, Chet. Say, I'm glad you have a fire. I'm half frozen from tramping through the woods. The snow was pretty deep in spots." "I know all about it, for I have been out all day. Here, draw up to the blaze. I was just getting supper ready. You've got some game, I see. I had very little luck--three rabbits and a wild turkey. I looked for deer, but it was no use." "You've got to go pretty well back for deer these days," answered Andy. "Thought you were going to strike Storburgh for a job." "So I did, but it's the same story everywhere." "Too bad! Well, you are no worse off than myself. I'm sick of even asking for work. I've about made up my mind to try my luck at hunting. I guess I can bring down enough to live on, and that's better than starving." Chetwood Greene, always called Chet for short, was about the same age as Andy, but a trifle taller. He had a square chin, and dark, piercing eyes, that fairly shot forth fire when Chet was provoked. He was a good fellow in the main, but he had a hasty temper that occasionally got him into much trouble. Andy liked him very much, and the two boys were more or less chums. There was a mystery surrounding Chet which few folks in that district knew. Many supposed that both of his parents were dead. But the fact of the matter was that Chet's father disappeared when the lad was fourteen years old. Some thought him dead, while others imagined he had run away to escape punishment incidental to a large transaction in lumber. Some signatures were forged, and it was held that Tolney Greene was guilty. He protested his innocence, but failed to stand trial, running away "between two days," as it was termed. He was traced to New Bedford, and there it was reported that he had last been seen boarding a sailing vessel outward bound. What had become of him after that, nobody knew. Mrs. Greene had believed her husband innocent, and it grieved her greatly to be thus deserted. She tried to bear up, however, but during the following winter contracted pneumonia, and died, leaving Chet alone in the world. Nobody seemed to want anything to do with the lad--thinking him the son of a forger, and possibly a suicide. Some tried to talk to him, but when they mentioned the supposed guilt of his parent, he flew into a rage. "My father wasn't guilty, and you needn't say so!" he stormed. "If you say it I'll lick you!" And then he knocked one man flat. He was subdued after a while, but he refused utterly to live with those who offered him a home, saying he did not want to be an object of charity, and that he could get along alone. He took his belongings, and a little money left by his mother, and moved to another part of the State--close to where Andy resided. Here he lived with an old guide for a while, and then got employment at one of the lumber camps. The old guide had departed during the past year for the Adirondacks, and Chet was now living alone, in a cabin that had seen better days. It had been no easy matter for Andy and Chet to become chums. At first when they met, at a lumber camp where both were employed, Chet was silent and morose. But little by little, warmed by Andy's naturally sunny disposition, he "thawed out," and told his story in all its details. He knew a few things that the general public did not know, and these he confided to Andy. "My father went off on a whaler named the _Betsey Andrews_," he once said. "He said he would come back some day and clear himself. The mate wrote to my mother that my father's mind was affected a little, but he hoped he would be all right by the end of the trip." "Well, hasn't the _Betsey Andrews_ got back yet?" had been Andy's question. "No." "Where is she?" "That's the worst part of it--nobody knows." "Do you think she was lost?" "I hope not--but I don't know," had been Chet's somewhat sad answer. He lived in daily hope of hearing from his parent again. Chet knew Andy's story, of Josiah Graham's meanness and laziness, and of the papers left by Andy's father, and he now listened with deep interest to what his chum had to tell about the visit of Mr. A. Q. Hopton, and of the escape through the bedroom window. "Now what do you make of the whole thing, Chet?" asked Andy, after he had finished his recital. "It looks to me as if this real estate dealer was mighty anxious to get the papers," was the answer. "And that means that the papers are valuable." "Just what I think." "Your uncle has no right to sell 'em for three hundred dollars, or any other amount," pursued Chet. "I understand enough about law to know that he's got to get a court order to sell property. To my way of thinking, he'd like to do this on the sly, and pocket the three hundred. He's no good, even if he is your uncle." "He's only my father's half-brother, and he always was a poor stick. I wish I knew of some lawyer to go to." "Why not try Mr. Jennings, over at Lodgeport? I've heard he's a good man, and smart, too." "I might try him. But it's a twelve-mile tramp." "Never mind, I'll go along, and we may be able to pick up some game on the way," answered Chet. The boys talked the matter over for two hours, during which time Chet prepared supper, and the two ate it. Then Andy fixed the fire for the night, and the boys turned in, tired out from their long tramps through the snow. It took some time for Andy to get to sleep, for the events of the day had disturbed him greatly. But at last he dozed off, and neither he nor Chet awoke until it was daylight. "Phew! but it's cold!" cried Chet, as he put his head out of doors. "And it snowed a little last night, too." "Is it snowing now?" questioned Andy, anxiously. His mind was on the trip to Lodgeport. A heavy fall of snow might mean much delay. "No, the storm is clearing away." "Then let us get breakfast and start." Both of the youths had been camping so often that they knew exactly what to do. The fire was stirred up, and fresh wood put on, and they prepared a couple of cups of coffee, and broiled two squirrels. They had bread and crackers, and a little cheese, and thus made quite a good breakfast. The meal over, they lost no time in packing up, and placing the larger portion of their outfits in hiding in the old cabin. To carry them to Lodgeport would have been too much of a load. "We can carry a little food and our guns," said Chet. "If we can't get back tonight, we can return tomorrow. I don't believe anybody will come here during that time." "I hope I don't meet Uncle Si--or Mr. Hopton," said Andy. "We can watch out and easily keep out of their way." To get to the road that led to Lodgeport, the two lads had to cross a heavy patch of timber. Here, under the pines, it was intensely cold, and they had to move along rapidly to keep their blood in circulation. "Talk about Greenland's icy mountains, I guess this is bad enough!" cried Chet, as he slapped his hands to keep them warm. "We'll soon be out in the sunlight again," answered Andy. But he was mistaken, for by the time they reached the open country once more, the sun had gone under a fringe of light clouds, so it was as cold as ever. At the end of four miles they passed through one of the lumber settlements, and then, leaving the wagon road, took to a trail running in the neighborhood of Moose Ridge. "I met a man yesterday who was coming out to the Ridge to hunt," said Andy. "Wonder if he'll have any success." "Hunting is not as good as it might be," answered his chum. "The best of the game was killed off at the very beginning of the season. Still, he may get some deer, or a moose, if he's a good hunter." "I'd like to get a moose myself, Chet." "Oh, so would I. If you see one, kindly point him out to me." And Chet's usually serious face showed a grin. "I will--after I have brought him down with my gun," answered Andy, and then both laughed. Less than fifteen minutes later they came on the trail of a deer. The marks were so fresh, both boys could not resist the temptation to go after the game. They plunged through some bushes, and Andy went headlong into a hollow. "Wuow!" he spluttered, as the snow got into his ears and down his neck. "What a tumble!" "Maybe you're training for a circus," cried Chet. "Not out here--and in this cold. Help me up, will you?" Chet gave his chum a hand, and slowly Andy came out of the hollow. He had dropped his firearm, but this was easily recovered from the snowdrift. "I don't want another such tumble," said the unfortunate one, as he tried to get the snow out of his coat collar. "I'm cold enough already." Once more they went on, after the deer, but the game had evidently heard their voices and taken fright, for when they came to a long, open stretch, no living creature was in sight. Another mile was covered in the direction of Lodgeport, and then they reached one end of the rock elevation locally termed Moose Ridge. Here there was a good-sized cliff, with smaller cliffs branching off in various directions. "There used to be some good hunting around here," said Chet, as, having climbed a small rise, they paused to catch their breath. "I once brought down a dandy buck over yonder." He had scarcely spoken, when from a distance ahead there sounded out the crack of a rifle, followed, a few moments later, by a second report. "Somebody is out!" cried Andy. "Wonder if he hit what he was aiming at." "Maybe we'll see. Come ahead." "I hope he isn't shooting this way." "The reports came from the top of the big cliff." The two boys moved on, keeping their eyes on the alert for the possible appearance of the hunter who had fired the two shots. "Look! look!" cried Andy, suddenly, and pointing over the top of a small tree that stood between them and the big cliff ahead. "What did you see?" "Maybe I was mistaken, but I thought I saw a man tumble off the cliff!" "A man? Perhaps it was a deer, or a moose." "No, it looked like a man to me. Come on! If he fell to the bottom he may be killed!" Andy set off as rapidly as the depth of the snow permitted, and Chet followed in his footsteps. Soon they rounded half a dozen trees and came in full view of the big cliff. Both uttered cries of horror, and with good reason. Halfway down the edge of the cliff was a narrow ledge, and on this rested the body of a man,--a hunter, as was shown by his gun and game bag. He had tumbled from the top of the cliff, and the fall had rendered him unconscious. He lay half over the edge of the ledge, and was in imminent danger of falling still further and killing himself. CHAPTER V THE MAN ON THE LEDGE "Is he dead?" questioned Chet, in a strained voice. "I don't know--but I don't think so," answered Andy. "He has certainly had a nasty tumble." "It looks to me as if he was going to tumble the rest of the way, unless he holds on." "Let us see if we can't help him." Both youths stood their guns against a tree, and made their way to the bottom of the cliff. As they did this, they saw the man's body shift slightly, and then came a low moan. "He's alive!" cried Andy. "Hi, there!" he shouted. "Look out for yourself, or you'll get another tumble!" To this, the man on the ledge did not answer. But the boys, listening intently, heard him moan again. "I wonder if we can get at him?" mused Chet. "I don't see any way up the cliff from here, do you?" "Oh, we must find a way to get to him!" cried Andy. "Maybe we can catch him if he falls. If we--Look out!" Andy leaped to one side, and the next instant the man's gun dropped down on the rocks and fell in the snow. The game bag followed. They now saw the man in his unconscious state turn partly over. "He'll fall sure, unless we help him," said Chet. "But I don't know what to do." "I have it," returned his chum. "Come on." "Where to?" "I'll show you." Wondering what his friend had in mind to do, Chet followed Andy to where was located an ash sapling of fair size. It had been broken off about two feet above the ground--how, they could not tell. "We can put that against the cliff, and use it as a ladder," said Andy. "Provided we can get it over, Andy." Both began to tug at the sapling, and at last got it free from the stump end. Then they fairly rushed with it to the bottom of the cliff. "You hold the end, and I'll raise it up," said Chet, who was a little the stronger of the two. "We can put the top right against the man, and that will keep him from rolling down." "If it will reach that far." "I think it will." Their experience as lumbermen stood them in good stead, and while Andy kept the bottom of the ash sapling from slipping in the snow, his chum raised it slowly but steadily, until it stood upright. Then Chet let it go over against the cliff with care, so that the man might not be further injured. The little tree reached several feet above the man's head. "I'll go up and see what I can do for him," said Andy, throwing off his overcoat. "You steady the tree, Chet." "All right. But be careful." From early boyhood days Andy had been a good climber, and he went up the ash sapling with ease. The young tree was strong, so there was no danger of its breaking beneath his weight. Soon his feet touched the ledge, and he knelt down beside the hurt man. "Why, I know him!" he called down to his chum. "He's the man I told you about--the one who asked me about the road to Moose Ridge." "Pull him back, before he has a chance to slip," ordered Chet, and this Andy did. The movement made the man groan, and presently he opened his eyes for an instant. "Oh, what a fall!" he murmured, and then relapsed into unconsciousness again. "We'll have to get him down from here and try to do something for him," announced Andy. "He has a bad cut behind his left ear. I can't do anything for him up here--it's too slippery." "Can't you climb down the tree with him? I'll hold it steady." "I'll try it." Andy made his preparations with care, for what he proposed to attempt was difficult and dangerous. A tumble to the rocks at the foot of the cliff might mean broken limbs, if not worse. With care he raised the unconscious form up and placed it over his shoulder. Then he turned around, and, inch by inch, felt his way out on the sapling. "I'm coming!" he called. "Hold it, Chet, or we'll both come down!" "I'll hold it," was the confident reply. Gripping the knees of the man with his left hand, Andy held on to the sapling with his right. Stepping and sliding, he came down slowly. The young tree bent and threatened once to slip to one side, but Chet braced it with all his strength. In a minute more Andy was down, and had stretched the man out on the snow. The boy was panting from his exertions. "I suppose we ought to have a doctor for him," said Chet, as he made an examination of the unfortunate one's wounds. "But I don't know of any around here." "Nor do I. We can't leave him here,--he'll freeze to death. Where do you suppose we ought to take him?" "I don't know of a single place within a mile,--and I don't suppose we ought to carry him as far as that. He may be hurt inside, and if he is, it won't do to move him too much." Much perplexed by the situation which confronted them, the two boys talked the matter over. It was so cold at the foot of the cliff that to remain there was out of the question. At last Chet suggested moving to a clump of pine trees, where they might fix up some sort of temporary shelter and build a fire. They picked up their guns and the belongings of the man, and Chet took the unfortunate over his shoulder. He groaned several times, but did not speak or open his eyes. "He is certainly hurt quite seriously," said Andy. "I hope he doesn't die on our hands." "Do you know his name, or where he comes from?" "No, but I guess we can find that out by looking in his pockets. He must have cards or a notebook, or something." "He looks as if he was well off. That gun is an A No. 1 piece." "Yes, and look at the fine clothing he is wearing." It was a hard walk, and they had to take turns in carrying the unconscious man. To add to the gloom of the situation, it now commenced to snow again. Presently they reached a spot that looked good to them. There were a series of rocks to the northward, backed up by a thick growth of pines. At the foot of the rocks grew some brushwood. Chet had calculated to spend some time hunting, and had with him a hatchet, with which to cut firewood. In a very few minutes he had cut out some of the brushwood, leaving a cleared space about eight feet square. Over the top of the cleared space he threw some saplings and pine branches, and then "wove in" pine branches around the sides. By this means he soon had a shelter ready, which, while it was by no means air-tight, was a great deal better than nothing. On the floor of the shelter he placed other pine branches, and there he and Andy made the suffering man as comfortable as possible. As soon as they had reached the spot, Andy had started up a fire, right in front of the opening, and this now gave out a warmth that was much appreciated. With some warm water made from melted snow, the lads washed the wounds of the man, and then bound them up with strips torn from their shirts. They used other water for making coffee, and poured some of this down the man's throat. They also rubbed his hands and wrists, doing what they could think of to revive him. In the meantime the snow continued to come down, lightly at first, and then so thickly that the entire landscape around the shelter was blotted out. "It's going to be a corker of a storm," announced Chet, as he gazed out. "I can't see a thing anywhere," was Andy's answer. "Wonder how long it will last." "Several hours, maybe." "I don't see how we are going to get a doctor to come here while it is like this." "Better not try to find one. If you go out, you may lose your way." They replenished the fire, and cut a good stock of wood, and then sat down to watch the man. In one of his pockets they found a card-case. "His name is Barwell Dawson," announced Andy, "and he comes from Brooklyn." "What business is he in?" "It doesn't say." That the stranger was rich was quite evident. He wore a fine gold watch and chain, and an elegant diamond ring. In one pocket he had a wallet filled with bills of large denomination. "He is one of your high-toned sportsmen," announced Chet. "Some of 'em come up to Maine every fall to hunt." "It's a wonder he didn't have a guide, Chet." "Oh, some of 'em think they can do better without one." Suddenly the man opened his eyes wide, stared around for a moment, and then sat up. The change was so unexpected that the boys were amazed. "Where--Who are you?" he stammered. "You've had a bad fall--came down over the cliff," answered Andy. "What? Oh, yes, so I did. I--I----" The man felt of his head. "Why, I'm all bandaged up!" "You got cut pretty badly," said Chet. "We're wondering if you broke any bones." "Yes?" The man gave a little groan. "I'm hurt, that's sure. Oh!" And then he put his hand to his side. "You had better keep quiet for a while," said Andy, gently. "It won't do you any good to stir around. We'd get a doctor, only it's snowing so we're afraid we might miss the trail." "Snowing? It wasn't snowing when I fell." "That was nearly two hours ago." "And I've been knocked out all that time?" The man fell back on the pine boughs. "No wonder I feel so broken up." He closed his eyes, and the boys thought he was going to faint. Chet got some more coffee. "Here, drink this, it will do you good," he said, and placed the tin cup to the sufferer's lips. The man gulped down the beverage, and it seemed to give him a little strength. Presently he sat up again. "Did you two see me take the tumble?" he questioned, with a weak attempt at a smile. "I saw you," answered Andy. "You didn't come all the way over the cliff. You struck a ledge and hung there, and we got you down and brought you here." "I see." "We were afraid some of your bones were broken," put in Chet. "Are they?" "I don't know." Slowly the man moved his arms and his legs. He winced a little. "All right but my left ankle," he announced. "I reckon that got a bad twist. Beats the Dutch, doesn't it?" he added, with another attempt at a smile. "It's too bad," returned Andy. "No, you don't understand. I mean my coming to Maine to do a little quiet hunting, and then to get knocked out like this. Why, I've hunted all over this globe,--the West, India, Africa, and even in the Arctic regions--and hardly got a scratch. I didn't think anything could happen to me on a quiet little trip like this." CHAPTER VI A WORLD-WIDE HUNTER The two boys listened to the man's words with keen interest. He had hunted in the wild West, in India, Africa, and even in the Arctic regions! Surely he was a sportsman out of the ordinary. "You're like old Tom Casey," said Andy. "He fought the forest fires here for years, and never got singed, and then went home one day and burnt his arm on a red-hot stove. I hope the ankle isn't bad." "I can't tell about that until I stand on it. Give me a lift, will you?" Both boys helped the man to his feet. He took a couple of steps, and was then glad enough to return to the pine couch. "It's no use--I can't walk, yet," he murmured. "Do you think you need a doctor?" asked Chet. "Hardly--although I'd call him in if he was handy. I'm pretty tough, although I may not look it. Who are you?" "My name is Chet Greene, and this is a friend of mine, Andy Graham." "I am glad to know you, and very thankful for what you have done for me. I'll make it right with you when I'm able to get around. My name is Dawson--Barwell Dawson. I'm a traveler and hunter, and occasionally I write articles for the magazines--hunting articles mostly." "Oh, are you the man who once wrote a little book about bears--how they really live and what they do, and all that?" cried Andy. "Yes, I'm the same fellow." "I've got that book at home--you once gave it to my father, when I was about eight years old." "Is that so? I don't remember it." "My father was up on the Penobscot, lumbering. He went out with you into the woods and you found a honey tree. You gave him the book for his little boy--that was me." "Oh, yes, I remember it now!" cried Barwell Dawson. "So that was your father. How is he?" "My father is dead," answered Andy, and his voice dropped a little. "Indeed! I am sorry to hear it. And your mother?" "She is dead, too." "Then you are alone in the world? Do you live near?" "I live two miles from Pine Run, with an uncle. It was I who told you how to get to Moose Ridge, when you were driving on the wrong road." "Oh, yes, I thought I had seen you somewhere." Here the conversation lapsed, for Barwell Dawson was still weak. He lay back and closed his eyes, and the boys did not disturb him. It continued to snow, until the fresh fall covered the old to the depth of several inches. The boys kept the campfire going, and cooked such game as they had brought along. "We are booked to stay here for a while, that's certain," observed Chet. "No Lodgeport today." After a while Barwell Dawson sat up again, and gladly partook of the food offered to him. His injuries consisted of a hard shaking up, a bruised ankle, and several cuts on his head. "I am thankful that no bones are broken, and that I did not get killed," he said, and then he requested them to give the details of the rescue from the ledge. The boys related their story, to which he listened closely. "It was fine of you to get me down," he declared. "Fine! I'll have to reward you." "I don't want any reward," answered Andy, promptly. "Nor do I," added Chet. "Well, you ought to let me do something for you," persisted the one who had been rescued. "You might tell us of some of your hunting adventures," said Andy, with a smile. "I'd like to hear about hunting in the far West and other places." "So would I," added Chet. "If I had the money, I'd like to do like you have done, travel all over the world and hunt." And his eyes glistened with anticipation. "What do you do now?" "Nothing at present. We can't get an opening at any of the lumber camps." "I understand business is very dull this season." After that Barwell Dawson asked for more particulars concerning the boys, and they told him how they were situated. He was surprised to learn that Chet was practically alone in the world. "It is certainly hard luck," he said, kindly. "You must let me do something for you." Then, after his ankle had been bathed in hot water, and bound up, the hunter and traveler told them of his trips to various portions of the globe, and how he had hunted deer and moose in one place, bears and mountain lions in another, and tigers and other wild beasts elsewhere. He had two very interested listeners. "It must be great!" murmured Chet. "Oh, that would suit me down to the ground--to go out that way!" "I have made one trip to the north," continued Barwell Dawson, "and I am soon going to make another." "You mean to Canada?" queried Andy. "Not exactly. I am going to Greenland, and then into the polar regions. I want to hunt seals, polar bears, and musk oxen." "You'll be frozen to death!" "Hardly," answered the hunter. "On my previous trip I stood the cold very well, and this time I shall go much better prepared. Somehow, I like hunting in the Arctic Circle better than hunting anywhere else. Besides, I wish to--But never mind that now," and Barwell Dawson broke off rather abruptly. Then he told a story of a hunt after polar bears that made Chet's eyes water. "That's the stuff!" whispered Chet to Andy. "That beats a deer hunt all hollow!" "Yes, provided the polar bear doesn't eat you up." "Huh! I'd not be afraid. I don't believe a polar bear is any more dangerous than a moose." "I saw a moose just before I had the tumble," said Barwell Dawson. "I climbed up the cliff after him, but I couldn't get very close. I took two shots at him, but he got away." "If we are going to be snowed up here we ought to try for some game," said Chet. "Maybe I can stir up some rabbits, or something." It was decided that he should go out, leaving Andy to look after Mr. Dawson and the campfire. "But don't go far," cautioned Andy. "The snow is coming down so thick that you may get lost." "Oh, I'll take care of myself," answered Chet. He knew it would be a bad move to go out into the open, so he kept to the timber, blazing a tree here and there as he went along. He knew very little game would be stirring. "If I get anything it will be more accident than anything else," he reasoned. "No animal is going to stir out in this storm." He was just passing under a big spruce tree when, chancing to glance up, he saw a sight that quickened his pulse. On a limb close at hand were several wild turkeys, huddled together to keep warm. With great caution he moved to one side, to get a good aim. Then, raising his gun, he blazed away. There was a whirr and a flutter, and two of the turkeys came down, one dead and the other wounded. Rushing forward, Chet caught the wounded bird by the neck, and soon put it out of its misery. "That's a good start," he told himself, with much satisfaction. "I hope my luck continues." Placing the game in his bag, he went forward again, looking for more signs of birds, and also for signs of squirrels and rabbits. It was growing dark, and Chet began to think it was time to turn back, when he saw some rabbits in a thick clump of bushes. He sprang in after them, and they leaped out into the snow and across a small opening. Then, before he could fire, they were out of sight again. "You shan't get away from me as easily as that," the youth muttered to himself, and ran out into the opening. Here the snow was so thick he could see but little, yet he kept on, and soon reached more brushwood. He saw some branches close to the snow move, and blazed away in the dark. His aim proved true, for when he came up he found one rabbit dead. Another had been wounded, as the blood on the snow showed. In all haste he made after the limping game. But the rabbit had considerable life left in it, and dove deep into the brushwood. But at last it had to give up, and Chet secured the additional game without much trouble. It had grown dark rapidly, and in some anxiety the young hunter turned back, in an endeavor to retrace his steps. This was no easy matter, for the snow was coming down as thickly as ever, and he could scarcely see two yards ahead of him. "It won't do for me to get lost out here," he reasoned. "If I don't get back, Andy will be worried to death." Bending to meet the snow--for the wind was now blowing briskly, Chet pushed forward until another clump of trees was gained. Walking was becoming irksome, and he panted for breath. Under the trees he paused to get his bearings. "I must be right," he thought. Yet, try his best, he could not locate any of the trees he had blazed a short while before. Any other lad might have become frightened at the prospect, but Chet was used to being alone, and he simply resolved to move forward with increased caution. "If the worst comes, I can fire three shots in succession. Andy will know what that means," he reasoned. On previous trips to the woods the boys had arranged that three shots meant, "I am lost. Where are you?" A single shot was to be the answer--repeated, of course, as often as necessary. Another hundred feet were covered, and Chet was looking vainly for one of the blazed trees, when an unexpected sound broke upon his ears. It was an unusual and uncanny noise, and he stopped short to listen. It came from a clump of spruces to his left. "Now, what can that be?" he asked himself. "I never heard a noise like that before." He listened, and presently the sound was repeated. To him it seemed as if some unseen giant were in deep distress. Chet was not superstitious, or he might have thought he heard a ghost. He knew there must be some rational reason for the unusual noise, and he resolved to investigate. "Anybody there?" he cried, as he raised his gun in front of him, and tried to peer through the snow-laden air. There was no answer, nor was the peculiar sound repeated. With cautious steps he advanced toward the clump of spruces. Underneath all was now as dark as night could make it. Again he paused, something warning him to be extra cautious. His nerves were now at a high tension, for he felt something unusual was coming. An instant later it came. Through the snow and darkness Chet caught a momentary gleam of a pair of eyes shining like two balls of fire. Then a bulky form shot out of the darkness, and bumped up against him, hurling him flat. Ere he could arise, the form leaped over him, and went limping off, puffing and snorting as it did so. "A moose!" gasped Chet, as he felt in the snow for his gun. "And wounded! It must be the one Mr. Dawson tried to get!" He thought the big beast was retreating, but soon found out otherwise. The moose was badly wounded, and ugly in the extreme. Around he wheeled, and then came straight for Chet. The lad could not locate his gun, and, feeling his peril, darted for the nearest tree and leaped high up among the branches. CHAPTER VII CHET AND THE MOOSE "Phew! that was a narrow escape!" Such were Chet's words as he drew himself higher up into the tree. The big beast below had come up, and struck the tree a blow that made it shiver from top to bottom. Had he not been holding on tightly the boy would have been hurled down, and at the very feet of the moose. The animal was full-grown, powerful, and with wide and heavy antlers. He had been wounded in one of the forelegs, but was still able to stand. Now he stood under the spruce, on three legs, gazing up at Chet speculatively. "Like to smash me, wouldn't you?" murmured the youth. "Well, I guess not--not if I know it!" Chet wished with all his heart that he had his gun. But the weapon was out of sight under the snow, and the moose was standing over the spot. What to do next, the lad did not know. The moose did not show any inclination to leave. He breathed heavily, as if his wound hurt him, but Chet was certain that there was still a good deal of fight in the creature. "Perhaps he'll keep me here all night," thought the boy, dismally. Presently an idea came to him to call for help. Andy might hear him, and come up with his gun. "That shelter is a long way off, but it won't do any harm to try it," Chet reasoned, and expanding his chest, he let out a yell at the top of his lung power. He repeated the cry several times, and then listened with strained ears. No answer came back but the gentle sighing of the rising wind, as it swept through the woods. "Huddled inside the shelter, I suppose, to keep warm," Chet murmured, dismally. "I might yell my head off and it wouldn't do a bit of good. I'll have to try something else." What that something else was to be was not clear. He moved from one branch to another to investigate, then a thought struck him, and he resolved to act upon it. With caution, so as not to attract the attention of the moose, he climbed far out on a branch of the spruce, and thus gained a grip on the wide-spreading limb of another tree. He swung himself to this, and crawling along and past the trunk of the second tree, moved to the end of a branch on the opposite side. He was now a good twenty-five feet from where the moose was standing. Would it be wise to drop down in the snow and make a dash for liberty? "If he catches me, he'll kill me--he's so ugly from that wound," Chet told himself. "If it wasn't so awful cold, I'd stay here till morning." Cautiously he lowered himself toward the snow below. He was on the point of dropping when he heard the moose move. The animal came on the rush, and in drawing up into the tree again, Chet had one foot scraped by the moose's antlers. "No escape that way," he told himself, and lost no time in pulling himself still higher into the tree. Thus far he had managed to keep warm, but now, as he sat down to rest, and to study the situation, he became colder and colder. Occasionally the wind drove in some of the snow, to add to his discomfort. Presently Chet thought of another idea, and wondered why it had not occurred to him before. He knew that all wild animals dread fire. He resolved to make himself a torch, and try that on the moose. Making sure that he had his matches, he got out his jackknife and cut off the driest branch that he could find. Then, holding it with care, he struck a match, shielding it from the wind as best he could, and lit the end of the branch. At first it did not ignite very well, but he "nursed" the tiny flame, and soon it blazed up into quite a torch. "Now we'll see how you like this," Chet muttered, and started to climb to the lower branch once more. With eyes that still blazed, the moose had watched the flaring up of the light. At first he was all curiosity, but as the flame grew larger he gave a snort of fear. Far back in the past he had felt the effects of a forest fire, and now he thought he saw another such conflagration starting up. As Chet swung down he turned and limped off, moving faster at every step. "Hurrah! that did the trick!" cried the boy, in deep satisfaction, and then, as he saw the moose plowing off through the deepening snow, he jumped to the ground and rushed off to where he had dropped his gun. Perhaps he could lay the beast low after all. As luck would have it, Chet did not have to look long for the firearm. The moose had kicked the snow from part of the barrel, and the glare of the torch lit upon this. In a trice the youth had the gun in his hand. The moose was disappearing in the snow and darkness, but taking hasty aim, he fired. The animal went on, but Chet felt certain his shot had gone true. Hastily reloading, so that he might have both barrels ready in case he wanted them, he set off after the game as fast as the now heavy fall of snow would allow. He was a true sportsman, and made up his mind that now he had his firearm once again, the moose should not escape him. As is well known, although a moose is one of the swiftest of wild animals on clear ground, or even on the rocks and in the woods, the creature is at a disadvantage in soft snow, because of its small legs and hoofs. Its weight causes it to sink to the very bottom of every hollow. Chet had advanced less than two hundred feet when he saw the moose floundering in the snow behind some bushes over which it had leaped. "Now I've got you!" cried the boy, and advancing fearlessly, he took careful aim and blazed away. The animal went down, thrashed around, sending the snow in all directions, and then lay still. Not to be caught in any trap, Chet reloaded once more, and then came up with caution. But the big creature was dead, and the heart of the young hunter bounded with delight. It was an event to lay low such a monarch of the forest as this. "As big a moose as I've seen brought in from these parts," he mused. "Won't Andy be surprised when he sees the game! But Mr. Dawson deserves some of the credit--he hit the moose first." What to do with his prize Chet did not know. To haul it to the temporary camp alone, and through such deep snow, was impossible. And if he left it where it was, some wolves or other wild beasts might get at it. "I'll kick the snow over it, and let it go at that," he finally decided. "It's time I got back. It's so dark it won't be long before I can't see a thing." Sticking his torch in the snow, he made a mound over the game, and on top stuck a stick with his handkerchief tied to it. Then he retraced his steps to the clump of spruces, and searched once again for the blazes he had made on the trees. At last, just as he was about to shoot off his gun as a signal of distress, he found one of the blazes, and a minute later discovered another. He now had the proper direction in mind, and set off as rapidly as his weary limbs and the ever-increasing depth of snow would permit. "Hullo, Chet! Where are you?" It was a call from Andy, sounding out just as the young hunter came in sight of the campfire. Andy was growing anxious, and had come forth from the shelter several times in an endeavor to locate his chum. "Here I am," was the answer. "Christopher, but I'm tired!" "Any luck?" "A little. How are those for wild turkeys?" "Fine! Now we'll have a good breakfast, anyway." "How is Mr. Dawson?" "He says he feels pretty easy. But his ankle is badly swollen. Say, he's a splendid man, and one of the greatest hunters you ever heard of, Chet. And he's rich, too--he owns a ranch out West and a bungalow down on the Jersey coast, and a yacht, and I don't know what all." "You can tell him I brought down the moose he wounded." "What!" And Andy's eyes showed his astonishment. "It's true. The moose almost laid me low first, but I got the best of him after all." "Where is the animal?" "About a quarter of a mile from here. I covered him with snow, and put a stick and my handkerchief over the spot." "Did he attack you?" "He certainly did," answered Chet. Both boys entered the temporary shelter. Barwell Dawson was awake, and he and Andy listened with keen attention to the story Chet had to tell. "It must have been the moose I hit," said Barwell Dawson. "But I think he's your game anyway, Chet." "Well, we can divide up," answered the young hunter, modestly. The tramp in the snow, and the excitement, had made Chet weary, and he was glad enough to lie down and go to sleep. During his absence, Andy had cut more pine boughs and piled them around the sides and on top of the shelter, so it was now fairly cozy, although not nearly as good as a cabin would have been. In the morning Andy was the first to stir. He found the entrance to the shelter blocked by snow, and the campfire was all but out. The snow had stopped coming down, but the air seemed to be still full of it. "We've got to get out of here, or we'll be snowed in for certain," he told Chet, and then kicked the snow aside and started up the fire, and commenced to get breakfast. They cooked one of the wild turkeys, and it proved delicious eating to the lads, although Mr. Dawson thought the meat a trifle strong. The man who had had the tumble over the cliff declared that he felt quite like himself, aside from his ankle, which still pained him. The swelling of the member had gone down some, which was a good sign. "I guess your uncle will wonder what has become of you," said Chet to Andy. "I suppose he'll hunt all over the village for you." "Let him hunt, Chet. I am not going back until I find out about that timber land, and about what sort of man that Hopton is. The more I think of it, the more I'm convinced that Mr. A. Q. Hopton is a swindler and is trying to swindle both Uncle Si and myself." "Well, it's no credit to your uncle to stand in with him." "Of course it isn't--and I'll give Uncle Si a piece of my mind when I get the chance." "I don't think you're going to get to Lodgeport today." "Well, it doesn't matter much. I don't think there is any great hurry about this business. The matter has rested ever since father died." This talk took place outside the shelter, so Barwell Dawson did not hear it. Inside, the man dressed his ankle, while the boys cleared away the remains of the morning meal, and started the fire afresh with more pine sticks. "We really ought to try to get out of here," said Andy, after an hour had passed. "I think it will snow again by night, and it would be rough to be snow-bound in such a place as this." "I'd like to get out myself, but I am afraid I can't walk," said Barwell Dawson, with a sigh. "A bruised ankle is worse than a broken arm--when it comes to traveling," he added, with a grim smile. "Supposing we took turns at carrying you?" suggested Chet. "I think we could do it." "How far?" "Well, we might try for a cabin that is about three-quarters of a mile from here. We'd be far more comfortable at the cabin than here,--and maybe you could get some liniment for your bruises." "Well, I'm willing to try it if you are," answered Mr. Dawson, who did not like the temporary shelter any better than did the boys. Preparations were accordingly made, and half an hour later the party of three set off. It was agreed that Chet should first do the carrying of the hurt one, and Andy brought up the rear with the guns, game bags, and other things. CHAPTER VIII A TALK OF IMPORTANCE The cabin for which the little party was headed was one owned by a man named Upham Jeffer. This man was something of a hermit and scientist, and rarely showed himself in the settlements of that vicinity. But on two occasions Chet had done Professor Jeffer a good turn, and he was, therefore, hoping they would get a cordial reception. But just now, the main question was, Could they reach the Jeffer place? The boys had the way fairly well fixed in their heads, but walking was hard and treacherous. On the level, the snow was at least a foot deep, while they ran the risk of going down in deep hollows filled by the wind. "Anyway, I'm glad the wind is on our backs," said Andy, as they trudged along. "If it was in our faces it would be awful." "You must take frequent rests," came from Barwell Dawson. "There is no use in exhausting yourselves by hurrying." When about one-quarter of the distance had been covered, they rested, and then Chet and Andy exchanged loads. They had now some rough ground to cover, and of a sudden Andy went down in a hollow, taking the man he was carrying with him. "Be careful!" cried Chet, in alarm. Andy and Mr. Dawson rolled over and over, and landed in snow up to their necks. Fortunately the fall was a soft one, or both might have been seriously injured. Chet threw down his load, and aided the pair to get out of the hollow. Andy came out with a neck full of snow, and his coat half off his back. "Say, I don't want any more of that!" he panted, digging the snow from one ear. In a few minutes they went on again, Chet with the outfit taking the lead. Progress was slow, and all were glad to rest when the top of a small rise was gained. "There is the Jeffer cabin," said Chet, pointing it out. "I don't see any smoke," added Andy. "What shall we do if Professor Jeffer isn't at home?" "Oh, I don't think he's away," answered his chum. "But even so, I guess he'll let us use the place--in such a snow as this." "We can pay him for the accommodations," put in Barwell Dawson. "I'll take care of that." It was nearly noon when they gained the cabin, rather a large structure, set in a grove of pines, and on the edge of a brook that was now covered with snow and ice. Chet, who was in advance, knocked loudly on the door. At first there was no answer. Then a low voice asked who was there. "It is I, Chet Greene, Professor." "Oh! Come in--if you can get the door open." Chet tried the door--to find it bolted. Then he heard a movement within, and the barrier was opened. "Oh, I thought you were alone," said the man within. He was tall and thin, and wore a heavy beard and big spectacles. "No, Professor Jeffer. This is my friend, Andy Graham, and this is a gentleman who fell over Moose Ridge cliff and got hurt. Can we bring him in?" "Why, yes, certainly, of course!" cried Upham Jeffer. "Hurt, eh? Where?" "He has a bruised ankle, and some cuts on his head." "I see. Well, bring him in, and what remedies I have on hand shall be at his service. I'm a bit sick myself--been making some experiments with nitrogen that didn't agree with me. You see, I reasoned out that if nitrogen could be dissolved by means of----" "Where can I place the gentleman?" broke in Chet, who knew Upham Jeffer's weakness for going off into scientific discussions. "Oh, yes, of course, I forgot. Why, place him anywhere. Make yourselves at home." The old scientist looked around rather helplessly. "There is my medicine closet. Use whatever you can find there." He was really a fine old man, but so wrapped up in his scientific experiments that he paid little attention to the world at large, or what was going on around him. He was very learned, but apt to be forgetful to the last degree. He lived alone, and it was reported that he had a goodly sum in the bank. Certainly he never seemed to want for funds, although his mode of living was far from extravagant. Barwell Dawson was placed in an easy-chair in the living apartment, and the professor busied himself in getting out some medicine and a liniment which he said would do much good. "Shall I start up the fire?" asked Andy, who saw that the blaze had been allowed to die down. "Why, yes, of course! I forgot all about the fire," answered Upham Jeffer. "You see, when I get interested in my experiments, I usually----" And then he stopped talking, being busy measuring some medicine in a glass. Andy stirred up the fire, and brought in some wood from a pile in a near-by shed. In the meantime Chet introduced Barwell Dawson to the old scientist. "Why, I know you, sir!" cried Mr. Dawson, as he looked closely at the professor. "Weren't you once up north--with the Welber Exploring Expedition?" "Why, yes, of course!" answered Professor Jeffer. "And you--it seems to me your face looks familiar. Why, yes, I have it now! You were up there at the same time, on a hunting trip." "You've struck it. I am glad to meet you again, Professor Jeffer." "I have forgotten your name, Mr.----" "Dawson--Barwell Dawson." "Ah, yes, of course! I remember it well now! Strange how I should forget. But you know I am so wrapped up in my experiments that I--but let us stop talking and attend to this ankle of yours. We'll wash it well with hot water, and pour on this liniment, and the swelling will soon go down. You see, the curative qualities of witch hazel, when combined with wintergreen and----" And then the professor stopped and went to work. Inside of half an hour Barwell Dawson's hurts had all been attended to, and he felt much better. The cuts on his head had stopped bleeding, and he insisted upon having the bandages removed. "I'm not such a baby as you think," he said. "I'll be all right by tomorrow, watch and see. All I want is a good smoke to cure me," and he lit his briar-root pipe. "I'll be glad to hear it," answered Andy. "Nevertheless, don't imagine that I don't appreciate what you two lads have done for me," went on Mr. Dawson, earnestly. "It was a fine thing to do, and I'll not forget it in a hurry." It had begun to snow again, and all three were glad that they had exchanged the temporary shelter in the woods for the large and comfortable cabin of the old professor. The cabin was well furnished, and on the walls hung horns and skins of various wild animals. There were a good-sized table and some chairs, and in one corner stood a bookcase with a hundred volumes or more. Opening out of the living room were a kitchen and two bedrooms. It was in the kitchen that Professor Jeffer had been conducting the experiments which had made him ill. A powerful odor filled the air of the apartment, and to get rid of it, Chet opened a window for a while. "I should have had something open when I tried the experiment," said the professor. "But I became so interested that I forgot. If you hadn't come when you did, I don't know what would have happened." "You want to be careful in the future, Professor," said Barwell Dawson. "Science cannot afford to lose a man like you." And this latter remark tickled the old scientist very much. He was really quite learned, and he was glad to have it known. "If this snow keeps on, we'll have to stay here all night," said Andy to Chet. "You are welcome to remain as long as the storm lasts," answered Professor Jeffer, who overheard the remark. "I have a well-filled larder, and with what you have brought we can get along very well." "We have a moose about a mile from here--if only we could bring him here," said Chet. "I'm afraid your game will have to wait. If you went for it now, you'd surely get lost. It is snowing furiously." What the professor said about the storm was true. The snow was accompanied by a high wind, which whistled loudly around the cabin. All of the party were glad enough to gather in front of the big open fireplace, for that was the one spot that was thoroughly warm. As they sat around, Chet told in detail his story of the moose, and then the boys listened while Barwell Dawson and Professor Jeffer related some things that had happened to them when they had met in the far north. "I should like exceedingly to take another trip to the polar regions," said the professor. "The other trip was too short for me. I did not gain half the knowledge I desired." "I am going up there again," answered Barwell Dawson, quietly. "Ah, indeed! When?" "As soon as my ship is ready for me." "Your ship? Are you equipping a ship?" demanded Professor Jeffer, while the boys listened in astonishment. "I am. I have not said much about it as yet, for I did not want to excite public comment. But I am fitting out a ship for polar exploration." And Barwell Dawson smiled quietly, as if fitting out such an expedition were an everyday occurrence. "Why, really, you--you astonish me!" cried the professor. "This is most extraordinary, sir. Are you, may I ask, fitting out this ship yourself?" "I am footing the bill, yes." "It will cost a large amount of money." "I guess I can afford it. I am fairly well-to-do, and last year an uncle died and left me several hundred thousand dollars." "I see--very good." Professor Jeffer rubbed his hands together. "It is a grand thing to be able to gratify one's wish in this manner. Now, I have a little money, but not enough to fit out such an expedition as you mention. Still, I'd like very much to go north again." "Could you stand the trip?" "Me? Why, sir, I am as strong as iron,--you can ask Captain Welber about it. I withstood the cold and the hardships long after some of the others succumbed. I am a little weak just now--the effects of that foolhardy experiment,--but by tomorrow I'll be as well and strong as ever. Why, sir, I can tramp twenty or thirty miles a day with ease, and I can go forty-eight hours without food if it is necessary." "Are you anything of a hunter?" "Yes. Since I came to Maine I have done considerable shooting." "Indeed he has," broke in Chet. "I've been with him, and I know of three first-class shots that he made." "Any one who is to go with me must be a good shot, and must be able to withstand great hardships," pursued Barwell Dawson. "How long do you expect to be gone?" asked Professor Jeffer, with increased interest. "I don't know exactly--perhaps two years." "Two years--in the land of ice and snow!" cried Andy. "That's a pretty long trip." "Yes, but I have planned to do a great deal," answered Barwell Dawson. "As I stated before, I don't want to say too much about it yet, for if I do, I'll have all sorts of curiosity seekers at my heels. If some folks knew what I had in mind to do, they'd be crazy to be taken along." "Well, I presume I am one of the crazy ones," returned Professor Jeffer. "With you, Professor, it is different. You have been to the far north, and know what to expect,--and besides, you are learned, and your knowledge might prove valuable." "Ah! then you will agree that I shall go?" demanded the scientist, eagerly. "That depends. I have not told you all yet. I am going to the far north to hunt, but I am likewise going for something else--something of greater importance." "And that is?" asked the professor, while the boys listened in wonder. "I am going to try to reach the North Pole." CHAPTER IX SOMETHING ABOUT THE NORTH POLE It was with much amazement that Andy and Chet, as well as Professor Upham Jeffer, listened to the words of Barwell Dawson. "Going to try to reach the North Pole!" repeated Andy. "Yes." "It's never been done--at least, not by anybody who came back alive," said Chet. "A grand project, nevertheless," were Professor Jeffer's words. "A truly grand project. But have you counted the cost?--I do not mean in money. It may cost you your life." "I shall be as careful in my plans as possible," answered Barwell Dawson. His eyes lit up, and he arose to his feet. "I don't mind telling you that to reach the North Pole has been my ambition ever since I first went hunting in the Arctic regions." "It has been the dream of many men," said Professor Jeffer. "I once had the dream myself--I presume all those who go to the north have it." "It's a good long journey from Maine," said Andy. "How do you expect to get there?" asked Chet. "You can't take a ship that far, no matter how strongly she is built." "I shall do as the majority of North Pole explorers do," was Barwell Dawson's answer. "I shall sail as far north as the ship will go, then winter in the ice, and as soon as summer comes again, make a dash over the ice for the Pole with dogs, sledges, and Esquimaux." "It will assuredly be a grand trip," said Professor Jeffer. "I envy you." "You would like to go with me?" "Very much, sir. I have absolutely nothing to keep me here, being alone in the world." "Then, perhaps, it can be arranged." "I have here some books and maps relating to Polar discoveries," continued the professor. "Perhaps you won't mind pointing out on the maps what you hope to do." He brought from the bookcase several books and maps, and placed them on the table. The boys, who were sitting on the floor near the open fireplace, took them down and gazed at them with interest. Here was something that was surely new and novel. "I have a larger map in my bedroom," went on Professor Jeffer. "I'll get that." While he was gone, the two boys and Mr. Dawson pored over the books and maps, and the hunter mentioned a place on one of the maps where he had once gone hunting. "Here is the coast of Greenland," he said, pointing it out. "I shall take my vessel up Baffin Bay as far as Cape York, and possibly to Etah,--and maybe further, if the ice will permit. There we shall have to spend the long Arctic night." "How long?" asked Andy. "From October to February." "What, as long as that?" cried Chet. "Won't there be any sun at all during that time?" "No sunshine, but I think we can look for good moonlight, especially when the moon is full." "And how long is it going to take to get to the North Pole from Etah?" asked Andy. "That is, what do you calculate?" "I haven't any idea, excepting that I shall try to carry enough food to last for the entire summer. And I shall also do all the hunting possible, so long as there is any game in sight. I do not expect to find any in the vicinity of the Pole." "And what do you think is at the Pole?" questioned Chet. "Ice and snow principally," answered Barwell Dawson, smiling. "I do not look for anything out of the ordinary. It is only the honor of having been able to reach that point." "And a great honor it will be," said Professor Jeffer, as he re-entered with another map. "I suppose a whole lot of men have tried to reach the Pole," said Chet. "Yes, explorers from all over Europe as well as from America have tried their hand at it," answered Barwell Dawson. "One of the books I have here tells of the various American expeditions," said Professor Jeffer, thumbing over a volume rapidly. "Ah, here it is. You ought to read it--it is very interesting." "I have read over the accounts many times,--trying to map out a route of my own," said Barwell Dawson. Then he told the boys of what had been done by various explorers to lift the mystery of the frozen north. "One of the well-known Arctic explorers was Sir John Franklin, an Englishman," said he. "Franklin was lost somewhere up north, and when he did not return, various expeditions were sent out for his relief. The first from America was that commanded by Lieutenant E. J. De Haven, of the United States Navy, in 1851. De Haven reached 78° N. He was followed, three years later, by Elisha Kent Kane, who sailed north by way of Smith Sound, and gained 80° 35' N. lat." "How far was that from the Pole?" questioned Chet, whose knowledge of degrees and latitude was rather hazy. "The highest degree is ninety, which is at the Pole," explained the professor. "Roughly speaking, a degree of latitude is equal to seventy miles." "Then Kane was still nearly seven hundred miles from the Pole." "About six hundred and fifty." "After Kane," continued Barwell Dawson, "Commodore John Rodgers commanded an expedition that went through Bering Strait and reached Herald Island, at 71° 18' N. lat. Then, in 1860, Isaac L. Hayes reached Grinnell Land, at Cape Joseph Goode, and from 1860 to 1869 Charles F. Hall explored the Cumberland Gulf, and reached the Polar Sea northwest of Greenland, in 82° 11' N." "That was crawling a little closer," was Andy's comment. "After that, explorations were made by Lieutenant P. H. Ray, Lieutenant G. A. Doane, and Commander George W. De Long, all of the government service. The latter explored the Arctic Ocean to the coast of Asia. Then followed the International Polar Expedition, under Lieutenant, afterwards General, A. W. Greely, of the United States Army. This expedition reached a point north of 83° 24'." "What about Peary?" asked Chet. "I know he is a great polar explorer." "I was going to speak of him," answered Barwell Dawson. "Commander Robert E. Peary is the greatest Polar explorer we have had. He has been at it since 1892, and during that time he has covered the entire northern portion of Greenland, the northern portion of Grinnell Land, and a goodly portion of the Arctic Ocean. On April 21, 1906, he managed to reach 87° 6' N. lat.,--within less than two hundred miles of the Pole." "It's a pity he couldn't make the two hundred miles--after going so far," was Andy's comment. "He is now fitting out another expedition," said Professor Jeffer. "I believe he will keep at it until he gains the Pole." "There have been numerous other expeditions, under Walter Wellman, Robert Stein, A. P. Low, E. P. Baldwin, and some Canadian explorers," continued Mr. Dawson, "but nobody has been able to equal Commander Peary's record." "It's a wonder that somebody doesn't try to reach the Pole with an airship," said Chet. "One explorer intends to try that. A European explorer, Andree, once went up from Spitzbergen in a balloon, and he was never heard of again. It's a dangerous piece of business, for one cannot tell where one is going to land, and to get much in the way of supplies in that forsaken portion of the globe is out of the question." "Maybe somebody will reach the Pole with an aeroplane," suggested Andy. "Not all the exploring has been done by the Americans," resumed Barwell Dawson. "One of the greatest foreign explorers was Dr. Fridtjof Nansen, a Norwegian. He made a memorable voyage in a vessel named the _Fram_, and managed to reach 86° 14' N. lat." "Almost as high as Commander Peary got," cried Chet. "Another explorer of note was the Duke of the Abruzzi, an Italian, who sailed for Franz Josef Land and wintered at Teplitz Bay, in 1899 and 1900. The Duke managed to reach 86° 33' N. lat., thus doing a trifle better than Nansen." "Good for the Duke," said Chet. "You certainly know a lot about the Pole," said Andy, admiringly. "You've got it on your fingers' ends." "Ever since I took the question up seriously I have read everything I could find on the subject," answered Barwell Dawson. "I do not intend to go at this in a haphazard fashion. My ship is going to be fitted out with the best possible care,--reënforced throughout the entire hull to resist the ice pressure,--and I shall pick my crew from among the strongest and bravest fellows I can find. To take a weakling on board would be foolhardy, for he could never stand the cold." "I suppose it is much colder than here in Maine," said Chet. "Yes, although not always. Even in upper Greenland the weather is at times comparatively mild. The worst time is the Long Night, as it is termed. Then, it is not only bitterly cold, but darkness is apt to take the heart out of a fellow. Some men cannot stand the night at all, and nearly go crazy, but I have never been affected that way." "Give me a good lamp and I shall not mind it," said Professor Jeffer. "I would spend the time in profitable reading, or in writing a book or magazine article." "When you were up there hunting, did you sail along the Greenland coast?" asked Chet, suddenly. "Of course." "Did you ever meet any whalers?" "Oh, yes, quite a number. Some of them go north quite a distance. They have to sail many miles to get the right kind of whales." "Did you--did you ever meet a whaler named the _Betsey Andrews_?" "The _Betsey Andrews_?" mused Barwell Dawson. "Where was she from?" "From New Bedford, Captain Jacob Spark." "Why, yes, I did. What do you know of her?" "I don't know much, excepting that my father sailed on her some years ago, and the vessel has failed to come back--so far as I know." "That's too bad. So far as I can remember, the ship was all right when I saw her. If I remember rightly, however, our captain said he thought she was pretty far north for a whaler." "Do you think she was wrecked in a storm?" "I don't know. We did have some pretty fierce storms just before I landed to go hunting. I know one storm came up right after a dense fog, and it nearly ran us into a tremendous iceberg. "Maybe an iceberg sunk the _Betsey Andrews_," said Chet, and his voice quivered a little in spite of his effort to control himself. "Have you made inquiries about the whaler lately?" asked Professor Jeffer. "You know there is a regular record kept of all marine disasters." "I didn't know where to go--or who to write to," answered Chet. "I hated to bother strangers." "But you want to find your father, don't you?" asked Barwell Dawson. "Oh, very much!" "Then we'll have to look into this matter--when this storm clears away, and we are able to get out of here." After that the hunter questioned Chet about his parent, and the youth told him how his father had shipped aboard the whaler. He did not mention that Tolney Greene had disappeared under a cloud, as it did not seem necessary, and Chet wanted to avoid anything that was so unpleasant. Following this, Barwell Dawson told more of his proposed trip north. Now that he had revealed what was on his mind, he was very enthusiastic, and he communicated a great deal of his enthusiasm to his listeners. "You must take me along!" cried Professor Jeffer. "I will pay my way--that is, so far as I am able,--and I will promise not to be a hindrance. You'll certainly want one scientist on your expedition, even though it is not what you might term a scientific expedition." "I will give the matter every consideration," answered Barwell Dawson, "and if I can possibly arrange it, you shall become one of the party." "How many will there be?" asked Chet. "Outside of the captain and the crew, I do not expect to carry more than five or six men. Of course, up in Greenland, I shall hire a number of Esquimaux, to do some hunting for me, and to manage the dogs and sledges." Chet said no more just then. But he was wondering if it would aid him to find his father if he should join this expedition to the frozen north. "I'd be willing to suffer anything--if only I could learn where dad was," he told Andy, afterwards. CHAPTER X BRINGING IN SOME GAME The snowstorm proved such a heavy one that for three days the party at Professor Jeffer's cabin were completely stormbound. Once Andy and Chet went out--in an endeavor to bring the dead moose in, but were unable to accomplish their object. During the time spent at the cabin, the boys became very well acquainted with Barwell Dawson, and found the hunter and explorer a person very much to their liking. Although he was rich and well educated, he did not act as if he considered himself above them. He took a lively interest in all they had to tell, and knew how to "draw them out," so that, almost before he knew it, Andy had related the details of his troubles with his shiftless Uncle Si and with the mysterious Mr. A. Q. Hopton. "More than likely that fellow, Hopton, will bear close watching," said Barwell Dawson. "If he is a sharper--and it looks as if he might be--he will try to swindle both you and your uncle. It was very unwise for your uncle to try to do business with him without seeing a lawyer." "Uncle Si wanted to get the money without my knowing it," answered Andy, bitterly. He was glad to open his heart to somebody who could understand him. "I believe you--and that is not to your uncle's credit. You say he is shiftless and lazy?" "Very--and everybody around here knows it." "Then he is not fit to be your guardian." "I don't believe he is, legally. He just said he was going to be, that's all." "Well, that doesn't make him so," answered the hunter, with a grim smile. With Andy he went over the papers the boy had brought from home. They seemed to prove that the lad's father owned a divided interest in a large tract of timber in the upper portion of Michigan. The papers had evidently been drawn up by somebody who knew very little about legal matters, and the phraseology was highly perplexing. After poring over them for an hour, and asking Professor Jeffer's advice, Barwell Dawson shook his head slowly. "I think it is an honest claim, and in your father's favor," he said. "But it will take a skillful lawyer to unravel it. Certainly your father bought something, and paid for it, for here are the words, 'one thousand dollars, the receipt of which from Andrew S. Graham is hereby admitted.' The writer meant 'acknowledged,' but I guess 'admitted' is good enough." "I was going to take it to a lawyer in Lodgeport." "Is he a reliable man, Andy?" "I don't know--I suppose so." "Well, supposing you let me look into this matter with you? I am in no hurry to get away from these parts, and I feel that you ought to let me do something in return for what you and Chet did for me." "I'll be very glad to have your help, Mr. Dawson--if you can spare the time." "I hope the claim proves of value--for I take you to be the kind of a lad who deserves to get along," said Barwell Dawson, smiling. During the time spent in the cabin, Barwell Dawson and Professor Jeffer discussed the trip to the far north in many details, and the hunter even traced out an imaginary route on one of the scientist's maps. Both men were equally enthusiastic, and after Mr. Dawson had asked the professor some more questions about himself, he at last consented that the latter should become one of the exploring party. "But remember," he said, impressively; "if you suffer great hardships or lose your life, nobody must blame me." "Trust me; no one will be blamed but myself," answered Professor Jeffer, with equal gravity. Then his face beamed. "It will be a wonderful trip, wonderful! And we shall see so many new things,--make so many interesting discoveries! I shall take along a set of the best instruments available, and make all sorts of observations. Such a record alone will be worth all it costs to get it." "I do not doubt it, Professor." "And then the fame--think of it, the fame! Why, sir, if we succeed in gaining the North Pole,--or even if we succeed in going above Commander Peary's highest mark, latitude 87° 6',--it will be something for the entire civilized world to know." "True." "From today on I shall go into the hardest kind of training," continued Professor Jeffer. "I shall fit myself to withstand the most intense hunger and the most intense cold. It is the only way." "It is certainly a good idea," answered Barwell Dawson. "It won't do to go up north 'soft,' as they call it." On the morning of the fourth day it cleared, and Andy and Chet decided to go out once more after the moose. Mr. Dawson's ankle was now well, but he did not want to try walking a long distance on it just yet. "You can get your game today," he said, "and we can start for Lodgeport tomorrow. There I'll see that lawyer for Andy, and then I'll try to return to my camp back of Moose Ridge, and see what the storm did to it." "If you want me to, I'll go back to the Ridge with you," said Chet. "I haven't anything else to do, now that I can't get work at one of the lumber camps." "Very well, I'll be glad of your company." Andy and Chet were soon on their way to where the latter had left the moose. Fortunately they had been able to borrow snow-shoes from Professor Jeffer, who owned several pairs. Both lads knew how to use the articles, and glided over the newly fallen snow with ease. "Just imagine we were bound for the North Pole!" cried Andy. "Wouldn't it be great!" "I'd like to look for my father, Andy," and Chet's face clouded. "Oh, Chet, I'm sorry I spoke--I didn't want to remind you----" "Oh, it's all right, Andy. If I don't hear from my father soon, I'd like first-rate to go north with Mr. Dawson's expedition." "I don't think he'd want to bother with boys." "We are not so very young. And both of us know how to rough it--and we are pretty good shots, too." "I guess you've been thinking about it pretty strongly." "Haven't you?" "Yes, I have. Mr. Dawson seems to be such a splendid man, the trip ought to be fine, even if the North Pole wasn't reached." "Just my idea. We would do lots of hunting, and riding behind the Esquimaux dogs. Just think of being on a sledge with eight or ten dogs to pull you over the ice and snow!" "And the thermometer 50° below zero! Don't forget it is fearfully cold up there." "Well, it's mighty cold here, sometimes. Anyway, I'd like to go--if he'd take me." "Same here--but he doesn't want boys, he wants men, and tough ones, too." So the talk ran on, as the boys made their way to the clump of spruces where Chet had had his adventure. At a distance they saw the stick, with the handkerchief, deep in the snow. "Well, there is your landmark, anyway," said Andy. "I hope nobody disturbed the game." "It looks all right," answered his chum. "But of course the snow would cover any tracks, even if the game was disturbed." With eager hands they uncovered the mound, and soon brought to light the big moose with his wide-spreading antlers. "Certainly a dandy!" cried Andy, as he surveyed the game. "You can be thankful he didn't hit you before you reached the tree, Chet. He would have smashed you into a jelly." "Well, as it was, he caused Mr. Dawson a bad fall." The boys went back to the trees, and after a careful inspection, took a hatchet and cut a long branch for a drag. On this they bound the deer, and then started on the return to Professor Jeffer's cabin, hauling their load behind them. It was hard work to make progress through the deep snow, and they had to rest several times to catch their breath. "I think we had better take the long way around," said Chet, after half the distance had been covered. "We can't very well get up the hill this side of the cabin, and, besides, there is a bad gully to cross this side of the brook." "You show the way," answered his chum. "You know these parts a little better than I do." By the new route they had to pass through a patch of woods where the snow made the branches of the trees hang low. It was hard work to pass between some of the trees, and once it looked as if they would have to turn back. "We are earning this meat," was Andy's comment, as he paused to pick up the cap that a branch had swept from his head. "Looks like it," answered Chet, laconically. "I guess we should have waited until the weather was better." Now, as it chanced, Chet was as tired as Andy, and consequently his quick temper showed itself. "You didn't have to come for the moose if you didn't want to," he cried, quickly. "Oh, I'm not complaining, Chet." "It's the same thing." "Not at all--and there is no cause for you to get mad about it." "Well, then, don't find fault. I'm pulling as hard on this load as you." "I know it. We made a mistake to come this way, I am afraid." "Oh, yes, that's you,--blame that on me, too." Chet now looked thoroughly angry. "I've a good mind to leave the old moose where he is." And he let go of the branch on which the game rested. "Chet!" Andy uttered the name reproachfully, and gazed fearlessly into his chum's eyes. There was an awkward pause. Then the face of the quick-tempered youth grew red. "Well, I don't care----" he began, and took hold of the drag again. "Yes, you do care,--and I care, too. We can't afford to quarrel, and all over nothing. Come on, we'll get through somehow," said Andy. "Guess I said too much," murmured Chet, and began to haul on the load as if his life depended upon it. "I thought----Oh, Andy, there's a shot for us!" The quick-tempered lad, who was equally quick-eyed, stopped and pointed to a tree some distance on their right. Andy saw something move, but could not make out what it was. "Partridge," announced his companion, and swung his gun around. "I'm going to take a shot when they go up." He glided over the snow, and Andy came behind him. Then up went four partridge with a whirr that would have startled one not accustomed to the sound. Bang! went Chet's gun, and bang! came the report of Andy's immediately after. Two of the partridges came fluttering down, while the two others circled around in a helpless, dazed fashion. "We must get those, too!" cried Chet, and blazed away again, and then Andy took another shot. Down came the game, and the boys glided forward to secure the prizes. The partridges were of good size, and plump, and the lads gazed at them and turned them over in deep satisfaction. "We'll prove to Mr. Dawson that we can hunt," cried Chet. His recent ill humor had completely disappeared. In getting back to where they had left the moose, Andy struck an icy rock and rolled over and over in the snow. Chet was compelled to laugh, but quickly subsided, thinking his chum might be angry. But though he had hard work to get up and secure the game he had been carrying, Andy retained his peace of mind. "Fortune of war," he said, as he dug the loose snow from his clothing. "Birr! but it's cold." "Want to go to the North Pole now?" said Chet, quizzically. "This minute, if I had the chance," was the quick reply. The partridges were tied on top of the moose, and once again the two lads headed for the cabin. Soon they came in sight of the place, and set up a loud whistling, which brought the two men to the door. "A fine moose!" cried Barwell Dawson. "And fine partridge, too." "Don't you think we are pretty fair hunters?" asked Chet. "First-class," returned Mr. Dawson. CHAPTER XI A SERIOUS LOSS Having brought their game around to the shed attached to the cabin, the boys were glad enough to rest before the generous fire, while Professor Jeffer proceeded to cut out some choice moose meat, having been requested by Barwell Dawson to do so. "The moose is yours," Mr. Dawson said to the boys. "But I must have at least one steak, although it may be rather tough." "You can have as much as you like," answered Chet. "I don't think Andy wants it all, and I am sure I don't." Darkness was settling down once more around the cabin, when Andy chanced to think of the papers concerning the land claim in Michigan. He had placed them in an inside pocket of his jacket, and now he inserted his hand to bring them forth, to make certain that they were safe. "Oh!" he cried, and his heart began to beat wildly. "What's the matter?" queried Chet, who was near. "Hurt?" "The papers!" "What of them?" "They are gone!" "Gone?" repeated Chet, and now Professor Jeffer and Barwell Dawson listened with interest. "Yes, gone--I can't find them anywhere." Andy rapidly went through every pocket in his clothing, and in the overcoat he had hung on a horn. "Yes, they are gone," he groaned. "Oh, this is the worst luck yet!" "But they must be somewhere around," said Barwell Dawson. "Have you any idea where you dropped them?" "No, although it might have been when I took that tumble in the snow." "If you lost 'em there, we ought to go back for 'em right away," declared Chet. "The wind is rising, and that will drift the snow over 'em." A vain search was made around the cabin and the shed, and then, tired as he was, Andy donned his overcoat and cap to go out. Chet did the same. "Oh, you needn't mind, Chet," said Andy. "I just will mind, Andy. We are going to get those papers back," was the brisk reply. "Here, take a lantern," said Professor Jeffer, and brought forth an acetylene lamp, similar to those used on bicycles. "That ought to help you find the papers," he added. In a minute more the two lads had set off through the snow. As Chet had said, the wind was rising, and it often caught the snow up in a mad whirl and hurled it into their faces. "Phew! this is not so pleasant," panted Chet, when they paused to catch their breath, having covered about a quarter of the distance to where Andy had fallen. "Takes the wind right out of a chap. But never mind, come on," he continued, and started on once more. The rays of the acetylene lamp lit up the way fairly well, and here and there they could see their former trail, although it was growing more indistinct every moment. The wind now whistled through the pines and spruces,--a sound as dismaying as it was lonely. "Might have brought down some game, with the aid of this lamp," said Chet, as they trudged forward on their snowshoes. "I'm not looking for game just now." At last they reached what they thought was the spot where Andy had had the fall. So far they had seen no trace of the missing documents. Now they gazed around, much crestfallen. The hollow was completely filled with the drifting snow, and a ridge had formed, wiping out the trail utterly. "I am going to try digging," said Andy. "Wish I had brought a shovel along." The lamp was hung on the branch of a tree near by, and both youths set to work, shoving and kicking the snow to one side or another. Thus they worked, in something of a circle, for the best part of an hour. Not a trace of the papers could be seen anywhere. "Maybe I lost them further back--where we found the moose," said Andy. "I'm going to look. But you needn't go with me if you don't care to, Chet." "I'll go where you go, Andy. I want to see you get those papers back." Again they moved forward, the wind and snow cutting each in the face, and sometimes almost blinding them. They had to rest twice before they reached the spot of Chet's thrilling adventure. Again the search began, and it was kept up until both lads were wellnigh exhausted from stooping over and "sifting" the snow. Andy straightened his back and gave a sigh. "I guess it's no use," he groaned. "They are gone! I'll never see them again! And that claim is gone, too!" "Oh, don't give up yet!" cried Chet, trying to cheer him up. "If we can't locate them tonight, we'll do it in the morning when the sun shines. They must be somewhere around. They made quite a package, with a rubber band around it, and such a package can't vanish completely." To this Andy could only answer with a sigh. He doubted very much if the precious documents would ever come to light again. Utterly fagged out, the boys turned their backs on the wind and made their way to Professor Jeffer's cabin. Here they found the others anxiously awaiting their return. "What luck?" sang out Barwell Dawson. "None," answered Andy, and dropped into a chair as tired out as he was disheartened. "You'll have to go out in the morning." "Just what I said," came from Chet. "Oh, we'll get those papers back, don't worry." But although he spoke thus lightly, it was only to cheer his chum up. He, too, was afraid the documents were gone forever. Andy's sleep was a troubled one. He dreamed that his Uncle Si was after him, and that both had a tussle in the snow over the papers. Then A. Q. Hopton came up with a pitchfork, speared the papers, and bore them off in triumph. He awoke to find Chet shaking him. "Andy, stop your groaning!" Chet was saying. "You are going on to beat the band!" "I guess I had a nightmare," answered Andy, sheepishly. "What time is it?" "Just getting daylight." "Then I am going to get up, eat a little breakfast, and start on another search for those papers." "Sure--and I'll go along." The boys arose as quietly as possible, and dressing, went to the kitchen and prepared their morning meal of wheat cakes and a small moose steak, and coffee. They were just finishing the repast when Professor Jeffer showed himself. "Up early, I see," he said, with a smile. "We are going to look for those papers again," explained Chet. "To be sure. Well, I trust you find them, although I am afraid you will have quite a search." The sun was just peering over the trees to the eastward when the two lads left the cabin. It promised to be a clear day. It was intensely cold, and the wind still blew, although not so hard as during the day and the night gone by. Andy took the lead, and each boy strained his eyes to catch sight of anything that might look like the documents. Once Andy saw something at a distance, and ran to it with a rapidly beating heart. But it was nothing but a strip of birch bark, and again his heart sank. The noon hour found them still on the hunt. Fortunately they had brought some lunch along in one of the game bags, and they sat down in a sunny and sheltered nook to eat this, warming up a can of coffee over a tiny campfire Chet kindled. Then the hunt was renewed, and kept up in various places until the sun began to go down over the woods to the westward. "It will be dark in an hour more, Andy," said Chet, kindly. "I guess we had better return to the cabin. We can come out again tomorrow, if you wish." "I--I don't think it will be any use to come out again, Chet." Andy's voice was very unsteady. "I am afraid the papers are gone for good!" "Oh, I wouldn't give it up yet!" "If I only knew where I had dropped them! But I don't know. They may be right around here, and they may be half a mile away." It was with a downcast heart that Andy followed his chum back to the cabin. Somehow, he had hoped that the timber claim would prove a valuable one, and that he would get a goodly share of it. Now that hope was shattered. "I won't be able to prove a thing without the documents," he told himself. "And it would be useless to try." That evening the matter was talked over by the men and the boys from every point of view, but nothing came of it. Barwell Dawson agreed with Andy that nothing could be accomplished until the missing documents were brought to light. "I really think your uncle is to blame for this," said the hunter. "If he had not acted as he did, you would not have been forced to run away, and then the papers might be safe and sound at your cabin." "I'd like to know what became of that A. Q. Hopton," said Andy. "Well, he didn't get the papers, and that's one comfort," said Chet, with a sickly grin. There was now no use in going to Lodgeport to see a lawyer, and instead, Andy and Chet went out again for another search. But this was as useless as the others. Not a trace of the missing documents could be found anywhere. "Might as well give it up," sighed Andy. "They are gone, and that is all there is to it." Again matters were talked over, and Barwell Dawson advised Andy to go home and face his uncle. "If you wish, I'll go with you," said the hunter. "Perhaps I can get him to tell just what that A. Q. Hopton was up to." "I'd like it first-rate, if you would go along, Mr. Dawson," answered the boy quickly. "Want me along?" asked Chet. "You might as well come," answered Andy. "We can take some of the moose meat. The horns are yours, Chet." They set off for the Graham cabin on the following morning. Barwell Dawson's ankle was now quite well, although he was prudently careful how he used it. It had cleared off rather warm, so the trip was a pleasant one. The boys had with them all the meat they could carry, and also their guns, and wore the snow-shoes Professor Jeffer had loaned them. On the way Chet asked Barwell Dawson how soon he expected to start for the north. "I hope to get the _Ice King_ ready by the middle of February or first of March," was the hunter's reply. "You see, for such a trip we require an immense amount of stores, and of just the proper kinds. It won't do to take stuff that will freeze and burst open. Once I remember I was up there, and had some bottles of catsup along. The bottles froze and burst, and we had catsup scattered all over the camp." "I suppose you can't get much up there?" said Chet. "Absolutely nothing outside of game--musk oxen, polar bears and hares, seal, walrus, and some birds. In some parts of Greenland you can get moss that you can put in soup, but it doesn't amount to a very hearty meal. In a cold climate like that, one needs to eat plenty of meat, and the more fat, the better. The Esquimaux live on the fattest kind of meat they can get, and on blubber, and they think tallow candles a real delicacy." "Excuse me from eating candles," said Andy. "If you were real hungry, you'd eat anything," answered Barwell Dawson, gravely. "I was once lost on the ice, and was glad enough to chew strips of seal hide to ease the pangs of hunger. When I got back to camp, my stomach was in such a condition that they fed me my first meal very carefully, just a bit at a time. If I had eaten my fill quickly, I might have died." CHAPTER XII A LETTER OF INTEREST "The place looks shut up," observed Chet, when the party came in sight of the Graham homestead. "Not a bit of smoke, and the snow isn't cleared away from the doorstep." "Maybe Uncle Si is sick and can't get around," answered Andy, quickly. "Sick? Lazy, you mean," returned his chum. They advanced to the front door and knocked. There was no sound from within, and Andy walked around to the shed. The door was locked, but the key was on a shelf near by, and he quickly opened the door. "Uncle Si is away," he announced, as he walked through the cabin, and let the others come in. "My! but it's cold here! We'll have to start a fire right away." "I'll do that," answered Chet. "You sit down and rest that sore ankle," he went on, to Barwell Dawson, and the hunter was glad to do as bidden. While Chet started a lively blaze in the big open fireplace, Andy went through the cabin, looking for some trace of his uncle. Much to his surprise, he found Josiah Graham's traveling bag missing, and also all of the man's clothing. "He has gone away!" he cried, and then caught sight of a letter, pinned fast to the top of a chest of drawers. The outside of the letter was addressed to Andy Graham. The communication was written in lead pencil, in a chirography anything but elegant, and ran as follows: "_My dere Nephy Andy_ i hav got a chanct to git a job up Haveltown way and i think I beter tak it you dont seme to car for to have me tak car of you so i am goin to leave you to tak car of yourself Mr. Hopton wanted to treet you square but you would knot listen so you must tak the konseakenses. he said the pappers aint much akont anyhowe. i leave my lov even if you dont lik me. --_Josiah Graham_" It took some time for Andy to decipher the communication, and for the first time in his life he realized how very limited had been the education of his father's half-brother. He read the epistle to Chet and Barwell Dawson. "He has deserted you!" cried Chet. "Well, 'good riddance to bad rubbish' say I!" "I think he was afraid that you would make trouble for him," was Mr. Dawson's comment. "He thought you would take those papers to some lawyer, or to the authorities, and tell how he tried to sell them to Mr. A. Q. Hopton on the sly." "I guess that's the way it is," said Andy. He drew a deep breath. "Well, I am glad to get rid of him so easily. I sincerely hope he stays away." "But he won't stay away," returned Chet. "He'll wait until he thinks everything is all right again, and then he'll sneak back, to live on you." "He'll not live on me again," declared Andy. "I know him thoroughly, now. If he wants to stay here he'll have to work, the same as I do." "Well, you are in possession of your own," declared Barwell Dawson, as he rested in the chair Uncle Si had used. "You can now take it as easy as you please," and he smiled broadly. "I don't see how I am going to take it easy, if I can't get work," answered Andy, soberly. "A fellow can't live on air. Of course, I can go out hunting and fishing and all that, but that isn't earning a regular living." "You can't get work anywhere? You look like a strong young man, and willing." "I am strong, and willing, too. But times are dull, and there are more men up here than there is work. If it wasn't for having the cabin here, I think I'd try my chances elsewhere." "Where?" "I don't know--perhaps down in one of the towns." Andy invited Barwell Dawson to remain at the cabin for the rest of the day, and the invitation was accepted. The chums set to work to prepare a good dinner, and of this the hunter partook with great satisfaction. "You boys certainly know how to cook," he declared, as he finished up. "A fellow has to learn cooking and everything, in a place like this," answered Andy. "It's a good thing to know how to cook. I've found it so, many a time, when off on a hunt." "Mr. Dawson, I'd like to put a proposition to you," burst out Andy. "Of course, if it doesn't suit, all you've got to do is to say no. But I hope you will give it serious consideration." And Andy looked at Chet, as much as to say, "Shall I go ahead?" To which his chum nodded eagerly. "What is the proposition?" "That you take Chet and me with you on your trip north. I know you would prefer men, but we are not so young, and each of us is strong and healthy, and we can do about as much as a man. We are both used to cold weather, and to roughing it, and you know we can shoot, and tramp over the ice and snow--and cook. We talked this over between us, and we'd like to go very much. We don't want any pay, or any reward. All we want is our food, and some ammunition, and we are perfectly willing to rough it along with the rest. We are both practically alone in the world, so nobody will be worried over us, even if we don't come back alive." "Yes, but you want to come back, don't you?" asked Barwell Dawson, quizzically. "Of course. But we realize the danger, and we are ready to face it." "We'll go wherever you go," broke in Chet. "And we'll do just whatever you want us to do. As Andy says, we are used to roughing it, and I think both of us can stand as much as anybody. Why, I don't know that I've had a sick day in my life." "And I have been sick very little--none at all since I grew up," added Andy. The hunter and explorer looked sharply at the two boys. He saw by the clear look in their eyes that they were honest to the core, and in earnest in all they said. "Well, it is something not to have any family ties," he said. "I have two friends who wish to go along, but both have wives, and one has two children. I don't think it would be fair to take them. I am a bachelor myself, and my relatives do not care what I do. I believe if I died, all some of them would think about would be my money." He added the last words rather bitterly. "Then you will consider taking us?" pleaded Andy. "Yes, I will consider it. But I must think it over a week or two before I give you my answer. When a man plans such a trip as this, he cannot be too careful as to who are his companions. I must say I like you lads very much, and I haven't forgotten how you aided me at the cliff. But I must have time to think it over carefully, and make a few inquiries." With this the lads had to be content, and for the time being the subject was dropped. But later on Barwell Dawson showed his interest by asking them a great number of questions about themselves. "I think he'll take us along," whispered Chet to Andy, on retiring for the night. "And I sincerely hope he does. It may give me a chance to find out what became of the _Betsey Andrews_ and my father." "Don't be too sure of our going," answered Andy. "If you are, you may be bitterly disappointed." In the morning it was decided that the two lads should accompany Barwell Dawson to the lodge he had occupied back of Moose Ridge. They went along gladly, wishing to become better acquainted with the hunter and explorer. The storm had now cleared away entirely, the wind had died down, and the clear sun shone upon the ice and snow with great brilliancy. On the way the party managed to pick up some small game, and Barwell Dawson showed his skill by hitting a partridge at a great distance. He shot with ease, showing that he was thoroughly familiar with the use of firearms. He even gave the boys "points" for which they were grateful. "He certainly knows how to shoot," said Andy to Chet. "I don't see how he missed that moose." "He lost his footing, that's how," was the reply. "The very best of sportsmen miss it sometimes." "Isn't he a splendid fellow, Chet!" "The finest I've met. Oh, I do hope he takes us along with him!" When the lodge was reached the boys built a fire and cooked another appetizing meal, the hunter meanwhile resting his ankle, which was still sore. The reader can rest assured that Andy and Chet did their best over the meal, for they wanted to let Mr. Dawson know of their real abilities in the culinary line. The repast was as much liked as the other had been. "If you go with me, I'll have to throw out the man I was going to take for a cook," declared the hunter and explorer. "I don't believe anybody could serve food better than this." "Oh, we'll do the cooking all right!" declared Chet, enthusiastically. "Of course there will be a ship's cook," explained Mr. Dawson. "But he won't go along over the ice and snow. He'll have to remain with the sailors on the ship." "How many will be in the party to leave the ship?" asked Andy. "I don't know yet--probably five or six, and the Esquimaux." Having reached Barwell Dawson's lodge, the party settled down for a week, to hunt and to take it comfortably. During that time the hunter and explorer asked Chet much about himself and his father. "We must try to find out about that whaler as soon as I go back to town," said Barwell Dawson. "Somebody ought to know something about her." During the week the hunter and the boys became better friends than ever. The man liked the frank manner of the lads, and Andy and Chet were fascinated by the stories the explorer had to tell. "I am going down to Portland next week," announced Barwell Dawson one day. "If you both want to go along and see the city, I'll take you, and foot the bill. Then we can go up to the little town where the _Ice King_ is being fitted out, and you can let me know what you think of the ship." This proposal filled the boys with delight, and they accepted on the spot. Both Andy and Chet made hurried trips to their cabin homes, and came back with the best of their belongings in their grips. Then they helped Barwell Dawson pack up; and two days later started for Pine Run. There was mild surprise in the village when it was learned the two boys were going away, even though it might be only for a short while. To nobody in the village did Barwell Dawson mention his proposed trip to the frozen north. "They wouldn't understand it, and it would only make me out an object of idle curiosity," he explained to the boys. From the general storekeeper Andy learned that his Uncle Si had tried to borrow ten dollars, but without success. The storekeeper said Josiah Graham and Mr. A. Q. Hopton had had a bitter quarrel, and parted on bad terms. He did not know where either individual was now. "Well, let Uncle Si shift for himself," said Andy to Chet. "It will do him good." "Right you are, Andy. But what a shame that you lost those papers." "Oh, don't mention them, Chet. It makes me feel bad every time I think of it." "You ought to go back some day and take another look for them. I'll help you." "Yes, I intend to go back--if not right away, then when the snow clears off." "Provided we are not bound north by that time." "Yes, provided we are not bound for the Pole!" CHAPTER XIII BARWELL DAWSON REACHES A DECISION The trip to Portland proved full of keen interest to both boys, who had spent most of their lives in the backwoods. Barwell Dawson procured rooms for all at a hotel not far from Monument Square, and then he allowed the lads to do all the sightseeing they pleased. They took several trolley trips, and visited many points of interest, not forgetting the big stores, which were as much of a revelation as anything to them. The hunter and explorer set to work without delay to find out if possible what had become of the whaler, _Betsey Andrews_. At first he could learn little, but one day came a letter from New Bedford, from a maritime agency, stating that the whaler had not been heard of since stopping at Disko Island, off the coast of Greenland, two years before. It was supposed that she had either been hit by an iceberg, or been sunk in a storm, with all on board. Once a small boat belonging to the whaler had been found washed up on the coast of Greenland, but it had contained no persons, dead or alive. This news was very disheartening to Chet, and for several days he was not himself at all, and Andy could do little to cheer him up. But it was not as bad as if the youth had not expected something of this sort before, and his hopes soon came back to him. "I'll not believe father is dead until I see the proofs," he told his chum. "He may have been cast away on the coast of Greenland, and been unable to find a ship to bring him back home." "Let us hope that is true," answered Andy. "And let us hope that he gets back soon." But though Andy spoke thus, he had small expectations of ever seeing Mr. Greene alive. "I expect Professor Jeffer down tomorrow," said Barwell Dawson, one morning after reading his mail. "As soon as he comes we'll run up the coast to where the _Ice King_ is being fitted out." The weather had cleared off warm, and the snow was fast vanishing. The professor arrived on time, and was full of enthusiasm concerning the proposed trip to the north. "I wish we were sure of going," said Andy, to him, and then told of what had been said to Mr. Dawson. "I like you lads very much," returned the old scientist. "I hope Mr. Dawson sees fit to take you along." "Perhaps you can put in a good word for us," suggested Chet. "I'll do it," was the prompt answer. Professor Jeffer was as good as his word, and that evening he and Barwell Dawson had a long talk concerning the boys. The hunter and explorer could not help but smile at Upham Jeffer's enthusiasm. "Well, if you are on their side too, I'll surely have to take them," he said at length. "But it is a risky thing to do--they are not men, remember." "They will stand the trip as well as though they were men," was the professor's answer. "They are in the best of health, and full of vigor. Besides, it is well to have the enthusiasm of youth with us. It may help to cheer up many a lonely hour." "I like the idea of their being without close family connections, Professor. I hate to take a man away from those near and dear to him." "True, sir, true--especially when it is not actually necessary. Yes, I'd take the boys by all means. I do not think you'll regret it. Of course, though, each will have to have a complete outfit." "You can trust me to get the best there is." When Andy and Chet heard the good news they could scarcely contain themselves. Andy danced a jig right in the hotel room, while both lads had to shake Barwell Dawson by the hand several times, and then they shook hands with Professor Jeffer, too. "It makes me feel just as if we were one big family," cried Andy, enthusiastically. "Oh, Chet, just to think of it! We'll hunt musk oxen, and polar bears, and seals, and walruses! And go clear to the Pole, too!" "And travel on dog sledges," put in Chet. "Say, I'm ready to go this minute!" "So am I! Mr. Dawson, you can't start any too soon for us." "Well, boys, don't be too enthusiastic. Remember, this is going to be no child's play--trying to get to the North Pole. And we won't try to reach that point at all unless, when we get into the Arctic regions, we find the conditions more or less favorable. You must remember that many brave and vigorous men have tried to reach the Pole and have failed. There are immense fields of ice and snow to cross, and 'leads' or rivers of icy water. And if you lose your supplies, there remains nothing to do but to starve." Nevertheless, even though he spoke thus, Barwell Dawson was secretly as hopeful as were the boys. Could he have seen what was before him, his enthusiasm might have quickly died within him. Now that it had been settled that they could go, the two boys were eager to see the vessel which was to be their home during the coming summer and winter. The _Ice King_ was being fitted out at the seaport town of Rathley, and they took the train for the place, arriving there about noon. The vessel was tied up at the dock, and the lads and Professor Jeffer were invited by Mr. Dawson to come on board. "I'll introduce you to Captain Williamson," said the hunter. "He is in charge of the repairs that are being made. He is a fine man, and I know you will like him." The captain proved to be a bluff and hearty old salt, who had at one time commanded a whaler. He shook hands with a grip that made Andy and Chet wince, and looked them over with a twinkle in his eye. "So you are going to try to hunt polar bears and such, eh?" he said. "Well, you look out that the bears don't eat you up," and he laughed broadly. "We'll try to keep out of the way," answered Chet, modestly. "And what are you going to do when the thermometer drops to fifty below zero?" "Work around and keep warm," answered Andy, with a grin, and this made the captain laugh again. "Guess you'll do," he said. "Anyway, we'll try you." The _Ice King_ was a two-masted steamer that had been built for use in the icy seas of the north. She was small, broad of beam, and shallow, with an outer "jacket" of stout oak planks, and a prow and stern of steel. Inside, all the bracings were extra heavy, and the railings of the deck were of the hardest kind of timber. She carried an engine of great power, and steam could be gotten up both with coal and with oil. "You see, it will not do to take too large a ship," explained Barwell Dawson. "A small vessel can often get through where a big one would get stuck. The _Ice King_ is built shallow, so that instead of being crushed in the floating ice, she will slide up on it, or over it. The sides are two feet thick, and they ought to resist a tremendous pressure. We have to have great engine power, and a steel prow, for sometimes we'll have to simply smash our way through." The entire lower portion of the ship was to be given over to the storage of provisions and coal, and coal was also to be stored, at the start, on deck. The quarters for the crew were forward, in a forecastle of the usual order. At the stern was a fair-sized cabin, half above and half below the deck, with quarters for Barwell Dawson, the captain, and the others. The boys were conducted to a stateroom not over six feet by seven. It had an upper and a lower berth on one side, and a tiny washstand and some clothing hooks on the other. "We'll all have close quarters," said Barwell Dawson. "My own room is but two feet larger than this." "It's large enough," said Andy. He turned to his chum. "We'll be as snug as a bug in a rug in here, won't we?" "Suits me right down to the ground," returned Chet. "Not much room for clothing, but as we haven't much, that's all right." Professor Jeffer was to share his stateroom with another man, who had not yet arrived. He asked for a cabinet, in which he might store his scientific instruments, and Mr. Dawson said he would attend to the matter. "Next week I shall commence the purchase of all supplies," said the man who headed the expedition. "Until that time there will be little for any of you to do, and you can go where you please." "I'm going back home--to have another look for those missing papers," said Andy. "Besides, I want to bring away the rest of my things, and nail up the cabin." "And I'll go along," said Chet. "I want to get my things, too. About the cabin, I don't care much what becomes of it, for it has seen its best days." The two boys spent three days in the vicinity of Pine Run. During that time both went out twice to look for the documents Andy had lost, but without success. "They are gone, and I'll have to make the best of it," said Andy, with a deep sigh. The two boys packed up what few things they wished to take along, and then each cabin was nailed up tightly. Both wondered if they would ever see the places again. "Maybe we'll never come back from the far north," said Chet. "Are you afraid, Chet?" demanded Andy, quickly. "Not a bit of it. Just the same, we may never see Maine again. What happened to my father may happen to us." Professor Jeffer had come back also, to ship his case of scientific instruments, and also another case of books. The professor did not want much in the way of clothing, but it would have been a real hardship had he been deprived of his other belongings. "The success of this trip will depend upon accurate scientific observations," said he to the boys, when on the return to Rathley. "It is all well enough to hunt, and even to reach the North Pole, but of what use is it if we cannot return with full data of what we have observed?" "You are right, Professor," answered Andy. "But your instruments are beyond me." "I will teach you how to use some of them, after we are on board ship. There will be many days when you boys will have little to do, and it will be an excellent opportunity to improve your minds." "Well, I wouldn't mind a little more education," said Chet, bluntly. "I'll be pleased to teach you, my boy. I was once a schoolmaster--although that was years ago." "Professor, do you really think we'll reach the Pole?" asked Andy, earnestly. "I do not think; I hope. Many have tried and failed, but I believe the Pole will be gained some day, and we'll have an excellent chance of success. Mr. Dawson is a wonderful man--he seems more wonderful every time I talk to him. He is fitting up his ship with the greatest possible care and forethought, and has made a deep study of polar conditions. Besides, he has had practical experience on the fields of ice and snow, and knows just what to expect in the way of hardships." The run to Rathley was made in less than two hours. It had been decided that the party should put up at a hotel for a few days, until some painting on board the _Ice King_ was finished. Then they were to go aboard and make themselves at home as best they could until the day set for the departure. They reached the hotel in the evening, and that night all slept soundly. In the morning, after breakfast, Chet suggested they walk down to the steamer and see how the painting was progressing. "Hark!" cried Andy, when they were within two blocks of the wharf. "What is that man crying?" "Fire! fire! fire!" yelled the individual in question, as he came rushing up the street. "Where is it?" asked Andy and Chet in a breath. "Down at the dock! A steamer is on fire!" "A steamer!" exclaimed Professor Jeffer. "Can it be the _Ice King_?" "Oh, I hope not!" burst out Andy, and then he set off on a run, with Chet by his side, and the professor following more slowly. CHAPTER XIV THE FIRE ON THE STEAMER "She is doomed! There goes our chance to reach the North Pole!" Such were the words that escaped from Chet's lips, as he and Andy came out on the dock where the _Ice King_ was tied up. Before them lay the two-masted steamer, with a thick volume of smoke rolling up from her main hatchway. The fire alarm was sounding, and men and boys were running to the scene of action. "What a catastrophe!" The words came from Professor Jeffer. He was almost out of breath from running. "I hope they can save her!" "Wonder what is burning?" queried Andy. He, too, felt his heart sink within him. "Can of benzine exploded," answered a man standing near. "The painters had it, and one of 'em dropped a lighted match on the can." "He ought to be blown up with it," fumed Chet. "Who ever heard of such carelessness!" There was the tooting of a whistle, and a fire engine came dashing down the street, followed by a hose cart and a hook and ladder company. In the meantime, Captain Williamson had sounded the alarm on the ship, and set some men to work at a hand pump, for the engineer had no steam in the boilers. "Can we do anything, Captain?" asked Andy, as he ran up the gangplank. "I don't know," was the short answer. "Might help at the pump, or help carry buckets of water. If we had the engine going we'd soon get a good stream on that blaze, but we didn't look for anything like this." Andy and Chet tried to get to the pump, but found that already manned. Then they got buckets and ropes, and commenced to haul up water over the side, and a number of other boys and men did likewise. Some sailors took the full buckets and threw the water down the hatchway, where they thought it would do the most good. Then the fire engine on the dock got into action, and a steady stream was directed down into the interior of the steamer. But the conflagration had gained considerable headway, and some cans of paints and oils added ready fuel to the blaze. The smoke grew thicker and thicker, and presently a tongue of flame shot skyward. "She's doomed sure!" groaned Chet. "Oh, was there ever such luck!" "The trouble is that the water doesn't do much good on the paint and oil," exclaimed Professor Jeffer. "Sand or dirt would be better." "Here comes a chemical engine!" cried Andy. "Maybe that will do some good." "It will do more good than throwing water," said the old scientist. The chemical engine got into action without delay, and as the chemicals were forced down the hatchway the smoke became even thicker than before. But the tongues of flame died down, which the boys took for a good sign. Barwell Dawson was not on hand, he having gone to Boston on business. "If the vessel isn't saved, it will be an awful blow to him," was Andy's comment. The boys continued to work, and so did the sailors and the firemen. Thus an anxious quarter of an hour passed. Then the chief of the fire department happened to pass Chet. "Will the vessel be saved?" asked the lad. "Sure thing!" cried the old fire-fighter. "But it's a blaze hard to get at. If a man tried to go down there, he'd be smothered in a minute." Nevertheless, some of the hook and ladder men went into the engine room, and there chopped a hole through a bulkhead into the hold. Then more chemicals were used, and more water, and soon it was announced that the fire was under control. A little later the smoke cleared away, and the firemen went below, to put out any stray sparks. It was found that the total damage was confined to that portion of the hold where the painters had stored their paints and oils. Here the woodwork was much charred, and some beams and braces were burnt through. But Captain Williamson estimated that two hundred dollars would make everything as good as ever. "And that I'm going to get out of those painters," he went on, doggedly. "If they don't pay up, I'll have 'em arrested for gross carelessness." It may be said here that in the end the painters had to pay for the repairs, although they did so unwillingly. A telegram was sent to Mr. Dawson, and he came from Boston on the first train. He was much disturbed, and roundly berated the painter who had caused the conflagration. The man had been smoking, and the hunter gave orders that in the future they were to smoke on deck only, and use no matches whatever while below. The repairs made necessary by the fire were made within ten days, and then the task of getting the _Ice King_ ready for her long trip to the Arctic regions went forward as rapidly as ever. Mr. Dawson was a busy man, for he superintended the buying of everything, from fur clothing to pemmican. "Pemmican is the great thing in the Arctic regions," he explained one day, when Andy asked about the food. "It is nothing but the round of beef, cut into strips and dried, and then mixed with beef tallow and currants. It will keep for a long time, and is highly nutritious." "Is it appetizing?" asked Andy, with a grin. "It is when you are good and hungry, Andy. Besides, it is comparatively light, and easily carried. I don't know what explorers would do without it. Of course, as long as we can get fresh meat, we'll eat that. But we'll have to fall back on pemmican more or less. You'll find it more appetizing than seal blubber, such as the Esquimaux eat." The hunter purchased for the lads some silk underwear that was extra warm, and some stout boots, and outer garments of wool and of fur, and also some oilskins for wet weather. Then he took them to a gun shop in Portland and fitted them out with pistols, repeating rifles, and stout hunting knives. He also purchased for them water-tight match safes, and colored goggles of the automobile variety--the latter to ward off headache and snow-blindness. "You need not wear the goggles all the time up north," he explained. "But as soon as your eyes hurt the least bit, put them on." "You are very kind to get us all these things," said Chet. The new repeating rifle made his eyes sparkle with pleasure. "Indeed you are kind!" cried Andy. "We didn't expect half so much." "I want you to go away completely equipped," answered Barwell Dawson. "Half of the failures of exploring expeditions is due to the lack of proper equipment. It's like going hunting with a gun that won't shoot straight. Sometimes you hit your game, but more times you don't." The hunter and explorer also went over the scientific instruments with Professor Jeffer, to see that nothing should be lacking to take all manner of observations and measurements. Some linen notebooks were also provided, which could not be torn easily, and likewise fountain pens, and ink made of liquids that would not readily freeze. Mr. Dawson also procured a number of cameras for taking pictures, and films that would not be affected by the intense cold. "You've got to think about the cold every time you buy anything," observed Andy. "Wonder what about a jack-knife? I was going to buy a new one, and I don't want to ask Mr. Dawson about it--he has bought enough already." "I guess you can get any kind you want," answered his chum. "But don't use it when it's too cold, or the steel will stick to your skin." "Oh, I know that. I once put my tongue on some cold iron, and I had a terrible time getting it off again." The boys were in Portland, and set off to buy some trifles, having still a few dollars of their own. Andy purchased the knife at a hardware store, and they were just coming from the place when Chet caught him by the arm. "What is it, Chet?" "Look at the man across the way! It is your Uncle Si!" "Uncle Si!" cried Andy. "So it is! And he has seen me!" Andy's first impulse was to run, but he did nothing of the sort. He stood his ground, and gazed at his uncle coldly as the latter shuffled up. Josiah Graham looked anything but tidy and prosperous, and Andy rightly imagined that his relative had been going through some hard times. "Humph! So here you be!" were Josiah Graham's first words. "I was a-wonderin' what had become of yer." "What are you doing here, Uncle Si?" asked Andy, as calmly as possible. "Me? Wot's thet to you, I'd like to know?" "Oh, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to." "I'm a-lookin' fer work. Be you workin' now?" "Not just at present." "How did you git here?" "Came on the train." "Humph! Needn't be so pert! Maybe you had an offer o' work here?" "No." "We haven't got to look for a job," said Chet. "We've got something better to look forward to." "Better, eh? Wot is it?" And Josiah Graham's small eyes gazed shrewdly at the youths. "Never mind what it is," broke in Andy, hastily, with a warning look at his chum. "Ah, I know!" cried the man, with a leer. "You came down to sell thet land claim! Goin' to do it without my knowledge an' consent!" "No, I didn't come for that." "You can't tell me, Andy Graham! I know better, I do!" the old man shrilled. "But you remember I'm your guardeen, an' you can't sell nuthin' without me!" "You are not my guardian, Uncle Si. You went away of your own free will, and now I want you to let me alone." "Did you sell them papers yet?" "No." "Then you better give 'em to me. You was a big fool to run away as you did. I was a-goin' to make a good bargain fer yer." "Uncle Si, if you had sold those papers to that Mr. A. Q. Hopton, I could have had you arrested," said Andy, quietly but firmly. At these words the face of the shiftless man changed color, and his jaw dropped. "Me? Arrested?" he stammered. "Yes, arrested. I have had advice on the subject. You had no right to do a thing without the consent of the court." "Humph! so you have been to a lawyer, eh? Pretty way to do--not to trust your uncle, who allers did so well by yer. Has thet lawyer got them papers now?" "I won't tell you a word about the papers." "Humph! You ain't got no right to run away like this." "I am not running away. I have a right to go where I please--and do as I please." "Who told you thet?" "Never mind who told me." "You're a-gettin' too high-toned fer your boots, Andy Graham! How much money have you got?" "That is my business." "Ain't you a-goin' to tell me?" "No." "Where be you a-stopping?" "That is my business, too." "Don't git sassy." "I am not 'sassy,' as you call it. I intend, in the future, to mind my own business, and I want you to mind yours." "You had better leave Andy alone," put in Chet, who saw that the shiftless man was working himself up into the worst possible humor. "You never helped him, and he doesn't want anything to do with you." "Say, this ain't none o' your business, Chet Greene." "Andy is my friend." "Humph! he better not be!" snarled Josiah Graham. "You ain't no fit boy fer nobuddy to go with--you the son o' a thief, an' mebbe wuss. I want you----Oh!" What Josiah Graham wanted next was never made known, for just then he landed flat on his back in the gutter, where a well-directed blow from Chet's fist had sent him. CHAPTER XV THE START OF THE COOK EXPEDITION If ever a man was surprised, that man was Josiah Graham. Even Andy was astonished, for he had not dreamed that Chet could be so quick-tempered. "Oh, Chet, that was a hard blow!" "He deserved it," was Chet's answer. His voice was strained, and his face pale. "I'll allow nobody to talk that way to me." "Yo--you young villain!" spluttered Josiah Graham, as he rolled over in the dirt of the gutter and picked himself up. "I'll--I'll----" "After this you keep a civil tongue in your head!" interrupted Chet. He still had his fists clenched. "You--you----" "If you call me any more names, I'll knock you down again." Chet's manner was so aggressive that Josiah Graham retreated several feet. A few persons had witnessed his fall, and a crowd began to collect. "What's the trouble?" "Is it a fight?" "Do you want a policeman?" "No, we don't want any policeman," said Andy in alarm. "Chet, we had better get out of this," he whispered. "If we don't, we'll all be taken to the station house!" "Your uncle is the meanest man I ever met! He ought to have a sound thrashing!" answered Chet, recklessly. "I know, but we don't want to have the police come down on us." "I've a good mind to have the law on yer!" howled the man who had been knocked down. "Do so--and I'll have the law on you," retorted Chet. "You can't slander me for nothing,--and you can't try to rob Andy, either." The last shot told, and Josiah Graham backed still further away. "We'll settle this some other time!" he muttered, and then turning, he disappeared into the crowd and hurried away much faster than was his usual speed. Not to be questioned by those who had gathered, Andy and Chet pushed through the crowd in the opposite direction. Soon they were a couple of blocks from where the encounter had taken place, and then they slackened their pace. "The miserable hound!" muttered Chet. He was still completely upset. "Don't take it so hard, Chet," answered Andy, soothingly. "It's just Uncle Si's mean way, that's all." "I suppose he tells everybody what he thinks I am!" "Oh, I don't think that. He was riled up, and wanted to say something extra mean. And it was mean--as mean as dirt!" added Andy. He continued to talk soothingly to his chum, and presently Chet cooled down somewhat. But he still said he wished he had stayed and given Josiah Graham the thrashing of his life. "He thinks I have the lost papers," said Andy, later on. "And I'd let him continue to think so," answered his chum. "If you say they are lost, your uncle may tell that fellow, Hopton, and the real estate man may fix it up to do you out of that claim anyway. I'd keep them in complete ignorance of the truth." Andy thought this a good idea, and resolved to follow the suggestion. He wondered if his uncle would make another move against him. He was soon to learn how really mean Josiah Graham could be. For the two boys, waiting for the steamer to sail on her momentous voyage, the days passed slowly. After their outfits had been purchased and stowed away aboard the _Ice King_, there was little for them to do. They read some books on polar exploration, and spent hours in poring over the maps of the Arctic regions which Barwell Dawson and the professor possessed. They traced out the routes of Kane, De Long, Greely, Peary, and others, and wondered what route Mr. Dawson would pursue. "He is going up the west coast of Greenland anyway," said Chet. "And that suits me, for that is where the _Betsey Andrews_ was last heard of." No matter what was going on, thoughts of his missing parent continually drifted across his mind. Would he ever see his father again, and would his parent be able to clear himself of the accusations brought against him? "Do you suppose there are any other exploring expeditions north just now?" asked Andy of Professor Jeffer, at the breakfast table one morning. All were now stopping at a hotel in Rathley. "But very few, I believe. I understand Robert Peary is about to try it again this coming summer, just as we are going to do, and Mr. Dawson tells me that a noted hunter and explorer from Brooklyn, Dr. Frederick A. Cook, is now somewhere up north. This Dr. Cook went up north to hunt walrus and polar bears, but he is quite an explorer, and he may take it into his head to strike out for the Pole, especially as he had for his captain Robert Bartlett, who commanded Peary's ship, the _Roosevelt_, during Peary's wonderful trip in 1905 and 1906." "Do you think we'll meet any of those other parties up there!" asked Chet. "It is possible, but not probable, for the country is so large. But we shall probably hear of Dr. Cook's party through the Esquimaux as soon as we arrive. Those men of the frozen north make good messengers, and news travels for hundreds of miles in an incredible space of time, considering the ice and snow." What Professor Jeffer had to say about Dr. Frederick A. Cook was true, and as the name of this famous hunter and explorer was soon to be on everybody's tongue, it will be well to give more details concerning him and his party. Dr. Cook was born in Hortonville, New York State. He was of German descent, and his family originally spelt the name Koch. His father was a physician, and so was his grandfather, so it was but natural that the lad should take up the study of medicine. In his younger life he had to work hard. The family moved to Port Jervis, N. Y., and there Frederick entered High School. Then the family moved again, this time to the Williamsburgh section of Brooklyn, N. Y. While studying, the boy did his best to earn some money, working with a produce dealer in Fulton Market, and also as a printer. Then he purchased a milk route, and having gotten ahead a little financially, entered a Medical School, from which, in due course of time, he received his diploma. While in college he was married, but his wife died shortly after the wedding. The young doctor was looking around for an opening, when he heard that Commander Peary was fitting out an expedition for polar exploration. This was the first Peary expedition, and a competition was opened for the position of surgeon with the party. Dr. Cook won in the contest, and thus took his first trip to the far north, in the ship, _Kite_, in 1891. The north-western coast of Greenland was explored, the party reaching a north latitude of 82°, and Dr. Cook received a splendid training for future work in that territory. Returning home, he married again, and for a short time settled down to the practice of a physician. But the wish for hunting and for exploration was in his heart, and in 1893 he went north again, and took a third trip the year following. Then came a voyage on an ill-fated ship, the _Miranda_, and the explorer came close to going to the bottom of the ocean. The ship collided with an iceberg off the coast of Labrador, and also hit some reefs off the coast of south Greenland. A transfer was made to another vessel, and the _Miranda_ was left at sea, a hopeless derelict. In 1897 Dr. Cook joined the _Belgica_ Arctic Expedition, as surgeon and anthropologist, and spent nearly two years in that service. Then he went north in another ship, the _Erie_, carrying supplies for the Peary party, then again in the polar regions. After that a trip was made to Alaska, and the intrepid explorer tried the ascent of Mount McKinley, said to be 20,300 feet high--the tallest mountain in America. At first he failed, but another year he came back and made the grand ascent, a truly great achievement. He wrote a book on the subject, and also another volume relating his experiences while a surgeon and explorer in the frozen north. Dr. Cook had a great friend in Mr. John R. Bradley, a man of means, who was a well-known traveler and hunter. The two talked the matter over, and decided to fit out a vessel and make a trip as far north as possible. In the main, the project was kept secret, and neither boasted of what they were about to attempt to do. At Gloucester, Mass., they found a ship that suited their purpose, and she was thoroughly overhauled and renamed the _John R. Bradley_. Suitable provisions for a long trip were taken on board, and the vessel left Gloucester harbor July 3, 1907. It did not look at all like a "North Pole" expedition, and its departure excited very little comment. It was thought that Mr. Bradley and Dr. Cook had merely gone off on a hunting trip after bears and walrus. It took until the end of August for the _Bradley_ to reach the upper end of Smith Sound, in Baffin Bay. Here was located the port of Etah, and not many miles away another port called Annootok. All of the provisions and other supplies were landed at the latter port, and then the vessel sailed back to the United States, leaving Dr. Cook and his party to hunt and explore to their hearts' content. The vessel's return created some surprise, and then the word gradually spread that it was possible Dr. Cook would try to reach the North Pole. Mr. Bradley was at once besieged with questions, but gave no definite information. At Annootok Dr. Cook found many Esquimaux assembled, all ready for a great bear hunt. As he could speak their language, he talked to them, and engaged a number of them, with their dogs and sledges, to serve him. Work was at once begun to make Annootok a regular base of supplies. A small house was erected, and also a storehouse and a workshop. All the provisions brought along were packed away, and the explorer obtained from the native hunters large quantities of polar bear meat and other game. And so he set off on his memorable trip northward, and what this brought forth we shall learn later. CHAPTER XVI A TRICK, AND WHAT FOLLOWED "Day after tomorrow we shall set off on our trip to the frozen north." It was Barwell Dawson who made the announcement to the boys and Professor Jeffer, after a long consultation with Captain Williamson. "Good!" shouted Andy, swinging his cap in the air. "Suits me," added Chet. "I've been on pins and needles to go for a month and more." "You mustn't be impatient," replied Mr. Dawson, with a smile. "Even as it is, we'll be getting away nearly a month before I originally planned to go. But I am ready, and so is Captain Williamson, so there is no use in delaying." "What about Mr. Wilson?" asked Andy, referring to a man who had signed for the trip. "He is sick, and cannot go. But Dr. Slade will be on hand, and likewise Mr. Camdal. They sent me a telegram last night." "I suppose all the crew are here?" questioned Professor Jeffer. "To a man--and all as anxious as we are to start." "Do they know we are going to try for the Pole?" "Not exactly, but I've told them--and so has the captain--that we intended to stay in the polar regions for at least two years." Winter had passed, and now it was the middle of Spring. The weather was warm and pleasant, just the sort for a cruise, as Andy declared. The boys had had but little to bother them outside of another meeting Andy had with his Uncle Si, who had followed him to Rathley. Josiah Graham had tried to "bulldoze" the youth, and had wanted Andy to give him ten dollars, but the boy had refused, and walked away, leaving his uncle in a more bitter frame of mind than ever. "I don't know how he manages to live," Andy told Chet. "He doesn't seem to work." "If he isn't willing to work, he ought to starve," answered Chet. He had no tender feelings for the man who had called him the son of a thief. "I am sorry he came to Rathley. I don't understand how he found out we were here." "Oh, he'd take more trouble to find you than to hunt up a job," answered Chet. On the day previous to that set for the _Ice King_ to sail, Chet was walking down one of the docks, when he saw two men in earnest conversation. One man was pointing his long forefinger toward the vessel that was bound north, and drawing closer, Chet recognized Josiah Graham. "Now what can he be up to?" the youth asked himself. "He seems to be quite excited." The men were standing near a high board fence that separated one dock from another. Chet ran back through a warehouse, and scaled the fence, coming up quickly on the other side. Through a knothole he could see the two men, and hear all that was being said. At first he could not catch the drift of the talk, but presently discovered that the stranger was some sort of officer of the law. The two were talking about Andy, and at last Josiah Graham said: "I don't want him to run away from me. It's up to you to stop him, an' I want for you to do it." "Are you his guardian?" "O' course I be--I'm his only livin' relative. He's got property, but he'll go to the dogs if he ain't looked after. I want him brung ashore when thet ship sails, an' I understand she's a-goin' to sail to-morrer." "Well, I'll see what can be done," answered the stranger. "Will you come to the office and make some sort of a complaint?" "Have I got to do that?" questioned Josiah Graham, anxiously. "It would be best." "All right then, I'll do it. It's fer his own good," answered the shiftless one. "We'll catch him when he leaves the hotel to go to the ship." Then the two men walked away towards the center of the town. "The mean rascal--to try to keep Andy from going on this trip!" murmured Chet to himself. "I'll soon put a spoke in his wheel!" He started on a hunt for Andy, who had gone uptown to make a small purchase. He looked into several stores, and at last located his chum in a barber shop. "Last haircut for some time to come," announced Andy. "After this, I guess I'll let my hair grow--it will be warmer." "I've got something to tell you," returned Chet. "Hurry up." "Can't hurry, when I'm getting my hair cut, Chet." Nevertheless, Andy told the barber not to waste time, and ten minutes later both boys were on the street. There Chet related what he had overheard, Andy listening in wonder. "He certainly is the limit, Chet. Now, what do you suppose I had best do?" "I don't know--tell Mr. Dawson, I suppose." "But I don't want to get him into trouble." "Do you think it will do that?" "It might--and he might tell me it would be best for me to stay behind," answered Andy, gloomily. "And I'm not going to stay behind!" he cried, desperately. "Then I know what you can do!" exclaimed Chet, struck by a sudden idea. "What?" "Play a trick on your Uncle Si. But it will cost you a five-dollar bill." "That's cheap--if only I can get rid of the old curmudgeon." "Then come with me, to the writing-room of the hotel." Andy did as requested, and there Chet unfolded his plan. Andy agreed to it at once, and without loss of time the following letter was penned: "_Dear Uncle Si_: I am sorry I caused you so much trouble. Will you come to Pine Run at once? I inclose five dollars for the trip. How much money can you get for those papers? Thought I'd like to go on that ocean trip, but I suppose sailoring is harder than lumbering, isn't it? "Your Nephew, "_Andy_." Andy had in his pocket an envelope postmarked Pine Run, and addressed to himself. With care he erased the name "Andrew" and substituted "Josiah," and then he changed the address. He knew where his uncle was stopping, a cheap lodging house. "I guess that will set him off the trail," said Chet, with a grin, after the envelope had been sealed with care. "And we haven't told him any falsehood, either." The boys laid their plans with care, and hired a youth employed around the lodging house to hand the letter to Josiah Graham, but without stating where it came from. Then Andy and Chet set watch. In the middle of the afternoon they saw Josiah Graham enter the lodging house. They waited impatiently, and half an hour later saw him emerge, carrying his faded grip in his hand. He headed directly for the depot. "I guess the plan is going to work," whispered Chet. "Let us follow him." "He mustn't see me--or it would spoil everything." They followed on behind the man, and saw him enter a police station. He came forth five minutes later, looking flushed and humiliated. "I'll wager he has withdrawn his charge against you," said Chet, and his surmise was correct. From the station house Josiah Graham hurried to the depot. It was three o'clock, and a train for Pine Run was due in fifteen minutes. "Pine Run ticket," Chet heard him demand, at the window, and it was handed to him. Then he came out on the platform, and sank down on a bench, with his grip at his feet. "You are rid of him, Andy," cried Chet, gayly. "It was fine of you to think of the trick," responded Andy, gratefully. "Say, I've got a good mind to have some fun with the old man," went on Chet. "Fun? I hope you don't mean to knock him down?" "No, for he might have me arrested, and that would keep me from going on the trip. I'll just quiz him a little." "Better be careful." "Don't worry--I know what I am doing." While Andy still kept out of sight, Chet sauntered slowly across the depot platform, as if looking for somebody. Josiah Graham stared at him and leaped to his feet. "Wot you a-doin' here?" demanded the lazy man. "Oh!" cried Chet, in well-assumed surprise. "Is Andy with you?" he questioned, anxiously. "No, he ain't," snapped Josiah Graham. "Do you know where he has gone?" "Don't you know?" "He was at our hotel yesterday, but he isn't there now." "Mebbe he's on thet ship," sniffed Josiah Graham. "No, he isn't on that ship, either." "Wasn't he a-goin' to sail with you?" "So he said, but----" Chet paused. "Then you really don't know where he is?" "If I do, I ain't a-goin' to tell you, Chet Greene." "Don't be hard on me, Mr. Graham, now I am down on my luck." "Humph! It's your own fault you ain't got no work. Why didn't you stay around Pine Run?" At this question Chet only sighed. He took on a very forlorn look. "Would you--er--would you----" "Wot?" "I hate to ask it, but would you mind lending me the price of a ticket for Pine Run?" he said, falteringly. "Me?" shrilled Josiah Graham. "Not much I won't! You go an' earn your money, young man. Serves you right if you are out o' pocket an' ain't got a cent." "Then you won't--er--even give me the price of a--er--a dinner?" "Not a cent! You don't deserve it. I see how it is," went on Josiah Graham, craftily. "Thet man who owns the ship has got sick o' you an' Andy, too, an' don't want nuthin' more to do with yer! Well, I don't blame him. Now ye can both go back to Pine Run an' go to work." "How can a fellow get back if he hasn't the price of a ticket?" asked Chet, in a hopeless fashion, although he could scarcely keep from laughing. "Go to work an' earn money, I tell yer! I have to do it, an' you ain't no better nor I be." "Have you been working?" "O' course I've been working." "Then you won't even give me ten cents for some bread and coffee?" "No. Go to work--it will do yer good." "Will you tell me about Andy?" "Well, if ye want to know so awful bad, Andy has gone back to Pine Run. He has found out the errors o' his ways, an' has sent fer me to take care o' him. I don't think he'll be a-runnin' away ag'in very soon." "Too bad! too bad!" And the mischievous Chet placed a handkerchief to his eyes. "It's wot a boy gits when he won't mind his uncle," went on Josiah Graham, stiffly. "After this I guess he'll toe the mark! It's a pity you ain't got nobuddy to bring you to your senses." "Maybe you'd like to take me under your care?" suggested Chet, with a most woe-begone look on his face. "No--I got my hands full with Andy. Here is my train, so I can't talk to yer no longer. Go to work an' earn somethin' to eat, an' the price o' a railroad ticket." And then Josiah Graham swung himself aboard the train, which pulled out from the station a moment later. "Oh, Chet, how could you do it!" roared Andy, when the chums were alone. "I thought I'd split, listening to the talk!" "Wouldn't even give a fellow the price of a meal," returned Chet, coolly. "Well, I rather think he'll be surprised when he gets back to your cabin and finds everything locked up." And then he, too, laughed heartily over the trick that had been played on Andy's shiftless relative. CHAPTER XVII AN ENCOUNTER WITH ICEBERGS "Off at last, Chet!" "Yes, and your Uncle Si didn't stop you, either!" responded Chet, with a broad grin. "If only we could have seen him when he got to the cabin!" exclaimed Andy. "I'll wager he was mad!" "Well, boys, it will be a long while before you see the United States again," remarked Barwell Dawson as he came up. "So use your eyes for all they are worth." "Just what we are doing," answered Andy. The _Ice King_ had cast off her lines quarter of an hour before, and a steam tug had headed her out of the harbor of Rathley. Now, under the steam of her own powerful engines, she was heading straight out into the Atlantic Ocean. It was an ideal day, and the boys were in the best of spirits, even though they were leaving their native land for the first time. Chet was full of the hope that in some manner he would hear something about the missing whaler and his father. The _Ice King_ was loaded "to the brim," as Andy expressed it. Below, every available space was filled with provisions and other necessities, and coal, and on deck many bags of coal were piled up amidships. "To get through the ice, the ship must have a good head of steam on," said Mr. Dawson. "And to have that, we've got to have coal, or oil." "How soon do you suppose we'll strike ice?" questioned Chet. "Oh, any time after we round the coast of Nova Scotia." At the last moment some extra supplies had come on board, and these were still awaiting proper distribution. The boys watched land slowly disappear in the blue haze of distance, and then set to work to assist in making everything ship-shape. "It will seem queer to live on a ship, I'm thinking," said Chet. "I hope we don't get sick," answered his chum. "Oh, I don't think we shall." "Don't be too sure." The boys had already become acquainted with the other members of the party, Dr. John Slade, a quiet but friendly gentleman, who had once spent two years in lower Greenland, and Mr. Samuel Camdal, an old hunter, who had shot with Barwell Dawson in the far West and in Africa. Mr. Camdal could tell some famous stories,--of hunting, and of narrow escapes from wild animals,--and the lads felt that he would make good company during the days when there was not much to do. It was a real pleasure for the lads to put their stateroom in order. Although the room was small, it had a homelike air about it that was pleasing. Neither lad was burdened with excess baggage, so they were not as crowded as they might otherwise have been. The course of the _Ice King_ was to be up the coast of Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, and then into Davis Strait, to Baffin Bay. The boys had studied the chart thoroughly, for a sea trip was altogether a novelty to them. "Shall we stop anywhere along the coast of Greenland?" asked Chet, of Barwell Dawson. "Yes, I have arranged to stop at Upernivik, for an extra supply of coal which a collier from the lower coast is to bring up for us." "How long do you suppose we'll be at Upernivik?" "Two or three days at least--perhaps a week." "And can Andy and I go ashore?" "Certainly. But it is only a small settlement, and you won't find much of interest." "I wanted to make inquiries about the _Betsey Andrews_." "Oh, I see. Well, I'll help you, Chet. But don't be too sanguine. You may not hear a word of the whaler." "I want to do all I can to hear from my father." "I don't blame you. I'd be that way myself, if my father were missing." In a few hours the _Ice King_ was out on the broad Atlantic. The long swells made the steamer roll a good deal, and soon the two boys felt this in their legs, and then in their stomachs. Each looked at the other in a woe-begone manner. "What's the matter?" asked Andy. "Nothing," returned Chet, manfully striving to overcome a feeling he could not subdue. "What's the matter with you?" "Nothing much, only--I--I feel sort of crawly inside." "You're seasick, Andy!" "How about yourself?" retorted Andy, and he made a movement toward the side of the steamer. "I guess I--I am--with--you!" gasped Chet, and also ran for the rail. After that, the two chums lost all interest in living for several hours. They felt as miserable as a person with a dose of seasickness can feel. They remained on deck for a while, and then sought the seclusion of their stateroom. Here Dr. Slade came to their assistance. "Two more down, eh?" said the physician, with a little smile. "Well, I'll do what I can to fix you up," and he brought forth his medicine case. "Wh--who else is sick?" asked Andy. In seasickness, "misery loves company" every time. "Mr. Camdal and Ben Haven, the first mate." "The first mate?" queried Chet, between his groans. "Do sailors get sick?" "Some of them do. I know the captain of an ocean liner who has crossed the Atlantic forty or fifty times. He told me confidentially that he is sick about every third or fourth voyage. It's just the condition his stomach happens to be in." "Then it isn't so--so babyish after all," said Chet, and that gave him a grain of comfort. The doctor did what little he could for the two lads, and by noon the next day they felt quite like themselves. Let me add, that during the remainder of the voyage they were not seasick again. Although well weighted by her heavy cargo, and by the extra planking on her sides, and extra bracings inside, the _Ice King_ made good time on her trip. It was summer, yet as the vessel turned northward it became colder daily, and soon the boys were glad enough to take Barwell Dawson's advice and don heavier underwear. Then, as it grew still colder, they put on thicker outer garments also. "I think we'll see some icebergs soon," announced Captain Williamson, one evening. "I can feel 'em in the air," and he threw back his head to take in a deep breath. Many old sailors who have been in northern waters affirm that they can often "smell" icebergs before the bergs can be seen. The boys retired as usual that night, and slept soundly until about five o'clock in the morning, when a tremendous thump on the vessel's side aroused them and threw Chet sprawling on the floor. "For goodness' sake! what's that!" gasped the lad, as he scrambled up. Before Andy could speak there came another tremendous thump, which added to their alarm. A series of smaller thumps followed. On deck they heard Captain Williamson giving a series of rapid-fire orders. "I think I know what's up!" cried Andy, at last, as he donned his clothing with all possible speed. "We've struck some floating ice." "That must be it," answered Chet, and he, too, began to dress with dispatch. When the youths reached the deck, a cry of astonishment burst from their lips. It seemed as if during the night the _Ice King_ had entered another world. On all sides were large and small cakes of floating ice, and in the distance half a dozen big icebergs loomed up. "Looks as if we were getting to the North Pole fast," remarked Andy, grimly. "Phew! but it's cold!" added Chet, as he buttoned his clothing tightly about him. "Well, boys, how do you like this?" sang out Barwell Dawson, as he noticed them. "Got into it kind of sudden like, didn't we?" asked Chet. "I think so, although the captain said last night to expect it." "Shall we have this all the way up now?" asked Andy. "Hardly. I think, and so does Captain Williamson, that there is clear water beyond." The captain was on deck with his glass, scanning the ocean ahead anxiously. Several large icebergs appeared to be drifting directly toward the steamer, and he gave orders that the course be changed slightly. "The _Ice King_ won't mind the small ice," said he, "but there is no sense in trying the big bergs, yet. We'll get all we want of that later." "Right you are, sir," responded Barwell Dawson. "Don't take any chances when they are not necessary." After watching the ice for a while the boys went below for breakfast. At the table they sat down with Professor Jeffer and Dr. Slade. "I am going to try to get some photographs of the icebergs," said the professor. "I trust we get close enough to them to get some good views." "They ought to make good pictures," responded the doctor. All the while the boys were eating, the small cakes of ice thumped against the sides of the steamer. But this did no damage, although, as the professor explained, there was danger of some ice getting caught in the propeller. "And we can't afford to have that damaged," he added. When the boys came on deck again, they saw that the _Ice King_ was much closer to several of the large icebergs. In fact, the steamer appeared to be picking her way through a veritable field of floating ice. "It is much thicker than the captain expected," said Barwell Dawson, gravely. "Is there any danger?" asked Andy, quickly. "There is always danger when so much ice is floating about. But we hope to get through all right." The lads could readily see that not only Mr. Dawson, but also the captain, mate, and sailors were much concerned. Captain Williamson still had his glass in use, and was scanning the sea ahead. "I think we can make it," he said to Mr. Dawson. "But it is going to be a tight squeeze." "Well, we don't want such a tight squeeze that we get our ribs stove in," answered the explorer. "Are we going to pass between the icebergs yonder?" asked Chet. "We'll have to--to reach the clear sea beyond," answered the captain. The speed of the steamer had been reduced, and the course again changed. They were pushing away from one of the big bergs that seemed to tower up into the sky like some giant of the polar regions. "If that iceberg hit us, it would knock us to flinders," was Chet's comment, as he viewed the oncoming mass. On one side of the ship were the icebergs, and on the other the floating cakes, the latter growing thicker every minute. The _Ice King_ was turned into the floating cakes, which thumped and bumped loudly on the bow and sides. Then came an unexpected crashing from the stern. "What's that?" cried the mate, who was at the wheel, steering under Captain Williamson's directions. "Ice in the propeller!" answered a sailor. As he spoke the engine stopped, and in a twinkling the steamer swung around until her bow pointed directly toward the big iceberg. "Look! look!" yelled Andy. "We are going to be hit, sure!" "If we are, we are doomed!" echoed Chet. Before anything could be done the big iceberg came drifting on them, slowly and majestically, a very mountain of crystal-like whiteness. So terrible was it that it fascinated the boys, who could do nothing but stare in commingled wonder and horror. An upper mass of the iceberg hung over the top, as if ready to fall and crush the steamer beneath it. A moment passed--to the lads it seemed an eternity,--and then the big iceberg scraped the side. There was a strange grinding and crashing, and some pieces of ice came showering on the deck. Then the steamer began to rock, and some of the shrouds became entangled in the mass that overhung the deck. The _Ice King_ commenced to move backward. "We are being carried along by the iceberg!" cried Barwell Dawson, and his words told the truth of the awful situation. CHAPTER XVIII SHOOTING WILD GEESE It was certainly a time of extreme peril, and the boys realized it fully as well as did the men. The steamer was caught in the grip of the big iceberg, and the deck was directly beneath an overhanging portion that might at any time break off and crush the vessel and all on board. Captain Williamson had run aft to learn what could be done with the propeller, and he had already told the mate to get the sailors out with fenders to save the ship as much as possible from chafing on the side of the berg. "The loose ice on the other side helps to keep us against the big berg," said Barwell Dawson. "I have tried to get some pictures, but the big iceberg is too close," came from Professor Jeffer, who was as cool as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "Well, we're going to get away from it mighty quick,--if we can," answered Mr. Camdal, pointedly. The close quarters did not suit him any better than it suited Mr. Dawson and the boys. To clear the propeller a man had to be hoisted over the stern in a sling. He carried with him a pickpole, and with this dug out the cake which had become caught in the blades of the propeller. This work had hardly been accomplished when another grinding sound came from the big iceberg, and a shower of small ice came down on the forecastle, knocking out several lights of glass. Andy was struck on the head and hurled flat. "Oh, Andy, are you hurt?" cried Chet, in alarm, as he rushed to his chum's assistance. "Not much, but that was a pretty good crack," was Andy's reply, as he felt his head where a lump was rapidly rising. "You boys had better go below," said Barwell Dawson. "You can't do anything up here, and you may get a worse dose next time." But the lads were loath to retire, and so lingered on the deck, but took good care to keep out of the way of the ice that fell a little later. Finding that the propeller would now work, Captain Williamson gave orders for full speed astern. As soon as the engines started there was more crashing of ice, the small stuff being ground down under the ship, and the ice of the pinnacle breaking off along the shrouds. Everybody on deck had to get out of the way, for the deck took on the appearance of "an ice-house upset," as Chet put it, big chunks of the frozen material lying in all directions. "Hurrah! we are leaving the big iceberg behind!" cried Andy, a few minutes later, and his words proved true. "I can see clear water ahead!" called out Professor Jeffer, shortly afterwards, and then he turned, to get the photographs he wanted of the big iceberg. The report concerning open water was correct, and, having left the vicinity of the big iceberg, Captain Williamson had the steamer steered in something of a big circle. Thus they avoided all but the small ice. The latter, however, thumped and bumped on the bow and sides as strongly as ever, and once there came a shock that threw everybody on the deck headlong. "I hope that doesn't damage us any," observed Andy, when this new scare was over. "It may start some of the seams," answered Barwell Dawson, "although the vessel was reënforced to withstand just such knocks." Inside of an hour the _Ice King_ had passed all the big icebergs and a large portion of the floating cakes. Clear blue water was ahead, for which all on board were thankful. "I didn't expect this, so far south," said Captain Williamson, after making a tour of the ship, and having had the deck cleaned up. "It is unusual." "I know it," answered Barwell Dawson. "I am thankful we didn't run into the big iceberg at night." "Yes, darkness would have made the situation much worse." "Have we started any of the ship's seams?" asked Dr. Slade. "Not as far as I have been able to discover." The boys went to the forecastle to see what damage had been done there, and found the ship's carpenter putting in some new lights of glass. One sailor had received a black eye from a chunk of falling ice, but otherwise little bodily harm had resulted. "Well, I call that a narrow escape," said Andy, after the excitement was over. "So do I," responded Chet. "I don't want another such experience." "You will have to go through harder things than that up north," said Barwell Dawson, who overheard the talk. "We'll be prepared then," answered Andy. "This wasn't expected." "I am afraid you boys don't realize what you are up against," went on the hunter and explorer. "We are going to face many perils in the polar regions. If you feel you don't want to go further, you can leave us when we get to Upernivik." "No! no! we want to see this thing through, perils or no perils," cried Andy, hastily. "Indeed we do!" added Chet. "I guess you'll find we can stand as much as anybody after we get used to it." Late that afternoon the steamer came in sight of a large flock of wild geese. Professor Jeffer calculated that there must be thousands of them, and ran for his camera, to take some snap-shots. "Can't we do a little shooting?" asked Chet, of Mr. Dawson. "They are heading this way." Permission was granted, and both boys rushed below for shotguns. When they came up, the geese were flying almost directly over the _Ice King_, uttering their strange cries as they did so. It did not take Andy and Chet long to get into action, and both shotguns spoke up at almost the same time. Each youth fired twice in rapid succession. The geese were so thick they could not help but strike some of them, and three came fluttering down on the deck of the vessel. "Not a bad haul," was Barwell Dawson's comment. "Now you can have roast goose stuffed with onions for tomorrow's dinner." "And we'll invite all hands to join us," answered Chet, gaily. "I guess there will be enough to go around." "I don't know about this shooting birds from the ship," said Captain Williamson, in a low voice. "Some of the sailors don't believe in that sort of thing. They think it brings bad luck." "What do you think?" asked Chet. "Oh, I am not superstitious," responded the commander. The master of the vessel was right--some of his hands were very superstitious--and these deplored the killing of the geese, and refused to touch any of the meat when it was cooked. "We'll have trouble, see if we don't," said one sailor. "Maybe it will sink us," said another, with a serious shake of his head. Then they muttered among themselves, and cast ugly glances at Andy and Chet. "Too bad," whispered Chet to his chum. "If I had known the sailors would take it so seriously, I'd not have shot those geese." "Oh, the affair will soon blow over," was Andy's answer. But his surmise did not prove correct. In the morning the boys heard that the _Ice King_ had sprung several leaks. The captain had had the well-hole sounded, and had ordered the pumps started. "The icebergs and the floating cakes did it," said Barwell Dawson. "I was hopeful we would escape, but it seems not." "What are you going to do?" asked Andy. "I don't know yet--we'll see how bad the leaks are." The ship's carpenter was below, examining the seams, and now Captain Williamson and Barwell Dawson joined him. A thorough examination was effected, and when the party came on deck again they were talking earnestly. "It's pretty bad, I guess," said Andy to Chet. A consultation took place in the cabin, between the captain and the explorer, and at the conclusion the course of the vessel was changed. "Instead of heading for Upernivik we are going to put in at Holstenborg for repairs," explained Barwell Dawson to Professor Jeffer and the others. "I am sorry for the delay, but it cannot be helped. The ice must have hit us harder than we thought." "Well, the delay won't worry me," answered the scientist, calmly. "It will give me a chance to see something of another part of Greenland." "Where is Holstenborg?" questioned Chet. "It is on the western coast of Greenland, about four hundred and fifty miles below Upernivik. It is not much of a place, but Captain Williamson thinks it would be unwise to attempt to reach Upernivik in our present condition." "Well, I don't care if we do land further down the coast," said Chet, thinking that here would be another chance to make inquiries concerning the lost whaler. It soon became whispered around that the _Ice King_ was leaking badly. Some of the hands took the matter calmly, but others were excited. "It's because those geese were shot," cried one sailor. "It was wrong to do it, and I said so." "Those boys ought to be heaved overboard," said another. "Right you are," answered the tar who had first found fault. Some of this talk presently reached the ears of Ben Haven, the mate, and watching his chance, he came up to where Chet and Andy were standing amidships. "I want to tell you lads something," said he in a low voice. "What is it?" asked Chet. "If I were you boys, I'd not walk forward for the present," went on Ben Haven. "Some of the sailors are down on you for killing those geese. Better keep out of their way until we reach port--which will be tomorrow morning." "Why, do you think they'd try to--to harm us?" asked Chet. "They might--if matters get worse with the ship. Some sailors are awfully headstrong when they get frightened." Chet and Andy promised to heed the warning, although both were inclined to laugh at it. They kept away from the forecastle, and it was not until after supper that one of the sailors came near them. It was then reported that the steamer was leaking worse than before, and the pumps were kept going constantly. "You boys are responsible for this," said the sailor. He was a tall, thin individual, who rejoiced in the name of Pep Loggermore. "What do you mean?" demanded Chet, stiffly. "You know well enough what I mean," growled the tar. "If we go to the bottom, there won't be nobody to blame but you!" "That's nonsense," broke in Andy. "The ice started the ship's seams--we had nothing to do with it." "You shot them geese, and----" "Oh, that's foolishness!" cried Chet. "We don't want to hear it. A man with sense ought to know better than to talk that way." "I know what I am talking about," grumbled Pep Loggermore. "You go on about your business," said Andy, sharply. Loggermore was about to argue some more, when Captain Williamson put in an appearance. He slouched off, but when out of sight, turned and shook his fist at the youths. "I ain't going to sail with no such fellers as you," he muttered to himself. "And I don't think the other men will want to sail with you, either. If we ever get ashore alive, we'll see to it that you two fools don't come aboard again!" "What did that fellow want of you?" demanded the captain, of the chums. "Oh, it wasn't much," answered Andy, evasively. He did not want to get Loggermore into trouble. "Did he threaten you?" "He didn't like it, because we shot the geese," said Chet. "What tomfoolery!" muttered the captain. "Well, if he bothers you again, let me know, and I'll teach him to mind his own business." "What about the leaks, Captain?" asked Andy, to change the subject. "They are pretty bad, but I hope to reach port without serious trouble," was the reply. But the look on the face of the commander of the _Ice King_ showed that he was greatly worried. CHAPTER XIX GREENLAND AND THE ESQUIMAUX There was a good deal of ice near the coast, yet, by setting a constant watch in the crow's nest of the steamer, Captain Williamson was able to steer a fairly straight course for Holstenborg. "It is only a small Danish settlement," said Barwell Dawson, in reply to a question from Chet. "Ordinarily, on account of the marine laws made by Denmark, we might have trouble in landing, but being in need of repairs, I fancy there will be no difficulty." A little later land was discovered, and presently the coast loomed up, dark and rocky, with the mountain tops covered with snow and ice. Then, through the glasses, they made out a few buildings, of stone and wood, clustered together near a natural harbor. "Not much of a town, that's sure," was Andy's comment. Signals were set, and as the steamer came to anchor, a small boat came out from shore. It contained one of the government officials, a round-faced, pleasant-looking Dane, with yellowish hair and mild blue eyes. It was with some difficulty that matters were explained, and then arrangements were made to have the _Ice King_ towed to a spot where the necessary repairs could be made. Work on the vessel began the next day, and while this was going on the boys received permission to go ashore. They found but little to see. There was a mine back of the settlement, where ore was being blasted out, and they watched several blasts go off. Then they walked to where a fishing vessel had just come in with, a large quantity of seals, and some fish which were called cod, but which they found to be of a different variety from those caught off the New England coast. "Those seals ought to be valuable," said Andy. "Think of the price of a sealskin coat!" "Not this kind of seal," answered Professor Jeffer, who chanced to be near at the time. "The seals from which we get sealskin coats such as you refer to come from the coast of Labrador and from Alaskan waters. These seals, as you will find by close examination, do not have a skin of fur, but one of hair, like a horse. But the Esquimaux use them for garment-making. An Esquimau woman will make herself a very fine dress out of these sealskins." The boys watched the fish and seals taken ashore, and then caught sight of a man in the crowd who looked as if he might be American or English. "I'd like to talk to that man," said Chet, and watching his chance, he called to the individual. The fellow called back, and when his work was ended, walked over to the boys. "My name is Rooney, Jack Rooney," he said after the youths had introduced themselves. "I'm from New Brunswick, although I once lived in Maine. Glad to know you." And he shook hands. "Have you been along the coast of Greenland long?" asked Chet. "About fifteen years, off and on." "Then you must know something about the whalers that come up here." "Yes, I've been aboard plenty of 'em,--one time and another." "Did you ever see the _Betsey Andrews_?" Jack Rooney stood for a moment in deep thought, and then scratched his grizzled chin. "How long ago is it she was in these parts?" "Oh, two years ago at least." "Who was her captain, do you know?" "Captain Jacob Spark." "Spark? Oh, yes, I remember him! A one-armed man, an old war veteran." "Yes, I was told he had but one arm." Chet's heart began to beat a little faster. "Then you remember him and his ship?" "Oh, yes." "My father was on board the _Betsey Andrews_. He shipped the last time she left New Bedford." "I see." "She never came back, and I can't find out what became of her," continued Chet. "What! was she lost at sea? But hold on, I remember hearing something about that." Jack Rooney scratched his head. "Let's see, who was it told me? Oh, I remember now, Tom Fetjen. He told me something about her getting fast in the ice, but I don't remember the particulars." "Who is Tom Fetjen?" "Oh, he's a fellow who travels up and down the Greenland coast, bartering with the Esquimaux--in a small way, you know." "You don't remember what he said about the _Betsey Andrews_?" "None of the particulars, no. But Fetjen could tell you, I am sure. He knew this one-armed Spark quite well. Often told stories about the captain." "Where is Tom Fetjen now?" "I don't know, but maybe I can find out," answered Jack Rooney. The fisherman became interested in the boys, and had Chet tell more about his missing parent. Then he went in search of some men who had business dealings with Tom Fetjen, and talked to them in Danish. "They say Tom Fetjen went up the coast to Upernivik," said Rooney, after the interview. "If your ship is bound for that port, you'll probably find him there. He owns a boat called the _Northland_, a little two-master." This was all the information Chet could obtain in Holstenborg concerning the missing whaler. "Well, that's something," said Andy. "You can talk to this Tom Fetjen when we reach Upernivik." "If he doesn't leave there before we arrive." "Rooney said he was apt to stay there quite a while, Chet." "I know he did. Well, I suppose I can only wait and see." And Chet heaved a deep sigh. While Andy and Chet were ashore interviewing Jack Rooney and others who could speak English, Captain Williamson was waited on by three of his hands. The delegation was headed by Pep Loggermore. "What do you want?" demanded the master of the _Ice King_, briefly. He could readily see that trouble was brewing. "We came to speak about them boys," replied Loggermore, doggedly. "We been talkin' amongst ourselves, and we don't want to take no more chances." "What boys?" asked the captain, although he knew perfectly well who were meant. "The boys that shot them geese and brought us bad luck." "See here, Loggermore, this is all nonsense." "Excuse me, Cap'n, but it ain't nonsense at all. We talked it over, and we are sure it was the killin' of them geese----" "You talk like a fool," interrupted the master of the steamer. "Those boys are no more responsible for our ill luck than you or I. The ice knocked us a bit too hard, that's all." "We want them boys kept ashore!" cried Pep Loggermore. "Ain't that so, mates?" he added, turning to his companions, and they nodded. "What! Are you going to try to dictate to me?" roared Captain Williamson. "We ain't asking anything but what's right. We----" "Not another word, Loggermore. Go for'ard, all of you, and don't let me hear another word of this nonsense," said the captain, sharply. "But, Cap'n----" "Not another word, I told you, unless you want the cat!" answered Captain Williamson. He drew himself up, and his eyes flashed dangerously, and the men silently left him and resumed their work in the forward part of the ship. "Sailors are queer fellows," was Dr. Blade's comment. "Once they get an idea in their heads, you can't drive it out." "I'll drive it out, don't fear!" answered the captain. "It is too bad that the boys have made such enemies," went on the ship's physician. "I am afraid it will spoil a good deal of their pleasure." When the chums came back to the steamer that evening, they noticed that two of the sailors looked at them darkly. Yet nothing was said to them of what had occurred, the sailors being afraid to speak, and the others not wishing to make the boys uneasy. But among the sailors there was quite a talk over Andy and Chet. "We'll make 'em stay ashore if we can," said Loggermore. "Just wait until we are ready to sail. I am not going to trust myself with fellows like that to bring me bad luck." The repairs to the _Ice King_ took the best part of a week to make, but at the end of that time the ship's carpenter pronounced the craft as seaworthy as ever. "She may stay up here for a year now, and never start those seams again," he said. "Let us hope so," answered Barwell Dawson. "A leaky ship isn't at all to my liking." Pep Loggermore and a crony watched for a chance to catch Andy and Chet ashore. What the sailors might have done, there is no telling, but certainly they would have done all in their power to prevent the boys from returning to the _Ice King_. But the lads kept on the vessel, there being nothing more to visit on land. "We might heave 'em overboard some night," suggested Loggermore, but the other sailor would not listen to this proposal. He was willing to have the youths left behind, but that was as far as he cared to go. "Never mind, we can watch them at Upernivik," said the tar. "There will be a better chance to leave them behind there than there was here." And with this proposal the affair rested, although Loggermore declared that if there was any more killing of birds from the ship he would heave the boys overboard sure. This may seem a terrible threat to some of my readers, but they must remember that some sailors, especially ignorant ones, are extremely superstitious, and they deem the killing of a bird at sea the worst kind of a bad omen. The run up the Greenland coast was made without unusual incident. They passed a number of icebergs, but always at a distance, and the small ice did not bother them seriously. The weather moderated a little, so that life on deck proved delightful. The boys saw more wild geese, some ducks, and also some northern petrel, but, warned by Captain Williamson, did no more shooting. "Upernivik is about the last settlement north of any importance," said Professor Jeffer to the boys. "It can be called the most northern town in the world. It is a trading station for the Esquimaux, and also has a mine, from which large quantities of cryolite are obtained." "And what is cryolite?" asked Chet, curiously. The professor smiled faintly. "It is a substance, found only in Greenland, from which washing soda is made, and also some kinds of baking powder. The metal, aluminum, is obtained from it, and it is also used in the making of certain kinds of glass. Greenland has a very large stratum or deposit of cryolite, and it is a source of considerable revenue to the mine owners, and also to the Danish government, the latter putting a heavy export tax on it." It was nightfall when the steamer dropped anchor in the harbor of Upernivik. From the deck of the vessel Barwell Dawson, who had visited the settlement before, pointed out the governor's house, the Moravian church, and other buildings. "There are quite a number of Esquimaux here, full-blooded and half-breeds," said he. "Most of them live in the stone huts along the mountain side." "What do you mean by half-breeds?" questioned Andy. "The half-breeds are the families of the Danish men who have married Esquimaux women," replied the explorer. "Some of the half-breeds are very intelligent, and they are also much cleaner than the full-blooded Esquimaux." "Are the Esquimaux very dirty?" asked Chet. "They are the dirtiest people on earth," was the emphatic answer. "And why shouldn't they be? They never wash, and the only thing they rub on their bodies is whale or seal oil, to keep out the cold and to help limber them up." "Gracious! I shouldn't want to live in the same house with them!" cried Andy. "You couldn't live with them, that is, not for any great length of time. The smell would make you sick." CHAPTER XX FAST IN THE ICE "Well, there is one piece of luck," said Barwell Dawson, the next morning. "Our collier is here, so we can take on coal at once, and get away from here inside of three or four days." "Yes, we want to take advantage of the weather while it lasts," answered the captain of the _Ice King_. And the task of transferring the coal began an hour later. Andy and Chet asked for permission to go ashore, and, after word had been sent to the governor of the place, they entered a steam launch in company with Barwell Dawson and Professor Jeffer. The explorer knew what was on Chet's mind, and aided him to find out if the _Northland_ was at Upernivik. "She is here," said Barwell Dawson, after making inquiries. "I will have you taken to her." Chet found Tom Fetjen, a Danish-American, tall and powerful, with a shrewd but kindly face. He listened to the boy's story with interest, and then shrugged his big shoulders. "I no can tell you mooch 'bout dat whaler, _Betsey Andrews_," he said, slowly. "I not know for truf what happen to him. But I hear som't'ing las' year. Two Esquimaux men come to me an' da say dat de whaleboat he got stuck by de ice far up dare." And Tom Fetjen waved his hand northward. "Stuck in the ice?" queried Chet. "Dat is what de Esquimaux men say. Da climb up de ice mountain an' see him ship stuck fast, but go--what you say him?--float, yes, float up dat way," and again the trader pointed northward. "Do you mean that the _Betsey Andrews_ got stuck in some floating ice, and was carried northward?" asked Chet. "Yes, dat is eet. Nobody hear more of de whaleboat." "Where did you hear this?" "Hear him at Etah, las' summer." "How did the Esquimaux know it was the _Betsey Andrews_?" asked Andy. "One Esquimau big chief, got glass to look. He see de cap'n who got de one arm. He try to git to ship, but tumble in water--'most drown heem. Den snowstorm come big an' can't see de ship no more." This was all the trader could tell. He was of the opinion, however, that the whaler had been finally crushed in the ice, and all those aboard had been lost. But Chet would not believe this. He shut his teeth hard and looked at his chum. "I've got to have positive proof before I give up," he said, in a voice that choked with sudden emotion. Although the boys were not aware of it, Pep Loggermore and his crony did their best to follow them around Upernivik, hoping to place them in some position whereby it would be impossible to regain the ship. But, by mere chance, the boys kept out of the sailors' way, and when the coaling was at an end, and the _Ice King_ sailed, they were on the ship. "Let us try it again at Etah," said Loggermore to his crony. "As you please, Pep," answered the other. His hatred of the lads who had killed the geese had somewhat subsided. But Loggermore was as much against Andy and Chet as ever. He had it firmly fixed in his mind that if they were taken along, dire disaster would surely overtake the expedition. The course of the _Ice King_ was now up Baffin Bay and past Cape York to the entrance to Smith Sound. Although it was midsummer, the weather seemed to grow colder hourly, and it was not long before the boys were glad enough to don additional clothing. "As soon as we get to Etah you will get your first taste of polar exploration," said Barwell Dawson. "We'll go out on a hunt." "Is it much of a settlement?" asked Chet. "Hardly any settlement at all. In the summer the Esquimaux have their skin tents pitched there, and in the winter they put up a few _igloos_, that is, ice huts, and that's all." That night came another scare. They almost ran into a tremendous iceberg that towered like a giant in the water. But the lookout saw the monster just in time--it was rather foggy, or he would have seen it sooner--and they sheered to windward. "What a high iceberg!" exclaimed Chet, when the danger was past. "Yes, and to think that it is much deeper in the water than out of it," added Andy. They reached the inlet leading to Etah in a fog, and that afternoon experienced a snowstorm that lasted for over two hours. Then the weather cleared, and they made out a number of tents lining the coast. Here and there they saw some Esquimaux in their strange little boats, fishing. The natives set up a shout when the _Ice King_ came to anchor, and some lost no time in coming on board. They were strange-looking creatures, short of form and round of face, with straight black hair and mouths unusually large. But they were good-natured, and smiled and laughed as they talked to Barwell Dawson, Professor Jeffer, and Captain Williamson, all of whom could speak a little of the Esquimaux tongue. The boys were allowed to go on a hunt the next day. Led by two of the Esquimaux, the party went off in one of the small boats to a point where it was said game might be found. They were out for six hours with Barwell Dawson, and came back loaded down with birds, and with a small polar bear. Chet and Andy had shot the bear between them, and were proud of their haul. "The first polar bear!" cried Andy. "I don't think it will be the last." Before returning to the ship, the two boys went off on a little excursion by themselves. Pep Loggermore followed them, and tried to think of some way of keeping them from returning to the _Ice King_, but got no opportunity of carrying out his plan to do them harm. At Etah a large quantity of meat was purchased from the Esquimaux, who had been awaiting Mr. Dawson's arrival for over a month. They had been out hunting bears, musk oxen, walrus, seals, and other game for him, and they had likewise collected for him over a hundred of the best Esquimaux dogs to be found. With the dogs they brought six sledges, that were light but strong. "My, but those Esquimaux do smell!" was Andy's comment when ten of them came on board and took quarters in the forward part of the ship. "They smell worse than a fish market!" The dogs were penned up, and made the air hideous with their barking and snarling. All the supplies were taken on board, and then the _Ice King_ steamed away from Etah on her voyage into the great Unknown. "It's good-by now to everything, civilized and uncivilized," said Barwell Dawson. "From now on we have got to trust to luck as to what comes." It was the explorer's plan to push as far as the ice would let him into Smith's Sound. Then, when the _Ice King_ could sail no further, they would disembark and prepare for the coming winter--the terrible Long Night. Now it was summer, and daylight at all hours of the twenty-four. A good deal of floating ice was encountered within six hours after leaving Etah, and after that the thumping and grinding on the sides was kept up night and day. Although the vessel had full steam up, the engines were run slowly, as too hard a crash might result disastrously. Occasionally they could make out the shore line, but usually low icebergs shut the land from sight. "I don't think we can go much further," remarked Andy, on the third day out from Etah. "The ice seems to be closing in all around us." Nevertheless, the next day they struck a wide "lead," and ran through this for miles. But then the ice became thicker than ever, and Captain Williamson shook his head gravely. "Not much further, Mr. Dawson," he said. "I think we had best make for the shore yonder," and he pointed with his gloved hand. "As you think best, Captain," was the explorer's reply. "We have now come about as far as I thought we could go." The boys watched the working of the vessel until late that night. When they awoke in the morning, they found that the engines had stopped. They dressed and ran on deck. "Well, I never!" cried Andy. "We are high and dry now, and no mistake!" All around them were immense fields of ice and snow. The _Ice King_ had slid up on the ice, and the big, transparent blocks held her as if in a vise. Not far away was an iceberg that looked like a small mountain. "This is as far as the ship will go," said Professor Jeffer to the lads. "The rest of our journey will be made by walking, or on the dog sledges." It was so cold the boys were glad enough to hurry below and drink some steaming coffee. While eating, they learned that Barwell Dawson had already arranged to take the most of the supplies ashore and house them on a hill not far away. The Esquimaux were getting out the sledges and dogs to do the carting. "We'll go off on a hunt soon," said the explorer. "But before we do that we must get ready for winter, which will ere long be upon us." Several days of hard labor for all hands followed, as many of the supplies were taken off the steamer and carted on the sledges to a small hill, upon which the Americans erected a living hut and a storehouse, and the Esquimaux put up half a dozen _igloos_ and dog shelters. The boys were glad to work, for it helped to keep their blood in circulation. The Esquimaux had a perfect system regarding their dogs and sledges, and were under the leadership of a chief named Olalola. Olalola had the largest sledge and the best dogs, and it was a sight to see him load up and start his team of half a dozen or more. Crack! would go the whip, and away the dogs would bound with their load. Sometimes the boys or the men would ride on the sledge, and Andy and Chet thought it the best sport they had ever experienced. A week passed, and during that time they experienced two blinding snowstorms. But then the weather cleared off as if by magic, and Barwell Dawson asked the boys if they wanted to go off on a hunt after polar bears. "Just the thing!" cried Andy, and Chet said practically the same. It was decided that the party should be made up of Mr. Dawson, the boys, Olalola, and several others. The Esquimau was to take along some provisions on the sledge, for it was thought the party might be out several days. "This is something like it!" cried Chet, as they trudged along over the snow and ice. "I hope we bag about a hundred polar bears!" "Why not make it two hundred while you are at it?" answered his chum, dryly. The first day was a disappointment, as no game of any sort appeared in sight. But on the following morning Olalola said there were bears ahead, and they soon came upon unmistakable traces of the game. They were going toward an icy hill, and rounding this they saw at least a dozen bears. Telling the Esquimau and the others to remain to the rear, Barwell Dawson crept up on the bears, taking Andy and Chet with him. "Don't fire until I give the command," said the hunter, and both boys nodded to signify that they understood. It was a thrilling moment for Andy and Chet, but they were used to hunting big game, so they did not get nervous. Coming up within gunshot, Mr. Dawson gave the signal, and all three fired their weapons. One bear fell dead, and another was badly wounded. "Hurrah! that's the way to do it!" cried Andy. "Come on, let us bag some more!" He ran forward, and Chet and Mr. Dawson followed. The polar bears were evidently dumfounded, and did not know for the moment what to do. Some turned to run away, but others arose on their hind legs to do battle. "Some of 'em are coming for us!" cried Chet, in alarm, and then Mr. Dawson's rifle spoke up, and another of the big fellows was laid low. But the other bears leaped for the boys, as if to hug them to death or eat them up. CHAPTER XXI A FIGHT WITH POLAR BEARS "Look out, he's coming for you!" shouted Barwell Dawson. Both Chet and Andy heard the words, but paid no attention. Their guns were raised, and each was aiming at the bear nearest to him. Crack! went Andy's firearm, and the polar bear was halted by a wound in the forepaw. Chet was not so fortunate, as his gun failed to go off. The next instant the polar bear leaped on him and bore him to the ice. As boy and beast went down, Barwell Dawson opened fire, and the bear was hit in the side, a wound that made him more savage than ever. Although Chet was sent sprawling, he did not lose his presence of mind. As quick as a flash he rolled over, from under the very forepaws of the polar bear, and continued to roll, down a slight hill to one side. By this time Andy and Mr. Dawson were firing again, and Olalola, coming up, used several spears with telling effect. At the increase in noise,--the Esquimau adding his yells to the cracks of the weapons,--one after another of the bears turned and commenced to run away. "Don't go after them!" sang out Barwell Dawson. "They may turn again, if you do. Shoot them from a distance." Once more he discharged his gun, and Andy did likewise. Then Chet scrambled up and used his firearm, the piece this time responding to the touch on the trigger. Another of the bears was now killed outright, while the largest of the group was badly wounded in the hind quarters. This bear dropped behind the others and, drawing closer, Chet let him have a shot in the ear that finished him. The other beasts disappeared behind a hummock of ice, and that was the last seen of them. "Are you hurt?" asked Andy of his chum, as soon as the excitement was over, and while all were reloading their weapons and the Esquimau was securing his spears. "Got a scratch on the back of the neck," answered Chet. "It's bleeding a little, but that's all. Say, this is a dandy haul, isn't it?" he continued, enthusiastically. "We must be more careful in the future," said Barwell Dawson. "Usually polar bears are timid and run away, but these chaps must have been very hungry, and that made them aggressive." The largest of the polar bears was all of eight feet long, and correspondingly heavy. To lift him on the sledge was no easy task, and with the others, the hunters found they had all the game the dogs could drag over the ice and snow. "We may as well start for the ship at once," said Barwell Dawson. "Olalola thinks a snowstorm is coming, and we don't want to get caught out in it if we can help it." They returned to where they had encamped for the night, and picked up the few belongings left there. Then they started direct for the shelters put up near the ship. The last half-mile of the journey was covered in a heavy snowstorm, and all were glad when they caught sight of the _Ice King_. They found Captain Williamson and Professor Jeffer on the deck, watching for them. "I was afraid you would be snowbound," said the captain. He and the professor were astonished at the sight of the polar bears. The game was taken to one of the storehouses, where some of the natives were set to work to prepare it for use during the winter now close at hand. It had been arranged that the Esquimaux and some of the sailors were to live on shore, while Barwell Dawson and his party, and the captain and engineer and two others, remained on the steamer. Thus all had more "elbow room" than if they had crowded the entire party in one place or the other. From the hold of the vessel several large lamps were produced and put into readiness for use. "The darkness of the winter months is the worst feature of a trip to these parts," explained Barwell Dawson to the boys. "Of course, I hope for a great deal of moonlight, but even so the dark days are many, and lights are absolutely necessary." "The darkness has a strange effect on some people," said Professor Jeffer. "I have heard of sailors going mad because of it. But I trust nothing of the sort happens to any one in our party." After that, there was a good deal to do for a week around the ship and up at the hut, and the days passed swiftly. Then, one clear morning, the explorer called to Andy and Chet. "Come with me, if you want to get your last look at the sun for some months," said he. They left the _Ice King_ and walked to the top of an icy cliff a mile away. Professor Jeffer was with them, and so were Dr. Slade and Mr. Camdal. On the top of the cliff they had to wait nearly an hour before the sun showed itself. The long beams of light flashed across the ice, and then gradually grew dimmer and dimmer, and then disappeared altogether. "Gone!" said Chet, in a low tone. All had been very silent for several minutes. "Yes," answered Barwell Dawson. "And you'll not see the sun again until next February!" "What a night!" murmured Andy, and somehow his heart seemed to sink within him. It was a silent party that returned to the ship. Andy and Chet both began to wonder how the long spell of darkness was going to affect them. "It won't be so bad the first few days--or nights," said Andy. "But after that----" He finished with a grave shake of his head. "Let us try to occupy our minds with work and by reading," answered Chet. "I guess it's the only way to keep from going crazy." The lights were lit after that, and kept burning brightly all through the long winter--one large lamp on the deck of the _Ice King_, and another equally large in front of the hut on shore. Smaller lamps were likewise kept burning constantly indoors. Hunting continued from week to week, and the boys aided in the shooting of more polar bears, and also in bringing down several large musk oxen. The musk oxen, with heads resembling big buffalo bulls, were a source of great wonder to the lads. "This is hunting, and no mistake," said Andy. "I wonder what the fellows in Maine would say to these, if they could see them." "Beats moose hunting, doesn't it, Andy?" "Rather. By the way, Chet, I'd like to know how my Uncle Si is making out." "He ought to be up here. Phew! wouldn't he complain of the cold! It was 38° below zero this morning!" "I know it, and Professor Jeffer says it will be colder than that before long." They had to guard carefully against the cold, for it would have been an easy matter to have an ear or one's nose frostbitten. As it was, one of the sailors had a big toe "nipped" by the frost, and suffered greatly because of it. The boys found it unwise even to touch anything metallic with a bare hand, for fear the member would get "burnt" or cling fast. It was late in November that something happened which disturbed the party not a little. Late in the day, while Andy and Chet were dozing in their bunks, they not having anything to do, there came a curious grinding sound from the sides of the _Ice King_. "What is that?" asked Andy, as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Bless me if I know," responded Chet. "Let us go on deck and see." They donned their fur coats and mitts, and ran out on the deck just as the grinding increased. They found Captain Williamson and Barwell Dawson engaged in earnest conversation. "It's the ice pack," explained the explorer. "It is closing in on us." "Closing in!" cried Andy. "Why, it's as close in now as it can get!" "Not quite," was the grim reply. "Why, do you mean----" Andy stopped short. "Isn't the _Ice King_ strong enough to stand the pressure?" questioned Chet. "The steamer is braced to stand a great deal. But this ice has an enormous power," replied Captain Williamson. "If it comes against us too strongly, it may crush the ship like an eggshell." At first the commander could think of nothing to do to relieve the vessel, but presently it was suggested that the ice be chopped away from the bow and one side in a slanting direction. All hands, including the boys, went at the work, with picks, and crowbars, and spades. It was a fight against nature and the elements, and never did men and boys work harder. As they labored, the ice of the vast pack continued to move closer to the ship, causing the _Ice King_ to groan and crack in every timber. "If she breaks, jump for your lives!" cried Captain Williamson. He was more anxious than words can describe, yet he managed to keep cool, and directed the work as well as he was able. By night the ice had been chopped away to the depth of a foot and a half the entire length of the vessel. Then the wind, which had been blowing strongly from one direction, shifted to another, and the pressure on the vessel let up a little. "I think we are safe for the present," said the captain. "All hands can rest for a few hours. But come in a hurry if I blow the whistle." Utterly exhausted by their labors, the boys went to their stateroom and threw themselves down to rest. Both fell asleep instantly, and it seemed to Andy that he had not slept more than five minutes when Chet shook him. "On deck!" cried the former. "The whistle is blowing!" They had been asleep five hours, and the rest had refreshed them greatly. They hurried again to the deck, and as they did so they felt the _Ice King_ tremble from stem to stern. "I'd rather be outside than in--if she is going to be crushed," said Andy, in a voice he tried in vain to steady. He well knew what it would mean to be cast away in the Arctic regions without a ship. Again everybody was set to work to cut away the ice at the side and the bow of the _Ice King_. Small holes were drilled, and cartridges exploded in them to help the work along. In the meantime the crashing of the ice pack continued, as the wind, having changed to its former course, drove the great white mass tighter and tighter against the vessel. "I am afraid the ship is doomed!" cried Professor Jeffer. He was laboring as well as his years permitted. "A little deeper!" cried Captain Williamson. "And throw all the coal on deck overboard!" The coal added considerable to the weight of the ship, and when this was deposited on the ice, the vessel's draught was lessened by several inches. With a straining and cracking she came up, and then the work of cutting the ice at her side continued. By noon, the prospect of clearing the _Ice King_ was almost hopeless. The interior timbers were cracking, and one had snapped in twain. To prevent a conflagration, the fires were put out, and the lamps also extinguished. "Another hour will tell the tale," said Barwell Dawson, almost sadly. "A little more pressure, and if she doesn't come up she will be smashed as flat as a pancake!" Captain Williamson was now trying to raise the vessel by means of steel cables slipped under the bow and stern. The cable ends on the ice pack side were fastened down by crowbars set in deep holes, and the other ends were hauled as near taut as possible by means of temporary windlasses. "I believe we'll make it!" cried the captain, presently. "Now then, one more turn on the cables!" The windlasses groaned and twisted, and then, of a sudden, one broke from its fastenings and hit the side of the ship, letting the steel cable slip down into the water. This allowed the bow to rise and the stern to go down. "The ice pack is moving!" yelled one man. "It's coming in for all it is worth! The _Ice King_ is doomed!" CHAPTER XXII THROUGH THE LONG NIGHT The crashing and cracking sounds which rent the air seemed to justify the man's cry. It was true the ice pack was being driven in sharply by the wind, which had greatly increased during the past hour. It pressed on the side of the ship with telling force, and all those outside heard several timbers give way inside and collapse. But just at the crucial moment the work the men had been doing proved its worth. The ice began to crack and split a little deeper down, and suddenly the _Ice King_ gave a start upward. "I think she is coming up!" cried Dr. Slade, and even as he spoke the steamer rose up higher as part of the ice pack got under the hull. Then came a swishing sound, some water spurted up into the air, and the vessel came up still higher, while the ice appeared to close in solidly under the keel. "Saved!" roared Captain Williamson, and his face showed his relief. "Are you sure?" asked Andy, anxiously. "Yes, my lad. The _Ice King_ is now riding on top of the ice instead of between it. Any additional move of the ice pack will simply force us upward." "She may tip over on her side!" cried Chet. "We can easily guard against that, Chet. Yes, we are saved, and I am mighty glad of it." "And so am I," added Barwell Dawson. The grinding of the ice pack continued for several days, and the vessel was squeezed several inches higher. But the pressure on the side was gone completely, and the ship's carpenter was set to work to repair the damage done. One of the timbers running across the boys' stateroom had been snapped in twain, and the lads viewed the wreckage in deep concern. "If we had been sleeping in here when that happened, we might have been killed," said Chet, and his chum agreed with him. During the following three weeks it snowed a great deal. It was, however, clear on Christmas Day, and the boys went out for a walk in the vicinity of the vessel. All hands were treated to a dinner of wild duck and plum pudding, and something of a church service was held by the captain, assisted by Dr. Slade, who had a good tenor voice, and had once sung in a church choir. "Makes a fellow feel just a little bit less like a heathen," remarked Chet, after the church service had come to an end. "Indeed, that is true," answered Andy. At Pine Run he had attended the village chapel whenever he had the chance to do so. As Professor Jeffer had predicted, it grew steadily colder, and there were many days between Christmas and the middle of January when the boys did not care to venture outside. Outdoor work was out of the question, and all hands busied themselves within as best they could. The men smoked and played games, and sometimes got up boxing matches. The boys often took part in the games, and Chet showed his skill as a boxer by flooring two of the tars hand-running. Yet with it all the time passed slowly, and both Andy and Chet were anxious for the Long Night to come to an end. The darkness was beginning to tell on many of the party, and Pep Loggermore especially began to act strangely. Once he began to sing hysterically, and the doctor had to give him some medicine to quiet him. "He's a strange Dick, that chap," said Captain Williamson. "I am sorry I had him sign articles with me. He's one of the old-fashioned superstitious kind that I don't like." The boys were glad when the full moon shone down on the ship, for then it was almost as bright as day. The moonshine made the distant cliffs and peaks of ice look like castles of white, and added a rare beauty to the scene. Professor Jeffer took several photographs in the moonlight,--of the ship, the hut and storehouse, and of different members of the party. To pass the time, some of these films and plates were developed on the ship, and the boys aided in printing the pictures, many of which proved very good. One moonlight night Andy and Chet determined to take a short walk to a point some distance behind the storehouse, and in the direction of the _igloos_ of the Esquimaux. So far, they had not seen the inside of any of the houses of ice, and they were a bit curious to know just how the natives lived. They soon met Olalola, who had been on a hunt, and he invited them inside his temporary home, and one after another they crawled through the passageway that answered for a vestibule. Inside, the _igloo_ was about ten feet in diameter, and rounding upward into a dome a foot or two above their heads. Here lived six of the Esquimaux. They had some dirty skins on the floor and in the center was a tiny fire, resting on some flat stones, the smoke escaping through some small holes in the top of the dome. The smell was something awful in the place, coming from some seal meat that was cooking over the fire, and also from the pipes of the Esquimaux, who were all smoking stuff that the lads later on learned was a combination of plug tobacco and seal hair--the hair being added to the tobacco to make the latter last longer. Olalola could speak a few words of English, and he invited the lads to have some of the stew that was being made. Just for the novelty each lad tried a mouthful. But to swallow the nauseating mess was impossible, and they had to spit it out. At this all of the Esquimaux laughed loudly. They were not in the least offended because the boys did not like the food. "Boy no eat, me eat," said Olalola, and filled his mouth with great gusto. Then the youths excused themselves and got out as fast as possible. "Phew! talk about fresh air!" cried Chet, when he and his chum were in the open. "Wouldn't you think the Esquimaux would die in that kind of rot?" "I don't believe they are very healthy," answered Andy. "Dr. Slade says they are not." "They all need a bath, and need it badly," said Chet, in deep disgust. It was his first and last visit to the _igloos_. When it was clear the Esquimaux often played games. One was leapfrog, and another was of the "snap-the-whip" variety. In the latter sport they would roar loudly when the last man was sent whirling over and over on the ice. "You'd think he'd break his head," was Andy's comment, as he saw one unfortunate land with a crash on a hummock of ice. "Well, they are rough fellows, and so their sports must be rough," answered Professor Jeffer. Nearly every Esquimau is skillful with the dog-whip, and one of their pastimes amused the boys very deeply. The men would gather around in a big circle, and in the center of this a small object, usually of wood, would be half buried in the snow. Then the men, each with his long dog-lash, would try to "snap" the object from the ring. Crack! would go the lash, making a report like a pistol, and the snow would come up in a little whirl, and sometimes the object would come with it. "Pretty good shots, some of them," said Andy. "Wait until we get on the road with the sledges," answered Barwell Dawson. "Then you'll see some fancy doings with the whips. Some of those chaps can reach a dog twenty feet away, and take a nip out of his hide as quick as a wink. That's the way they get the dogs under such perfect control." "I wish I could learn how to drive the dogs," said Andy. "You'll have plenty of chance, when we get on the move again," returned the explorer. Two days later, Andy was walking from the storehouse to the ship when, in the dim light from the lamp near the hut, he saw something unusual that attracted his attention. A man was crawling along on all-fours, muttering wildly to himself. "Whatever can that fellow be up to?" asked the boy of himself. For the instant he thought he might be mistaken, and that the form was that of some wild beast. His curiosity aroused to a high pitch, the lad stopped short, and then made a detour, coming up on the opposite side of the storehouse. Here he found the man, still on all-fours, bending over a case of some sort. "Oh, this darkness! Why don't the sun shine?" the man was muttering to himself. "I must have light! I will have light!" "It is Pep Loggermore, and he is as crazy as a loon!" murmured Andy. "I had better tell the captain of this at once! The sailor may hurt somebody if I don't!" Andy turned around, to make a quick run toward the ship, when he heard the scratching of a match. A tiny flash of flame followed, and in that little flare of light he saw the crazed sailor bending over what looked to be a can of oil! "He is going to set something on fire!" thought Andy. "Maybe the storehouse! That's his crazy idea of getting light!" Andy was right, Loggermore was trying to set fire to the storehouse. Already he was pouring oil from the can over a number of boxes, the ends of which formed that side of the shelter. "If I run to the ship, it will take time," reasoned Andy. "By the time I get back with some of the others it may be too late. What shall I do?" It was a hard question to answer. He had no desire to tackle the crazy sailor alone. But even while he stood debating with himself he saw Loggermore strike another match. "Stop! Don't light that, Loggermore!" So shouting, Andy leaped toward the man, who was still crouched down, mumbling to himself about wanting a light. At the sound of the youth's voice, the sailor turned, and something like a snarl broke from his lips. "Go away! Go away!" he shrieked. "Loggermore, you mustn't set anything on fire." "I want light! I must have light! I hate the darkness!" growled the crazed sailor. "You'll burn up all our stores. If you do that, we'll starve to death!" continued Andy, as he drew closer. "I want light!" went on Loggermore, doggedly. "The darkness hurts my head--I can't think straight. Stand back and see what a fine light I'll soon have!" And so speaking, he lit another match, for the other had fallen in the snow and gone out. "Help! help!" yelled Andy, at the top of his lungs. He could think of nothing else to do. "Help! help!" "Shut up!" cried the crazed sailor. "Shut up!" And now, dropping the match he had just struck, he leaped at Andy and caught him by the shoulder and the arm. The grip of the crazy fellow was like steel, and do his best, the boy could not break away. Pep Loggermore whirled him around and sent him crashing up against the boxes of the storehouse. There both stood, panting heavily, with the sailor's eyes glowing like two balls of fire. "Le--let me go!" gasped Andy. "Loggermore, you are crazy--you don't know what you are doing. Don't be so foolish, that's a good fellow----" "No, no, I'll not let you go! You are a Jonah, Andy Graham! You shot the geese, you and that other lad, and you've brought us all kinds of trouble! I'll not let you go!" shrieked Loggermore and then he slammed Andy against the boxes once more. The feet of both came down on the can and on the box of matches the sailor had dropped, smashing each down into the ice and snow. Then suddenly a light flared up, coming from the broken box of matches. They spluttered an instant and set fire to the oil, and also to the clothing of the man and the boy. Loggermore was too crazy to mind this, but Andy was filled with horror. "Let go!" yelled the youth, and struggled in vain to release himself. But he could not break that awful hold, and so he dragged the tar with him, and both rolled over and over in the snow. Andy tried to kick out the fire around his legs, and in the meanwhile Loggermore got a grip on his windpipe as if to strangle him. The boy tried to fight the man off, but could not, and presently all grew dark around him, and then he knew no more. CHAPTER XXIII "NORTH POLE OR BUST!" Down in the cabin of the _Ice King_, close to a roaring fire, Captain Williamson and Barwell Dawson were playing a game of checkers--the captain's favorite amusement. Chet had been watching with interest, but had now gone on deck for a few minutes, to get the fresh air and to see what had become of his chum. Suddenly through the stillness of the Arctic night Chet heard Andy's cry for aid. He strained his eyes and saw the flicker of a light, as Loggermore struck one of the matches. "Something is wrong," cried Chet to himself, and then tumbled down the companionway in a hurry. "What's the matter?" exclaimed Captain Williamson, startled by the youth's abrupt entrance. "Something is wrong with Andy--he is calling for help!" answered Chet. Both the captain and the explorer leaped up, scattering the checkers in all directions. Each ran for his fur coat and mitts, and each caught up a gun, and Chet did the same. Then they scrambled up on deck in double-quick haste, and leaped over the side of the steamer on to the uneven ice below. "Where is he?" asked Barwell Dawson. "Up at the storehouse. He yelled----Look, the place is on fire!" Both men gazed in the direction, and then Captain Williamson let out a yell that could be heard throughout the entire ship: "All hands turn out to fight fire!" Chet started on a run, with Barwell Dawson at his heels, the captain remaining behind to rouse the hands to action, for in a twinkling he realized what it would mean were the stores burned. When Chet reached his chum, Andy lay flat on his back in the snow, motionless. Pep Loggermore was dancing before the ever-increasing flames, shouting gleefully. "Light at last! I told you I'd have light!" shrieked the crazed sailor. "Andy, what is it?" asked Chet, and bent over his chum. Then he saw some sparks on Andy's clothing, and saw that part of his lower garments had been burnt off. Loggermore had had sense enough to extinguish the blaze on his own clothing. Soon half a dozen of the sailors and Esquimaux were on the scene, and they began to put out the flames by throwing snow and cakes of ice on the storehouse. In the meantime Chet pulled Andy to a safe distance. As he did this the latter opened his eyes and started up. "Le--let go, Loggermore!" he gasped. "It's all right, Andy." "Oh, is that you, Chet! Whe--where is Loggermore?" "Dancing around like a maniac." "He is crazy. He--he tried to burn me and strangle me!" panted Andy. "What in the world made him crazy?" "The darkness. He wanted a light, so he set fire to the storehouse." By this time Andy felt a little better. But he was very weak, and Chet had to help him back to the steamer. Here he sat down and told his tale. Then Chet went out to relate what he had heard to Captain Williamson and the others. It took but a few minutes of energetic work to put out the fire. When the commander of the _Ice King_ saw the battered oil can and box of matches he was furious. "The man who did this ought to be strung up on the yardarm!" he exclaimed. "Loggermore did it, but he is not accountable," said Chet, and told what Andy had had to say. "Where is Loggermore?" asked Dr. Slade. "I'll have to take him in hand." A hurried search was made for the crazed man, but he had run away. A party was sent out for him, and he was found nearly a mile from the ship, dancing on the ice, singing loudly, and tearing his clothing to shreds. It was with difficulty that he was brought back and placed in the ship's brig. Then Dr. Slade gave him a sleeping potion and he sank into a profound slumber. When he came out of his sleep, he said he had had some bad dreams, but he could not remember anything of the fire or of his attack on Andy. "He is not to be trusted," said the ship's physician. "You can give him his liberty, but I advise that an eye be kept on him." "We'll keep an eye on him, never fear," answered Captain Williamson, grimly. Andy suffered very little from the attack of the frenzied sailor, and in a day or two he felt as well as ever. "But I'll never trust Loggermore again," he told Chet. "After this he must keep his distance." Day after day passed, and at last the Long Night came to an end. There was general rejoicing, and when Andy saw the sun once more he threw up his cap in his delight, and fairly danced a jig. "It's grand, Chet!" he cried. "Grand doesn't express it," was Chet's answer. "It's sublime! Andy, I don't know how you feel, but I don't want to go through another such spell of darkness." "Nor I,--not for a hundred thousand dollars! Oh, a fellow doesn't know how good sunshine is until he can't have it!" Preparations for the departure northward had been going on steadily, the Esquimaux getting their dogs and sledges in readiness, and Barwell Dawson and the others going over the supplies to be taken along. Of the supplies the greater portion was pemmican, over a thousand pounds being placed on the sledges. They also had bear meat, peas, beans, bacon, and a small quantity of coffee and tea, with salt, sugar, and pepper. They likewise carried a portable alcohol stove with some tins of alcohol, matches in water-tight boxes, and such cooking utensils as were absolutely necessary. Professor Jeffer had the scientific instruments, including a high-grade sextant, thermometer, and barometer, and also a good film camera with numerous rolls of films. Four shotguns were taken along, and three rifles, with a large quantity of ammunition. Dr. Slade carried his medicine case. As soon as the Long Night was at an end, more Esquimaux put in an appearance, with their dogs and sledges. One of these was named Estankawak, and Barwell Dawson learned that he was considered one of the best dog-drivers in the Arctic region. "Then we must have Estankawak by all means," said the explorer, and interviewed the fellow without delay. When he came back from the interview, his face showed his excitement. "I have just heard great news!" he cried, to Professor Jeffer and Dr. Slade. "What is it?" asked the professor, while the boys listened with interest. "According to what this fellow Estankawak says, Dr. Frederick Cook reached the North Pole last Spring." "Reached the North Pole!" exclaimed Professor Jeffer and Dr. Slade in a breath. "Yes. He got there April 21, 1908, and he is now on his way back to the United States to break the news." "Was the Esquimau able to give you any particulars?" questioned the doctor. "Some, but not a great many. He says Dr. Cook left Annootok about the middle of February, taking with him eleven natives with their sledges, and over a hundred dogs. The party pushed on steadily day after day, across Ellesmere Land to the Garfield Coast, hunting considerably on the way. From Nansen Sound Dr. Cook made almost a bee-line for the Pole, a distance of about eight degrees, or, roughly speaking, five hundred and fifty miles. On his final dash, he had with him only two Esquimaux, the others being sent back at various times." "And where is he now?" questioned Andy. "He is getting back to civilization as fast as possible, to send word home. If what Estankawak says is true, Dr. Cook has done a wonderful thing--something for which explorers have been striving for ages." "Then we won't be the first at the Pole!" said Chet, ruefully. "Never mind, Chet, if we get there, we'll be the first boys at the Pole!" answered Andy, quickly. "That's so," answered Chet, and looked a little relieved. "Did you ask the Esquimau if he knew anything about Commander Peary's trip this year?" questioned Dr. Slade. "Yes. He tells me that Peary is north of us, at Cape Sheridan, and has been there since the middle of last September. He, too, is going to make a dash for the Pole, and may even now be on the way." "Perhaps we'll meet him!" cried Andy. "It is not likely with so many miles of snow and ice between us," answered Barwell Dawson. The news concerning Dr. Cook made the explorer more anxious than ever to be on the way, and one bright Wednesday afternoon it was announced that the expedition would start northward on the following morning. The party was to consist of Mr. Dawson, the professor, Dr. Slade, Mr. Camdal, and the two boys, and eight Esquimaux. The natives were to drive eight of their best sledges drawn by ninety-six dogs. They were to travel northward to Grant Land, and then make a straight dash for the Pole. Captain Williamson and his men were to remain as near them along the coast as the weather would permit, awaiting their return. "And I hope with all my heart that you all come back safe and sound," said the commander of the _Ice King_. "Wish you were going along, Captain," said Andy. "So do I, lad; but my place is by the ship. You'll want the _Ice King_ when you get back." At last came the moment for leaving. All the sledges were packed, and the dogs harnessed and ready for action. At the side of the leading team stood Estankawak, long whip in hand. "All ready!" shouted Barwell Dawson, after a general handshaking. "Good luck to you!" cried Captain Williamson. "Be sure and bring that North Pole back with you!" "Sure--on our shoulders!" answered Andy, gleefully. The explorer motioned to the Esquimau. Crack! went Estankawak's long whip, and off the leading sledge started. The others followed in rapid succession. There was a cheer from those left behind, and an answering cheer from those who were leaving. "It's North Pole or bust!" said Chet, with a curiously dogged look on his face. "North Pole or bust!" answered Andy. "Do not be too sanguine," said Dr. Slade. "Because Dr. Cook has reached that point does not say that we shall be equally successful." "Don't you think we'll get there, Doctor?" asked Chet, quickly. "I hope so, but I am prepared to take what comes. I do not believe that you boys understand the dangers and difficulties of the trip before us. We may not reach the Pole, and we may not even get back alive. Arctic explorations have, in the past, cost many hundreds of lives." "Don't discourage the lads," broke in Professor Jeffer, briskly. "We shall succeed--I know it, I feel it. And when we stand on the apex of the world,--where there is no east, no west, no north, only south--ah, what a glorious prospect!" And he waved his arms enthusiastically. "That's the talk!" shouted Andy. "We'll get there somehow, and don't you forget it!" "It's North Pole or bust!" repeated Chet, "North Pole or bust!" CHAPTER XXIV THE LAST HUNT It was Barwell Dawson's intention to strike out directly for Cape Richards, the most northerly point of Grant Land. It may be added that this locality was only a short distance west of the point from which Commander Peary made his successful dash for the Pole. Dr. Cook's route was still further westward, so Mr. Dawson's trail lay almost midway between those of the world-renowned Pole-seekers. It was a clear, mild day, and for the first few miles the going was excellent. Everybody was in the best of humor, and the boys felt like whistling. Estankawak was in the lead with his sledge, and Olalola followed him, while the others came behind in a bunch. The dogs trotted along evenly, and the drivers had little trouble with them. "This weather is fine," remarked Barwell Dawson. "I only trust it continues." "Well, it will continue for a few days, that is certain," answered Professor Jeffer. "But after that----" He shrugged his shoulders. "We'll have to take what comes." For several days the expedition traveled through the heart of Ellesmere Land, and there found excellent hunting. Polar bears, musk oxen, and caribou were there in plenty, and the party also laid low many Arctic hares and foxes, and likewise a few Arctic petrel. "We must hunt while we have the chance," said Barwell Dawson. "The more meat we secure now, the greater will be our stock of provisions when we get to where there is nothing but ice and snow." And all understood this, and hunted to the best possible advantage. By the time the north shore of Grant Land was reached it was much colder, and now they occasionally encountered snowstorms, but fortunately these were of short duration. Reaching the vicinity of Cape Richards, they went into a temporary camp, to rest up and repair some of the sledges which had become broken. "I am going on another hunt tomorrow--possibly our last," announced Barwell Dawson. "Do you boys want to go along?" Both were eager to go, and the start was made directly after breakfast. They took with them two rifles and a shotgun, and provisions to last for four meals. After skirting a small hill of ice, they came upon a narrow lead of clear blue water and following this, reached a point where the ice had been driven in a tight pack for miles. Here they saw the traces of a polar bear, and were soon hot on the trail, which led them along the lead, and then into the interior. "I see him!" whispered Andy, after nearly a mile had been covered. "He is lying down behind yonder hummock!" Andy was right, but before they could reach his bearship, the animal scented them and hobbled away. "He is lame!" cried Chet. "I think we can catch him! Anyway, let us try." The others were willing, and away they went over the ice, which soon became comparatively smooth. Once Chet lost his footing and went flat. But he soon got up and continued after the others. Finding he could not escape those who were pursuing him, the polar bear turned as if to attack them. Both Andy and Barwell Dawson fired at the beast, and he rolled over in a death convulsion, and was speedily put out of his misery by Chet with his hunting knife. "See, his forefoot is gone," said Andy, as they surrounded the game. "Looks to me as if some other animal had chewed it off." "If it hadn't been for that, he would have outrun us," answered Mr. Dawson. They spent the remainder of the day looking for more game, and toward nightfall started for camp, dragging the bear after them. "We'll take him as far as possible, and then send the Esquimaux out for him with a sledge," said the explorer. All thought they knew the direction of the camp, but in looking for game they had become more or less turned around, and now Barwell Dawson called a halt. "We may as well camp here for tonight," he said. "We don't want to tire ourselves out when it isn't necessary." Some snow was scraped up, and a hut constructed, and they went inside and had supper. It was a cold meal, but they were hungry, and enjoyed every mouthful. Then they fixed the snow hut a little better, and lay down to sleep. They had been resting for about three hours, when Chet awoke with a start. A loud barking had awakened him. "Dogs!" he murmured. "Must be one of the Esquimaux has come for us." The barking had also awakened the others, and getting up, the three crawled out of the snow hut. "They are not dogs, they are foxes!" cried Barwell Dawson. "Yes, and look at the number!" ejaculated Andy. "Must be fifty at least!" "Fifty?" repeated Chet. "All of a hundred, or else I don't know how to count!" Chet was right--there were all of a hundred foxes outside, sitting in a bunch, with their heads thrown back barking lustily. They had followed the blood-stained trail of the polar bear, and wanted to get at the game. "This is very unpleasant," said the explorer, gravely. "I didn't think we'd meet foxes so far north. They can't get much to eat up here, and they must be very hungry." "Do you fancy they will attack us?" questioned Andy. "I don't know what they will do. They want the bear, that's certain." "If we only had a good campfire that would keep them at a distance." "Yes, but there is nothing here with which to build a fire." "Supposing we give 'em a dose of shot?" suggested Chet. "You can try it." Chet had the shotgun, and taking careful aim at the pack of foxes, he fired. The flash of the firearm was followed by a wild yelp from the animals, and three leaped up, and then fell on the ice badly wounded. The others of the pack retreated for a few minutes, then came back to their former position, barking more loudly than ever. "They are certainly game," said Mr. Dawson. "Killing off a few of them don't scare the others." "What are we to do?" asked Chet, dubiously. He had fancied the foxes would disappear at the discharge of the shotgun--for that was what foxes usually did down in Maine. "We'll do our best to stand them off until it grows lighter," answered Barwell Dawson. "Do you think they will run away if we go out after them?" "Not if they are very hungry. Remember, a hungry animal is always desperate." Sleep was now out of the question, and they took turns in watching the foxes from the entrance to the snow hut. It was too cold to remain outside long. "They are coming closer," announced Andy, after two hours had passed. The foxes had stopped barking some time previously. The report was true. The beasts were coming up stealthily, moving a foot or two, and then stopping to reconnoiter. "I'll give them another shot from the gun," said Chet, and was as good as his word. This time two of the foxes were killed, and almost immediately their companions fell upon the carcasses, and began to tear them apart. "That shows how hungry they are," declared Barwell Dawson. "Shall we give up the bear to them?" asked Chet. "Not yet--but we may have to do so in order to escape them," answered the explorer, with a doubtful shake of his head. Another hour went by slowly, and by shouting they managed to make the foxes keep their distance. But then the animals commenced to come closer once more, slowly but surely encircling the snow hut. It was a perilous situation to be in, and the youths realized it fully, as did Mr. Dawson. At any moment the foxes might make a concerted attack, and what could three persons do against ninety or more of such beasts? But now it was growing lighter, for which those in the hut were thankful. As the glow of the morning sun shone in the sky, Andy set up a loud shout and flung a fair-sized cake of ice at the foxes. The ice went gliding along, and struck one fox in the forelegs, wounding him severely. "Hurrah! why didn't we think of that before!" cried Chet. "A good idea," put in Barwell Dawson. "We'll treat them as if they were ten-pins!" Some loose ice was handy, and taking aim at the foxes, they sent piece after piece bowling over the icy surface on which they stood. The animals had again gathered in a pack, so they could not be missed. If one leaped out of the way, the chunk of ice hit the next, and soon there were howls of pain from several. Then the foxes retreated, and when Chet fired another shot, they suddenly turned tail, and trotted off, around a distant hill and out of sight. "They didn't like the ice and the daylight," said Barwell Dawson. "I doubt if they come back very soon. They may try it again tonight, but we'll be in camp by that time." Again they took up the march for camp, dragging the bear behind them as before. Going was fairly easy, and dragging the bear over the smooth surface was not much work, but whether they were heading just right was a question. Many times Barwell Dawson tried to get his bearings, but without success. "I think I'll have to climb yonder hill and take a look around," said he, when the sun was fairly high. "We ought to be able to locate the camp from there." "We'll go along," said Andy, who did not care to be left alone in such a field of desolation. "Yes, I would like to take a look around myself--just to see how the land--or, rather, ice--lies," added his chum. Leaving the bear where it was, the three started to climb the icy hill on their left. The snow on the side aided them, and they reached the summit with little difficulty. "Phew! here is where one feels the wind!" cried Andy, as he drew his coat closer. "Cuts like a knife, doesn't it?" answered Chet. "Wonder what it will be up at the Pole." "Colder than this--you may be sure of that," answered Barwell Dawson. All gazed around them. To the east and west, as well as the south, lay the long stretches of snow and ice. Northward were the same ice and snow, with numerous leads of clear, bluish water. "There is our camp," said the explorer, pointing to some dark objects in the distance. "How far is it?" asked Chet. "I can't say exactly. Probably two miles. Distances are very deceiving in this atmosphere." "There is that lead of water we must have followed yesterday," said Andy, pointing. "Yes," answered Barwell Dawson. "We won't go back that way, though--we'll try the route over yonder." They were soon down the hill again, and making for the spot where they had left the polar bear. Resuming the load, they struck off as best they could in the direction of the camp. About half the distance had been covered when they found themselves quite unexpectedly on the edge of some "young" ice,--that is, ice recently frozen. It did not seem safe, and Barwell Dawson decided to turn back, in the direction of the route they had followed when leaving camp. This brought them to the lead of the day previous, and they were surprised to note that the water was much wider than before. "The ice must be moving," said Barwell Dawson. "I think the sooner we get back to camp the better." They had a small hill of ice before them, and started to skirt this. Andy was in the lead, and as he passed a rise of ice and snow, he heard a sudden roar that made him jump. "What was that?" he cried, in alarm. "A walrus!" answered Barwell Dawson. "And close at hand, too. Get your guns ready, boys!" CHAPTER XXV CROSSING THE GREAT LEAD In less than a quarter of a minute more they came in sight of the walrus, stretched out on the ice close to the lead. It was a large specimen, weighing a good many hundred pounds, and as awkward as it was heavy. At the sight of the man and boys the beast raised itself up slightly and started as if to turn back into the water. As it did this, Barwell Dawson raised the rifle, took steady aim, and sent a bullet through its head. "That's a fine shot!" exclaimed Andy as the walrus fell back, uttering a roar of pain. "Shall I give it another?" "Might as well," was the explorer's answer, and the lad quickly complied, the shot scattering into the walrus's head, killing it almost instantly. Scarcely had the echo of the discharge penetrated the air, when there came a number of loud roars from a little further around the icy hill. The hunters advanced, and Chet uttered a yell: "Look! look! Did you ever see so many walruses in your life!" He pointed ahead, but there was no need to do this, for all saw, only a couple of hundred feet away, a veritable herd of walruses numbering at least a hundred if not twice that number. They had heard the death-cry of their mate, and were lumbering forward to see what was the matter. "We can't fight such a crowd as that!" exclaimed Andy, aghast. "We had better clear out." "I wish the Esquimaux were here," returned Barwell Dawson. "We could make a mighty haul of walrus meat, and that is what we need." He looked at the boys. "Who is the better runner of you two?" he asked. "Andy," answered Chet, promptly. "He can outrun me twice over." "Then supposing you leg it for camp just as hard as you can," continued the explorer. "Tell the Esquimaux and Mr. Camdal to come as quickly as possible." Without waiting for more words, Andy was off like a shot, directly past the walruses, who simply raised themselves up to gaze stupidly at him. The others had withdrawn from sight, and when the beasts saw Andy running away they thought themselves alone. Slowly they lumbered over the ice and surrounded their dead companion, uttering hoarse roars that could be heard a long way off. Andy had the direction of the camp well in mind, and made as straight a run for it as the nature of the ice permitted. With such heavy clothing a record run was impossible, yet he covered the distance in good time. He found the Esquimaux outside of their _igloos_, listening to the roaring of the walruses, which could be heard far away over the ice. He soon made them acquainted with what was wanted, and with a glad shout they started off with their spears and bows and arrows. Then he aroused Mr. Camdal, and the latter got his shotgun and an ax. "An ax is sometimes better than a gun," explained Mr. Camdal. "You can sometimes crush a walrus's skull with one well-aimed blow from an ax." The Esquimaux were ahead, but the others soon caught up with them. The walruses were still roaring and bellowing. One of the natives said this was a sign that they were getting ready to move. As they drew closer, the Esquimaux spread out in a semicircle, and held up their spears ready for use. Olalola was in the lead, for he was considered by all to be the best hunter. The walruses were found almost where they had been when Andy went for aid. A few surrounded the dead beast, sniffing the carcass suspiciously. Evidently they had never been hunted, and did not know the meaning of a gunshot. As soon as the Esquimaux were sufficiently close, they threw their spears, and followed these up with a number of arrows. In the meantime the others discharged their firearms, and then Mr. Camdal rushed in boldly with his ax. By this means eight of the huge creatures were laid low before they could help themselves. The others turned to gain the open water, and went sousing in, sending the icy spray in all directions. In his enthusiasm, Chet had drawn close to the lead, and before he knew it he found two of the walruses confronting him. He dodged one, but the other beast knocked him flat with one blow of a flipper. It looked as if his life would be crushed out a moment later. Andy saw his chum fall, and for the moment his heart leaped into his throat. Then he jumped to the front, and sent a bullet into the breast of the walrus. But this was not fatal, and the walrus still lurched forward. "Pull Chet away!" yelled Mr. Dawson, and fired from a distance, the bullet hitting the walrus just below the head. Then a spear whizzed through the air, thrown by Olalola. This caught the beast in the mouth, and went part way down its throat. The walrus flopped backward, and at that moment Andy caught his chum by the leg, and dragged him out of danger. Then Mr. Camdal came to the front, and a blow from the ax finished the beast. The battle was now practically over, for the walruses that were alive had taken to the water. Those that were badly wounded could not swim very well, and the Esquimaux went after them, bringing in two. The total killing amounted to thirteen. "That's a lucky thirteen," was Barwell Dawson's comment, after the excitement was over. "The meat is just what we want, for the Esquimaux and the dogs, and the hides will come in handy, for footwear and harness." It was no easy task to get the walruses and the polar bear to the camp, and several of the dog sledges had to be brought up for that purpose. Then two days were spent in getting the meat ready for use, and in preparing the hides. It was a clear, cold day when the next start northward was made. A light wind blew from the westward. Barwell Dawson calculated that they might cover twenty, if not twenty-five, miles. "From now on we must do our best," said he. "We can afford no more delays, otherwise our food supply may give out before we get back." Fortunately all were in the best of health, although Professor Jeffer suffered a little from snow-blindness. He at once donned a pair of smoked goggles, and several of the others did likewise. The end of the week found them a hundred and fifteen miles closer to the Pole. They had encountered two leads, but had managed to get across without great difficulty. One of the sledges had been badly damaged, and it was resolved to break it up, and use the parts in repairing the other turnouts. Two of the dogs were sick, and had to be killed. The next day the weather changed, and for forty-eight hours they struggled on through a heavy snowstorm, with the wind fortunately on their backs. During this storm one of the sledges fell into some open water, and three dogs were drowned, while a small portion of the outfit went out of sight into the Arctic Sea. "All hands must be more careful after this," said Barwell Dawson. "As we advance, going will probably become more treacherous. Keep your eyes wide open." As soon as it cleared off, Professor Jeffer brought out his sextant and his artificial horizon (a pan of mercury), and took an observation. He announced that they were close to the eighty-fourth degree of north latitude. "That means we have but six more degrees to cover,--about four hundred miles," said Chet. "Professor, will you explain how you take the observation?" asked Andy. "To be sure, certainly," was the reply of the scientist. "It is very easy when one knows how. Here is the sextant, shaped, as you can see, like a piece of pie. The curved side has a scale on it, which is just one-sixth of a circle, hence the name of the instrument. Here is a telescope which is adjustable, and here are two glasses, one for the rays of the sun, or a star, and one for the horizon. At sea, I would use the natural horizon, but that is impossible here amongst the ice and snow, and so I use an artificial horizon made of a pan of mercury. "When I want to take an observation, I watch my chronometer and wait until it is exactly twelve o'clock. Then I point the sextant in such a fashion that the rays of the sun, reflected downward, seem to meet or 'kiss' the horizon. As soon as I have the light of the sun in a direct range with the horizon, I use this thumbscrew, which sets the scale below, which, as you see, is divided into degrees, minutes, and seconds. As soon as I have read the scale by means of this magnifying glass, I consult this book I carry, the Ephemeris, or Nautical Almanac, and knowing the altitude of the sun, I readily calculate just where we are located, in degrees, minutes, and seconds north latitude." "It's certainly a great instrument," said Andy. "I'd like to try it some day." "You shall do so," answered Professor Jeffer, and the very next day he allowed Andy to aid him in getting a true sight, and showed the boy how to work out the necessary calculations, and also make some allowances,--for such observations are not absolutely perfect in themselves. They had now to advance with more caution than ever, and several days later came to some open water that looked as if it would bar all further progress. The lead was six or seven hundred feet wide, and ran east and west as far as eye could reach. "Looks as if we were stumped," murmured Chet. "How are we ever going to get across?" A consultation was held, and then Barwell Dawson sent one party of Esquimaux to the eastward, and another to the westward, to look for a crossing place. The Esquimaux were gone for two days, and during that time a fierce snowstorm came up, blotting out the landscape on all sides. It was so cold that the boys could do nothing outside, and were glad enough to crouch in an _igloo_ for warmth. During the snowstorm, more of the dogs became sick, and four of the finest of the animals died. "Something is wrong with them," said Barwell Dawson, and had Dr. Slade make an examination. It was then learned that the dogs had been poisoned by eating tainted seal meat. The meat was inspected, and over a hundred pounds thrown away. When the natives who had been sent out came back, they reported that to the east and the west the lead was wider than ever. "Any smooth, floating ice?" asked Barwell Dawson. Yes, some smooth ice had been seen, and the explorer went out the next day to investigate. As a result some large cakes were floated close to the temporary camp, and these were lashed together with walrus thongs. "What do you intend to do with those?" questioned Professor Jeffer. "I am going to try to get across to the other side," answered Barwell Dawson. "We'll use the flat ice for a ferry." "It's a dangerous piece of business, sir." "I know it. But we must do something," was the firm answer. Two of the Esquimaux agreed to get on the floating cakes of ice, taking with them one of the teams and a sledge. It was no easy matter to induce the dogs to go aboard, as it might be called, and the natives were a good hour getting started. But once afloat, they crossed the lead without serious danger, and then began the task of getting the rest of the expedition over. This took all of that day, and also the next. On one of the trips an Esquimau went overboard, and Dr. Slade also took an icy bath, but both were quickly rescued, and bundled up in clothing that was dry and warm. "There, I am glad we are over that lead!" exclaimed Barwell Dawson, when the last of the men and sledges had crossed. "I trust we don't have any more of the sort to cross." "I am afraid we'll have a great many," answered Professor Jeffer. "Getting to the North Pole is going to be the hardest kind of a struggle." "We'll get there--if we keep our health, and the provisions last," said the explorer, confidently. Once again they turned northward, into that vast region of ice, and snow, and solitude. It was certainly a gigantic undertaking. Would they succeed, or would all their struggles go for naught? CHAPTER XXVI ON A FLOATING MASS OF ICE "One hundred and thirty miles more, Andy!" "Who said so?" "Professor Jeffer. He just took an observation," answered Chet, as he crawled into the _igloo_ and slapped his mittened hands to get them warm. Andy shook his head slowly. "Chet, it doesn't look as if we'd make it, does it?" "Barwell Dawson says we are going to make it, or die in the attempt." "Well, I'm just as eager, almost, as he is. But eagerness isn't going to make these leads close up, and isn't going to give us extra food and drink." "Getting sick of pemmican and walrus meat?" "Aren't you?" "Rather--but there is no use in kicking." "Say, do you know what day this is?" "No." "The first of April. Maybe some folks would call us April fools, to try to reach the Pole." Here the two boys became silent, for both were too tired and too cold to do much talking. The last few weeks of traveling had been very bad,--so bad in fact that half of the Esquimaux had been turned back, to make a camp and wait the return of the others. Mr. Camdal had been taken sick, and he had been left behind, and now Dr. Slade was ailing, and so were two of the natives. Sixteen of the dogs had perished, and their bodies had been fed to the other canines. The hardships had been beyond the power of pen to describe. They had encountered numerous snowstorms, and a cutting west wind had for three days made traveling impossible. The smooth ice had given way to little hills and ridges that battered the sledges frightfully. One more had gone to pieces, and the parts had been used for mending purposes, as before. The effects of the hardships were beginning to tell on everybody. The boys were thin and hollow-eyed, and when they walked, or, rather, toiled along, their legs felt like lead. To get up any speed was impossible, and if in ten hours' walking they managed to cover fifteen or twenty miles they thought they were doing well. The glare on the ice and snow also affected them, so that their eyes appeared like little slits. Professor Jeffer had been in danger of having his nose frost-bitten, but the boys had noticed it just in time, and come to the old scientist's rescue by rubbing the member with soft snow, thus putting the blood again in circulation. "Well, lads, how do you feel?" asked Barwell Dawson, as he entered the _igloo_, followed by Professor Jeffer. "Dead tired, I suppose." "Tired doesn't fit it," answered Chet, with a sickly grin. "I am next-door to being utterly played out." "Perhaps I had better leave you two boys behind, while Professor Jeffer and myself, with one sledge, make the final dash." "No; now I've come so far I'm going to stick it out," answered Chet, grittily. "And so am I," added Andy. "I guess we'll feel better after a good sleep," he went on, hopefully. A few minutes later all sank into a profound slumber, from which they did not awaken until well in the morning. Then the barking of the dogs and the shouting of one of the Esquimaux made them leap up and crawl outside. "Olalola says the wind has died down," said Barwell Dawson. "We may as well make the most of it." A hasty breakfast was prepared, and inside of half an hour they were again on the way, toiling over ice that was rough in the extreme. They pushed on steadily until noon, when, it being bright sunlight, Professor Jeffer took another observation. "One hundred and sixteen miles more," he said, after his calculations were complete. "We are gradually lessening the distance! We shall make it after all!" And his face showed his enthusiasm. To such a scientist as the professor, gaining the Pole meant far more than it did to the boys. In the middle of the afternoon came another setback. Another lead came into view, broad, and with the water flowing swiftly. At this the Esquimaux shook their heads dismally. "We cannot go over that," said one, in his native tongue. "We must," answered Barwell Dawson, briefly. With the North Pole so close at hand, he was determined that nothing should keep him from reaching the goal. The party gathered at the edge of the lead, and there found the ice cracked and uncertain. Andy was with Olalola, who had a sledge drawn now by but six dogs. Suddenly, as the men were walking up and down the shore looking for some means of crossing the water, there came an ominous cracking. Andy tried to leap back, and so did Olalola, but ere they could do so the ice upon which they and the dogs and sledge were located broke away from the main field, and floated out into the lead. "Look out, there!" exclaimed Chet, in horror. "Throw us a rope!" yelled Andy, while Olalola uttered a cry in his native language. But no rope was handy, and in a few seconds the strong current of the water carried the cake of ice far out into the lead. It still kept its balance, but there was no telling how soon it might turn over and send Andy, the Esquimau, and the dogs to their death. "Oh, we must save Andy!" screamed Chet. "What can we do?" "We'll do all we can," answered the explorer. He ran to one of the loads and tore from it a long rope. Then he hurried along the edge of the lead, in the direction whence the current was carrying the flat cake of ice with its human freight. Andy and Olalola saw the movement, and both understood at once that they must make some sort of a fastening for the rope, should they be able to catch it. With a sharp-pointed knife, Andy picked away a small hole, and in it set a peg taken from the sledge. While the lad was doing this, Barwell Dawson curled up the rope as if it were a lasso. His outings on the plains now stood him in good stead, and he threw the end of the rope with the skill of a cowboy lassoing cattle. Olalola caught it and slipped it over the peg, and then he and Andy did all they could to hold the peg in the ice. It now became a question if the explorer could haul the floating ice in, or if the current would be too strong for him. Chet came to his aid, and so did two of the Esquimaux. "Beware of where you stand!" sang out Chet. "The shore is cracked all along here!" This was true, and all were in danger of going down. The ice was the most rotten they had yet encountered--why, they could not tell. Working with care, they at last turned the floating mass shoreward, until it bumped lightly. But just as they did this, the ice at their feet began to give way. "Jump for it! Don't wait!" yelled Barwell Dawson, and Andy jumped, and so did Olalola. The latter tried to drive the dogs, but ere he could do so the peg came up, allowing the rope to free itself, and off floated the big cake again, carrying the dogs, sledge, and supplies with it. Andy and Olalola got into water up to their knees, but managed to throw themselves headlong on the firm ice and roll over and over to safety. "I'm glad to see you safe," said Mr. Dawson, "but it's too bad about those dogs and the supplies." "Can't we get them in?" asked Professor Jeffers. "We can try it." They did try it. But just below where they stood the lead widened out, and another lead cut crosswise, so their further progress was barred. They stood on the edge of the ice watching the dogs and sledge disappear around a hill to the north of the lead. The dogs howled dismally, as if knowing they were doomed. The loss of so many dogs and so much of their outfit sobered the entire party, and Estankawak berated Olalola soundly for allowing the team to get away from him. Estankawak had been faint-hearted for several days, and now he came to Barwell Dawson and advised that all turn back. "We cannot reach the Big Nail," said he. "We have not enough food and not enough dogs." By the "Big Nail" he meant the North Pole. "We have certainly suffered a severe loss, but I think we can reach the Pole anyway," answered Mr. Dawson. "Estankawak wants to go back." "Very well, you can go back if you want to,--but you'll have to go alone." This, of course, did not suit the Esquimau at all. He said he wanted the other Esquimaux to go with him, and walked away, grumbling to himself. "He'll have to be watched," said Chet to Andy, when he heard of this talk. "Right you are," answered his chum. Andy had not suffered from his adventure, but it must be confessed that he had been badly scared. On the following morning, while they were still trying to get over the lead, a strong wind came up from the northeast. This began to move the ice on the north shore, and in less than six hours the lead was completely choked up with it. When they looked at this transformation, the boys could scarcely believe their eyesight. "Now is our chance!" cried Barwell Dawson. "Olalola says it is perfectly safe to cross the ice, although it will be a terribly rough journey." They went forward, Estankawak most unwillingly, and inside of two hours left the lead behind them. They now struck ice that was comparatively smooth, so progress became more rapid. By the next day they were within just a hundred miles of their goal. "We'll get there!" cried Andy, but in less than ten hours his tune changed, for it commenced to snow furiously, while the wind became a perfect gale. All hands were glad enough to crawl into some hastily-constructed _igloos_, and even the dogs sought whatever shelter they could find. They were thus stormbound for several days. To make any move whatever would have been folly, and Barwell Dawson attempted none. Yet he chafed roundly at the delay, the more so as he saw his stock of supplies rapidly diminishing. "We must go on shorter rations," said the explorer, and cut down the quantities that very day. This led to increased dissatisfaction on the part of Estankawak, and he conversed earnestly with another of his tribe, Muckaloo by name, but not in the hearing of Olalola. "He is up to no good, and we must watch him," whispered Andy to Chet. "Maybe he will try to bolt, and take some of our things with him." This was just what Estankawak had in mind to do, and he readily got Muckaloo to join in the scheme. Early in the morning of the next day, when the weather showed signs of clearing, the two Esquimaux crawled out of their hut and sneaked over to one of the sledges and harnessed up the team of six dogs. On the sledge they placed such of the stores as were handy. The boys were watching them, and Andy immediately notified Barwell Dawson. "Going to mutiny, eh?" cried the explorer, and snatching up a shotgun he ran outside without waiting to don his fur coat. He saw Estankawak and Muckaloo at the sledge, just ready to drive off. "Stop, you rascals!" he roared, in the native tongue. "Go a step, and I'll shoot you down!" The Esquimaux were startled, for they had not dreamed that any one outside of themselves was stirring in the camp. They looked at Barwell Dawson, and at the leveled shotgun, and Estankawak dropped the whip he had raised, while Muckaloo hung his head. "You are going to stay with us," went on the explorer. "If you want to leave, you must go without any of our things." "It is death to try to reach the Big Nail," growled Estankawak. "It will be death if you try to run off with any of my things," replied Barwell Dawson, grimly. "Go back to your _igloo_, and stay there until I call you." And at the point of the shotgun he made the mutinous natives retire to one of the ice huts. CHAPTER XXVII HOW COMMANDER PEARY REACHED THE POLE After the trouble with Estankawak and Muckaloo, Mr. Dawson had a close conference with Olalola. He found the latter as faithful as ever, and so put him in sole charge of the dogs and sledges, and warned him to keep a close watch on the others. "Do not let them steal anything," said the explorer, "and when we return to civilization you shall be richly rewarded. I will give you a boat, a gun, and a hunting knife." This, to the Esquimau, was riches indeed, and he promised to keep watch day and night. He had a stern talk with Estankawak and Muckaloo and came close to thrashing them both. After that the mutinous natives caused but little trouble. Two days went by, and slowly but surely the party drew closer to the Pole. The professor took another observation, and announced that they had now but sixty-eight miles more to cover to reach the Top of the World. "That wouldn't be so bad if walking was good, but it seems to grow worse," said Andy. He had already worn out two pairs of walrus-hide foot-coverings, and now the third pair looked woefully ragged. "I'd like to know something of Commander Peary," observed Chet. "He must be in this region." "He is," answered Barwell Dawson. "But just where, there is no telling. Perhaps he has been to the Pole, and is now coming back." They would have been much surprised if they had known that Commander Peary was at that moment less than a hundred miles away from their camp. This intrepid explorer had pushed his way steadily northward over the ice from Cape Columbia, to which point he journeyed from Cape Sheridan during the latter part of February. His outfit at this time consisted of seven members of the expedition, seventeen Esquimaux, 133 dogs, and nineteen sledges. It was the largest and best outfit Lieutenant Peary had ever had at his command for this work. It was the explorer's plan to establish supply stations all along the route, and for this purpose some of the party were at first sent ahead. They found conditions very similar to those which I have already described, and lost several sledges and a good many dogs, while some of the natives became sick and had to be sent back. By hard work Commander Peary reached the 85th degree of north latitude on March 18th, and five days later managed to cover another degree. It was intensely cold, the thermometer registering fifty and more degrees below zero. One man had his foot frozen, and had to be sent back to one of the bases of supplies. Feeling that the goal was now within his grasp, Commander Peary kept on steadily, and soon passed the 87th degree of latitude--his highest point during the expedition previously taken. This was a day of rejoicing. Here he dispensed with his last supporting party, and pushed into the Great Unknown with only a handful of faithful followers. At the end of March he was held up most unexpectedly by open water, and every one of the party was much disheartened. But this water was crossed April 2d, and two days later the great explorer found himself within one degree of his goal. Despite the intense bitterness of the cold, he pushed on as steadily as ever. It was a nerve-racking ordeal, yet he had but one thought, one ambition--to reach the goal for which he had been striving for twenty years. He could scarcely sleep and eat, so anxious was he to get to the end of the task he had set for himself. At last he stopped, on April 6th, to take another observation. This showed him to be within a few miles of the Pole, and if he went wild with joy, who can blame him? He called to those with him, and away they went over the ice, paying no heed to the keen wind that cut like a knife. And then came the supreme moment of joy. The North Pole was gained--the height of his ambition had at last been realized. He really and truly stood upon the Top of the World. It was to him the moment of moments, and yet he could not realize it, for it all seemed so commonplace. At the Pole it did not look different from what it did for miles around the sought-for spot. All was a field of ice and snow, vast and desolate. Thirty hours were spent at and around the Pole, taking observations and photographs, and in planting the Stars and Stripes, and also some records. Then Commander Peary started back, to break the news of his success to a world that had just been astonished by the reports of Dr. Cook's achievements of the year before. It was but a few hours after the professor had made the announcement that they had but sixty-eight miles more to cover that the party under Barwell Dawson came to another lead. It was wide and of great depth, as a sounding proved, and how to cross this became the next problem. Even Olalola shook his head. "There is no end to it," he said, sadly. "I go with you, but how?" "We must find a way," answered the explorer, and he and Chet went out on a tour of discovery. They came back discouraged, and that night all rested on the edge of the lead, wondering what they should do next. At last Barwell Dawson called the boys and the professor to him. "I think it best that we make the rest of the journey alone," said he. "We can take the best of the dogs, and the best sledge, and try to make a quick dash, leaving the others here to await our return. What do you say?" The boys were willing to do anything, and the professor was of a like turn of mind. "But how are you going to get over the lead?" asked Andy. "I'll find some kind of a way," answered the explorer. The matter was explained to Olalola. He was sorry to have them leave him, but promised faithfully to look after the camp, and after Dr. Slade, who was still ill, while they were gone. He said that by following the lead westward, they might be able to cross it. "I think so myself," answered Mr. Dawson. The start was made early the next day, Andy and Chet taking turns at driving the six dogs, the pick of what were left of the pack. The course was along the lead westward, and after a mile had been covered, they reached a spot where some new ice covered the water. "Do you think it will hold us?" asked Andy. "I'll test it and see," was Mr. Dawson's reply. After an examination the explorer came to the conclusion that they might risk the new ice. "But we must go over it quickly," he cautioned. "Don't let the dogs stop." They walked a distance back, and set the sledge in motion. Then out on the ice they spun, Chet cracking his long whip in true Esquimau fashion. The new ice cracked and groaned under their weight, and when they were in the middle of the lead it began to buckle. "Spread out--don't keep together!" yelled Barwell Dawson. "Chet, whip up the dogs and let 'em go it alone!" The boy understood, and gave the canines the lash. Away they sped at breakneck speed. Then Chet leaped to one side, and he and the others continued on their way a distance of fifty or more feet from each other. It was a great risk they had assumed, and each instant they thought the ice would break and let them down in the water. A rescue under such conditions,--with the thermometer standing at fifty-three degrees below zero,--would have been out of the question. "The ice is going down!" screamed Andy, just as he was within a rod of the north shore. "Hurry up!" There was no need to sound the warning, for all understood the peril only too well. They increased their speed, and slid the remaining few feet. Then, just behind them, they saw the ice buckle and break, allowing a stream of icy water to run over it. "Safe, and thank Heaven for it!" murmured Barwell Dawson, when he could catch his breath. "Don't ask me to take another such run," panted Professor Jeffer. "I thought we'd surely be drowned!" As soon as they had recovered somewhat from the dash, they walked on to where the dogs had stopped. In letting them go, Mr. Dawson had known that they were in no physical condition to run out of sight. When the travelers came up, they found the canines stretched out resting. The harness was in a snarl, and it took them the best part of a quarter of an hour to get the team straightened out again. "Did you notice that the ice looks purple?" remarked Andy, as they went on once again. "I did," answered Barwell Dawson. "It is as peculiar as it is beautiful." He had noticed the purple ice several days before, and also several mirages in the sky,--mirages that looked like hills and mountains, but which he knew were only optical delusions. Coming northward, the party had also had a splendid view of the _aurora borealis_, or Northern Lights, that mysterious glow thought to be electrical or magnetic. Once Andy had said that he could hear the lights, and that they sounded like the low hissing of steam. It grew colder that night, and it was all the explorers could do to keep from freezing. They had a small quantity of tea left--a quarter of a pound--and after melting some snow over their alcohol stove, drank the beverage boiling hot. Then they made themselves a hot stew of pemmican and ground-up peas. Each of the dogs received a chunk of frozen walrus meat, something they gnawed on savagely, so great was their hunger. The next day the sun was clouded, so that it was impossible for the professor to take any observations. But they knew they had not yet reached their goal, and so they pushed on, over ice that was hummocky, but not nearly as bad as it had been. "Hello!" cried Andy, about the middle of the afternoon. "What's that yonder?" He pointed to their left, where a dark object lay on the ice, half covered with loose snow. "Might as well see what it is," said Barwell Dawson, who was as curious as the others. So far, in that land of desolation, they had seen absolutely nothing but ice, snow, and open water. They moved to the spot and saw that the dark object was the carcass of a dog, frozen stiff. Beside the dog lay a board of a sledge. "Look!" exclaimed Barwell Dawson, as he held up the board. "Do you see what it says?" All looked at the bit of wood and saw, burnt upon it, the following: PEARY--1909 "It is something from the Peary expedition!" said Professor Jeffer. "He must have gotten up here ahead of us!" "It certainly looks that way," answered Barwell Dawson. "Well, he deserved to reach the Pole, after his many years of untiring efforts." Leaving the board as a silent monument, the four continued on their way northward. Again the wind was blowing from the west, and they calculated that it was on the increase. "With the thermometer down so low, if it blows very strong we'll be frozen stiff," declared Chet. "Why, a winter in Maine is a hothouse alongside of this!" The next day, owing to the wind, they made but scant progress. It was cloudy, yet just around noon the sun peeped from behind the clouds, and Professor Jeffer hurried to take an observation. Barwell Dawson gave him the correct time, and the old scientist quickly succeeded in making his computations. "Well, how do we stand?" asked Mr. Dawson, when Professor Jeffer had finished. "We are within twenty-two miles of the Pole," was the answer that thrilled the hearts of all. CHAPTER XXVIII THE TOP OF THE WORLD AT LAST "We'll get there tomorrow!" "If the weather permits, Andy." "Oh, we must get there, Chet! Just think of it--only twenty-two miles more! Why, it's nothing alongside of what we have already traveled." "Well, food is running very low." "Oh, I know that. Didn't I take an extra hole in my belt last night after supper? I feel as flat as a board." A day had been spent in camp, with the wind blowing furiously, and a fine, salt-like snow falling. They had tried to go on, but had covered less than half a mile when Barwell Dawson had called a halt. "It's no use," he had said, with a sigh. "We can't do anything in this wind. Let us keep our strength until it subsides." They had spent the day in mending the sledge, which was in danger of going to pieces, and in fixing up their foot coverings, which were woefully ragged. It was still blowing when they started again on their journey. But it was not nearly so bad as before, and the snow had ceased to come down. The sun, however, was still under the clouds, and the sky looked gray and sullen. "I don't know that I'd care to live here the year round," said Andy, with an attempt at humor. "It would be too hard to dig the potatoes." "Or go swimming," answered Chet. "Every time a fellow wanted a bath, he'd have to chop a hole in the ice." "Or tumble in a lead." "But, just the same, if we do reach the Pole, what a story we'll have to tell when we get back!" "We'll not be the first at the Pole." "We'll be the first boys at the Pole." "Right you are." They trudged on, occasionally urging the lagging dogs. The canines seemed to realize the loneliness of the situation, and occasionally stopped short, squatted down, and rent the air with dismal howlings. "They don't see any food and shelter ahead, and I don't blame them," said Barwell Dawson. By nightfall they calculated they had covered twelve miles. If that was true, only ten miles more separated them from their goal. "And we'll make that tomorrow or bust!" cried Andy. He was dead-tired, and ached in every limb, but a strange light shone in his eyes--the same fire that lit up the eyes of Barwell Dawson. In the morning the sky looked more forbidding than ever. But there was only a gentle breeze, and the thermometer registered forty-eight degrees,--several degrees warmer than it had been. "We'll travel until noon," announced Barwell Dawson. "Then we'll make camp, and wait until we can take an observation." They progressed almost in silence, the boys occasionally cracking the whip and urging the dogs. Barwell Dawson and Professor Jeffer were busy with their thoughts. Their fondest hopes seemed about to be realized. The boys thought of home. Would they ever see Maine again? "Seems like a lifetime since we left Pine Run!" remarked Chet once. "Two lifetimes," responded Andy. "One such trip as this is enough for me." The lads were footsore and weary to the last degree, but neither complained. They did not want to worry Barwell Dawson, and what would have been the use? He could not aid them. It was now a question of every one for himself. It was one o'clock when the explorer called a halt. On every hand was the field of ice and snow. But far ahead could be seen something which looked like a big iceberg. The sun was still under a cloud. "I think we have gone far enough," said Barwell Dawson. "We'll camp here, and wait until we can take an observation." No time was lost in gathering cakes of ice and building a fair-sized _igloo_. The boys worked with renewed interest. Had they really and truly reached the North Pole at last? "At the most we cannot be over a mile or two away from it," said the explorer. All were glad to rest, yet sleep was almost out of the question. The one thought of each member of the party was, "Are we at the Pole, or how much further have we to go?" Early in the morning it was cloudy, but about ten o'clock the sun came out faintly. "Unless it comes out full, I cannot take an accurate observation," said the professor. All waited impatiently and watched the sky. When it was a quarter to twelve the clouds rolled away to the eastward, and the sun burst forth with dazzling brightness. "Now is our chance!" cried Chet. All assisted the professor in his preparations to take the all-important observation. The old scientist's chronometer was compared with that of Barwell Dawson. "A difference of but three seconds," said the former. "We will split the difference when I take the observation," and this was done. The sextant was raised, and the old scientist looked through it with great care. His artificial horizon had been arranged but a short distance away. "Time!" roared Barwell Dawson, and the professor set the thumbscrew of his instrument. Then, through the magnifying glass, he read the figures and set to work with pen and pencil, making his computations, with his Nautical Almanac before him. All awaited breathlessly what he might have to say. Suddenly the aged man threw down the paper and pencil and threw his arms into the air. "We are at the 90th degree of north latitude!" he cried. "We have reached the North Pole!" "Hurrah!" yelled Andy and Chet, simultaneously, and Barwell Dawson joined in the cheer. "You are certain of that?" asked the explorer. "We must make no mistake." "Read the observation for yourself," answered the old scientist. "It is true," said Barwell Dawson, when he had verified the figures. "We are really and truly at the North Pole. Now, then, to raise the flag!" The others understood. All through the bitter journey they had carried an American flag and a fair-sized flagpole. Once the flag had become torn but they had mended it with care. In a twinkling the pole was brought forth, and planted in the ice and snow. Then the flag was raised, and it floated proudly in the breeze. "Three cheers for Old Glory!" cried Barwell Dawson, and the cheers were given with a will. "Three cheers for Barwell Dawson!" cried Andy, and he and Chet and the old scientist gave them, roundly. Then there followed a cheer for Professor Jeffer. "And now a cheer for the first boys at the North Pole!" cried Barwell Dawson, and he and Professor Jeffer raised their voices as loudly as they could. The boys could scarcely contain themselves, and both danced a jig, and then Andy turned half a dozen handsprings, just by way of working off his superfluous spirits. It was wonderful what a difference reaching the Pole made in them. All the hardships of the past weeks were forgotten, and even the men acted like schoolboys out for a holiday. They walked around the vicinity of the _igloo_, and sang and whistled, and for once completely forgot their hunger. Then, during the course of the afternoon, Professor Jeffer took more observations and a number of photographs. The next day the sun continued to shine brightly, and promptly at noon another observation was made. This gave the same result as before, so all were assured that they were really at the 90th degree of north latitude. "We must be at the North Pole," said Andy. "For see, while we call one part of the twenty-four hours day and the other night, the sun goes right around us and never seems to rise or sink." "Yes, that is something of a test," answered Professor Jeffer. "But it is not as infallible as that made by the sextant. The earth is more or less flat here, and that makes a difference." To make "dead certain" that they had covered the North Pole, the entire party journeyed five miles further ahead, and also an equal distance to the right and left. At one point they saw traces of another exploring party, but the snow and ice had covered up the records left behind. "And now to get back," said Barwell Dawson, at the close of the third day spent at and around the Pole. "We have no time to spare, if we want to get out of this land of desolation before winter sets in again." "I am ready," answered Professor Jeffer. "I have taken all the observations and photographs I wish, and have collected a valuable amount of data." "You can't get back any too quick for me," said Chet, dryly. "There is no use in disguising the fact that our provisions are very low," continued Barwell Dawson, gravely. "We have very little left for the dogs." "What will you do with them?" asked Chet. "One is a little lame. If the worst comes to the worst, we'll kill him and feed him to the others." They left the _igloo_ standing, and on the top placed a metallic box containing a brief record of their trip. Then they took down the flag and placed it on the sledge. They started on the return at seven in the morning. The weather was not so cold as it had been, and going seemed to be better, so they covered the twenty-two miles to their old camp without much difficulty. Here they had to repair the sledge again, and also had to kill off the lame dog. This made a feast for the others, and gave them some food that was much needed. "I could almost eat dog meat myself," said Chet. "It may come to that," answered Andy. "I guess it is a heap better than nothing, when a chap is starving." They found the new ice on the lead much thicker than it had been, and so crossed with ease. But now came on a heavy fall of snow, and all traces of their former trail were wiped out. "We'll have to steer by eyesight and the compass," announced Barwell Dawson. The boys were so hungry that they kept an eye open continually for game. But not so much as a bird showed itself. It was truly the land of ice and snow, and nothing else. On the fifth day, the case containing alcohol sprung a leak, and all of the precious stuff was lost in the snow. "We'll have to eat our meals cold after this," said Barwell Dawson. "Too bad, but it can't be helped." "I don't care how cold they are, if only we could get enough," grumbled Chet. An almost empty stomach did not tend to put him in good humor. Another day passed, and again it snowed. The flakes were so thick they could not see around them, and so had to halt and go into camp. Their provisions were now so low that only half rations were dealt out. "We can't stand this," cried Chet. "I've got to have something to eat." "Oh, Chet, don't grumble," answered Andy. "We are as bad off as you are." "To-morrow, if we find it necessary, we'll kill off one of the dogs for food," said Barwell Dawson. "That will leave us a team of four, and we ought to be able to get back to where we left the others with those. The sledge has next to nothing on it now." The morning dawned, dull and cheerless. They had a few mouthfuls of food, and then hitched up the dogs once more. Nobody felt like talking, and they started on their long journey in silence. Painfully they covered fifteen miles. Each was footsore and weary to the last degree, and not able to go another step. They sat down on a ridge of ice, and looked at each other. "We have got to have something to eat," declared Chet. "I am going to have one square meal, if I have to die tomorrow!" "Chet!" exclaimed Andy, reprovingly. "We'll kill one of the dogs and eat him," said Barwell Dawson. "It's the only way out of it." CHAPTER XXIX FIGHTING OFF STARVATION Yet to kill off one of the dogs was a serious undertaking, as they well knew. In that country to travel without a dog sledge was all but impossible, and the remaining animals might fail them at any moment. "Let us wait until tomorrow," said Andy. "Something may turn up." "I'd rather have something to eat now," growled Chet. "I will deal out a little pemmican," answered Barwell Dawson, and served each person about five ounces. Then, with increasing slowness, they covered three miles more. Ahead was a little hill, and the explorer thought to climb this and take a look around, to get his bearings. Hardly had he climbed the hill when he uttered a cry, calling the others to him. "There is something to our right," he said. "Some dark object half hidden in the snow." "Perhaps another memento of the Peary expedition," grumbled Chet. "I don't want any more of 'em--I want to get back." "We'll have a look," cried Andy. He turned to his chum. "Come, brace up, Chet, and stop grumbling, that's a good fellow." "All right!" exclaimed Chet, suddenly. "I suppose you've got as much right to grumble as I have. But my stomach is as flat as a pancake," he continued, woefully. "I could fill up on sawdust, if I had any." All of the party set off in the direction of the object Barwell Dawson had discovered. The explorer was in advance, and suddenly he set up a ringing shout: "Saved! saved!" "What do you mean?" asked Chet, quickly. "It is our old sledge--the one the dogs ran away with. It is stuck in a crack of the ice." "Are the stores on it?" asked Andy. "Yes, everything seems to be here," returned the explorer, joyfully. How the sledge had gotten there they did not know, and, at that moment, they did not care. Probably the floating ice had bumped against the shore and the dogs had started northward, not knowing what else to do. Then the sledge had become caught in the crack, and the dogs, growing impatient, had broken their harness. They had gnawed at the coverings of the stores, but had been unable to get at the food, and had then disappeared utterly. The finding of the sledge with its provisions, and its supply of alcohol, filled the entire party with joy, and they uttered a prayer to Heaven for their deliverance from what looked to be starvation. As quickly as it could be done, they fixed the little stove and lit it, and made themselves a steaming hot broth, which they devoured with gusto. Then they fed the dogs, built a rough _igloo_, and sank down in a profound slumber, from which nobody awakened until ten hours later. "Although we have found these supplies, we must be very sparing of them," said Barwell Dawson, when they awoke. "There is no telling when or how we will be able to get more--certainly not until we have joined the rest of our party, and gotten down to where we can find game." All were now anxious to rejoin those who had been left behind, and they journeyed steadily southward as fast as the weather would permit. They had one wide lead to cross, and it took a whole day to get to the south shore. Then came more snow, and they had to lose a day. But luck was with them, and one day, late in the afternoon, they heard a loud shout, and saw an Esquimau, standing on a hillock of ice, waving his arms at them. It was Olalola, and they soon reached him. "Chief Dawson reach the Big Nail?" asked the Esquimau, eagerly. "We did," was the answer. "Olalola much glad," went on the native, and his smiling face proved his words. All in the camp, including Dr. Slade, who was better, were glad that those who had gone to the Pole had returned, and the very next day everything was packed on the sledges, and the journey to the ship was begun. The food supply was very low, and all the extra dogs were killed and fed to the other canines. The Esquimaux lived on blubber and walrus meat. The boys tried blubber once, but had to give it up. "It turns me wrong side out in a minute," was the way Andy expressed it. As they drew further south the weather moderated, for which they were thankful. But they had much open water to cross, and this consumed a good deal of time. "I wouldn't mind it, if only we could find something to eat," said Chet. He suffered more from hunger than did any of the others, for he had always been a hearty eater. The next morning there was great excitement among the natives. A musk-ox had been seen, and all were eager for the hunt. "We must get that beast by all means," said Andy. "Think what it means--ox-roast galore!" The trail of the game was readily followed, and about seven o'clock in the evening the hunters came upon a herd of six musk oxen, resting in the shelter of a small hill. They surrounded the game, and succeeded in bringing down three of them. The others were pursued, but managed to get away. "This ends short rations," was Chet's comment, and his eyes brightened wonderfully. What he said was true, and that evening the explorers enjoyed a better meal than they had had for many weeks. The Esquimaux and dogs came in for their full share, and the big meal put even Estankawak in good humor, and he thought no more of deserting them. As they came down into the heart of Ellesmere Land they picked up Mr. Camdal and his party. They shot other game, and so had all the food they could eat, and more. The hunting just suited Barwell Dawson, for, as he told the boys, he was more of a hunter than he was an explorer. "How soon do you suppose we'll reach the _Ice King_?" asked Andy, one day. "If we have luck, we ought to sight the vessel in four or five days." "Will you sail for home at once?" "I think so, Andy. I presume you'll be glad to get back," and Mr. Dawson smiled faintly. "Yes and no," replied the youth. "I won't know what to do after I return. I don't want to live with Uncle Si." "You ought to go on another hunt for those missing papers." "I'll do that, of course." "And even if you can't find them, I'll look into the matter, and see if I can't learn what rights your father had in that timber tract. I'll not have much to do myself for a while. I'll not want to go on another exploring expedition in a hurry." So far, aside from Dr. Slade's attack, there had been but little sickness in the party, but on the next day Barwell Dawson was taken down, and all had to go into camp for three days until he felt better. During that time, Andy and Chet went out hunting, and brought down another polar bear, of which they were justly proud. "It's a great place to hunt," said Andy. "But I don't think I care to come up here again." "Nor I," added Chet. Then he heaved a long sigh. "I wish----" He stopped short. "What, Chet? Were you thinking of your father?" And Andy's voice softened. "Yes, I was. I thought sure, when I came up here, that I'd get some trace of him." "It's too bad. I wish I could help you," answered Andy, and that was all he could say. With their broken sledges and their small dog teams, the party moved slowly forward, to where the _Ice King_ had been left along the coast. They did not expect to find the vessel fast in the ice, but hoped that Captain Williamson would be cruising near, on the lookout for them. "When we get to the coast, if the vessel is not in sight, we'll fire some signals," said Barwell Dawson. "The captain will be sure to answer them." Two days more passed, and they came to something of an open bay, dotted here and there with floating ice. At the sight, the boys set up a cheer: "The sea! The sea!" It was indeed the sea--or, rather, the upper entrance to Smith Sound. The party had traveled too far to the eastward, and had now to turn southward, skirting the coast. Here the going was very rough, and the very next morning one of the sledges went down in a crack of the ice, and was smashed completely. "Thank goodness we do not need it any longer," was Barwell Dawson's comment. What stores the sledge had contained were hauled up from the crack and loaded on the remaining turnouts. Another day passed, and now all kept on the lookout for a sign of the ship. But though they climbed to the top of a high hill, skirting the coast, no sign of a vessel was to be seen anywhere. Again they resumed their journey, and thus two days passed. Then Andy, who was in the lead with Olalola, set up a cry: "I see the hut and the storehouse!" He was right; they had at last arrived at the spot where they had embarked from the _Ice King_. The place was deserted, and they could easily see where the steamer had pushed through the floating ice, and made her way to the broad lead beyond. "We'll hoist our flag, and fire a signal," said Barwell Dawson, and without delay a pole was nailed to the top of the storehouse, and Old Glory was swung to the breeze. Then one of the shotguns was fired off three times in succession. All waited long for some answer to the reports, but none came. "He must have gone off for some reason or other," said Barwell Dawson. "All we can do is to wait for his return." "Perhaps the steamer was hit by an iceberg and sunk," suggested Professor Jeffer. "Let us hope no such calamity has befallen us," answered the explorer, gravely. It sobered all of the party a good deal to find themselves alone at the spot where they had so confidently thought to find the _Ice King_. They knew that there was great danger of a "squeeze" in the floating ice, and wondered what they should do if the craft had gone to the bottom of the polar sea. They might possibly get down to a point opposite Etah, but it would be a hard journey, and after it was made there was no telling if they could cross the water to that settlement. Three days went by, and the hearts of the party sank lower and lower. A few went out hunting, for the larder was again getting low. But for the most part all remained in the vicinity of the shore, awaiting eagerly some sign of the missing steamer. At last, early one morning, Andy made out a cloud of smoke far off on the water. He drew Chet's attention to it, and then called Olalola. The three watched the cloud draw nearer, and at last the Esquimau began to smile. "Ship," he said. "Ship with fire!"--meaning thereby a steam vessel. The word was soon passed that a ship was in sight, and all gathered to watch the approach of the craft. As it came closer, they saw that it was the _Ice King_, and on the deck stood Captain Williamson and his crew waving them a welcome. The captain had seen them with his spyglass. "Hurrah for the _Ice King_!" cried Chet, and the cheer was given with a will. "This ends our troubles here," added Andy. "Now to get aboard and start for home!" CHAPTER XXX HOME AGAIN It was no easy matter for the _Ice King_ to push, her way through the ice and reach the shore, but at last this was accomplished, and a gangplank was put out, so that our friends could go aboard. "Did you reach the Pole?" were Captain Williamson's words. "We did," answered Barwell Dawson. "But it was a hard journey, I can tell you!" "Good! I mean, I'm glad to know you got to the Pole," went on the captain. He looked over the party. "Look well, too." "We look better than we did a few weeks ago," said Andy. "Then you might have taken us for a lot of starved cats." "Have you been on a trip?" questioned Chet. He saw that the commander of the _Ice King_ was looking at him rather curiously. "Yes, I left here eight days ago, after I had heard of a whaler that had gone to pieces in the ice. Some Esquimaux brought the word, and said that a crew of five white men and one negro were on the shore to the northwestward." "And did you find them?" asked Chet, eagerly. "I did, lad, and I've got news for you." "About my father?" "Aye, Chet." "Was it the _Betsey Andrews_ that went down? Is my father among the men?" "Yes, it was the _Betsey Andrews_ that was caught in the ice. She drifted for months before she got a squeeze that finished her. Then the crew went ashore, and did what they could to save themselves." "But my father--is he--alive?" "Yes,--or he was, the last that was heard of him." "He isn't with the men you found?" "No, they are on board, and you can listen to their story later. After the whaler went to pieces, another vessel came along--a small ship bound for Nova Scotia, the _Evans_, and she took six of the crew with her, and among those was your father." "The _Evans_? What port was she bound for?" "Halifax." "And was my father all right when the _Evans_ sailed?" "Yes, although he had suffered somewhat from exposure, as had all of the crew." The fact that word had at last been obtained of his parent filled Chet's heart with joy. He lost no time in introducing himself to the sailors who had been rescued by Captain Williamson, and from them obtained a full account of the ill-fated trip of the _Betsey Andrews_. The ship had been all over the whaling grounds, and had had almost a full supply of oil and whalebone, when the commander, against the wishes of the mate and many of the crew, had decided to turn northward in quest of another whale or two. The captain had acted queerly, as if out of his mind, and had run the ship into a situation among the icebergs from which it was impossible to escape. Many months of anxiety had been passed on the whaler, and the climax had come when the awful squeeze crushed her as if she had been an eggshell. In that calamity the captain and two of the men had lost their lives. After the disaster the mate had taken charge, and the men had transferred their supplies to the shore and gone to living there. They had had more than enough oil to burn, and during the winter had kept a beacon light going, hoping it might bring some one to their assistance. Several had proved themselves good hunters, so they did not suffer for something to eat, although their diet was a limited one. At last the _Evans_ put in an appearance, and lots were drawn as to who should go aboard. Tolney Greene was one of the lucky ones, and the _Evans_ had left, promising to leave word regarding the others at Upernivik and other ports. "Oh, I am so thankful to know that father is alive!" said Chet to Andy. "I am glad, too, Chet," answered his chum. "I hope you meet him as soon as we get back." "So do I. But it's a long sail, Andy!" And Chet heaved a sigh. One day was spent in getting the things aboard the _Ice King_, and then the bow of the steamer was turned southward, and the long trip homeward was begun. It was a slow and tedious journey, with many perils from icebergs and fogs, and during that time Captain Williamson had more trouble with Pep Loggermore. As a result, the sailor was put in irons. At Upernivik he was allowed to go ashore, and that was the last seen of him. "If he has deserted, I am glad of it," said the captain, and Andy and Chet said the same. At Upernivik the Esquimaux were paid off, and Barwell Dawson rewarded Olalola as he had promised. The native shook hands warmly with the boys. "Nice boys," he said. "Olalola wish he had boys like you!" "Take good care of yourself, Olalola," said Andy. "And if you ever visit the States, come and see us," added Chet. "No come to States," said the Esquimau. "Too big sun, fry Olalola like fat!" And this quaint remark made the lads laugh. At Upernivik the _Ice King_ took on a fresh supply of coal, and then without delay continued on her journey southward. Chet had had a long talk with Barwell Dawson, and the explorer had promised to stop at Halifax to learn what had become of the _Evans_ and Mr. Greene. "And I will do all in my power to see that your father gets a square deal," added Mr. Dawson. "Of course, if he is guilty, I can do nothing for him, but if he is innocent, then we'll do what we can to bring the guilty parties to justice." "I know he is innocent," answered Chet, stubbornly. "I trust that you prove to be right, Chet," was all the explorer could say. As the steamer drew southward the weather became milder, until it was a real pleasure to be on deck. The boys discarded their furs, which they hung up as relics of the great trip. "Looking back, it seems like a dream, doesn't it?" said Andy. "A good deal that way," responded his chum. "I suppose by this time the whole country is talking about what Dr. Cook and Commander Peary have done." "More than likely." At last they reached Halifax, and all in a quiver of excitement Chet made inquiries regarding his father. He learned that Mr. Greene had had a chance to ship for Portland, Maine, and had done so, eight days previously. "I'll meet him there!" cried Chet. "So you will," answered Andy. "For we are going to Portland instead of Rathley." The run to Portland was made without special incident, and as soon as the _Ice King_ had tied up, Chet went ashore, with Andy, to hunt up the _Evans_. He found that the craft lay at a dock three blocks away and soon covered the distance. She had come in the day before, and was busy unloading her cargo. "So you are Tolney Greene's son, eh?" said the captain to Chet. "I've heard of you, for your father spoke of you several times." "And where is he?" "Started for home yesterday--to find you, he said, and to catch a rascal named Hopton, who had gotten him into trouble." "Hopton!" ejaculated Andy, who was present. "Do you mean a man named A. Q. Hopton?" "That's the fellow. Mr. Greene had it in for him good and proper. He committed some kind of a crime, and then fixed it on Mr. Greene, but Greene had the evidence against him--picked it up somewheres, just after signing to go on the _Betsey Andrews_." This was all the captain of the _Evans_ could say, but it was enough, and without delay Chet arranged to go to Pine Run, and Andy said he would go along. Barwell Dawson agreed to meet them later, and insisted upon giving each youth a small roll of bankbills, for expenses. It was midsummer, and hot,--a big contrast to the weather which the lads had so recently experienced. As the train rolled toward their home they discussed Mr. Greene's affairs, and wondered how Mr. A. Q. Hopton had gotten him into trouble. "But he is equal to it," said Andy. "I know that by the way he tried to treat me, and how he tried to pull the wool over Uncle Si's eyes." "Where do you suppose your Uncle Si is now?" "Hanging around, most likely, waiting for something to turn up," replied Andy. "I hope you're not going to let him have any of that money Mr. Dawson gave you." "Not a cent. If he wants any money, he'll have to go to work and earn it." At last the two youths reached Pine Run, and both walked to the general store, that being the center for information as well as supplies. The storekeeper looked at them in surprise. "Back again, eh?" he cried. "Have you seen my father?" questioned Chet. "Yes, he was here this morning, Chet. He was full of business." "Where did he go?" "Up to your cabin. He was very much put out that you had gone away." "Do you know anything of my Uncle Si?" asked Andy. "Well, rather." The storekeeper laughed outright. "Richest thing ever was!" he chuckled. "What?" "The way the men around here treated him. They got tired of his laziness and habit of borrowing money, and told him he must go to work. He wouldn't do it at first, and they hauled him out of bed one night, and said they were going to tar and feather him. Then he got scared to death, and promised to go to work, and he's been at work ever since--over at Larrington's sawmill. He came in last Saturday and paid his bill in full, and bought some groceries for spot cash. I reckon he's turned over a new leaf." "I'll be thankful if he has," said Andy. "By the way," continued the storekeeper, "he was talking of some property that is coming to you." "Property?" "Yes,--some timber land in Michigan. I believe you had the papers and lost 'em. Well, one day some hunters found the papers in the woods--pretty well soaked, but all there--and they brought 'em to your Uncle Si. He's got 'em now, and he's waiting to hear from you. He told me a real estate fellow named Hopton wanted 'em, but he was going to hold on to 'em until he heard from you." "Good for Uncle Si!" cried Andy. "He is coming to his senses at last! I am glad the papers have been found. I must see him at once!" CHAPTER XXXI GOOD NEWS--CONCLUSION To get to his own place, Chet had to pass the cabin belonging to Andy, and so the chums left the village together, in a carriage they hired with some of the money Barwell Dawson had given them. The thoughts of each youth were busy, so but little was said by them during the journey. As they came in sight of Andy's home, they saw smoke curling from the chimney. "Uncle Si must have gotten back from work," said Andy. "Most likely he's cooking supper. Chet, will you stop?" "Well, I'd rather see my father first," was the answer. "I don't blame you. Well, come over tomorrow, unless----Hello, there is a stranger!" Andy pointed to a man who had come to the cabin door, he having heard the sound of the carriage wheels. Chet stared hard at the individual. Then he took a flying leap to the ground and ran forward. "Father!" The man started, and then flung out his hands. "If it isn't Chet--my own son Chet!" he burst out, joyfully. "I was just wishing with all my heart that I knew where you were." And he shook hands over and over again. "And I've been hurrying to you as fast as I could for weeks," answered Chet, with a glad look in his eyes. "I heard you were at our cabin, and was going there." "I was there, and came here to ask Mr. Graham about you," answered Tolney Greene. Josiah Graham had come to the door, holding in his hand a frying pan containing bacon. He gave one look at the newcomers. "Andy!" he burst out, and in his amazement let the frying pan clatter to the doorstep, scattering the strips of bacon in all directions. "Is it really you, or your ghost?" "No ghost about me, Uncle Si," answered the boy. "They tell me you have gone to work." "Why, er--ye-as, I have a job at the sawmill." "I am glad to know it." "I--er--I got over my sickness, an' so I'm a-goin' to work stiddy after this," went on Josiah Graham, lamely. "That's the best news I've heard in a year." "Where have you been, Andy?" "Oh, on a little trip, to the North Pole and elsewhere," was the cool reply. "You're joking me! But have your fun,--it ain't none o' my affair. But I want to tell yer somethin'," went on the old man, impressively. "I got them papers back." "So I heard. I hope you'll not give them to that A. Q. Hopton." "Not much! Hopton is a swindler--I found thet out in Portland, when I was there." "What about Hopton?" demanded Mr. Greene, who had been in earnest conversation with Chet. "Do you mean the real estate dealer?" "I do," answered Josiah Graham. "Where is he now? He is the man who caused me all my trouble. Just let me get at him! He covered up his tracks pretty well, but I've now got the evidence against him." "I don't know where Hopton is now, but I guess I kin find out," answered Josiah Graham. All entered the cabin, and there each told his story in detail. The men listened to the boys in open-mouthed wonder. "And to think you came north, and was so close to me!" said Mr. Greene to his son. He said he had been half crazy when he signed articles for the trip on the _Betsey Andrews_. Then he had gotten word about A. Q. Hopton, and had discovered that the real estate man was guilty of the crimes of which he himself was accused. He had gone to the captain of the whaler to get his release, but the captain had refused to let him go, and had locked him up aboard the ship until the voyage was well begun. "He was a strange man, that captain," said Mr. Greene. "And it is no wonder that he lost his ship and his life in the frozen north." "And you have the evidence to prove your innocence, and prove this A. Q. Hopton guilty?" asked Chet. "Yes, my son, I can prove that Hopton was guilty, and nobody else." "Oh, how glad I am of it!" murmured Chet. A substantial supper was prepared for all,--Andy assisting his uncle in getting it ready. "Uncle Si isn't a bit like his old self," whispered Andy to Chet, when they sat down. "Going to work has waked him up and made another man of him." "Hope he sticks to it," answered Chet. That evening, after all the stories had been told in detail, Josiah Graham brought out the papers Andy had lost in the woods. As the storekeeper had said, they had been well soaked by the snow and rain, but they were still decipherable. "I am going to tell Mr. Dawson about them, and then turn them over to some first-class lawyer," said Andy. "If they are really worth anything, I want to know it." On the following day the two boys and Mr. Greene returned to Portland. Chet's father conferred with the police, and as a consequence Mr. A. Q. Hopton was located, some days later, in Augusta, and placed in custody. He was subjected to a close examination, and finally broke down, and confessed his guilt. He said that Tolney Greene had had nothing to do with the crimes, and Chet's father was completely exonerated. He also told about the timber land in Michigan, and through a firm of good lawyers Andy's claim to a substantial interest was established,--an interest said to be worth fifteen thousand dollars. "With all that money, you won't have to work no more," said Josiah Graham to the boy. "But I am going to work, just the same," answered Andy. "And you are going to work with me, Uncle Si. Some day, we'll have a big lumber camp of our own." "And what is thet Greene boy goin' to do?" "He is going into partnership with me--when we are old enough," answered Andy. "Do you think it's wuth it, to work so hard when you've got so much money?" asked Uncle Si, wistfully. "Certainly I do. It's the best thing for me--and for you, too. I shouldn't want to be idle, even if I was a millionaire." "Well, jest as you say, Andy." The old man heaved a long sigh. "I suppose you are right--anyway, it's your money." And then he went to work again, and said no more on the subject. As soon as his name was cleared, Tolney Greene looked around for work. Through Andy's influence, he obtained the position of superintendent at the lumber tract in Michigan, and Chet went to work with him. "And what are you going to do?" asked Chet of Andy, one day. "I am going to rest for a month or so," was the answer. "Then Mr. Dawson, who has been appointed my guardian, is going to send me to a first-class boarding school." "And after that, Andy?" "I am going into the lumber business--and you are going with me, Chet." "Me?" "Yes." "But I haven't any money." "Never mind, when I go in for myself you are going to have an interest," replied Andy, and his tone showed that he meant what he said. The report that the Barwell Dawson expedition had reached the North Pole created a great stir. Many would not believe it, and the explorer and Professor Jeffer were called upon to submit proofs. This they did willingly. Then Barwell Dawson was asked to lecture, but declined. But Professor Jeffer took to the platform, and made a great deal of money thereby, and from the book he issued later. "It was a grand trip--a truly marvelous trip," the professor was wont to say. "But--but I do not think I desire to go again." "You are right," answered Barwell Dawson. "Once is sufficient. After this I shall devote my time to hunting and exploring in localities not quite so cold." "And where there is plenty of food," put in Andy. "Yes, don't forget the food," said Chet. "As long as I live I never want to get so close to starving again!" And all the others agreed with him. THE END 
18975	----	THE NORTH POLE COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY [Illustration: THE FIVE FLAGS AT THE POLE LEFT TO RIGHT 1. Navy League--Ooqueah 2. D. K. E. Fraternity--Ootah 3. Polar Flag Carried 15 Years--Henson 4. D. A. R. Peace Flag--Egingwah 5. Red Cross Flag--Seegloo] THE NORTH POLE ITS DISCOVERY IN 1909 UNDER THE AUSPICES OF THE PEARY ARCTIC CLUB BY ROBERT E. PEARY WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY THEODORE ROOSEVELT AND A FOREWORD BY GILBERT H. GROSVENOR DIRECTOR AND EDITOR, NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC SOCIETY [Illustration] GREENWOOD PRESS, PUBLISHERS NEW YORK Originally published in 1910 by Frederick A. Stokes Co. First Greenwood Reprinting, 1968 Library of Congress Catalogue Card Number: 68-55210 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA TO MY WIFE INTRODUCTION SOME _years ago I met at a dinner in Washington the famous Norwegian arctic explorer, Nansen, himself one of the heroes of polar adventure; and he remarked to me, "Peary is your best man; in fact I think he is on the whole the best of the men now trying to reach the Pole, and there is a good chance that he will be the one to succeed." I cannot give the exact words; but they were to the above effect; and they made a strong impression on me. I thought of them when in the summer of 1908 I, as President of the United States, went aboard Peary's ship to bid him Godspeed on the eve of what proved to be his final effort to reach the Pole. A year later, when I was camped on the northern foothills of Mt. Kenia, directly under the equator, I received by a native runner the news that he had succeeded, and that thanks to him the discovery of the North Pole was to go on the honor roll of those feats in which we take a peculiar pride because they have been performed by our fellow countrymen. Probably few outsiders realize the well-nigh incredible toil and hardship entailed in such an achievement as Peary's; and fewer still understand how many years of careful training and preparation there must be before the feat can be even attempted with any chance of success. A "dash for the pole" can be successful only if there have been many preliminary years of painstaking, patient toil. Great physical hardihood and endurance, an iron will and unflinching courage, the power of command, the thirst for adventure, and a keen and farsighted intelligence--all these must go to the make-up of the successful arctic explorer; and these, and more than these, have gone to the make-up of the chief of successful arctic explorers, of the man who succeeded where hitherto even the best and the bravest had failed. Commander Peary has made all dwellers in the civilized world his debtors; but, above all, we, his fellow Americans, are his debtors. He has performed one of the great feats of our time; he has won high honor for himself and for his country; and we welcome his own story of the triumph which he won in the immense solitudes of the wintry North._ THEODORE ROOSEVELT. THE WHITE NILE, _March_ 12, 1910. COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY [Illustration: PORTRAIT OF ROBERT E. PEARY, IN HIS ACTUAL NORTH POLE COSTUME] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE INTRODUCTION vii FOREWORD xv I THE PLAN 1 II PREPARATIONS 11 III THE START 25 IV UP TO CAPE YORK 34 V WELCOME FROM THE ESKIMOS 42 VI AN ARCTIC OASIS 53 VII ODD CUSTOMS OF AN ODD PEOPLE 63 VIII GETTING RECRUITS 72 IX A WALRUS HUNT 79 X KNOCKING AT THE GATEWAY TO THE POLE 88 XI CLOSE QUARTERS WITH THE ICE 97 XII THE ICE FIGHT GOES ON 106 XIII CAPE SHERIDAN AT LAST 117 XIV IN WINTER QUARTERS 126 XV THE AUTUMN WORK 134 XVI THE BIGGEST GAME IN THE ARCTIC 143 XVII MUSK-OXEN AT LAST 151 XVIII THE LONG NIGHT 162 XIX THE _Roosevelt's_ NARROW ESCAPE 172 XX CHRISTMAS ON THE _Roosevelt_ 182 XXI ARCTIC ICE SLEDGING AS IT REALLY IS 193 XXII ESSENTIALS THAT BROUGHT SUCCESS 201 XXIII OFF ACROSS THE FROZEN SEA 213 XXIV THE FIRST OPEN WATER 221 XXV SOME OF MY ESKIMOS LOSE THEIR NERVE 230 XXVI BORUP'S FARTHEST NORTH 240 XXVII GOOD-BY TO MARVIN 248 XXVIII WE BREAK ALL RECORDS 255 XXIX BARTLETT REACHES 87° 47´ 264 XXX THE FINAL SPURT BEGUN 272 XXXI ONLY ONE DAY FROM THE POLE 280 XXXII WE REACH THE POLE 287 XXXIII GOOD-BY TO THE POLE 302 XXXIV BACK TO LAND AGAIN 314 XXXV LAST DAYS AT CAPE SHERIDAN 325 APPENDIX I 337 APPENDIX II 350 APPENDIX III 363 ILLUSTRATIONS FULL-PAGE PLATES REPRODUCING PHOTOGRAPHIC ENLARGEMENTS COLORED BY HAND THE FIVE FLAGS AT THE POLE _Frontispiece._ Facing Page PORTRAIT OF ROBERT E. PEARY IN HIS ACTUAL NORTH POLE COSTUME viii STELLAR PROJECTION, SHOWING THE RELATION OF THE POLAR SEA TO THE VARIOUS CONTINENTS AND THE ROUTE OF THE EXPEDITION xxxii ESKIMO DOGS OF THE EXPEDITION (246 IN ALL) ON SMALL ISLAND. ETAH FJORD 74 CAPTAIN BARTLETT AND HIS PARTY (A TYPICAL UNIT DIVISION OF THE EXPEDITION) 140 ILLUMINATION OF THE _Roosevelt_ IN WINTER QUARTERS ON A MOONLIGHT NIGHT 162 A TYPICAL EXAMPLE OF THE DIFFICULTIES OF WORKING SLEDGES OVER A PRESSURE RIDGE 240 CROSSING A LEAD ON AN ICE CAKE AS A FERRY-BOAT 306 BLACK AND WHITE ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS Facing Page GEORGE A. WARDWELL, CHIEF ENGINEER 16 BANKS SCOTT, SECOND ENGINEER 16 ROBERT A. BARTLETT, MASTER 16 THOMAS GUSHUE, MATE 16 CHARLES PERCY, STEWARD 16 PROFESSOR ROSS G. MARVIN, ASSISTANT 17 GEORGE BORUP, ASSISTANT 17 DONALD B. MACMILLAN, ASSISTANT 17 DR. J. W. GOODSELL, SURGEON 17 SNOWY OWL, CAPE SHERIDAN 36 BRANT GOOSE 37 SABINE'S GULL 37 RED-THROATED DIVER, MALE AND FEMALE 37 KING EIDER, DRAKE 37 ESKIMOS COMING OFF TO THE _Roosevelt_ IN KAYAKS 42 THE MIDNIGHT SUN AS SEEN IN THE WHALE SOUND REGION 42 ESKIMO IN KAYAK 43 THE ICE-CLIFFS OF HUBBARD GLACIER 52 PEARY DISTRIBUTING UTENSILS TO WIVES OF HIS HUNTERS AT ETAH 53 DECK SCENE ON THE _Roosevelt_ 53 ESKIMO MOTHER AND CHILD 60 ESKIMO CHILDREN 61 KUDLAH, ALIAS "MISFORTUNE," WITH PUPPIES 61 KING ESKIMO DOG 70 THE DOG MARKET AT CAPE YORK 71 THE WHALE-BOAT RETURNING TO THE SHIP FROM THE WALRUS HUNT 71 THE CAPE JESUP GRENADIERS 71 HOISTING A WALRUS TO THE DECK OF THE _Roosevelt_ 86 A NARWHAL KILLED OFF CAPE UNION, JULY, 1909. THE MOST NORTHERLY SPECIMEN EVER CAPTURED 87 CAPTAIN BARTLETT IN THE CROW'S NEST 104 TABULAR ICEBERG AND FLOE-ICE 105 THE _Roosevelt_ DRYING OUT HER SAILS AT CAPE SHERIDAN, SEPTEMBER, 1908 122 THE _Roosevelt_ ON SEPTEMBER 12, 1908, MARIE AHNIGHITO PEARY'S BIRTHDAY 123 "PEARY" SLEDGES ON BOARD THE _Roosevelt_ 123 VIEW BETWEEN THE _Roosevelt_ AND CAPE COLUMBIA 136 ESKIMO TYPE OF SLEDGE USED ON JOURNEY 137 "PEARY" TYPE OF SLEDGE 137 POLAR BEAR, ARRANGED BY "FROZEN TAXIDERMY" AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY FLASHLIGHT 144 FAMILY GROUP OF PEARY CARIBOU (_Rangifer Pearyi_), ARRANGED BY "FROZEN TAXIDERMY" AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY FLASHLIGHT 145 HEAD OF BULL MUSK-OX KILLED ON PARRY PENINSULA 152 HERD OF MUSK-OXEN ROUNDED UP 153 WEESHARKOOPSI AND MUSK-OX CALF 156 BEAR KILLED IN CLEMENTS MARKHAM INLET 156 MUSK-OX HEADS IN THE RIGGING OF THE _Roosevelt_ 157 CARIBOU HEADS IN THE RIGGING OF THE _Roosevelt_ 157 CRANE CITY, CAPE COLUMBIA, AT THE TIME OF DEPARTURE MARCH 1, 1909 192 FACE OF THE LAND ICE, "GLACIAL FRINGE," OFF CAPE COLUMBIA 193 PINNACLE NEAR THE SHORE 193 TYPICAL TRAIL IN SOFT SNOW (LOOKING BACKWARD) 208 TYPICAL VIEW OF THE ICE OF THE ARCTIC OCEAN NORTH OF GRANT LAND 209 TYPICAL CAMP ON THE ICE 209 WORKING THROUGH AN EXPANSE OF ROUGH ICE 216 PASSING THROUGH A DEFILE IN ROUGH ICE 217 APPROACHING A LEAD THROUGH ROUGH ICE 224 STOPPED BY OPEN WATER 225 ATHLETIC SPORTS AT THE LEAD CAMP 232 PICKAXING A ROAD THROUGH ZONE OF ROUGH ICE 232 A CHARACTERISTIC VIEW OF THE EXPEDITION ON THE MARCH IN FINE WEATHER 233 REPAIRING SLEDGES IN CAMP 248 MARVIN TAKING AN OBSERVATION IN A SNOW SHELTER 249 CROSSING A LARGE LAKE OF YOUNG ICE, NORTH OF 87° 264 CAMP AT 85° 48´ NORTH, MARCH 22, 1909 265 A MOMENTARY HALT IN THE LEE OF A BIG HUMMOCK NORTH OF 88° 265 BARTLETT AND HIS PARTY READY TO START BACK FROM 87° 47´ NORTH, APRIL 1, 1909 270 CUTTING BLOCKS OF SNOW FOR IGLOOS AT NEXT TO LAST CAMP, 89° 25´ NORTH 271 THE HALT FOR LUNCH IN LAST FORCED MARCH, 89° 25´ TO 89° 57´, SHOWING ALCOHOL STOVES IN SNOW SHELTER 284 CAMP MORRIS K. JESUP, 89° 57´, APRIL 6 AND 7, 1909 285 THE RECONNOITERING PARTY AT THE POLE 288 THE DOUBLE TEAM OF DOGS USED WITH THE RECONNOITERING SLEDGE AT THE POLE, SHOWING THEIR ALERTNESS AND GOOD CONDITION 289 PEARY WITH CHRONOMETER, SEXTANT, AND ARTIFICIAL HORIZON AT THE POLE 290 PEARY TAKING AN OBSERVATION AT THE POLE, WITH ARTIFICIAL HORIZON, IN A SNOW SHELTER 290 PEARY'S IGLOO AT CAMP MORRIS K. JESUP, APRIL 6, 1909; THE MOST NORTHERLY HUMAN HABITATION IN THE WORLD 291 MEMBERS OF THE PARTY CHEERING THE STARS AND STRIPES AT THE POLE, APRIL 7, 1909 294 RETURNING TO CAMP WITH THE FLAGS, APRIL 7, 1909 294 THE FOUR NORTH POLE ESKIMOS 295 EGINGWAH SEARCHING THE HORIZON FOR LAND 298 PEARY SEARCHING THE HORIZON FOR LAND 298 LOOKING TOWARD CAPE CHELYUSKIN 299 LOOKING TOWARD SPITZBERGEN 299 LOOKING TOWARD CAPE COLUMBIA 299 LOOKING TOWARD BERING STRAIT 299 ATTEMPTED SOUNDING, APRIL 7, 1909 302 ACTUAL SOUNDING, FIVE MILES SOUTH OF THE POLE, APRIL 7, 1909, 1500 FATHOMS (9000 ft.) NO BOTTOM 303 SWINGING AN ICE CAKE ACROSS A LEAD TO FORM AN IMPROMPTU BRIDGE 308 PASSING OVER THE BRIDGE 309 SOUNDING 312 BREAKING CAMP. PUSHING THE SLEDGES UP TO THE TIRED DOGS 312 LAST CAMP ON THE ICE ON THE RETURN 313 BACK ON THE "GLACIAL FRINGE" 313 APPROACHING THE PEAKS OF CAPE COLUMBIA OVER THE SURFACE OF THE "GLACIAL FRINGE" 318 CRANE CITY AT CAPE COLUMBIA, ON THE RETURN 318 EGINGWAH BEFORE STARTING ON THE SLEDGE TRIP 319 EGINGWAH AFTER THE RETURN FROM THE TRIP 319 OOTAH BEFORE STARTING ON THE SLEDGE TRIP 319 OOTAH AFTER THE RETURN FROM THE SLEDGE TRIP 319 PERMANENT MONUMENT ERECTED AT CAPE COLUMBIA TO MARK POINT OF DEPARTURE AND RETURN OF NORTH POLE SLEDGE PARTY 324 PEARY CAIRN AT CAPE MORRIS K. JESUP AS PHOTOGRAPHED BY MACMILLAN AND BORUP 325 MEMORIAL ERECTED TO THE MEMORY OF PROFESSOR ROSS G. MARVIN AT CAPE SHERIDAN 325 THE SPECIAL GREAT GOLD MEDAL OF THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC SOCIETY OF WASHINGTON 364 THE SPECIAL GREAT GOLD MEDAL OF THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY OF LONDON 365 NOTE.--The general plan of illustration is based on an unusually close adherence to the negatives, as giving more interesting and valuable results. Many of the most important pictures are from photographs not retouched in the least, _e.g._, those facing pages 270, 284, 290, etc. In others the sky-line has been indicated, _e.g._, those facing pages 208, 271, 299 (top), etc.; but change of no other sort has been made except to remove specks and other similar mechanical defects not widely extended. The color-plates are, of course, exceptions requiring special treatment. THE PUBLISHERS FOREWORD The struggle for the North Pole began nearly one hundred years before the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers at Plymouth Rock, being inaugurated (1527) by that king of many distinctions, Henry VIII of England. In 1588 John Davis rounded Cape Farewell, the southern end of Greenland, and followed the coast for eight hundred miles to Sanderson Hope. He discovered the strait which bears his name, and gained for Great Britain what was then the record for the farthest north, 72° 12´, a point 1128 miles from the geographical North Pole. Scores of hardy navigators, British, French, Dutch, German, Scandinavian, and Russian, followed Davis, all seeking to hew across the Pole the much-coveted short route to China and the Indies. The rivalry was keen and costly in lives, ships, and treasure, but from the time of Henry VIII for three and one-half centuries, or until 1882 (with the exception of 1594-1606, when, through Wm. Barents, the Dutch held the record), Great Britain's flag was always waving nearest the top of the globe. The same year that Jamestown was founded, Henry Hudson (1607), also seeking the route to the Indies, discovered Jan Mayen, circumnavigated Spitzbergen, and advanced the eye of man to 80° 23´. Most valuable of all, Hudson brought back accounts of great multitudes of whales and walruses, with the result that for the succeeding years these new waters were thronged with fleets of whaling ships from every maritime nation. The Dutch specially profited by Hudson's discovery. During the 17th and 18th centuries they sent no less than 300 ships and 15,000 men each summer to these arctic fisheries and established on Spitzbergen, within the Arctic Circle, one of the most remarkable summer towns the world has ever known, where stores and warehouses and reducing stations and cooperages and many kindred industries flourished during the fishing season. With the approach of winter all buildings were shut up and the population, numbering several thousand, all returned home. Hudson's record remained unequaled for 165 years, or until 1773, when J. C. Phipps surpassed his farthest north by twenty-five miles. To-day the most interesting fact connected with the Phipps expedition is that Nelson, the hero of Trafalgar and of the Battle of the Nile, then a lad of fifteen, was a member of the party. Thus the boldest and strongest spirits of the most adventurous and hardy profession of those days sought employment in the contest against the frozen wilderness of the north. The first half of the 19th century witnessed many brave ships and gallant men sent to the arctic regions. While most of these expeditions were not directed against the Pole so much as sent in an endeavor to find a route to the Indies round North America--the Northwest Passage--and around Asia--the Northeast Passage--many of them are intimately interwoven with the conquest of the Pole, and were a necessary part of its ultimate discovery. England hurled expedition after expedition, manned by the best talent and energy of her navy, against the ice which seemingly blocked every channel to her ambitions for an arctic route to the Orient. In 1819 Parry penetrated many intricate passages and overcame one-half of the distance between Greenland and Bering Sea, winning a prize of £5000, offered by Parliament to the first navigator to pass the 110th meridian west of Greenwich. He was also the first navigator to pass directly north of the magnetic North Pole, which he located approximately, and thus the first to report the strange experience of seeing the compass needle pointing due south. So great was Parry's success that the British government sent him out in command of two other expeditions in search of the Northwest Passage. In explorations and discoveries the results of these two later expeditions were not so rich, but the experience in ice work so obtained gave Parry conclusions which revolutionized all methods in arctic navigation. Hitherto all attempts to approach the Pole had been in ships. In 1827 Parry suggested the plan of a dash to the Pole on foot, from a base on land. He obtained the assistance of the government, which for the fourth time sent him to the Arctic provided with well-equipped ships and able officers and men. He carried a number of reindeer with him to his base in Spitzbergen, purposing to use these animals to drag his sledges. The scheme proved impracticable, however, and he was compelled to depend on the muscles of his men to haul his two heavy sledges, which were in reality boats on steel runners. Leaving Spitzbergen on June 23 with twenty-eight men, he pushed northward. But the summer sun had broken up the ice floes, and the party repeatedly found it necessary to take the runners off their boats in order to ferry across the stretches of open water. After thirty days' incessant toil Parry had reached 82° 45´, about 150 miles north of his base and 435 geographical miles from the Pole. Here he found that, while his party rested, the drift of the ice was carrying him daily back, almost as much as they were able to make in the day's work. Retreat was therefore begun. Parry's accomplishments, marking a new era in polar explorations, created a tremendous sensation. Knighthood was immediately bestowed upon him by the King, while the British people heaped upon him all the honors and applause with which they have invariably crowned every explorer returning from the north with even a measure of success. In originality of plan and equipment Parry has been equaled and surpassed only by Nansen and Peary. In those early days, few men being rich enough to pay for expeditions to the north out of their own pockets, practically every explorer was financed by the government under whose orders he acted. In 1829, however, Felix Booth, sheriff of London, gave Captain John Ross, an English naval officer, who had achieved only moderate success in a previous expedition, a small paddle-wheel steamer, the _Victory_, and entered him in the race for the Northwest Passage. Ross was assisted, as mate, by his nephew, James Clark Ross, who was young and energetic, and who was later to win laurels at the opposite end of the globe. This first attempt to use steam for ice navigation failed, owing to a poor engine or incompetent engineers, but in all other respects the Rosses achieved gloriously. During their five years' absence, 1829-1834, they made important discoveries around Boothia Felix, but most valuable was their definite location of the magnetic North Pole and the remarkable series of magnetic and meteorological observations which they brought back with them. No band of men ever set out for the unknown with brighter hopes or more just anticipation of success than Sir John Franklin's expedition of 1845. The frightful tragedy which overwhelmed them, together with the mystery of their disappearance, which baffled the world for years and is not yet entirely explained, forms the most terrible narrative in arctic history. Franklin had been knighted in 1827, at the same time as Parry, for the valuable and very extensive explorations which he had conducted by snowshoes and canoe on the North American coast between the Coppermine and Great Fish rivers, during the same years that Parry had been gaining fame in the north. In the interval Franklin had served as Governor of Tasmania for seven years. His splendid reputation and ability as an organizer made him, though now fifty-nine years of age, the unanimous choice of the government for the most elaborate arctic expedition it had prepared in many years. Franklin's fame and experience, and that of Crozier and his other lieutenants, who had seen much service in the north, his able ships, the _Terror_ and the _Erebus_, which had just returned from a voyage of unusual success to the Antarctic, and his magnificent equipment, aroused the enthusiasm of the British to the highest pitch and justified them in their hopes for bringing the wearying struggle for the Northwest Passage to an immediate conclusion. For more than a year everything prospered with the party. By September, 1846, Franklin had navigated the vessels almost within sight of the coast which he had explored twenty years previously, and beyond which the route to Bering Sea was well known. The prize was nearly won when the ships became imprisoned by the ice for the winter, a few miles north of King William Land. The following June Franklin died; the ice continued impenetrable, and did not loosen its grip all that year. In July, 1848, Crozier, who had succeeded to the command, was compelled to abandon the ships, and, with the 105 survivors who were all enfeebled by the three successive winters in the Arctic, started on foot for Back River. How far they got we shall probably never know. Meanwhile, when Franklin failed to return in 1848--he was provisioned for only three years--England became alarmed and despatched relief expeditions by sea from the Bering Sea and the Atlantic and by land north from Canada, but all efforts failed to gather news of Franklin till 1854, when Rae fell in with some Eskimo hunters near King William Land, who told him of two ships that were beset some years previous, and of the death of all the party from starvation. In 1857 Lady Franklin, not content with this bare and indirect report of her husband's fate, sacrificed a fortune to equip a searching party to be commanded by Leopold McClintock, one of the ablest and toughest travelers over the ice the world has ever known. In 1859 McClintock verified the Eskimos' sad story by the discovery on King William Land of a record dated April, 1848, which told of Franklin's death and of the abandonment of the ships. He also found among the Eskimos silver plate and other relics of the party; elsewhere he saw one of Franklin's boats on a sledge, with two skeletons inside and clothing and chocolate; in another place he found tents and flags; and elsewhere he made the yet more ghastly discovery of a bleached human skeleton prone on its face, as though attesting the truthfulness of an Eskimo woman who, claiming to have seen forty of the survivors late in 1848, said "they fell down and died as they walked." The distinction of being the first to make the Northwest Passage, which Franklin so narrowly missed, fell to Robert McClure (1850-53) and Richard Collinson (1850-55), who commanded the two ships sent north through Bering Strait to search for Franklin. McClure accomplished the passage on foot after losing his ship in the ice in Barrow Strait, but Collinson brought his vessel safely through to England. The Northwest Passage was not again made until Roald Amundsen navigated the tiny _Gjoa_, a sailing sloop with gasoline engine, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, 1903-06. Yankee whalers each year had been venturing further north in Davis Strait and Baffin Bay and Bering Sea, but America had taken no active part in polar exploration until the sympathy aroused by the tragic disappearance of Franklin induced Henry Grinnell and George Peabody to send out the _Advance_ in charge of Elisha Kent Kane to search for Franklin north of Smith Sound. In spite of inexperience, which resulted in scurvy, fatal accidents, privations, and the loss of his ship, Kane's achievements (1853-55) were very brilliant. He discovered and entered Kane Basin, which forms the beginning of the passage to the polar ocean, explored both shores of the new sea, and outlined what has since been called the American route to the Pole. Sixteen years later (1871) another American, Charles Francis Hall, who had gained much arctic experience by a successful search for additional traces and relics of Franklin (1862-69), sailed the _Polaris_ through Kane Basin and Kennedy Channel, also through Hall Basin and Robeson Channel, which he discovered, into the polar ocean itself, thus completing the exploration of the outlet which Kane had begun. He took his vessel to the then unprecedented (for a ship) latitude of 82° 11´. But Hall's explorations, begun so auspiciously, were suddenly terminated by his tragic death in November from over-exertion caused by a long sledge journey. When the ice began to move the ensuing year, his party sought to return, but the _Polaris_ was caught in the deadly grip of an impassable ice pack. After two months of drifting, part of the crew, with some Eskimo men and women, alarmed by the groaning and crashing of the ice during a furious autumn storm, camped on an ice floe which shortly afterwards separated from the ship. For five months, December to April, they lived on this cold and desolate raft, which carried them safely 1300 miles to Labrador, where they were picked up by the _Tigress_. During the winter one of the Eskimo women presented the party with a baby, so that their number had increased during the arduous experience. Meanwhile the _Polaris_ had been beached on the Greenland shore, and those remaining on the ship were eventually also rescued. In 1875 Great Britain began an elaborate attack on the Pole _viâ_ what was now known as the American route, two ships most lavishly equipped being despatched under command of George Nares. He succeeded in navigating the _Alert_ fourteen miles further north than the _Polaris_ had penetrated four years previous. Before the winter set in, Aldrich on land reached 82° 48´, which was three miles nearer the Pole than Parry's mark made forty-eight years before, and the following spring Markham gained 83° 20´ on the polar ocean. Other parties explored several hundred miles of coast line. But Nares was unable to cope with the scurvy, which disabled thirty-six of his men, or with the severe frosts, which cost the life of one man and seriously injured others. The next expedition to this region was that sent out under the auspices of the United States government and commanded by Lieutenant--now Major-General--A. W. Greely, U. S. A., to establish at Lady Franklin Bay the American circumpolar station (1881). Greely during the two years at Fort Conger carried on extensive explorations of Ellesmere Land and the Greenland coast, and by the assistance of his two lieutenants, Lockwood and Brainard, wrested from Great Britain the record which she had held for 300 years. Greely's mark was 83° 24´, which bettered the British by four miles. As the relief ship, promised for 1883, failed to reach him or to land supplies at the prearranged point south of Fort Conger, the winter of 1883-84 was passed in great misery and horror. When help finally came to the camp at Cape Sabine, seven men only were alive. While these important events were occurring in the vicinity of Greenland, interesting developments were also taking place in that half of the polar area north of Siberia. When in 1867 an American whaler, Thomas Long, reported new land, Wrangell Land, about 500 miles northwest of Bering Strait, many hailed the discovery as that of the edge of a supposed continent extending from Asia across the Pole to Greenland, for the natives around Bering Strait had long excited explorers by their traditions of an icebound big land beyond the horizon. Such extravagant claims were made for the new land that Commander De Long, U. S. N., determined to explore it and use it as a base for gaining the Pole. But his ship, the _Jeannette_, was caught in the ice (September, 1879) and carried right through the place where the new continent was supposed to be. For nearly two years De Long's party remained helpless prisoners until in June, 1881, the ship was crushed and sank, forcing the men to take refuge on the ice floes in mid ocean, 150 miles from the New Siberian Islands. They saved several boats and sledges and a small supply of provisions and water. After incredible hardships and suffering, G. W. Melville, the chief engineer, who was in charge of one of the boats, with nine men, reached, on September 26, a Russian village on the Lena. All the others perished, some being lost at sea, by the foundering of the boats, while others, including De Long, had starved to death after reaching the desolate Siberian coast. Three years later some Eskimos found washed ashore on the southeast coast of Greenland several broken biscuit boxes and lists of stores, which are said to be in De Long's handwriting. The startling circumstance that these relics in their long drift from where the ship sank had necessarily passed across or very near to the Pole aroused great speculation as to the probable currents in the polar area. Nansen, who had already made the first crossing of Greenland's ice cap, argued that the same current which had guided the relics on their long journey would similarly conduct a ship. He therefore constructed a unique craft, the _Fram_, so designed that when hugged by the ice pack she would not be crushed, but would be lifted up and rest on the ice; he provisioned the vessel for five years and allowed her to be frozen in the ice near where the _Jeannette_ had sunk, 78° 50´ N., 134° E. (September 25, 1893). When at the end of eighteen months the ship had approached 314 miles nearer to the Pole, Nansen and one companion, Johansen, with kayaks, dogs, sledges, and three months' provisions, deliberately left the ship and plunged northward toward the Pole, March 14, 1895. In twenty-three days the two men had overcome one-third of the distance to the Pole, reaching 86° 12´. To continue onward would have meant certain death, so they turned back. When their watches ran down Providence guided them, and the marvelous physique of both sustained them through fog and storm and threatened starvation until they reached Franz Josef Land, late in August. There they built a hut of stones and killed bears for meat for the winter. In May, 1896, they resumed their southward journey, when fortunately they met the Englishman Jackson, who was exploring the Archipelago. Meanwhile the _Fram_, after Nansen left her, continued her tortuous drifting across the upper world. Once she approached as near as 85° 57´ to the Pole--only fifteen miles less than Nansen's farthest. At last, in August, 1896, with the help of dynamite, she was freed from the grip of the ice and hurried home, arriving in time to participate in the welcome of Nansen, who had landed a few days earlier. Franz Josef Land, where Nansen was rescued by Jackson, has served as the base of many dashes for the Pole. It was from its northernmost point that the illustrious young member of the royal family of Italy, the Duke of the Abruzzi, launched the party captained by Cagni that won from Nansen for the Latin race the honor of the farthest north, 86° 34´, in 1901. This land, which consists of numerous islands, had been named after the Emperor of Austria-Hungary by Weyprecht and Payer, leaders of the Austrian-Hungarian polar expedition of 1872-74, who discovered and first explored the Archipelago. It was from Spitzbergen that Andree, with two companions, sailed in his balloon toward the Pole, in July, 1897, never to be heard from again, except for three message buoys dropped in the sea a few miles from the starting-point. The Northeast Passage was first achieved in 1878-1879 by Adolph Erik Nordenskjold. Step by step energetic explorers, principally Russian, had been mapping the arctic coasts of Europe and Siberia until practically all the headlands and islands were well defined. Nordenskjold, whose name was already renowned for important researches in Greenland, Nova Zembla, and northern Asia, in less than two months guided the steam whaler _Vega_ from Tromsoe, Norway, to the most easterly peninsula of Asia. But when barely more than 100 miles from Bering Strait, intervening ice blocked his hopes of passing from the Atlantic to the Pacific in a single season and held him fast for ten months. No résumé of polar exploration is complete without mention of Wm. Barents (1594-96) who, for the Dutch of Amsterdam, made three attempts to accomplish the Northeast Passage around Nova Zembla; Wm. Baffin, who discovered Baffin Bay and Smith Sound (1616); Wm. Scoresby, Sr., who reached by ship 81° 30´ N., 19´ E. (1806), a record till Parry eclipsed it; Wm. Scoresby, Jr., who changed all ideas of East Greenland (1822) and made valuable scientific observations, and the German North Polar expedition of 1869-70. One of the ships of the latter was crushed in the ice and sank. The crew escaped to an ice floe on which they drifted in the darkness of an arctic winter for 1300 miles along the coast of Greenland to Frederiksthaal. The preceding brief summary gives only an inadequate conception of the immense treasures of money and lives expended by the nations to explore the northern ice world and to attain the apex of the earth. All efforts to reach the Pole had failed, notwithstanding the unlimited sacrifice of gold and energy and blood which had been poured out without stint for nearly four centuries. But the sacrifice had not been without compensation. Those who had ventured their lives in the contest had not been actuated solely by the ambition to win a race--to breast the tape first--but to contribute, in Sir John Franklin's words, "to the extension of the bounds of science." The scores of expeditions, in addition to new geographical discoveries, had brought back a wealth of information about the animals and vegetable life, the winds and currents, deep sea temperatures, soundings, the magnetism of the earth, fossils and rock specimens, tidal data, etc., which have enriched many branches of science and greatly increased the sum of human knowledge. A brief summer excursion to Greenland in 1886 aroused Robert E. Peary, a civil engineer in the United States Navy, to an interest in the polar problem. Peary a few years previously had been graduated from Bowdoin College second in his class, a position which means unusual mental vigor in an institution which is noted for the fine scholarship and intellect of its alumni. He realized at once that the goal which had eluded so many hundreds of ambitious and dauntless men could be won only by a new method of attack. The first arctic problem with which Peary grappled was considered at that time in importance second only to the conquest of the Pole; namely, to determine the insularity of Greenland and the extent of its projection northward. At the very beginning of his first expedition to Greenland, in 1891, he suffered an accident which sorely taxed his patience as well as his body, and which is mentioned here as it illustrates the grit and stamina of his moral and physical make-up. As his ship, the _Kite_, was working its way through the ice fields off the Greenland shore, a cake of ice became wedged in the rudder, causing the wheel to reverse. One of the spokes jammed Peary's leg against the casement, making it impossible to extricate himself until both bones of the leg were broken. The party urged him to return to the United States for the winter and to resume his exploration the following year. But Peary insisted on being landed as originally planned at McCormick Bay, stating that the money of his friends had been invested in the project and that he must "make good" to them. The assiduous nursing of Mrs. Peary, aided by the bracing air, so speedily restored his strength that at the ensuing Christmas festivities which he arranged for the Eskimos, he out-raced on snowshoes all the natives and his own men! In the following May, with one companion, Astrup, he ascended to the summit of the great ice cap which covers the interior of Greenland, 5000 to 8000 feet in elevation, and pushed northward for 500 miles over a region where the foot of man had never trod before, in temperatures ranging from 10° to 50° below zero, to Independence Bay, which he discovered and named, July 4, 1892. Imagine his surprise on descending from the tableland to enter a little valley radiant with gorgeous flowers and alive with murmuring bees, where musk oxen were lazily browsing. This sledding journey, which he duplicated by another equally remarkable crossing of the ice cap three years later, defined the northern extension of Greenland and conclusively proved that it is an island instead of a continent extending to the Pole. In boldness of conception and brilliancy of results these two crossings of Greenland are unsurpassed in arctic history. The magnitude of Peary's feat is better appreciated when it is recalled that Nansen's historic crossing of the island was below the Arctic Circle, 1000 miles south of Peary's latitude, where Greenland is some 250 miles wide. Peary now turned his attention to the Pole, which lay 396 geographical miles farther north than any man had penetrated on the western hemisphere. To get there by the American route he must break a virgin trail every mile north from Greely's 83° 24´. No one had pioneered so great a distance northward. Markham and others had attained enduring fame by advancing the flag considerably less than 100 miles, Parry had pioneered 150 miles, and Nansen 128 from his ship. His experiences in Greenland had convinced Peary, if possible more firmly than before, that the only way of surmounting this last and most formidable barrier was to adopt the manner of life, the food, the snowhouses, and the clothing of the Eskimos, who by centuries of experience had learned the most effective method of combating the rigors of arctic weather; to utilize the game of the northland, the arctic reindeer, musk ox, etc., which his explorations had proved comparatively abundant, thus with fresh meat keeping his men fit and good-tempered through the depressing winter night; and lastly to train the Eskimo to become his sledging crew. In his first north polar expedition, which lasted for four years, 1898-1902, Peary failed to get nearer than 343 miles to the Pole. Each successive year dense packs of ice blocked the passage to the polar ocean, compelling him to make his base approximately 700 miles from the Pole, or 200 miles south of the headquarters of Nares, too great a distance from the Pole to be overcome in one short season. During this trying period, by sledging feats which in distance and physical obstacles overcome exceeded the extraordinary records made in Greenland, he explored and mapped hundreds of miles of coast line of Greenland and of the islands west and north of Greenland. On the next attempt, Peary insured reaching the polar ocean by designing and constructing the _Roosevelt_, whose resistless frame crushed its way to the desired haven on the shores of the polar sea. From here he made that wonderful march of 1906 to 87° 6´, a new world's record. Winds of unusual fury, by opening big leads, robbed him of the Pole and nearly of his life. The story of the last Peary expedition, which resulted in the discovery of the Pole and of the deep ocean surrounding it, is told in the present volume by Commander Peary. The 396 miles from Greely's farthest had been vanquished as follows: 1900, 30 miles; 1902, 23 miles; 1906, 169 miles; 1909, 174 miles. No better proof of the minute care with which every campaign was prearranged can be given than the fact that, though Peary has taken hundreds of men north with him on his various expeditions, he has brought them all back, and in good health, with the exception of two, who lost their lives in accidents for which the leader was in no wise responsible. What a contrast this record is to the long list of fatalities from disease, frost, shipwreck, and starvation which in the popular mind has made the word arctic synonymous with tragedy and death. Thus Robert E. Peary has crowned a life devoted to the exploration of the icy north and to the advancement of science by the hard-won discovery of the North Pole. The prize of four centuries of striving yielded at last to the most persistent and scientific attack ever waged against it. Peary's success was made possible by long experience, which gave him a thorough knowledge of the difficulties to be overcome, and by an unusual combination of mental and physical power--a resourcefulness which enabled him to find a way to surmount all obstacles, a tenacity and courage which knew no defeat, and a physical endowment such as nature gives to few men. It has been well said that the glory of Peary's achievement belongs to the world and is shared by all mankind. But we, his fellow-countrymen, who have known how he has struggled these many years against discouragement and scoffing and how he has persevered under financial burdens that would have crushed less stalwart shoulders, specially rejoice that he has "made good at last," and that an American has become the peer of Hudson, Magellan, and Columbus. GILBERT H. GROSVENOR. National Geographic Society, Washington, D. C., U. S. A. August 30, 1910. [Illustration: STELLAR PROJECTION, SHOWING THE RELATION OF THE POLAR SEA TO THE VARIOUS CONTINENTS] THE NORTH POLE CHAPTER I THE PLAN It may not be inapt to liken the attainment of the North Pole to the winning of a game of chess, in which all the various moves leading to a favorable conclusion had been planned in advance, long before the actual game began. It was an old game for me--a game which I had been playing for twenty-three years, with varying fortunes. Always, it is true, I had been beaten, but with every defeat came fresh knowledge of the game, its intricacies, its difficulties, its subtleties, and with every fresh attempt success came a trifle nearer; what had before appeared either impossible, or, at the best, extremely dubious, began to take on an aspect of possibility, and, at last, even of probability. Every defeat was analyzed as to its causes in all their bearings, until it became possible to believe that those causes could in future be guarded against and that, with a fair amount of good fortune, the losing game of nearly a quarter of a century could be turned into one final, complete success. It is true that with this conclusion many well informed and intelligent persons saw fit to differ. But many others shared my views and gave without stint their sympathy and their help, and now, in the end, one of my greatest unalloyed pleasures is to know that their confidence, subjected as it was to many trials, was not misplaced, that their trust, their belief in me and in the mission to which the best years of my life have been given, have been abundantly justified. But while it is true that so far as plan and method are concerned the discovery of the North Pole may fairly be likened to a game of chess, there is, of course, this obvious difference: in chess, brains are matched against brains. In the quest of the Pole it was a struggle of human brains and persistence against the blind, brute forces of the elements of primeval matter, acting often under laws and impulses almost unknown or but little understood by us, and thus many times seemingly capricious, freaky, not to be foretold with any degree of certainty. For this reason, while it was possible to plan, before the hour of sailing from New York, the principal moves of the attack upon the frozen North, it was not possible to anticipate all of the moves of the adversary. Had this been possible, my expedition of 1905-1906, which established the then "farthest north" record of 87° 6´, would have reached the Pole. But everybody familiar with the records of that expedition knows that its complete success was frustrated by one of those unforeseen moves of our great adversary--in that a season of unusually violent and continued winds disrupted the polar pack, separating me from my supporting parties, with insufficient supplies, so that, when almost within striking distance of the goal, it was necessary to turn back because of the imminent peril of starvation. When victory seemed at last almost within reach, I was blocked by a move which could not possibly have been foreseen, and which, when I encountered it, I was helpless to meet. And, as is well known, I and those with me were not only checkmated but very nearly lost our lives as well. But all that is now as a tale that is told. This time it is a different and perhaps a more inspiring story, though the records of gallant defeat are not without their inspiration. And the point which it seems fit to make in the beginning is that success crowned the efforts of years because strength came from repeated defeats, wisdom from earlier error, experience from inexperience, and determination from them all. Perhaps, in view of the striking manner in which the final event bore out the prophecies that I had made, it may be of interest to compare in some detail the plan of campaign that was announced, over two months before the _Roosevelt_ sailed from New York on her final voyage to the North, with the manner in which that campaign was actually executed. Early in May, 1908, in a published statement I sketched the following plan: "I shall use the same ship, the _Roosevelt_; shall leave New York early in July; shall follow the same route north, via Sydney, C. B., Strait of Belle Isle, Davis Strait, Baffin Bay, and Smith Sound; shall use the same methods, equipments, and supplies; shall have a minimum party of white men, supplemented with Eskimos; shall take on these Eskimos and dogs in the Whale Sound region as before, and shall endeavor to force my ship to the same or similar winter quarters on the north shore of Grant Land as in the winter of 1905-1906. "The sledge march will begin as before in February, but my route will be modified as follows: First, I shall follow the north coast of Grant Land as far west as Cape Columbia, and possibly beyond, instead of leaving this land at Point Moss as I did before. "Second, leaving the land, my course will be more west of north than before, in order to counteract or allow for the easterly set of the ice between the north coast of Grant Land and the Pole, discovered on my last expedition. Another essential modification will be a more rigid massing of my sledge divisions en route, in order to prevent the possibility of a portion of the party being separated from the rest by the movement of the ice, with insufficient supplies for a protracted advance, as happened on the last expedition. "There is no doubt in my mind that this 'big lead' (a lane of open water), encountered in both my upward and return marches in my last expedition, is an essentially permanent feature of this part of the Arctic Ocean. I have little doubt of my ability to make this 'lead,' instead of the north coast of Grant Land, my point of departure with fully loaded sledges. If this is done it will shorten the route to the Pole by nearly one hundred miles and distinctly simplify the proposition. "On the return march in the next expedition I shall probably do voluntarily what I did involuntarily last time; that is, retreat upon the north coast of Greenland (a course diagonally _with_ the set of the ice) instead of attempting to come back to the north coast of Grant Land (diagonally _against_ the set of the ice). An adjunct of this program will probably be the establishment of a depot well up the north coast of Greenland by the first of the supporting parties returning to the ship." The main features of this program I summarized as follows: "First, the utilization of the Smith Sound or 'American' route. This must be accepted to-day as the best of all possible routes for a determined, aggressive attack upon the Pole. Its advantages are a land base one hundred miles nearer the Pole than is to be found at any other point of the entire periphery of the Arctic Ocean, a long stretch of coast line upon which to return, and a safe and (to me) well-known line of retreat independent of assistance, in the event of any mishap to the ship. "Second, the selection of a winter base which commands a wider range of the central polar sea and its surrounding coasts than any other possible base in the Arctic regions. Cape Sheridan is practically equidistant from Crocker Land, from the remaining unknown portion of the northeast coast of Greenland, and from my 'Nearest the Pole' of 1906. "Third, the use of sledges and Eskimo dogs. Man and the Eskimo dog are the only two machines capable of such adjustment as to meet the wide demands and contingencies of Arctic travel. Airships, motor cars, trained polar bears, etc., are all premature, except as a means of attracting public attention. "Fourth, the use of the hyperborean aborigine (the Whale Sound Eskimo) for the rank and file of the sledge party. It seems unnecessary to enlarge upon the fact that the men whose heritage is life and work in that very region must present the best obtainable material for the personnel of a serious Arctic party. This is my program. The object of the work is the clearing up, or at least the fixing in their general proportions, of the remaining large problems in the American segment of the polar regions and the securing for the United States of that great world trophy which has been the object of effort and emulation among practically all the civilized nations of the world for the last three centuries." The details of this plan have been here set forth so explicitly because the faithfulness with which they were carried out constitutes a record which is perhaps unique in the annals of Arctic exploration. Compare this scheme, if you please, with the manner of its execution. As had been planned, the expedition sailed from New York early in July, 1908, July 6, to be exact. It sailed from Sydney July 17, from Etah August 18, and arrived at Cape Sheridan, the winter quarters of the _Roosevelt_, on September 5, within a quarter of an hour of the same time it had arrived at the same spot three years before. The winter was occupied in hunting, in various side journeys, in making our sledging equipment, and in moving supplies from the _Roosevelt_ along the northern shore of Grant Land to Cape Columbia, which was to be our point of departure from the land on our drive for the Pole itself. The sledge divisions left the _Roosevelt_ from February 15 to 22, 1909, rendezvoused at Cape Columbia, and on March 1 the expedition left Cape Columbia, heading across the Polar Ocean for the Pole. The 84th parallel was crossed on March 18, the 86th on March 23, the Italian record was passed the next day, the 88th parallel on April 2, the 89th on April 4, and the North Pole was reached on April 6 at ten o'clock in the morning. I spent thirty hours at the Pole with Matt Henson, Ootah, the faithful Eskimo who had gone with me in 1906 to 87° 6´, the then "farthest north," and three other Eskimos who had also been with me on previous expeditions. The six of us left the much desired "ninety north" on April 7 on the return journey and reached land at Cape Columbia again on April 23. It will be noted that while the journey from Cape Columbia to the Pole consumed thirty-seven days, (though only twenty-seven marches) we returned from the Pole to Cape Columbia in only sixteen days. The extraordinary speed of the return journey is to be accounted for by the fact that we merely had to retrace our old trail instead of making a new one, and because we were fortunate in encountering no delays. Excellent conditions of ice and weather also contributed, not to mention the fact that the exhilaration of success lent wings to our sorely battered feet. But Ootah, the Eskimo, had his own explanation. Said he: "The devil is asleep or having trouble with his wife, or we should never have come back so easily." It will be noted in this comparison, that practically the only feature of the plan from which essential deviation was made was in returning to Cape Columbia on the coast of Grant Land instead of further eastward to the northern coast of Greenland as I had done in 1906. This change was made for excellent reasons, which will be made clear in their proper place. Upon this record there is only one shadow--a tragic one indeed. I refer, of course, to the lamentable death of Prof. Ross G. Marvin, who was drowned on April 10, four days after the Pole had been reached, forty-five miles north of Cape Columbia, while returning from 86° 38´ north, in command of one of the supporting parties. With this sad exception, the history of the expedition is flawless. We returned as we went, in our own ship, battered but unharmed, in excellent health and with a record of complete success. There is a lesson in all this--a lesson so obvious that it is perhaps superfluous to point it out. The plan, so carefully made and executed with such faithfulness to detail, was composed of a number of elements, the absence of any one of which might have been fatal to success. We could scarcely have succeeded without the help of our faithful Eskimos; nor even with them, had it not been for our knowledge of their capacities for work and endurance, and for the confidence which years of acquaintance had taught them to repose in me. We could certainly not have succeeded without the Eskimo dogs which furnished the traction power for our sledges, and so enabled us to carry our supplies where no other power on earth could have moved them with the requisite speed and certainty. It may be that we could not have succeeded without the improved form of sledge which I was able to construct and which, combining in its construction, strength, lightness, and ease of traction, made the heavy task of the dogs far easier than it would otherwise have been. It may even be that we should have failed had it not been for so simple a thing as an improved form of water boiler which I was fortunate enough to have hit upon. By its aid we were able to melt ice and make tea in ten minutes. On our previous journeys this process had taken an hour. Tea is an imperative necessity on such a driving journey, and this little invention saved one and one-half hours in each day while we were struggling toward the Pole on that journey when time was the very essence of success. Success crowned the work, it is true, but, for all that, it is a genuine pleasure to reflect that even had we failed, I should have had nothing to reproach myself with in the way of neglect. Every possible contingency that years of experience had taught me to expect was provided for, every weak spot guarded, every precaution taken. I had spent a quarter of a century playing the Arctic game. I was fifty-three years old, an age beyond which, perhaps, with the one exception of Sir John Franklin, no man had ever attempted to prosecute work in the Arctic regions. I was a little past the zenith of my strength, a little lacking, perhaps, in the exuberant elasticity and élan of more youthful years, a little past the time when most men begin to leave the strenuous things to the younger generation; but these drawbacks were fully balanced perhaps by a trained and hardened endurance, a perfect knowledge of myself, and of how to conserve my strength. I knew it was my last game upon the great Arctic chess-board. It was win this time or be forever defeated. The lure of the North! It is a strange and a powerful thing. More than once I have come back from the great frozen spaces, battered and worn and baffled, sometimes maimed, telling myself that I had made my last journey thither, eager for the society of my kind, the comforts of civilization and the peace and serenity of home. But somehow, it was never many months before the old restless feeling came over me. Civilization began to lose its zest for me. I began to long for the great white desolation, the battles with the ice and the gales, the long, long arctic night, the long, long arctic day, the handful of odd but faithful Eskimos who had been my friends for years, the silence and the vastness of the great, white lonely North. And back I went accordingly, time after time, until, at last, my dream of years came true. CHAPTER II PREPARATIONS A great many persons have asked when I first conceived the idea of trying to reach the North Pole. That question is hard to answer. It is impossible to point to any day or month and to say, "Then the idea first came to me." The North Pole dream was a gradual and almost involuntary evolution from earlier work in which it had no part. My interest in arctic work dates back to 1885, when as a young man my imagination was stirred by reading accounts of explorations by Nordenskjöld in the interior of Greenland. These studies took full possession of my mind and led to my undertaking, entirely alone, a summer trip to Greenland in the following year. Somewhere in my subconscious self, even so long ago as that, there may have been gradually dawning a hope that I might some day reach the Pole itself. Certain it is, the lure of the North, the "arctic fever," as it has been called, entered my veins then, and I came to have a feeling of fatality, a feeling that the reason and intent of my existence was the solution of the mystery of the frozen fastnesses of the Arctic. But the actual naming of the Pole as the object of an expedition did not materialize until 1898, when the first expedition of the Peary Arctic Club went north with the avowed intention of reaching ninety north--if it were possible. Since then I have made six different attempts, in six different years, to reach the coveted point. The sledging season, when such a "dash" is possible, extends from about the middle of February until the middle of June. Before the middle of February there is not sufficient light, and after the middle of June there is likely to be too much open water. During these six former attempts made by me to win the prize, the successive latitudes of 83° 52´, 84° 17´, and 87° 6´ were attained, the last giving back to the United States the record of "farthest north," which had for a time been wrested from it by Nansen, and from him in turn by the Duke of the Abruzzi. In writing the story of this last and successful expedition, it is necessary to go back to my return from the former expedition of 1905-6. Before the _Roosevelt_ entered port, and before I reached New York, I was planning for another journey into the North, which, if I could obtain the essential funds--and retained my health--I intended to get under way as soon as possible. It is a principle in physics that a ponderable body moves along the line of least resistance; but that principle does not seem to apply to the will of man. Every obstacle which has ever been placed in my way, whether physical or mental, whether an open "lead" or the opposition of human circumstances, has ultimately acted as a spur to the determination to accomplish the fixed purpose of my life--if I lived long enough. On my return in 1906, great encouragement was received from Mr. Jesup, the president of the Peary Arctic Club, who had contributed so generously to my former expeditions, and in whose honor I had named the northernmost point of land in the world, latitude 83° 39´, Cape Morris K. Jesup. He said, in so many words, that he would "see me through" on another journey north. His promise meant that I should not have to beg all the money in small sums from a more or less reluctant world. The winter of 1906-7 and the spring of 1907 were devoted to presenting to the world the results of the previous undertaking, and to the work of interesting friends as far as possible in another expedition. We had the ship, which had cost about $100,000 in 1905; but $75,000 more was needed for new boilers and other changes, for equipment and for operating expenses. While the bulk of the necessary funds was furnished by the members and friends of the Peary Arctic Club, a very considerable amount came from all parts of the country in contributions ranging from $100 to $5 and even $1. These donations were not less appreciated than the big ones, because they showed the friendliness and the interest of the givers, and demonstrated to me the general recognition of the fact that while the expedition was financed by private individuals, it was in spirit a national affair. At last the funds, actual and promised, were in such amount as to authorize our contracting for new boilers for the _Roosevelt_, and ordering certain modifications in her structure which would fit her more effectively for another voyage: such as enlarging the quarters forward for the crew, adding a lug sail to the foremast, and changing the interior arrangements somewhat. The general features of the ship had already proved themselves so well adapted for the purpose for which she was intended that no alteration in them was required. Experience had taught me how to figure on delays in the North; but the exasperating delays of ship contractors at home had not yet entered into my scheme of reckoning. Contracts for this work on the _Roosevelt_ were signed in the winter, and called for the completion of the ship by July 1, 1907. Repeated oral promises were added to contractual agreements that the work should certainly be done on that date; but, as a matter of fact, the new boilers were not completed and installed until September, thus absolutely negativing any possibility of going north in the summer of 1907. The failure of the contractors to live up to their word, with the consequent delay of a year, was a serious blow to me. It meant that I must attack the problem one year older; it placed the initiation of the expedition further in the future, with all the possible contingencies that might occur within a year; and it meant the bitterness of hope deferred. On the day when it became lamentably clear that I positively _could not_ sail north that year, I felt much as I had felt when I had been obliged to turn back from 87° 6´, with only the empty bauble "farthest north," instead of the great prize which I had almost strained my life out to achieve. Fortunately I did not know that Fate was even then clenching her fist for yet another and more crushing blow. While trying to possess my soul in patience despite the unjustified delay, there came the heaviest calamity encountered in all my arctic work--the death of my friend, Morris K. Jesup. Without his promised help the future expedition seemed impossible. It may be said with perfect truth that to him, more than to any other one man, had been due the inception and the continuance of the Peary Arctic Club, and the success of the work thus far. In him we lost not only a man who was financially a tower of strength in the work, but I lost an intimate personal friend in whom I had absolute trust. For a time it seemed as if this were the end of everything; that all the effort and money put into the project had been wasted. Mr. Jesup's death, added to the delay caused by the default of the contractors, seemed at first an absolutely paralyzing defeat. Nor was it much help that there was no lack of well-meaning persons who were willing to assure me that the year's delay and Mr. Jesup's death were warnings indicating that I should never find the Pole. Yet, when I gathered myself together and faced the situation squarely, I realized that the project was something too big to die; that it never, in the great scheme of things, would be allowed to fall through. This feeling carried me past many a dead center of fatigue and utter ignorance as to where the rest of the money for the expedition was to be obtained. The end of the winter and the beginning of the spring of 1908 were marked by more than one blue day for everybody concerned in the success of the expedition. Repairs and changes in the _Roosevelt_ had exhausted all the funds in the Club's treasury. We still needed the money for purchase of supplies and equipment, pay of crew, and running expenses. Mr. Jesup was gone; the country had not recovered from the financial crash of the previous fall; every one was poor. Then from this lowest ebb the tide turned. Mrs. Jesup, in the midst of her distracting grief, sent a munificent check which enabled us to order essential items of special supplies and equipment which required time for preparation. [Illustration: GEORGE A. WARDWELL CHIEF ENGINEER] [Illustration: BANKS SCOTT SECOND ENGINEER] [Illustration: ROBERT A. BARTLETT, MASTER] [Illustration: THOMAS GUSHUE, MATE] [Illustration: CHARLES PERCY, STEWARD] General Thomas H. Hubbard accepted the presidency of the Club, and added a second large check to his already generous contribution. Henry Parish, Anton A. Raven, Herbert L. Bridgman--the "Old Guard" of the Club--who had stood shoulder to shoulder with Mr. Jesup from the inception of the organization, stood firm now to keep the organization of the Club intact; other men came forward, and the crisis was past. But the money still came hard. It was the subject of my every waking thought; and even in sleep it would not let me rest, but followed with mocking and elusive dreams. It was a dogged, dull, desperate time, with the hopes of my whole life rising and falling day by day. Then came an unexpected rift in the clouds, the receipt of a very friendly letter from Mr. Zenas Crane, the great paper manufacturer, of Massachusetts, who had contributed to a previous expedition, but whom I had never met. Mr. Crane wrote that he was deeply interested; that the project was one which should have the support of every one who cared for big things and for the prestige of the country, and he asked me to come to see him, if I could make it convenient. I could. I did. He gave a check for $10,000 and promised to give more if it should be required. The promise was kept, and a little later he accepted the vice-presidency of the Club. What this $10,000 meant to me at that time would need the pen of Shakespere to make entirely clear. [Illustration: PROFESSOR ROSS G. MARVIN, ASSISTANT] [Illustration: GEORGE BORUP, ASSISTANT] [Illustration: DONALD B. MACMILLAN, ASSISTANT] [Illustration: DR. J. W. GOODSELL, SURGEON] From this time on the funds came in slowly but steadily, to an amount that, combined with rigid economy and thorough knowledge of what was and what was not needed, permitted the purchase of the necessary supplies and equipment. During all this time of waiting, a small flood of "crank" letters poured in from all over the country. There was an incredibly large number of persons who were simply oozing with inventions and schemes, the adoption of which would absolutely insure the discovery of the Pole. Naturally, in view of the contemporaneous drift of inventive thought, flying machines occupied a high place on the list. Motor cars, guaranteed to run over any kind of ice, came next. One man had a submarine boat that he was sure would do the trick, though he did not explain how we were to get up through the ice after we had traveled to the Pole beneath it. Still another chap wanted to sell us a portable sawmill. It was his enterprising idea that this should be set up on the shore of the central polar sea and that I was to use it for shaping lumber with which to build a wooden tunnel over the ice of the polar sea all the way to the Pole. Another chap proposed that a central soup station be installed where the other man would have set up his sawmill, and that a series of hose lines be run thence over the ice so that the outlying parties struggling over the ice to the Pole could be warmed and invigorated with hot soup from the central station. Perhaps the gem of the whole collection was furnished by an inventor who desired me to play the part of the "human cannon-ball." He would not disclose the details of his invention, apparently lest I should steal it, but it amounted to this: If I could get the machine up there, and could get it pointed in exactly the right direction, and could hold on long enough, it would shoot me to the Pole without fail. This was surely a man of one idea. He was so intent on getting me shot to the Pole that he seemed to be utterly careless of what happened to me in the process of landing there or of how I should get back. Many friends of the expedition who could not send cash sent useful articles of equipment, for the comfort or amusement of the men. Among such articles were a billiard table, various games, and innumerable books. A member of the expedition having said to a newspaper man, a short time before the _Roosevelt_ sailed, that we had not much reading matter, the ship was deluged with books, magazines, and newspapers, which came literally in wagon loads. They were strewn in every cabin, in every locker, on the mess tables, on the deck,--everywhere. But the generosity of the public was very gratifying, and there was much good reading among the books and magazines. When the time came for the _Roosevelt_ to sail, we had everything which we absolutely needed in the way of equipment, including boxes of Christmas candy, one for every man on board, a gift from Mrs. Peary. It is a great satisfaction to me that this whole expedition, together with the ship, was American from start to finish. We did not purchase a Newfoundland or Norwegian sealer and fix it over for our purposes, as in the case of other expeditions. The _Roosevelt_ was built of American timber in an American shipyard, engined by an American firm with American metal, and constructed on American designs. Even the most trivial items of supplies were of American manufacture. As regards personnel almost the same can be said. Though Captain Bartlett and the crew were Newfoundlanders, the Newfoundlanders are our next-door neighbors and essentially our first cousins. This expedition went north in an American-built ship, by the American route, in command of an American, to secure if possible an American trophy. The _Roosevelt_ was built with a knowledge of the requirements of arctic navigation, gained by the experience of an American on six former voyages into the Arctic. I was extremely fortunate in the personnel of this last and successful expedition, for in choosing the men I had the membership of the previous expedition to draw from. A season in 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. First and most valuable of all was Bartlett, master of the _Roosevelt_, whose ability had been proved on the expedition of 1905-6. Robert A. Bartlett, "Captain Bob," as we affectionately call him, comes from a family of hardy Newfoundland navigators, long associated with arctic work. He was thirty-three when we last sailed north. Blue-eyed, brown-haired, stocky, and steel-muscled Bartlett, whether at the wheel of the _Roosevelt_ hammering a passage through the floes, or tramping and stumbling over the ice pack, with the sledges, or smoothing away the troubles of the crew, was always the same--tireless, faithful, enthusiastic, true as the compass. Matthew A. Henson, my negro assistant, has been with me in one capacity or another since my second trip to Nicaragua, in 1887. I have taken him with me on each and all of my northern expeditions, except the first, in 1886, and almost without exception on each of my "farthest" sledge trips. This position I have given him, primarily because of his adaptability and fitness for the work; secondly on account of his loyalty. He has shared all the physical hardships of my arctic work. He is now about forty years old, and can handle a sledge better, and is probably a better dog-driver, than any other man living, except some of the best of the Eskimo hunters themselves. Ross G. Marvin, my secretary and assistant, who lost his life on the expedition; George A. Wardwell, chief engineer; Percy, the steward; and Murphy, the boatswain, had all been with me before. Dr. Wolf, who was the surgeon of the expedition of 1905-6, had made professional arrangements which prevented him from going north again, and his place was taken by Dr. J. W. Goodsell, of New Kensington, Pa. Dr. Goodsell is a descendant of an old English family that has had representatives in America for two hundred and fifty years. His great grandfather was a soldier in Washington's army when Cornwallis surrendered, and his father, George H. Goodsell, spent many adventurous years at sea and fought through the Civil War in the Union army. Dr. Goodsell was born near Leechburg, Pa., in 1873. He received his medical degree from Pulte Medical College, Cincinnati, O., and has since practised medicine at New Kensington, Pa., specializing in clinical microscopy. He is a member of the Homeopathic Medical Society of Pennsylvania and of the American Medical Association. At the time of his departure on the expedition he was president of the Allegheny Valley Medical Society. His publications include "Direct Microscopic Examination as Applied to Preventive Medicine and the Newer Therapy" and "Tuberculosis and Its Diagnosis." As the scope of this expedition was wider than that of the previous ones, contemplating more extensive tidal observations for the United States Coast and Geodetic Survey, and, if conditions permitted, lateral sledge trips east to Cape Morris K. Jesup and west to Cape Thomas Hubbard, I enlarged my field party, as it may be called, and added to the expedition Mr. Donald B. MacMillan, of Worcester Academy, and Mr. George Borup, of New York City. MacMillan is the son of a sea captain and was born at Provincetown, Mass., in 1874. His father's ship sailed from Boston nearly thirty years ago and was never heard from again. His mother died the next year, leaving the son with four other young children. When MacMillan was fifteen years old he went to live with his sister at Freeport, Me., where he was prepared in the local high school to enter Bowdoin College, being graduated from my alma mater in 1898. Like Borup, MacMillan excelled in undergraduate athletics, played half-back on the Bowdoin 'varsity eleven and won a place on the track team. From 1898 to 1900 he was principal of the Levi Hall School at North Gorham, Me., going thence to become head master of the Latin Department at Swarthmore Preparatory School of Swarthmore, Pa. Here he remained until 1903 when he became instructor in Mathematics and Physical Training at Worcester Academy, Mass., where he remained until he went north with the expedition. He holds the Humane Society's certificate for saving a number of lives some years ago, an exploit which it is difficult to induce him to talk about. George Borup was born at Sing Sing, N. Y., Sept. 2, 1885. He prepared for Yale at Groton School, where he spent the years from 1889 to 1903, and was graduated from Yale in 1907. At college he was prominent in athletics, was a member of the Yale track and golf teams, and made a reputation as a wrestler. After his graduation he spent a year as a special apprentice in the machine shops of the Pennsylvania Railroad Company at Altoona, Pa. To Captain Bartlett I left the selection of his officers and men, with the single exception of the chief engineer. The personnel of the expedition, as finally completed when the _Roosevelt_ left Sydney on the 17th of July, 1908, included twenty-two men, as follows: Robert E. Peary, commanding expedition; Robert A. Bartlett, master of the _Roosevelt_; George A. Wardwell, chief engineer; Dr. J. W. Goodsell, surgeon; Prof. Ross G. Marvin, assistant; Donald B. MacMillan, assistant; George Borup, assistant; Matthew A. Henson, assistant; Thomas Gushue, mate; John Murphy, boatswain; Banks Scott, second engineer; Charles Percy, steward; William Pritchard, cabin boy; John Connors, John Coady, John Barnes, Denis Murphy, George Percy, seamen; James Bently, Patrick Joyce, Patrick Skeans, John Wiseman, firemen. The supplies for the expedition were abundant in quantity, but not numerous in variety. Years of experience had given me the knowledge of exactly what I wanted and how much of it. The absolutely essential supplies for a serious arctic expedition are few, but they should be of the best quality. Luxuries have no place in arctic work. Supplies for an arctic expedition naturally divide themselves into two classes: those for the sledge work in the field; those for the ship, going and returning, and in winter quarters. The supplies for sledge work are of a special character, and have to be prepared and packed in such a way as to secure the maximum of nourishment with the minimum of weight, of bulk, and of tare (that is, the weight of the packing). The essentials, and the only essentials, needed in a serious arctic sledge journey, no matter what the season, the temperature, or the duration of the journey--whether one month or six--are four: pemmican, tea, ship's biscuit, condensed milk. Pemmican is a prepared and condensed food, made from beef, fat and dried fruits. It may be regarded as the most concentrated and satisfying of all meat foods, and is absolutely indispensable in protracted arctic sledge journeys. The food for use on shipboard and in winter quarters comprises standard commercial supplies. My expeditions have been perhaps peculiar in omitting one item--and that is meat. For this important addition to arctic food I have always depended on the country itself. Meat is the object of the hunting expeditions of the winter months--not sport, as some have fancied. Here are a few of the items and figures on our list of supplies for the last expedition: Flour, 16,000 pounds; coffee, 1,000 pounds; tea, 800 pounds; sugar, 10,000 pounds; kerosene, 3,500 gallons; bacon, 7,000 pounds; biscuit, 10,000 pounds; condensed milk, 100 cases; pemmican, 30,000 pounds; dried fish, 3,000 pounds; smoking tobacco, 1,000 pounds. CHAPTER III THE START From her berth beside the recreation pier at the foot of East Twenty-fourth Street, New York, the _Roosevelt_ steamed north on the last expedition, about one o'clock in the afternoon of July 6, 1908. As the ship backed out into the river, a cheer that echoed over Blackwell's Island went up from the thousands who had gathered on the piers to see us off; while the yacht fleet, the tugboats and the ferryboats tooted their good wishes. It was an interesting coincidence that the day on which we started for the coldest spot on earth was about the hottest which New York had known for years. There were thirteen deaths from heat and seventy-two heat prostrations recorded in Greater New York for that day, while we were bound for a region where sixty below zero is not an exceptional temperature. We started with about one hundred guests of the Peary Arctic Club on board the _Roosevelt_, and several members of the Club, including the president, General Thomas H. Hubbard; the vice-president, Zenas Crane; and the secretary and treasurer, Herbert L. Bridgman. As we steamed up the river the din grew louder and louder, the whistles of the power-houses and the factories adding their salutations to the tooting of the river craft. At Blackwell's Island many of the inmates were out in force to wave us their good-bys, and their farewells were not the less appreciated because given by men whom society had placed under restraint for society's good. Anyhow, they wished us well. I hope they are all enjoying liberty now, and, what is better, deserving it. Near Fort Totten we passed President Roosevelt's naval yacht, the _Mayflower_, and her small gun roared out a parting salute, while the officers and men waved and cheered. Surely no ship ever started for the end of the earth with more heart-stirring farewells than those which followed the _Roosevelt_. Just before we reached the Stepping Stone Light, Mrs. Peary, the members and guests of the Peary Arctic Club, and myself were transferred to the tug _Narkeeta_ and returned to New York. The ship went on to Oyster Bay, Long Island, the summer home of President Roosevelt, where Mrs. Peary and I were to lunch with the President and Mrs. Roosevelt the following day. Theodore Roosevelt is to me the most intensely vital man, and the biggest man, America has ever produced. He has that vibrant energy and enthusiasm which is the basis of all real power and accomplishment. When it came to christening the ship by whose aid it was hoped to fight our way toward the most inaccessible spot on earth, the name of _Roosevelt_ seemed to be the one and inevitable choice. It held up as ideals before the expedition those very qualities of strength, insistence, persistence, and triumph over obstacles, which have made the twenty-sixth President of the United States so great. In the course of that last luncheon at Sagamore Hill, President Roosevelt reiterated what he had said to me so many times before, that he was earnestly and profoundly interested in my work, and that he believed I would succeed if success were possible. After luncheon the President and Mrs. Roosevelt, with their three sons, came on board the ship with Mrs. Peary and me. Mr. Bridgman was on deck, to welcome them in the name of the Peary Arctic Club. The Roosevelt party remained on board about an hour; the President inspected every part of the ship, shook hands with every member of the expedition present, including the crew, and even made the acquaintance of my Eskimo dogs, North Star and the others, which had been brought down from one of my islands in Casco Bay, on the coast of Maine. As he was going over the rail, I said to him: "Mr. President, I shall put into this effort everything there is in me--physical, mental, and moral." And he replied, "I believe in you, Peary, and I believe in your success--if it is within the possibility of man." The _Roosevelt_ stopped at New Bedford for the whale-boats, and also made a short stop at Eagle Island, our summer home on the coast of Maine, to take aboard the massive, steel-bound spare rudder, which we carried as a precaution against disaster in the coming battle royal with the ice. On the former expedition, when we had no extra rudder, we could have used two. But, as things turned out this time, when we had the extra rudder we had no occasion to use it. Our departure from Eagle Island was timed so that Mrs. Peary and I should arrive by train at Sydney, Cape Breton, the same day as the ship. I have a very tender feeling for the picturesque little town of Sydney. Eight times have I headed north from there on my arctic quest. My recollections of the town date back to 1886, when I went there with Captain Jackman in the whaler _Eagle_, and lay at the coal wharves for a day or two filling the ship with coal for my very first northern voyage, the summer cruise to Greenland, during which journey the "arctic fever" got a grip upon me from which I have never recovered. Since that time the town has grown from a little settlement of one decent hotel and a few houses, to a prosperous city with seventeen thousand inhabitants, many industries, and one of the largest steel plants in the western hemisphere. My reason for choosing Sydney as a starting point was because of the coal mines there. It is the place nearest to the arctic regions where a ship can fill with coal. My feelings, on leaving Sydney this last time, though difficult to describe, were different from those at the start of any previous expedition. I felt no uneasiness once the lines were cast off, for I knew that everything had been done which could be done to insure success, and that every essential item of supplies was on board. On former journeys I had sometimes felt anxiety, but through the whole of this last expedition I allowed nothing to worry me. Perhaps this feeling of surety was because every possible contingency had been discounted, perhaps because the setbacks and knock-out blows received in the past had dulled my sense of danger. The _Roosevelt_ having coaled at Sydney, we crossed the bay to North Sydney to take on some last items of supplies. When we started to leave the wharf over there we discovered that we were aground, and had to wait an hour or so for the tide to rise. In our efforts to move the ship, one of the whale-boats was crushed between the davits and the side of the pier; but after eight arctic campaigns one does not regard a little accident like that as a bad omen. We got away from North Sydney about half past three in the afternoon of July 17, in glittering golden sunshine. As we passed the signal station, they signaled us, "Good-by and a prosperous voyage"; we replied, "Thank you," and dipped our colors. A little tug, which we had chartered to take our guests back to Sydney, followed the _Roosevelt_ as far as Low Point Light, outside the harbor; there she ran alongside, and Mrs. Peary and the children, and Colonel Borup, with two or three other friends, transferred to her. As my five-year-old son, Robert, kissed me good-by, he said, "Come back soon, dad." With reluctant eyes I watched the little tug grow smaller and smaller in the blue distance. Another farewell--and there had been so many! Brave, noble little woman! You have borne with me the brunt of all my arctic work. But, somehow, this parting was less sad than any which had gone before. I think that we both felt it was the last. By the time the stars came out, the last items of supplies taken on at North Sydney were stowed, and the decks at least were unusually free for an arctic ship just starting northward--all but the quarter-deck, which was piled high with bags of coal. Inside the cabins, however, all was litter and confusion. My room was filled so full of things--instruments, books, furniture, presents from friends, supplies, et cetera--that there was no space for me. Since my return some one has asked me if I played on the pianola in my cabin that first day at sea. I did not, for the excellent reason that I could not get near it. The thrilling experiences of those first few hours were mainly connected with excavating a space some six feet long by two feet broad in the region of my bunk, where I could lay myself down to sleep when the time came. I have a special affection for my little cabin on the _Roosevelt_. Its size and the comfort of the bathroom adjoining were the only luxuries which I allowed myself. The cabin is plain, of matched yellow pine, painted white. Its conveniences are the evolution of long experience in the arctic regions. It has a wide built-in bunk, an ordinary writing desk, several book units, a wicker chair, an office chair, and a chest of drawers, these latter items of furniture being Mrs. Peary's contributions to my comfort. Hanging over the pianola was a photograph of Mr. Jesup, and on the side wall was one of President Roosevelt, autographed. Then there were the flags, the silk one made by Mrs. Peary, which I had carried for years, the flag of my college fraternity, Delta Kappa Epsilon, the flag of the Navy League, and the peace flag of the Daughters of the American Revolution. There was also a photograph of our home on Eagle Island, and a fragrant pillow made by my daughter Marie from the pine needles of that island. The pianola, a gift from my friend H. H. Benedict, had been my pleasant companion on my previous voyage, and again on this it proved one of our greatest sources of pleasure. There were at least two hundred pieces of music in my collection, but the strains of "Faust" rolled out over the Arctic Ocean more often than any other. Marches and songs were also popular, with the "Blue Danube" waltz; and sometimes, when the spirits of my party were at rather a low ebb, we had ragtime pieces, which they especially enjoyed. There was also in my cabin a fairly complete, arctic library--absolutely complete in regard to all the later voyages. These books, with a large assortment of novels and magazines, could be depended upon to relieve the tedium of the long arctic night, and very useful they were found for that purpose. Sitting up late at night means something when the night is some months long. On the second day out the carpenter began the repairs on the crushed whale-boat, using lumber which we carried for such purposes. The sea was rough, and the waist of the ship was awash nearly all day. My companions were gradually getting settled in their cabins; and if any man had qualms of homesickness, he kept them to himself. Our living quarters were in the after deckhouse, which extends the full width of the _Roosevelt_ from a little aft of the mainmast to the mizzenmast. In the center is the engine-room, with the skylight and the uptake from the boilers, and on either side are the cabins and the messrooms. My own cabin occupied the starboard corner aft; forward from this was Henson's room, the starboard messroom, and in the forward starboard corner Surgeon Goodsell's room. On the port side aft was Captain Bartlett's room, occupied by himself and Marvin, and forward from this in succession the cabin of the chief engineer and his assistant, the cabin of Percy, the steward, and the cabin of MacMillan and Borup; then the mate and the boatswain were in the forward port corner of the deckhouse, next the port messroom of the junior officers. The starboard mess comprised Bartlett, Dr. Goodsell, Marvin, MacMillan, Borup, and myself. I shall not dwell at great length upon the first stage of the journey from Sydney to Cape York, Greenland, for the reason that it is only a pleasant summer cruise at that season of the year, such as any fair-sized yacht may undertake without peril or adventure; and there are more interesting and unusual things to write about. In passing through the Straits of Belle Isle, "the graveyard of ships," where there is always danger of encountering icebergs in the fog, or being swung upon the shore by the strong and capricious currents, I remained up all night, as any man would who had care for his ship. But I could not help contrasting that easy summer passage with our return in November, 1906, when the _Roosevelt_ was standing on end half the time, and the rest of the time was rolling the rail under water, losing two rudders, being smashed by the sea, creeping along the Labrador coast in the berg season, through dense fog, and picking up Point Amour Light only when within a stone's throw of the shore, guided only by the sirens at Point Amour and Bald Head, and the whistles of the big steamships lying at the entrance of the strait, afraid to attempt the passage. CHAPTER IV UP TO CAPE YORK On Sunday, July 19, we sent a boat ashore at Point Amour Light with telegrams back home--the last. I wondered what my first despatch would be the following year. At Cape St. Charles we dropped anchor in front of the whaling station. Two whales had been captured there the day before, and I immediately bought one of them as food for the dogs. This meat was stowed on the quarter-deck of the _Roosevelt_. There are several of these "whale factories" on the Labrador coast. They send out a fast steel steamer, with a harpoon gun at the bow. When a whale is sighted they give chase, and when near enough discharge into the monster a harpoon with an explosive bomb attached. The explosion kills him. Then he is lashed alongside, towed into the station, hauled out on the timberways, and there cut up, every part of the enormous carcass being utilized for some commercial purpose. We stopped again at Hawks Harbor, where the _Erik_, our auxiliary supply steamer, was awaiting us with some twenty-five tons of whale meat on board; and an hour or two later, a beautiful white yacht followed us in. I recognized her as Harkness's _Wakiva_ of the New York Yacht Club. Twice during the winter she had lain close to the _Roosevelt_ in New York, at the East Twenty-fourth Street pier, coaling between her voyages; and now, by a strange chance, the two vessels lay side by side again in this little out-of-the-way harbor on the Labrador coast. No two ships could be more unlike than these two: one white as snow, her brasswork glittering in the sun, speedy, light as an arrow; the other black, slow, heavy, almost as solid as a rock--each built for a special purpose and adapted to that purpose. Mr. Harkness and a party of friends, including several ladies, came on board the _Roosevelt_, and the dainty dresses of our feminine guests further accentuated the blackness, the strength, and the not over cleanly condition of our ship. We stopped once more at Turnavik Island, a fishing station belonging to Captain Bartlett's father, and took on a consignment of Labrador skin boots, for which we should have use in the North. Just before reaching the Island we encountered a furious thunderstorm. It was the most northerly thunderstorm which I remember having experienced. I recall, however, that on our upward voyage in 1905 we ran into very heavy thunderstorms with electrical displays quite as sharp as any encountered in Gulf storms on voyages in southern waters, though the storms of 1905 were met in the neighborhood of Cabot Strait, far south of those of 1908. Our voyage to Cape York was a peaceful one, lacking even the small excitement of the same journey three years before, when, not far from Cape St. George, all hands were startled by an alarm of fire which started in one of the main deck beams from the uptake of the boilers. Nor were we so plagued with fog in the early stages of our journey as we were in 1905. In fact, every omen was auspicious from the very start, so auspicious indeed that perhaps the more superstitious of the sailors thought our luck was too good to last, while one member of our expedition was continually "knocking on wood," just as a precaution, as he expressed it. It would be rash to say that his forethought had much to do with our success, but it eased his mind, at all events. As we steamed steadily northward the nights grew shorter and shorter, and lighter and lighter, so that when we crossed the Arctic Circle, soon after midnight on July 26, we were in perpetual daylight. I have crossed the Circle some twenty times, going and coming, so the fine edge of that experience has been somewhat dulled for me; but the arctic "tenderfeet" among my party, Dr. Goodsell, MacMillan, and Borup, were appropriately impressed. They felt as one feels in crossing the equator the first time--that it is an event. The _Roosevelt_, steaming ever northward, was now well on her way to one of the most interesting of all arctic localities. It is the little oasis amid a wilderness of ice and snow along the west coast of northern Greenland midway between Kane Basin on the north and Melville Bay on the south. Here, in striking contrast to the surrounding country, is animal and vegetable life in plenty, and in the course of the last hundred years some half dozen arctic expeditions have wintered here. Here, too, is the home of a little tribe of Eskimos. [Illustration: SNOWY OWL, CAPE SHERIDAN] [Illustration: BRANT-GOOSE] [Illustration: SABINE'S GULL] [Illustration: RED-THROATED DIVER, MALE AND FEMALE] [Illustration: KING EIDER, DRAKE] This little refuge is about a 3,000 mile sail from New York and about 2,000 miles as the bird flies. It is about 600 miles north of the Arctic Circle and about half way from that great latitudinal mark to the Pole itself. Here the great arctic night averages one hundred and ten days in winter, during which time no ray of light falls upon the sight, save that of the moon and the stars, while in summer the sun is visible every moment for an equal number of days. Within the limits of this little country is found the favorite haunt of the reindeer, which find sufficient pasturage. But we are interested for the present in this unique spot only in passing and for the reason that here we picked up the little denizens of the frigid zone who were to help us in our struggle farther north. Before we reached this odd little oasis, but several hundred miles beyond the Arctic Circle, we came to a most significant point in our upward journey, marking as it did the grimness of the task before us. No civilized man can die in this savage Northland without his grave having a deep meaning for those who come afterwards; and constantly, as we sailed on, these voiceless reminders of heroic bones told their silent but powerful story. At the southern limit of Melville Bay we passed the Duck Islands, where is the little graveyard of the Scotch whalers who were the pioneers in forcing the passage of Melville Bay and who died there, waiting for the ice to open. These graves date back to the beginning of the nineteenth century. From this point on, the arctic highway is marked by the graves of those who have fallen in the terrible fight with cold and hunger. These rude rock piles bring home to any thoughtful person the meaning of arctic exploration. The men who lie there were not less courageous, not less intelligent, than the members of my own party; they were simply less fortunate. Let us look along that highway for a moment and consider these memorials. At North Star Bay are one or two graves of men from the British ship _North Star_, which wintered there in 1850. Out on the Cary Islands is the nameless grave of one of the ill-fated Kallistenius Expedition. Still farther north, at Etah, is the grave of Sontag, the astronomer of Hayes's Expedition; and a little above it, that of Ohlsen of Kane's party. On the opposite side are the unmarked places where sixteen of Greely's ill-fated party died. Still farther north, on the eastern or Greenland side, is the grave of Hall, the American commander of the Polaris Expedition. On the western, or Grant Land side, are the graves of two or three sailors of the British Arctic Expedition of 1876. And right on the shore of the central Polar Sea, near Cape Sheridan, is the grave of the Dane, Petersen, the interpreter of the British Arctic Expedition of 1876. These graves stand as mute records of former efforts to win the prize, and they give a slight indication of the number of brave but less fortunate men who have given the last possession of mortal life in their pursuit of the arctic goal. The first time I saw the graves of the whalers on Duck Islands I sat there, in the arctic sunlight, looking at those headboards, sobered with a realization of what they meant. When I first saw Sontag's grave, at Etah, I carefully replaced the stones around it, as a tribute to a brave man. At Cape Sabine, where Greely's party died, I was the first man to step into the ruins of the stone hut after the seven survivors were taken away years before--the first man, and I stepped into those ruins in a blinding snowstorm late in August, and saw there the mementos of those unfortunates. Passing the Duck Islands on the upward voyage, approaching Cape York in 1908, and thinking of the graves there, I little dreamed that a loved member of my own party, Professor Ross G. Marvin, who ate at my table and acted as my secretary, was fated to add his name to this long list of arctic victims, and that his grave, in uncounted fathoms of black water, was to be the most northerly grave on this earth. We reached Cape York on the first day of August. Cape York is the bold, bluff headland which marks the southern point of the stretch of arctic coast inhabited by my Eskimos, the most northerly human beings in the world. It is the headland whose snowy cap I have seen so many times rising in the distance above the horizon line of Melville Bay as my ships have steamed north. At the base of the headland nestles the most southerly of all the Eskimo villages, and it has marked the point of meeting, year after year, between the members of this tribe and myself. At Cape York we were on the threshold of the actual work. I had on board the ship when I arrived there all the equipment and assistance which the civilized world could yield. Beginning there, I was to take on the tools, the material, the personnel, that the arctic regions themselves were to furnish for their own conquest. Cape York, or Melville Bay, is the dividing line between the civilized world on the one side and the arctic world on the other--the arctic world with its equipment of Eskimos, dogs, walrus, seal, fur clothing, and aboriginal experience. Behind me lay the civilized world, which was now absolutely useless, and which could give me nothing more. Ahead of me lay that trackless waste through which I must literally cut my way to the goal. Even the ship's journey from Cape York to winter quarters on the north coast of Grant Land is not "plain sailing"; in fact, it is not sailing at all during the later stages; it is jamming and butting and dodging and hammering the ice, with always the possibility that the antagonist will hit back a body blow. It is like the work of a skilled heavy-weight pugilist, or the work of an old Roman fighter with the cestus. Beyond Melville Bay the world, or what we know as the world, is left behind. On leaving Cape York, we had exchanged the multifarious purposes of civilization for the two purposes for which there is room in those wide wastes: food for man and dog, and the covering of miles of distance. Behind me now lay everything that was mine, everything that a man personally loves, family, friends, home, and all those human associations which linked me with my kind. Ahead of me lay--my dream, the goal of that irresistible impulse which had driven me for twenty-three years to measure myself, time after time, against the frigid _No_ of the Great North. Should I succeed? Should I return? Success in the attainment of 90° North would not inevitably carry with it the safe return. We had learned _that_ on recrossing the "big lead" in 1906. In the Arctic the chances are always against the explorer. The inscrutable guardians of the secret appear to have a well-nigh inexhaustible reserve of trump cards to play against the intruder who insists upon dropping into the game. The life is a dog's life, but the work is a man's work. As we steamed northward from Cape York, on the first day of August, 1908, I felt that I was now in truth face to face with the final struggle. Everything in my life appeared to have led up to this day. All my years of work and all my former expeditions were merely preparations for this last and supreme effort. It has been said that well-directed labor toward a given end is an excellent kind of prayer for its attainment. If that be so, then prayer has been my portion for many years. Through all the seasons of disappointment and defeat I had never ceased to believe that the great white mystery of the North must eventually succumb to the insistence of human experience and will, and, standing there with my back to the world and my face toward that mystery, I believed that I should win in spite of all the powers of darkness and of desolation. CHAPTER V WELCOME FROM THE ESKIMOS As we approached Cape York, which is farther from the Pole in actual distance than New York is from Tampa, Florida, it was with a peculiar feeling of satisfaction that I saw the foremost of our Eskimo friends putting out to meet us in their tiny kayaks, or skin canoes. Here is the southernmost of the Eskimo villages, by which a permanent settlement is not meant, for these barbarians are nomads. One year there may be two families there; another year ten; and still another season none at all, for the Eskimos seldom live more than a year or two in one place. As we neared the Cape, the headland was encircled and guarded by an enormous squadron of floating icebergs which made it difficult for the _Roosevelt_ to get near shore; but long before we reached these bergs the hunters of the settlement were seen putting out to greet us. The sight of them skimming the water so easily in their frail kayaks was the most welcome spectacle I had seen since we sailed from Sydney. [Illustration: ESKIMOS COMING OFF TO THE ROOSEVELT IN KAYAKS] It seems fitting to give a good deal of attention at this point to the consideration of this interesting little race, the most northerly people in all the world, for their help is one of the elements without which it is possible that the North Pole might never have been reached. Some years ago, in fact, I had occasion to write of these people a few sentences that, as it has turned out, were so prophetic that it seems appropriate to reproduce them here. Those sentences were: "I have often been asked: Of what use are Eskimos to the world? They are too far removed to be of value for commercial enterprises and, furthermore, they lack ambition. They have no literature nor, properly speaking, any art. They value life only as does a fox, or a bear, purely by instinct. But let us not forget that these people, trustworthy and hardy, will yet prove their value to mankind. With their help, the world shall discover the Pole." The hope that had been expressed in this language so long before was in my mind as I saw my old friends coming out to meet us in their tiny kayaks, for I realized that I was once more in contact with these faithful dwellers of the North, who had been my constant companions for so many years, through all the varying circumstances and fortunes of my arctic work, and from whom I was again to select the pick and flower of the hunters of the whole tribe, extending from Cape York to Etah, to assist in this last effort to win the prize. [Illustration: ESKIMO IN KAYAK] Since 1891 I had been living and working with these people, gaining their absolute confidence, making them my debtors for things given them, earning their gratitude by saving, time after time, the lives of their wives and children by supplying them with food when they were on the verge of starvation. For eighteen years I had been training them in my methods; or, to put it another way, teaching them how to modify and concentrate their wonderful ice technic and endurance, so as to make them useful for my purposes. I had studied their individual characters, as any man studies the human tools with which he expects to accomplish results, until I knew just which ones to select for a quick, courageous dash, and just which dogged, unswerving ones would, if necessary, walk straight through hell for the object I had placed before them. I know every man, woman, and child in the tribe, from Cape York to Etah. Prior to 1891 they had never been farther north than their own habitat. Eighteen years ago I went to these people, and my first work was from their country as a base. Much nonsense has been told by travelers in remote lands about the aborigines' regarding as gods the white men who come to them, but I have never placed much credence in these stories. My own experience has been that the average aborigine is just as content with his own way as we are with ours, just as convinced of his own superior knowledge, and that he adjusts himself with his knowledge in regard to things in the same way that we do. The Eskimos are not brutes; they are just as human as Caucasians. They know that I am their friend, and they have abundantly proved themselves my friends. When I went ashore at Cape York I found there four or five families, living in their summer tupiks, or skin tents, From them I learned what had happened in the tribe in the last two years; who had died, in what families children had been born, where this family and that family were then living--that is, the distribution of the tribe for that particular summer. I thus learned where to find the other men I wanted. It was about seven o'clock in the morning when we arrived at Cape York. I selected the few men needed from that place, told them that when the sun reached a certain point in the heavens that evening the ship would sail, and that they and their families and possessions must be aboard the ship. As hunting is the only industry in these Eskimo villages, and as their goods are of an easily portable character, consisting mainly of tents, dogs and sledges, a few skins, pots and pans, they were able to transport themselves to the _Roosevelt_ in our boats without much loss of time. As soon as they were on board we started north again. There was no question of their willingness to follow me; they were only too glad to go. These men knew from past experience that, once enrolled as members of my expedition, there was no danger that their wives or children would suffer from hunger; and they knew also that at the end of the journey, when we brought them back to their homes, I would turn over to them the remaining supplies and equipment of the expedition, which would ensure living for another year in absolute plenty, that, in comparison with the other members of their tribe, they would indeed be multi-millionaires. An intense and restless curiosity is one of the peculiar characteristics of these people. As an illustration, one winter, years ago, when Mrs. Peary was in Greenland with me, an old woman of the tribe walked a hundred miles from her village to our winter quarters in order that she might see a white woman. It may perhaps be fairly said that it has been my fortune to utilize the Eskimos for the purpose of discovery to a degree equaled by no other explorer, and for that reason it may not seem amiss to suspend the general narrative long enough to give a little information regarding their characteristics, the more so as without some knowledge of these peculiar people it would be impossible for any one really to understand the workings of my expedition to the North Pole. It has been a fundamental principle of all my arctic work to utilize the Eskimos for the rank and file of my sledge parties. Without the skilful handiwork of the women we should lack the warm fur clothing which is absolutely essential to protect us from the winter cold, while the Eskimo dog is the only tractive force suitable for serious arctic sledge work. The members of this little tribe or family, inhabiting the western coast of Greenland from Cape York to Etah, are in many ways quite different from the Eskimos of Danish Greenland, or those of any other arctic territory. There are now between two hundred and twenty and two hundred and thirty in the tribe. They are savages, but they are not savage; they are without government, but they are not lawless; they are utterly uneducated according to our standard, yet they exhibit a remarkable degree of intelligence. In temperament like children, with all a child's delight in little things, they are nevertheless enduring as the most mature of civilized men and women, and the best of them are faithful unto death. Without religion and having no idea of God, they will share their last meal with any one who is hungry, while the aged and the helpless among them are taken care of as a matter of course. They are healthy and pure-blooded; they have no vices, no intoxicants, and no bad habits--not even gambling. Altogether, they are a people unique upon the face of the earth. A friend of mine well calls them the philosophic anarchists of the North. I have been studying the Eskimos for eighteen years and no more effective instruments for arctic work could be imagined than these plump, bronze-skinned, keen-eyed and black-maned children of nature. Their very limitations are their most valuable endowments for the purposes of arctic work. I have a sincere interest in these people, aside from their usefulness to me; and my plan from the beginning has been to give them such aid and instruction as would fit them more effectively to cope with their own austere environment, and to refrain from teaching them anything which would tend to weaken their self-confidence or to make them discontented with their lot. The suggestions of some well-meaning persons that they be transported to a more hospitable region would, if carried out, cause their extermination in two or three generations. Our variable climate they could not endure, as they are keenly susceptible to pulmonary and bronchial affections. Our civilization, too, would only soften and corrupt them, as their racial inheritance is one of physical hardship; while to our complex environment they could not adjust themselves without losing the very childlike qualities which constitute their chief virtues. To Christianize them would be quite impossible; but the cardinal graces of faith, hope, and charity they seem to have already, for without them they could never survive the six-months' night and the many rigors of their home. Their feeling for me is a blending of gratitude and confidence. To understand what my gifts have meant to them, imagine a philanthropic millionaire descending upon an American country town and offering every man there a brownstone mansion and an unlimited bank account. But even this comparison falls short of the reality, for in the United States even the poorest boy knows that there is a possibility of his attaining for himself those things on which he sets his heart, if he will labor and endure, while to the Eskimos the things which I have given them are absolutely out of their world, as far beyond their own unaided efforts as the moon and Mars are beyond the dwellers on this planet. My various expeditions into that region have had the effect of raising the Eskimos from the most abject destitution, lacking every appliance and accessory of civilized life, to a position of relative affluence, with the best material for their weapons, their harpoons and lances, the best of wood for their sledges, the best of cutlery, knives, hatchets, and saws for their work, and the cooking utensils of civilization. Formerly they were dependent upon the most primitive hunting weapons; now they have repeating rifles, breech-loading shotguns, and an abundance of ammunition. There was not a rifle in the tribe when I first went there. As they have no vegetables, and live solely on meat, blood, and blubber, the possession of guns and ammunition has increased the food-producing capacity of every hunter, and relieved the whole tribe from the formerly ever-present danger of starvation for a family, or even an entire village. There is a theory, first advanced by Sir Clements Markham, ex-president of the Royal Geographical Society of London, that the Eskimos are the remnants of an ancient Siberian tribe, the Onkilon; that the last members of this tribe were driven out on the Arctic Ocean by the fierce waves of Tartar invasion in the Middle Ages, and that they found their way to the New Siberian Islands, thence eastward over lands yet undiscovered to Grinnell Land and Greenland. I am inclined to believe in the truth of this theory for the following reasons: Some of the Eskimos are of a distinctly Mongolian type, and they display many Oriental characteristics, such as mimicry, ingenuity, and patience in mechanical duplication. There is a strong resemblance between their stone houses and the ruins of the houses found in Siberia. The Eskimo girl brought home by Mrs. Peary, in 1894, was mistaken by Chinamen for one of their own people. It has also been suggested that their invocation of the spirits of their dead may be a survival of Asian ancestor worship. As a general rule the Eskimos are short in stature, as are the Chinese and Japanese, though I could name several men who stand about five feet ten inches. The women are short and plump. They all have powerful torsos, but their legs are rather slender. The muscular development of the men is astonishing, though their fatty roundness hides the differentiation of the muscles. These people have no written speech, and their language is agglutinative, with complicated prefixes and suffixes, by which they extend a word to a considerable length from the original stem. The language is relatively easy to acquire, and during my first summer in Greenland I gained a fair knowledge of it. In addition to their ordinary speech, they have an esoteric language known only to the adults of the tribe. I cannot say wherein it differs from the other, having made no attempt to learn it, and I doubt if any white man has been fully taught this secret speech, as the knowledge is carefully guarded by its possessors. The Eskimos of this region have not, as a rule, applied themselves to the study of English, for they were clever enough to see that we could learn their language more easily than they could learn ours. Occasionally, however, an Eskimo will startle all hands by rolling out an English phrase or sentence, and, like a parrot, he seems to have a special aptitude in picking up from the sailors phrases of slang or profanity. On the whole, these people are much like children, and should be treated as such. They are easily elated, easily discouraged. They delight in playing tricks on each other and on the sailors, are usually good-natured, and when they are sulky there is no profit in being vexed with them. The methods which children characterize as "jollying" are best for such emergencies. Their mercurial temperament is Nature's provision for carrying them through the long dark night, for if they were morose like the North American Indians, the whole tribe would long ago have lain down and died of discouragement, so rigorous is their lot. In managing the Eskimos it is necessary to make a psychological study of them, and to consider their peculiar temperament. They are keenly appreciative of kindness, but, like children, they will impose upon a weak or vacillating person. A blending of gentleness and firmness is the only effective method. The fundamental point in all my dealings with them has been always to mean just what I say and to have things done exactly as ordered. For instance, if I tell an Eskimo that if he does a certain thing properly he will get a certain reward, he always gets the reward if he obeys. On the other hand, if I tell him that a certain undesirable thing will happen if he follows a course I have forbidden, that thing invariably happens. I have made it to their interest to do what I want done. For example, the best all-round man on a long sledge journey got more than the others. A record was always kept of the game secured by each Eskimo, and the best hunter got a special prize. Thus I kept them interested in their work. The man who killed the musk ox with the finest set of horns and the man who killed the deer with the most magnificent antlers were specially rewarded. I have made it a point to be firm with them, but to rule them by love and gratitude rather than by fear and threats. An Eskimo, like an Indian, never forgets a broken promise--nor a fulfilled one. It would be misleading to infer that almost any man who went to the Eskimos with gifts could obtain from them the kind of service they have given me; for it must be remembered that they have known me personally for nearly twenty years. I have saved whole villages from starvation, and the children are taught by their parents that if they grow up and become good hunters or good seamstresses, as the case may be, "Pearyaksoah" will reward them sometime in the not too distant future. Old Ikwah, for example, who is the father of the girl for whose possession hot-hearted young Ooqueah of my North Pole party fought his way with me to the goal, was the first Eskimo I had, away back in 1891. This young knight of the Northland is an illustration of the fact that sometimes an Eskimo man or woman may be as intense in his or her affairs of the heart as we are. As a rule, however, they are more like children in their affections, faithful to their mates from a sort of domestic habit, but easily consoled for the loss of them by death or otherwise. [Illustration: DECK SCENE ON THE ROOSEVELT] CHAPTER VI AN ARCTIC OASIS In a little arctic oasis lives the meager and scattered handful of the Eskimo population--a little oasis along the frowning western coast of Northern Greenland between Melville Bay and Kane Basin. This region is three thousand miles north of New York City, as a steamer goes; it lies about half way between the Arctic Circle and the Pole, within the confines of the great night. Here, taking the mean latitude, for one hundred and ten days in summer the sun never sets; for one hundred and ten days in winter the sun never rises, and no ray of light save from the icy stars and the dead moon falls on the frozen landscape. [Illustration: THE ICE CLIFFS OF HUBBARD GLACIER] There is a savage grandeur in this coast, carved by eternal conflict with storms and glaciers, bergs and grinding ice-fields; but behind the frowning outer mask nestle in summer many grass-carpeted, flower-sprinkled, sun-kissed nooks. Millions of little auks breed along this shore. Between the towering cliffs are glaciers which launch at intervals their fleets of bergs upon the sea; before these cliffs lies the blue water dotted with masses of glistening ice of all shapes and sizes; behind the cliffs is the great Greenland ice cap, silent, eternal, immeasurable--the abode, say the Eskimos, of evil spirits and the souls of the unhappy dead. In some places on this coast in summer, the grass is as thick and long as on a New England farm. Here bloom poppies, with dandelions, buttercups, and saxifrage, though to the best of my knowledge the flowers are all devoid of perfume. I have seen bumblebees even north of Whale Sound; there are flies and mosquitoes, and even a few spiders. Among the fauna of this country are the reindeer (the Greenland caribou), the fox--both blue and white--the arctic hare, the Polar bear, and perhaps once in a generation a stray wolf. But in the long sunless winter this whole region--cliffs, ocean, glaciers--is covered with a pall of snow that shows a ghastly gray in the wan starlight. When the stars are hidden, all is black, void, and soundless. When the wind is blowing, if a man ventures out he seems to be pushed backward by the hands of an invisible enemy, while a vague, unnamable menace lurks before and behind him. It is small wonder the Eskimos believe that evil spirits walk upon the wind. During the winter these patient and cheerful children of the North live in igloos, or huts, built of stones and earth. It is only when they are traveling, as sometimes during the moonlit period of the month, that they live in the snow igloos, which three good Eskimos can build in an hour or two, and which we built at the end of every day's march on our sledge journey to the Pole. In summer they live in the tupiks, or skin tents. The stone houses are permanent, and a good one will last perhaps a hundred years, with a little repairing of the roof in summer. Igloos are found in groups, or villages, at intervals along the coast from Cape York Bay to Anoratok. As the people are nomadic, these permanent dwellings belong to the tribe, and not to individuals, constituting thus a crude sort of arctic socialism. One year all the houses in a settlement may be occupied; the next year none, or only one or two. These houses are about six feet high by eight to ten feet wide by ten to twelve feet long, and one may be constructed in a month. An excavation is made in the earth, which forms the floor of the house; then the walls are built up solidly with stones chinked with moss; long, flat stones are laid across the top of the walls; this roof is covered with earth, and the whole house is banked in with snow. The construction of the arched roof is on the plan which engineers know as the cantilever, and not that of the Roman arch. The long, flat stones which form the roof are weighted and counter-weighted at the outer ends, and in all my arctic experience I have never known the stone roof of an igloo to fall upon the inmates. There are never any complaints made to the Building Department. There is no door in the side, but a hole in the floor at the entrance leads to a tunnel, sometimes ten, sometimes fifteen, or even twenty-five, feet in length, through which the tenants crawl into their home. There is always a small window in the front of the igloo. The window space is not glazed, of course, but is covered with the thin, intestinal membrane of seals, skilfully seamed together. To a traveler across the dark and snowy winter waste, the yellow light from the interior lamp is visible, sometimes, a long distance away. At the farther end of the igloo is the bed platform, raised about a foot and a half above the earthen floor. Usually this platform is not built, but is the natural level of the earth, the standing space being dug before it. In some houses, however, the bed platform is made of long, flat stones raised upon stone supports. When the Eskimos are ready to move into the stone houses in the fall, they cover the bed platform first with grass, which they bring in by the sledge-load; the grass is then covered with sealskins; above these are spread deerskins, or musk-ox skins,--which form the mattress. Deerskins are used for blankets. Pajamas are not in fashion with the Eskimos. They simply remove all their clothes and crawl in between the deerskins. The lamp, which stands on a large stone at the front of the bed platform on one side, is kept burning all the time, whether the family is asleep or awake. An imaginative person might liken this lamp to an ever-burning sacred flame upon the stone altar of the Eskimo home. It serves also as a stove for heating and cooking, and makes the igloo so warm that the inhabitants wear little clothing when indoors. They sleep with their heads toward the lamp, so the woman may reach out and tend it. On the other side of the house food is generally stored. When two families occupy one igloo, there may be a second lamp on the other side; and in that case the food must be stored under the bed. The temperature of these houses varies from eighty or ninety degrees Fahrenheit, on the bed platform and near the roof, to something below freezing point at the floor level. There is a little air-hole in the center of the roof, but in the happy home of an Eskimo family, in winter, the atmosphere could almost be handled with a shovel. Often, in winter traveling, I have been obliged to sleep in one of these hospitable igloos. On such occasions I have made the best of things, as a man would if compelled to sleep in a tenth-rate railroad hotel or a slum lodging-house, but I have tried to forget the experience as soon as possible. It is not well for an arctic explorer to be too fastidious. A night in one of these igloos, with the family at home, is an offense to every civilized sense, especially that of smell; but there are times when a man, after a long sledge journey in the terrible cold and wind, hungry and footsore, will welcome the dim light shining through the translucent window of an igloo as one welcomes the light of home. It means warmth and comfort, supper, and blessed sleep. There is no blinking the fact that my Eskimo friends are very dirty. When I have them on the ship with me they make heroic efforts to wash themselves occasionally; but in their own homes they practically never do, and in winter they have no water except from melted snow. On rare occasions, when the dirt gets too thick for comfort, they may remove the outer layer with a little oil. I shall never forget the amazement with which they made acquaintance with the white man's use of the tooth-brush. With the coming of the summer, the stone and earth houses become damp, dark holes, and the roofs are taken off to dry and ventilate the interior. The family then moves outside and sets up the tupik, or skin tent, which is their home from about the first of June till some time in September. The tupik is made of sealskins, with the hair on the inside. Ten or twelve skins, sewed together in one large piece, make a tent. It is stretched on poles, high in front and sloping toward the back, thus offering the least possible resistance to the wind, the edges held down with stones. The earth floor of these tents is six or eight feet wide and eight or ten feet long, according to the size of the family. In recent years my Eskimos have adopted an improvement upon the building customs of the west coast natives, and many of them have an entrance extension to their tents made of transparent tanned sealskins, thick enough to keep out the rain but not the light. This adds to the roominess and comfort of their summer dwellings. A usual practice among the better class of Eskimos is to use the old tupik of the previous summer for a rain or weather-guard to the new tent. In heavy winds or heavy summer rains, the old tupik is simply spread over the new one, thus giving a double thickness and protection to the owners. The bed platform in the tupik is now generally made of lumber, which I have furnished, raised on stones, and in pleasant weather the cooking is done outside. Oil is the only fuel for heat, light, and cooking. The Eskimo women trim the lamps so well that there is no smoke from them, unless there is a draft in the tent or igloo. They cut small pieces of blubber, which they lay on moss and ignite, and the heat from the moss dries out the oil, making a surprisingly hot flame. Until I gave them matches, they had only the primitive means of ignition by flint and steel, which they obtained from a vein of pyrites. When I first went up there, all their lamps and rectangular pots were made of soapstone, two or three veins of which are found in that country. Their ability to utilize the soapstone and pyrites is an illustration of their intelligence and ingenuity. As a rule little clothing is worn in the tupiks in warm weather, as the normal summer temperature is around fifty degrees Fahrenheit, and in the strong sunlight may go as high as eighty-five or even ninety-five. The trial marriage is an ineradicable custom among the Eskimos. If a young man and woman are not suited with each other, they try again, and sometimes several times; but when they find mates to whom they are adapted, the arrangement is generally permanent. If two men want to marry the same woman, they settle the question by a trial of strength, and the better man has his way. These struggles are not fights, as the disputants are amiable; they are simply tests of wrestling, or sometimes of pounding each other on the arm to see which man can stand the pounding the longer. Their fundamental acceptance of the proposition that might is right in such matters sometimes extends to a man saying to the husband of a woman: "I am the better man." In such case the husband has either to prove his superiority in strength, or yield the woman to the other. If a man grows tired of his wife, he simply tells her there is not room for her in his igloo. She may return to her parents, if they are living; she may go to a brother or a sister; or she may send word to some man in the tribe that she is now at liberty and is willing to start life again. In these cases of primitive divorce, the husband keeps one or all of the children if he wants them; if not, the woman takes them with her. [Illustration: ESKIMO MOTHER AND CHILD] The Eskimos do not have many children, two or three being the usual number. The woman does not take her husband's name in any case. Akatingwah, for instance, will remain Akatingwah, whether she has had one husband or several. Children do not address their parents as father and mother, but call them by their names, though sometimes very small children use a diminutive which corresponds to our "mamma." Among the Eskimos the woman is as much a part of the man's property as his dog or sledge--except in some rare cases. The cause of the suffragettes has as yet made little headway in this region. I remember one instance in which an Eskimo woman had a difference of opinion with her husband, and proved her right to independence by blackening the old man's eye; but I am afraid that the more conservative members of the tribe attributed this unfeminine behavior to the corrupting influence of contact with civilization. As there are more men than women among the Eskimos, the girls marry very young, often about the age of twelve. In many cases the marriages are arranged between the parents when the children are quite young; but the boy and girl are not bound, and when they are old enough they are permitted to decide for themselves. In fact, they can make several such decisions without losing caste. On the last expedition, as on those of former years, I found that a number of matrimonial changes had taken place among my Northern friends since I was last among them. [Illustration: ESKIMO CHILDREN] It would be worse than useless to attempt to engraft our marriage customs upon these naive children of Nature. Should an arctic explorer consider it his duty to tell a young Eskimo that it was not right for him to exchange wives with his friend, it would be well for the explorer to have his supporting argument well prepared beforehand, for the censured one would probably open wide his eyes and inquire, "Why not?" These people of the ice-land, like all intelligent savages, are remarkably curious. If confronted, say, with a package containing various supplies unknown to them, they will not rest until they have examined every article of the lot, touched it, turned it over, and even tasted it, chattering all the while like a flock of blackbirds. They exhibit, too, in marked degree, all the Oriental capacity for imitation. Out of walrus ivory, in some respects their substitute for steel,--and a surprisingly good substitute it is,--they will construct amazingly good models or copies of various objects, while it does not take them long to master the use of such tools of civilization as may be put into their hands. It will easily be seen how valuable and useful a quality this has proved for the purposes of the arctic explorer. If he could not rely on the Eskimo to do the white man's work with the white man's tools, the labors of the arctic traveler would be tremendously increased and the size of his expedition would have to be enlarged to limits that might be found unwieldy in the extreme. [Illustration: KUDLAH, ALIAS "MISFORTUNE," WITH PUPPIES] My own observations of this interesting people have taught me to repose no confidence whatever in the tales of barbaric craft and cruelty which I have heard of them. On the contrary, taking into consideration their uncivilized state, they must be ranked as a humane people. Moreover, they have always been quick to grasp the purposes that I have had in view and to bend their energies toward achieving the ends for which my expeditions have been striving. Their humanity, as has been indicated, takes a form that would delight a socialist. They are generous and hospitable in a crude way, almost without exception. As a general rule, good and bad fortune are shared. The tribe shares in the proceeds of good luck on the part of the hunters and, as their existence depends on hunting, this accounts in large measure for the preservation of the tribe. CHAPTER VII ODD CUSTOMS OF AN ODD PEOPLE Hard as is the life of the Eskimo, his end is usually as rigorous. All his life he is engaged in constant warfare with the inhospitable elements of his country, and Death, when it arrives, usually comes in some violent form. Old age has few terrors for the Eskimo, for he seldom lives to reach it. He dies, as a rule, in harness, drowned by the capsizing of his skin canoe, caught by the overturning of an iceberg, or crushed by a snow-slide or a rock-slide. It is seldom that an Eskimo lives to be more than sixty years of age. Strictly speaking, the Eskimos have no religion, in the sense in which we use the word. But they believe in the survival of the person after death, and they believe in spirits--especially evil spirits. It may be that their lack of any idea of a beneficent God, and their intense consciousness of evil influences, result from the terrible hardships of their lives. Having no special blessings for which to be grateful to a kind Creator, they have not evolved a conception of Him, while the constantly recurring menaces of the dark, the bitter cold, the savage wind and gnawing hunger, have led them to people the air with invisible enemies. The beneficent spirits are those of their ancestors (another Oriental touch), while they have a whole legion of malevolent spirits, led by Tornarsuk, the great devil himself. They are constantly trying to propitiate Tornarsuk by incantations; and when they kill game, an offering is made to him. The devil is supposed to have a keen appreciation of these tidbits. On leaving a snow igloo the Eskimos are careful to kick the front out of it, that the evil spirits may not find shelter there, and when they throw away a worn-out garment it is never left intact, but is torn in such a way that the devil may not use it to warm himself. A comfortable devil is presumably more dangerous than a shivering one. Any sudden and unexplained barking or howling among the dogs indicates the invisible presence of Tornarsuk, and the men will run out and crack their whips or fire their rifles to scare away the invader. When, on board the _Roosevelt_ in winter quarters, I was suddenly aroused from sleep by the crack of rifles, I did not think there was a mutiny aboard--only that Tornarsuk had ridden by upon the wind. When the ice presses hard against the ship, an Eskimo will call on his dead father to push it away; when the wind blows with special violence, ancestors are again appealed to. Passing along a cliff, on a sledge journey, a man will sometimes stop and listen and then say: "Did you hear what the devil said just then?" I have asked the Eskimo to repeat to me the words of Tornarsuk, up there on the cliff, and I would not dream of laughing at my faithful friends at such a time; the messages of Tornarsuk I receive with a respectful gravity. There are no chiefs among these people, no men in authority; but there are medicine men who have some influence. The angakok is generally not loved--he knows too many unpleasant things that are going to happen, so he says. The business of the angakok is mainly singing incantations and going into trances, for he has no medicines. If a person is sick, he may prescribe abstinence from certain foods for a certain number of moons; for instance, the patient must not eat seal meat, or deer meat, but only the flesh of the walrus. Monotonous incantations take the place of the white man's drugs. The performance of a self-confident angakok is quite impressive--if one has not witnessed it too many times before. The chanting, or howling, is accompanied by contortions of the body and by sounds from a rude tambourine, made from the throat membrane of a walrus stretched on a bow of ivory or bone. The tapping of the rim with another piece of ivory or bone marks the time. This is the Eskimo's only attempt at music. Some women are supposed to possess the power of the angakok--a combination of the gifts of the fortune teller, the mental healer, and the psalmodist, one might say. Once, years ago, my little brown people got tired of an angakok, one Kyoahpahdo, who had predicted too many deaths; and they lured him out on a hunting expedition from which he never returned. But these executions for the peace of the community are rare. Their burial customs are rather interesting. When an Eskimo dies, there is no delay about removing the body. Just as soon as possible it is wrapped, fully clothed, in the skins which formed the bed, and some extra garments are added to insure the comfort of the spirit. Then a strong line is tied round the body, and it is removed, always head first, from the tent or igloo, and dragged head first over the snow or ground to the nearest place where there are enough loose stones to cover it. The Eskimos do not like to touch a dead body, and it is therefore dragged as a sledge would be. Arrived at the place selected for the grave, they cover the corpse with loose stones, to protect it from the dogs, foxes, and ravens, and the burial is complete. According to Eskimo ideas, the after-world is a distinctly material place. If the deceased is a hunter, his sledge and kayak, with his weapons and implements, are placed close by, and his favorite dogs, harnessed and attached to the sledge, are strangled so that they may accompany him on his journey into the unseen. If the deceased is a woman, her lamp and the little wooden frame on which she has dried the family boots and mittens are placed beside the grave. A little blubber is placed there, too, and a few matches, if they are available, so that the woman may light the lamp and do some cooking in transit; a cup or bowl is also provided, in which she may melt snow for water. Her needle, thimble, and other sewing things are placed with her in the grave. In former years, if the woman had a small baby in the hood it was strangled to keep her company; but I have, of course, discouraged this practice, and during the last two expeditions I have not heard of any strangled babies. Among the members of my own party I have simply forbidden the practice, and have promised the relatives sufficient condensed milk and other foods to keep the infant alive. If they have reverted to the old custom during my absence, they have not mentioned the fact to me, knowing of my disapproval. If a death occurs in a tent, the poles are removed, and the tent is left on the ground to rot or blow away. It is never used again. If the death occurs in an igloo, the structure is vacated and not used again for a long time. The relatives of the dead observe certain formalities in regard to food and clothing, and the name of the lost one is never mentioned. If any other members of the tribe have the same name, they must take another until an infant is born to which the proscribed name can be given. This appears to remove the ban. Eskimos are children in their grief, as in their pleasure; they weep for a dead friend a few days, then they forget. Even a mother who has been inconsolable at the death of her baby soon laughs again and thinks of other things. In a country where the stars are visible for so many weeks at a time it is not strange perhaps that they receive much attention from the natives. The Eskimos are, within barbaric limits, astronomers. The principal constellations visible in northern latitudes are well known to them and they have given them their own names and descriptions. In the Great Dipper they see a herd of celestial reindeer. The Pleiades are to the Eskimos a team of dogs pursuing a solitary polar bear. Gemini they describe as two stones in the entrance of an igloo. The moon and the sun represent to the Eskimo, as to some of our North American Indian tribes, a fleeing maiden and her pursuing admirer. Time is, of course, of small value to the Eskimo, so far as he is himself personally concerned, yet after the Eskimo has been trained to the ways of the white man he seems to absorb an excellent notion of the value of punctuality and will carry out orders with a surprising degree of promptness and despatch. The strength and capacity for enduring hardships exhibited by this people is extraordinary and is not, I believe, exceeded by that shown by any other aboriginal race now in existence. It is true that the average size of the Eskimo is, judged by our own standards, small; but I could give the names of several of them who stand five feet ten inches and weigh 185 pounds. The popular idea that they are clumsily fashioned is not correct. That notion is merely another case of judging a man by the clothes he wears, and an Eskimo's garments are not precisely what we should call of fashionable cut. To my mind, the skin canoe of these Northern aborigines is, with its hunting implements, one of the most complete and ingenious manifestations of intelligence to be found in any aboriginal tribe. Over a light framework, an almost infinite number of small pieces of wood deftly lashed together with sealskin thongs, is stretched the tanned skin of seals, the seams being neatly sewed by the women, and then rendered water-tight by an application of seal oil and soot from the native lamps. The result is a craft of great buoyancy, some grace, and especial fitness and effectiveness for the purposes for which it is intended, that is, to enable the hunter to creep softly and noiselessly upon seal, walrus, or white whale. This canoe, while varying somewhat with the size of the owner and maker, will average between twenty and twenty-four inches in width by sixteen or eighteen feet in length. It carries one man only. I may have helped the Eskimos a little in perfecting it, by giving them more suitable material for the framework, but the canoe is original with them. It will scarcely be considered strange that I have grown to love this childlike, simple people, as well as to value their many admirable and useful qualities. For it must be borne in mind that for nearly a quarter of a century they have been more thoroughly known to me than any other group of human beings in the world. The present generation of able-bodied Eskimos has practically grown up under my personal observation. Every individual member of the tribe--man, woman, and child--is known to me by name and sight as thoroughly as the patients of an old-fashioned family physician are known to him, and perhaps the feeling existing between us is not so very different. And the knowledge of individuals gained in this intimate way has been priceless in the work of reaching the Pole. Take, for example, the quartet of young Eskimos who formed a portion of the sledge party that finally reached the long-courted "ninety North." The oldest of the four, Ootah, is about 34 years of age. This young man is one of the sturdiest of the tribe. He stands about 5 feet 8 inches and is a fine hunter. When I first saw him he was a young boy. Egingwah, another of the group, is about 26 years old, a big chap weighing about 175 pounds. Seegloo and Ooqueah are about 24 and 20 respectively. All four of them have been brought up to regard me as the patron, protector, and guide of their people. Their capacities, peculiarities, and individual characteristics were perfectly known to me, and they were chosen out of the whole tribe for the final great effort because I knew them to be most perfectly adapted to the work in hand. [Illustration: THE DOG MARKET AT CAPE YORK] Before taking up the story of our advance from Cape York, a word ought to be said about those remarkable creatures, the Eskimo dogs, for without their help success could never have crowned the efforts of the expedition. They are sturdy, magnificent animals. There may be larger dogs than these, there may be handsomer dogs; but I doubt it. Other dogs may work as well or travel as fast and far when fully fed; but there is no dog in the world that can work so long in the lowest temperatures on practically nothing to eat. The male dogs average in weight from eighty to one hundred pounds, though I had one which weighed one hundred and twenty-five pounds. The females are somewhat smaller. Their special physical characteristics are a pointed muzzle, great breadth between the eyes, sharp-pointed ears, very heavy coat underlaid with a thick, soft fur, powerful, heavy-muscled legs, and a bushy tail or brush similar to that of the fox. There is only one breed of Eskimo dogs, but they are variously marked and of different colors, black, white, gray, yellow, brown, and mottled. Some scientists believe that they are the direct descendants of the Arctic wolf, yet, as a rule, they are as affectionate and obedient to their masters as our own dogs at home. Their food is meat, and meat only. That they cannot live on any other food I know, for I have made the experiment. For water they eat snow. [Illustration: THE WHALE BOAT RETURNING TO THE SHIP FROM THE WALRUS HUNT] The dogs are not housed at any season of the year; but summer and winter they are tied somewhere near the tent or igloo. They are never allowed to roam at large, lest they be lost. Sometimes a special pet, or a female that has young puppies, will be taken into the igloo for a time; but Eskimo puppies only a month old are so hardy that they can stand the severe winter weather. [Illustration: KING ESKIMO DOG] Enough has been said to give the reader a general idea of these strange people, that have been so valuable to me in my arctic work. But I want to say again, at the risk of being misunderstood, that I hope no efforts will ever be made to civilize them. Such efforts, if successful, would destroy their primitive communism, which is necessary to preserve their existence. Once give them an idea of real-estate interest and personal-property rights in houses and food, and they might become as selfish as civilized beings; whereas now any game larger than a seal is the common property of the tribe and no man starves while his neighbors are gorging themselves. If a man has two sets of hunting implements, he gives one of them to the man who has none. It is this feeling of good-fellowship which alone preserves the race. I have taught them some of the fundamental principles of sanitation and the care of themselves, the treatment of simple diseases, of wounds, and other accidents; but there I think their civilization should stop. This opinion is not based on theory or prejudice, but on eighteen years of intimate study and experience. [Illustration: THE CAPE JESUP GRENADIERS] CHAPTER VIII GETTING RECRUITS When on August 1 the _Roosevelt_ steamed out from Cape York, she had on board several Eskimo families which we had picked up there and at Salvo Island. We also had about one hundred dogs, bought from the Eskimos. When I say "bought," I do not mean paid for with money, as these people have no money and no unit of value. All exchange between them is based on the principle of pure barter. For instance, if one Eskimo has a deerskin which he does not need, and another has something else, they exchange. The Eskimos had dogs which we wanted, and we had many things which they wanted, such as lumber, knives and other cutlery, cooking utensils, ammunition, matches, et cetera. So, as the Yankees say, we traded. [Illustration: PEARY DISTRIBUTING UTENSILS TO WIVES OF HIS HUNTERS AT ETAH] Steaming in a northwesterly course from Cape York, we passed the "Crimson Cliffs," so named by Sir John Ross, the English explorer, in 1818. This vivid name was applied to the cliffs by reason of the quantities of "red snow" which can be seen from a ship miles out at sea. The color is given to the permanent snow by the _Protococcus nivalis_, one of the lowest types of the single, living protoplasmic cell. The nearly transparent gelatinous masses vary from a quarter inch in diameter to the size of a pin-head, and they draw from the snow and the air the scanty nourishment which they require. Seen from a distance, the snow looks like blood. This red banner of the Arctic has greeted me on all my northern journeys. Sailing by these cliffs, which extend for thirty or forty miles, my thoughts were busy with the work before us. First and most necessary of all was the task of gathering our arctic personnel of Eskimos and dogs, already begun before we left Cape York. Our next stop, after Cape York, was on August 3, at North Star Bay, Oomunnui, as the natives call it, on Wolstenholm Sound. Here I found the _Erik_, which had become separated from us in Davis Strait several days before during heavy weather. At Oomunnui we took on two or three families of Eskimos and more dogs. Ooqueah, one of my North Pole party, came aboard at this place; Seegloo had joined us at Cape York. On the night of August 5, a clear and sunshiny night, between Hakluyt and Northumberland Islands I left the _Roosevelt_ and transferred to the _Erik_, taking Matt Henson with me, for a reconnaissance of the various Eskimo settlements on Inglefield Gulf and along the coast. This detour was for the purpose of picking up more Eskimos and dogs. The _Roosevelt_ was sent ahead to Etah, to get in shape for her coming battle royal with the ice in Kane Basin and the channels beyond. There was for me a strange mingling of pleasure and sadness in this gathering together of our brown-skinned helpers, for I felt that it was for the last time. The business consumed several days. I went first to Karnah, on the Redcliffe Peninsula, thence to Kangerdlooksoah and Nunatoksoah, near the head of the gulf. Returning on our course, we came back to Karnah, then went south to the neighborhood of the Itiblu Glacier, then northwest again by a devious course around the islands and the points to Kookan, in Robertson Bay, then to Nerke, on C. Saumarez, then on to Etah, where we joined the _Roosevelt_, having obtained all the Eskimos and dogs we needed,--two hundred and forty-six of the latter, to be exact. There was no intention of taking to the far North all the Eskimos taken aboard the _Erik_ and the _Roosevelt_--only the best of them. But if any family wanted transportation from one settlement to another, we were glad to accommodate them. It is to be doubted if anywhere on the waters of the Seven Seas there was ever a more outlandishly picturesque vessel than ours at this time--a sort of free tourist steamship for traveling Eskimos, with their chattering children, barking dogs, and other goods and chattels. [Illustration: ESKIMO DOGS OF THE EXPEDITION (246 IN ALL) ON SMALL ISLAND, ETAH FJORD] Imagine this man-and-dog-bestrewn ship, on a pleasant, windless summer day in Whale Sound. The listless sea and the overarching sky are a vivid blue in the sunlight--more like a scene in the Bay of Naples than one in the Arctic. There is a crystalline clearness in the pure atmosphere that gives to all colors a brilliancy seen nowhere else--the glittering white of the icebergs with the blue veins running through them; the deep reds, warm grays, and rich browns of the cliffs, streaked here and there with the yellows of the sandstone; a little farther away sometimes the soft green grass of this little arctic oasis; and on the distant horizon the steel-blue of the great inland ice. When the little auks fly high against the sunlit sky, they appear like the leaves of a forest when the early frost has touched them and the first gale of autumn carries them away, circling, drifting, eddying through the air. The desert of northern Africa may be as beautiful as Hichens tells us; the jungles of Asia may wear as vivid coloring; but to my eyes there is nothing so beautiful as the glittering Arctic on a sunlit summer day. On August 11 the _Erik_ reached Etah, where the _Roosevelt_ was awaiting her. The dogs were landed on an island, the _Roosevelt_ was washed, the boilers were blown down and filled with fresh water, the furnaces cleaned, and the cargo overhauled and re-stowed to put the vessel in fighting trim for her coming encounter with the ice. About three hundred tons of coal were transferred from the _Erik_ to the _Roosevelt_, and about fifty tons of walrus and whale meat. Fifty tons of coal were cached at Etah for the _Roosevelt's_ expected return the following year. Two men, boatswain Murphy and Pritchard, the cabin boy, with full provisions for two years, were left in charge. Harry Whitney, a summer passenger on the _Erik_, who was ambitious to obtain musk-oxen and polar bears, asked permission to remain with my two men at Etah. The permission was granted, and Mr. Whitney's belongings were landed. At Etah, Rudolph Franke, who had come north with Dr. Cook in 1907, came to me and asked permission to go home on the _Erik_. He showed me a letter from Dr. Cook directing him to go home this season on a whaler. An examination by Dr. Goodsell, my surgeon, showed that the man suffered from incipient scurvy, and that he was in a serious mental state, so I had no alternative but to give him passage home on the _Erik_. Boatswain Murphy, whom I was to leave at Etah, was a thoroughly trustworthy man, and I gave him instructions to prevent the Eskimos from looting the supplies and equipment left there by Dr. Cook, and to be prepared to render Dr. Cook any assistance he might require when he returned, as I had no doubt he would as soon as the ice froze over Smith Sound (presumably in January) so as to enable him to cross to Anoratok from Ellesmere Land, where I had no doubt he then was. On the _Erik_ were three other passengers, Mr. C. C. Crafts, who had come north to take a series of magnetic observations for the department of terrestrial magnetism of the Carnegie Institution in Washington, Mr. George S. Norton, of New York, and Mr. Walter A. Larned, the tennis champion. The _Roosevelt's_ carpenter, Bob Bartlett, of Newfoundland (not related to Captain Bob Bartlett), and a sailor named Johnson also went back on the _Erik_. That vessel was commanded by Captain Sam Bartlett (Captain Bob's uncle), who had been master of my own ship on several expeditions. At Etah we took on a few more Eskimos, including Ootah and Egingwah, who were destined to be with me at the Pole; and I left there all the remaining Eskimos that I did not wish to take with me to winter quarters in the North. We retained forty-nine--twenty-two men, seventeen women, ten children--and two hundred and forty-six dogs. The _Roosevelt_, as usual, was loaded almost to the water's edge with the coal that had been crowded into her, the seventy tons of whale meat which we had bought in Labrador, and the meat and blubber of nearly fifty walruses. We parted company from the _Erik_ and steamed north on the 18th of August, an intensely disagreeable day, with driving snow and rain, and a cutting wind from the southeast which made the sea very rough. As the two ships separated, they signaled "good-by and good luck" with the whistles, and our last link with civilization was broken. Since my return I have been asked if I did not feel deep emotion on parting with my companions on the _Erik_, and I have truthfully replied that I did not. The reader must remember that this was my eighth expedition into the Arctic, and that I had parted from a supply ship many times before. Constant repetition will take the edge from the most dramatic experience. As we steamed north from the harbor of Etah, my thoughts were on the condition of the ice in Robeson Channel; and the ice in Robeson Channel is more dramatic than any parting--save from one's nearest and dearest, and I had left mine three thousand miles below at Sydney. We had some three hundred and fifty miles of almost solid ice to negotiate before we could reach our hoped-for winter quarters at Cape Sheridan. I knew that beyond Smith Sound we might have to make our slow way rod by rod, and sometimes literally inch by inch, butting and ramming and dodging the mountainous ice; that, if the _Roosevelt_ survived, I should probably not have my clothes off, or be able to snatch more than an hour or two of sleep at a time, for two or three weeks. Should we lose our ship and have to make our way over the ice southward from anywhere below Lady Franklin Bay, or possibly beyond there--it was good-by to my life's dream and probably to some of my companions. CHAPTER IX A WALRUS HUNT The walrus are among the most picturesque and powerful fauna of the far North. More than that, their pursuit and capture, a process by no means devoid of peril, is an important part of every serious arctic expedition, for on every expedition of mine these huge creatures, weighing as they do all the way from 1,200 to 3,000 pounds, are hunted for the purpose of obtaining the maximum of meat for dog food in a minimum of time. Wolstenholm and Whale Sounds, which are passed before reaching Etah, are favorite haunts of the walrus. The hunting of these monsters is the most exciting and dangerous sport in the arctic regions. The polar bear has been called the tiger of the North; but a contest between one or two, or even three, of these animals and a man armed with a Winchester repeating rifle is an entirely one-sided affair. On the contrary, a contest with a herd of walrus,--the lions of the North,--in a small whale-boat, will give more thrills to the minute than anything else I know of within the Arctic Circle. On the last expedition I did not go after walrus myself, leaving that exhilarating labor to the younger men. I have seen so much of it in the past that my first vivid impression is somewhat blunted. I have therefore asked George Borup to write for me an account of walrus-hunting, as it appears to a novice, and his story is so vivid that I give it to the reader in his own words, graphic with the keen impressions of a young man and picturesque with college slang. He says: "Walrus-hunting is the best sport in the shooting line that I know. There is something doing when you tackle a herd of fifty-odd, weighing between one and two tons each, that go for you whether wounded or not; that can punch a hole through eight inches of young ice; that try to climb into the boat to get at or upset you,--we never could make out which, and didn't care, as the result to us would have been the same,--or else try to ram your boat and stave holes in it. "Get in a mix-up with a herd, when every man in the whale-boat is standing by to repel boarders, hitting them over the head with oars, boat-hooks, axes, and yelling like a cheering section at a football game to try to scare them off; with the rifles going like young Gatling guns, and the walruses bellowing from pain and anger, coming to the surface with mad rushes, sending the water up in the air till you would think a flock of geysers was turned loose in your immediate vicinity--oh, it's great! "When we were walrus-hunting, the _Roosevelt_ would steam along, with all hands on the watch. Then suddenly a keen-eyed Eskimo would sing out, 'Awick soah!' or, possibly, 'Awick tedicksoah!' ('Walruses! A great many walruses!') "We would look to see if there were enough of the animals to make a raid worth while; then, if the prospect was satisfactory, the _Roosevelt_ would steam along to leeward, for if they smelled her smoke they would wake up and we would never see them again. "Henson, MacMillan, and I used to take turns going after these brutes. Four or five Eskimos, one sailor, and a whale-boat were assigned to each of us. The boats were painted white to resemble pieces of ice, and the row-locks were muffled, that we might steal along as noiselessly as possible. "As soon as we sighted a herd worthy of our lead, we would sing out to our men, 'Shake her up!' and they would all come on the jump. After a hurried though careful look to see if we had four or five oars, five harpoons, lines, floats, two rifles, and ammunition, we would cry, 'Stand by to lower away'; and as the _Roosevelt_ slackened speed we would slide down the davit ropes, man the oars, and go out to look for trouble--which we usually found. "We would get as near as possible to the walruses on the ice. If they were sound asleep, we could row to within five yards and harpoon a couple; but generally they would wake up, when we were about twenty yards away, and begin to slide off into the water. We would then shoot, and if they attacked us it was easy to harpoon them; while if they started to leave the country, it might be a Marathon race before we got close enough to make the harpoons fast in their hides. "A walrus when killed will go to the bottom like a ton of lead, and our business was to get a harpoon into him before that event took place. The harpoon is fastened to the float by a long thong made of sealskin, and a float is made of the entire skin of a seal filled with air for buoyancy. "A thing we soon learned to look out for was to let this thong, which was neatly coiled up like a lasso before it was thrown, have the right of way and all the space it needed; for if it happened to take a turn around one of our legs when the other end was fast to a walrus, we would be missing that useful member, and be pulled into the water--and possibly drowned. "Now a crew that goes through a scrimmage with these monsters develops teamplay of a high order in a surprisingly short time. The sailor would steer, four Eskimos would row, and in the bow would be the best harpooner with one of us beside him. The two men forward would enable the men rowing to be spelled, if we had a long chase. "I shall never forget my first mix-up with a herd. We had sighted about ten walruses two miles away, and MacMillan and I, Dennis Murphy, a sailor, and three Eskimos manned a whale-boat, and off we went. About two hundred yards from the walruses we quit rowing and let Murphy scull us, while Mac and I crouched side by side in the bow, the Eskimos with their harpoons being ready right behind us. "When we were about twenty yards from the herd, one bull woke up, gave a grunt, poked another, woke him, and then--bang! bang! bang! we opened fire. Mac had a Winchester automatic rifle, and he got off five shots so fast that before the first one left the muzzle the other four were chasing it. He dropped a large bull, which gave a convulsive flop and rolled into the water with a splash. I hit a couple, and with hoarse grunts of pain and fury they all wriggled off the ice and dived out of sight. The boat was hurried to within five yards of Mac's bull, and an Eskimo hurled a harpoon, hit the large bull, and threw overboard the sealskin float. At this stage of the game about forty other walruses, that had been feeding below, came up to the surface to see what the noise was about, spitting the clam shells out of their mouths and snorting. The water was alive with the brutes, and many of them were so close to us that we could hit them with the oars. A harpoon was driven into another by a corking throw; and just then, when my magazine was empty, things began to come our way. "Suddenly a large bull, followed by two others, all wounded, came to the surface twenty yards off, gave tongue to their battle-cry and charged. The Eskimos were not pleased at the look of things. They grabbed the oars and began to bang them on the gunwale of the boat, yelling like so many steam sirens, hoping to scare the invaders off; but they might as well have been crooning lullabies. "Mac, who had never before shot anything larger than a bird, was cool, and his automatic was going off like a pom-pom, when we cut loose on the charging trio. Their numerous companions added to the general din; and the reports of the rifles, the shouts and pounding of the Eskimos, with the bellowing of the infuriated animals, sounded like Vesuvius blowing its head off. We sank one walrus, then disabled another; but the biggest one dived and came up with a snort right alongside of the boat, so that he blew water in our faces. With our guns almost touching his head, we let drive--and he began to sink. With a triumphant cheer, the Eskimos harpooned him. "Then we signaled to the _Roosevelt_ to come up, and as soon as the friends and neighbors of the deceased smelled the smoke, they made for parts unknown. "In this hunt, as in all other walrus hunts I was in, I had a hard time in trying not to take a crack at the floats. They were black, and jumped around in the weirdest way, so that they appeared to be alive. I knew that if I shot one, I would never hear the last of it, so took good care. "Another time we went for a herd of fifty-odd walruses that were sleeping on the ice. The wind was blowing fairly hard, and it is never easy to shoot accurately from a whale-boat which is doing a cake-walk in the arms of a choppy sea. When we got twenty yards from the ice cake, we began to fire. I hit a couple of walruses, but did not kill them, and with fierce grunts the huge brutes wriggled into the sea. They were coming our way, and all hands stood by to show the visitors how we loved to speed the parting guest--our way of showing this being the vocal and instrumental method already described. "Wesharkoopsi, an Eskimo, who stood right behind me and who had been telling us what an expert he was with the harpoon, was making threatening gestures which boded ill for any walrus that came near us. "Suddenly, with a loud 'Ook! Ook!' a bull rose like a giant jack-in-the-box right alongside of me, giving us a regular shower bath, and he got both tusks on the gunwale of the boat. "Wesharkoopsi was not expecting a fight at such close quarters, and he got badly rattled. Instead of throwing his harpoon he dropped it, yelled madly, and began to spit in the monster's face. It is needless to state that we never again took Wesharkoopsi walrus-hunting in a whale-boat. "The others were shouting, swearing in English and Eskimo at Wesharkoopsi, the walrus, and everything in general; some were trying to hit the brute, others to back water. "I was not eager just then to test the soundness of one arctic explorer's dictum: 'If a walrus gets his tusks over the side of the boat, you must not hit him, as such a course would induce him to back water and upset you; but gently grasp the two-thousand-pound monster by the tusks and drop him overboard'--or words to that effect. If this one had got his tusks a quarter inch further my way, he would have had them clear over the gunwale; so I held my rifle at port arms, stuck its business end into the visitor's face, and let him have it--which settled his account. "That walrus had tried to upset us, but almost immediately another one tried a new variation of the game, an almost successful effort to sink us--a regular dive-tackle. "He was a large bull that an Eskimo had harpooned. He showed what he was made of by promptly attacking the float and putting it out of commission, then he proceeded to make off with the harpoon, float, and all. He happened to come near my end of the boat, and I shot at him; but whether I hit the mark or not I do not know. Anyhow, he dived, and while we were all looking over the side for him to appear, our craft was hit a tremendous whack by something under the stern--so hard that it upset the bosun, who was standing there peacefully sculling. "Our friend was getting a little too strenuous; but he dived before I could shoot again, and came up fifty yards off. Then I hit him with a bullet, and he disappeared. Maybe we were not an anxious crowd in that boat for the next few minutes, as we knew that that submarine earthquake was due for another blow-up at any instant--but when and where! We stared at the surface of the water, to see if possible from what direction the next attack would come. "One more such scrimmage as the last and we would be all in--both literally and metaphorically; for he had put a big hole through the bottom of the boat, and as she had a double bottom we could not check the leak, and one man had to bale rapidly. We always carried along a lot of old coats to stop holes in the boats, but in this case they might as well have been pocket handkerchiefs. "Suddenly an Eskimo who was looking over the side yelled: '_Kingeemutt! Kingeemutt!_' ('Back her! Back her!') But the words were hardly out of his mouth when--smash! rip! bang!--the stern of the boat rose under the shock, the bosun was nearly knocked overboard, an Eskimo catching him on the fly, and a hole I could have put both fists through suddenly appeared within an inch of his foot, just above the water line. "I looked over the gunwale. There the brute lay on his back, tusks upright under the stern; then with a quick flop he dived. The men did their usual stunts to scare him off. Up he came fifteen yards away, gave his battle-cry, 'Ook! Ook! Ook!' to warn us to look out for trouble, and came tearing along the surface of Whale Sound like a torpedo boat destroyer, or an unmuffled automobile with a bicycle policeman on its trail. "I got my rapid-fire gun into the game and sank him; then we made for the nearest cake of ice--and reached it none too soon." [Illustration: HOISTING A WALRUS TO THE DECK OF THE ROOSEVELT] To take up the story where Borup leaves it, when the first wounded walrus had been despatched with a bullet, and the floats were all taken in, an oar was erected in the boat for a signal, and the _Roosevelt_ steamed up. The floats and the lines were taken over the rail of the ship, the walrus raised to the surface of the water, a hook inserted, and the winch on deck hoisted the monster on board, to be later skinned and cut up by the expert knives of the Eskimos. While this work was going on, the deck of the ship looked like a slaughterhouse, with the ravenous dogs--at this stage of the journey we had already about one hundred and fifty--waiting, ears erect and eyes sparkling, to catch the refuse thrown them by the Eskimos. [Illustration: A NARWHAL KILLED OFF CAPE UNION, JULY, 1909. THE MOST NORTHERLY SPECIMEN EVER CAPTURED] In the Whale Sound region we sometimes obtained narwhal and deer, but there was no narwhal hunting to speak of on the upward journey this last time. Walrus, narwhal, and seal meat are valuable food for dogs, but a white man does not usually enjoy it--unless he is nearly starved. Many times, however, during my twenty-three years of arctic exploration, I have thanked God for even a bite of raw dog. CHAPTER X KNOCKING AT THE GATEWAY TO THE POLE From Etah to Cape Sheridan! Imagine about three hundred and fifty miles of almost solid ice--ice of all shapes and sizes, mountainous ice, flat ice, ragged and tortured ice, ice that, for every foot of height revealed above the surface of the water, hides seven feet below--a theater of action which for diabolic and Titanic struggle makes Dante's frozen circle of the Inferno seem like a skating pond. Then imagine a little black ship, solid, sturdy, compact, strong and resistant as any vessel built by mortal hands can be, yet utterly insignificant in comparison with the white, cold adversary she must fight. And on this little ship are sixty-nine human beings, men, women, and children, whites and Eskimos, who have gone out into the crazy, ice-tortured channel between Baffin Bay and the Polar Sea--gone out to help prove the reality of a dream which has bewitched some of the most daring minds of the world for centuries, a will-o'-the-wisp in the pursuit of which men have frozen, and starved, and died. The music that ever sounded in our ears had for melody the howling of two hundred and forty-six wild dogs, for a bass accompaniment the deep, low grumbling of the ice, surging around us with the impulse of the tides, and for punctuation the shock and jar of our crashing assaults upon the floes. We steamed northward into the fog beyond Etah, Greenland, on the afternoon of August 18, 1908. This was the beginning of the last stage of the _Roosevelt's_ journey. All now on board would, if they lived, be with me until my return the following year. As an ungentle reminder of what was ahead of us, though going at half speed because of the fog, we struck a small berg a little way out from the harbor. Had the _Roosevelt_ been an ordinary ship instead of the sturdy ice-fighter that she is, my story might have ended right here. As it was, the shock of the impact jarred things considerably. But the berg suffered more than the ship, which only shook herself like a dog coming out of the water, and with the main mass of the berg swaying heavily on one side from the blow we had given it, and a large fragment we had broken off churning the water on the other side, the _Roosevelt_ scraped between them and went on. This little incident made a strong impression on the new members of my party, and I did not think it necessary to tell them that it was only a mosquito bite to the crunching and grinding between the jaws of the heavier ice that was in store for us a little farther on. We were working in a northwesterly direction toward the Ellesmere Land side, and headed for Cape Sabine, of terrible memories. As we steamed on, the ice became thicker, and we had to turn south to get out of the way of it, worming our course among the loose floes. The _Roosevelt_ avoided the heavier ice; but the lighter pack she shoved aside without much difficulty. South of Brevoort Island we were fortunate in finding a strip of open water, and steamed northward again, keeping close to the shore. It must be remembered that from Etah to Cape Sheridan, for the greater part of the course, the shores on either side are clearly visible,--on the east the Greenland coast, on the west the coast of Ellesmere Land and Grant Land. At Cape Beechey, the narrowest and most dangerous part, the channel is only eleven miles wide, and when the air is clear it almost seems as if a rifle bullet might be fired from one side to the other. These waters, save in exceptional seasons, are filled with the heaviest kind of ice, which is constantly floating southward from the Polar Sea toward Baffin Bay. Whether this channel was carved in the solid land by the force of pre-Adamite glaciers, or whether it is a Titanic cleft formed by the breaking off of Greenland from Grant Land, is a question still undetermined by geologists; but for difficulty and danger there is no place to compare with it in the whole arctic region. It is hard for a layman to understand the character of the ice through which the _Roosevelt_ fought her way. Most persons imagine that the ice of the arctic regions has been formed by direct freezing of the sea water; but in the summer time very little of the floating ice is of that character. It is composed of huge sheets broken off from the glacial fringe of North Grant Land broken up by contact with other floes and with the land, and driven south under the impetus of the violent flood tides. It is not unusual to see there ice between eighty and one hundred feet thick. As seven-eighths of these heavy floes are under water, one does not realize how thick they are until one sees where a huge mass, by the pressure of the pack behind it, has been driven upon the shore, and stands there high and dry, eighty or a hundred feet above the water, like a silver castle guarding the shore of this exaggerated and ice-clogged Rhine. The navigation of the narrow and ice-encumbered channels between Etah and Cape Sheridan was long considered an utter impossibility, and only four ships besides the _Roosevelt_ have succeeded in accomplishing any considerable portion of it. Of these four ships, one, the _Polaris_, was lost. Three, the _Alert_, the _Discovery_, and the _Proteus_, made the voyage up and back in safety; but one of those, the _Proteus_, was lost in an attempt to repeat the dash. The _Roosevelt_ had on the expedition of 1905-6 made the voyage up and back, though she was badly smashed on the return. Going north, the _Roosevelt_ of necessity followed the coast a portion of the way, as only close to the shore could any water be found which would enable the ship to advance. With the shore ice on one side, and the moving central pack on the other, the changing tides were almost certain to give us an occasional opportunity to steam ahead. This channel is the meeting place between the tides coming from Baffin Bay on the south and from Lincoln Sea on the north, the actual point of meeting being about Cape Frazer. South of that point the flood tide runs north, and north of it the flood tide runs south. One may judge of the force of these tides from the fact that on the shores of the Polar Sea the mean rise is only a little over a foot, while in the narrowest part of the channel the tide rises and falls twelve or fourteen feet. As a rule, looking across the channel, there seems to be no water--nothing but uneven and tortured ice. When the tide is at the ebb, the ship follows the narrow crack of water between the shore and the moving pack of the center, driving ahead with all her force; then, when the flood tide begins to rush violently southward, the ship must hurry to shelter in some niche of the shore ice, or behind some point of rock, to save herself from destruction or being driven south again. This method of navigation, however, is one of constant hazard, as it keeps the vessel between the immovable rocks and the heavy and rapidly drifting ice, with the ever-present possibility of being crushed between the two. My knowledge of the ice conditions of these channels and their navigation was absolutely my own, gained in former years of traveling along the shores and studying them for this very purpose. On my various expeditions I had walked every foot of the coast line, from Payer Harbor on the south to Cape Joseph Henry on the north, from three to eight times. I knew every indentation of that coast, every possible shelter for a ship, every place where icebergs usually grounded, and the places where the tide ran strongest, as accurately as a tugboat captain in New York harbor knows the piers of the North River water front. When Bartlett was in doubt as to making a risky run, with the chance of not finding shelter for the ship, I could usually say to him: "At such and such a place, so far from here, is a little niche behind the delta of a stream, where we can drive the _Roosevelt_ in, if necessary"; or: "Here icebergs are almost invariably grounded, and we can find shelter behind them"; or: "Here is a place absolutely to be shunned, for the floes pile up here at the slightest provocation, in a way that would destroy any ship afloat." It was this detailed knowledge of every foot of the Ellesmere Land and Grant Land coasts, combined with Bartlett's energy and ice experience, that enabled us to pass four times between this arctic Scylla and Charybdis. The fog lifted about nine o'clock the first night out, the sun peeped through the clouds, and as we passed Payer Harbor, on the Ellesmere Land side, we saw, sharply outlined against the snow, the house where I wintered in 1901-2. A flood of memories rushed over me at sight of the place. It was in Payer Harbor that Mrs. Peary and my little daughter had waited for me, on the _Windward_ from September, 1900, to May, 1901, the ice being so heavy that year that the ship could neither reach Fort Conger, three hundred miles beyond, where I was, nor regain the open water to the south and return home. That was the spring when I had been obliged to turn back at Lincoln Bay, because the exhaustion of my Eskimos and dogs made a dash for the Pole impossible. It was at Payer Harbor that I had rejoined my family; it was at Payer Harbor that I had parted from them, determined to make one fight more to reach the goal. "One fight more," I said in 1902; but I had only reached 84° 17´. "One fight more," I had said in 1905; but I had only reached 87° 6´. And now, at Payer Harbor again, on August 18, 1908, it was still "One fight more!" Only this time I knew it was the last, in truth, whatever the result. At ten o'clock that night we were steaming past the desolate, wind-swept and ice-ground rocks of Cape Sabine, the spot that marks one of the most somber chapters in arctic history, where Greely's ill-fated party slowly starved to death in 1884--seven survivors only being rescued out of a party of twenty-four! The ruins of the rude stone hut built by these men for shelter during the last year of their lives can still be seen on the bleak northern shore of Cape Sabine, only two or three miles from the extreme point. It is doubtful if a more desolate and unsheltered location for a camp could be found anywhere in the arctic regions, fully exposed to the biting winds from the north, cut off by the rocks back of it from the rays of the southern sun, and besieged by the ice pack surging down from Kane Basin in the north. I first saw the place in August, 1896, in a blinding snowstorm, so thick that it was impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction. The impressions of that day will never be forgotten--the pity and the sickening sense of horror. The saddest part of the whole story for me was the knowledge that the catastrophe was unnecessary, that it might have been avoided. My men and I have been cold and have been near to starvation in the Arctic, when cold and hunger were inevitable; but the horrors of Cape Sabine were not inevitable. They are a blot upon the record of American arctic exploration. From Cape Sabine north there was so much open water that we thought of setting the lug sail before the southerly wind; but a little later the appearance of ice to the north caused us to change our minds. About sixty miles north of Etah, we came to a dead stop in the ice pack off Victoria Head. There we lay for hours; but the time was not altogether wasted, for we filled our tanks with ice from a floe. In the afternoon of the second day out, the wind came on strong from the south, and we slowly drifted northward with the ice. After some hours, the wind began to form pools of open water through the pack, and we steamed westward toward the land, with the spray flying clear across the decks. An Eskimo declared that this was the devil spitting at us. After a few miles, we ran into denser ice and stopped again. Dr. Goodsell, MacMillan and Borup were busy storing food and medical supplies in the boats, to be ready for an emergency. Had the _Roosevelt_ been crushed by the ice or sunk, we could have lowered the boats at a moment's notice, fitted and equipped for a voyage, and retreated to the Eskimo country--thence back to civilization on some whaler, or in a ship which would have been sent up with coal the following year by the Peary Arctic Club, though that, of course, would have meant the failure of the expedition. In each of the six whale-boats were placed a case containing twelve six-pound tins of pemmican, the compressed meat food used on arctic expeditions; two twenty-five pound tins of biscuit; two five-pound tins of sugar, a few pounds of coffee and several cans of condensed milk; an oil stove and five one-gallon tins of oil; a rifle with one hundred rounds of ammunition and a shotgun with fifty rounds; matches, a hatchet, knives, a can opener, salt, needles and thread; and the following medical supplies: catgut and needles, bandages and cotton, quinine, astringent (tannic acid), gauze, plaster-surgical liniment, boracic acid, and dusting powder. The boats were swung at the davits, with a full complement of oars, mast, sails, etc., and the emergency outfit above described would have fitted them for a voyage of a week or ten days. On leaving Etah the essential items of supplies, such as tea, coffee, sugar, oil, pemmican, and biscuit, had been stowed on deck, close to the rail on both sides, ready instantly to be thrown over the rail onto the ice, in case the ship should be crushed. Every person on board, both the men of the ship and the Eskimos, was ready with a little bundle packed to get right over the side at a moment's notice, after lowering the boats and throwing onto the ice the essential supplies stowed near the ship's rail. Nobody thought of undressing regularly; and the bathtub in my cabin might as well have been a trunk, for all the time I dared to spend in it between Etah and Cape Sheridan. CHAPTER XI CLOSE QUARTERS WITH THE ICE That no time should be lost on the upward voyage, and also that my Eskimos might not have too much leisure in which to consider the dangers which constantly threatened their floating home, I kept them all busy. The men were put to work making sledges and dog-harness, so that when we reached Cape Sheridan--if we reached it,--we might be ready for the fall hunting. I had on board the raw materials, and each Eskimo built a sledge for himself, putting his best work into it. This pride of the Eskimo in personal achievement has been of great service to me, and has been encouraged by special prizes and special praise. The Eskimo women were put to work on our winter garments as soon as possible after leaving Etah, so that, in the event of our losing the ship, every man would have a comfortable outfit. In the North we wear practically the same clothing as the Eskimos, including the fur stockings with the fur on the inside. Otherwise we should have frozen feet often instead of only occasionally. A man who could not live without silk stockings would not be likely to attempt the North Pole. As we had altogether, including the Eskimos, sixty-nine persons on board the ship--men, women, and children--it will be seen that there was considerable sewing to be done. Old garments had to be overhauled and mended, and new ones made. The worst of the ice fighting did not begin immediately, and the new members of the expedition, MacMillan, Borup, and Dr. Goodsell, were at first much interested in watching the Eskimo women at their sewing. They sit on anything that is convenient, a chair, a platform, or the floor. In their own quarters they remove their footgear, put up one foot, and hold one end of the fabric between their toes, sewing a seam over and over from them, instead of toward them, as our women do. The foot of an Eskimo woman is a sort of third hand, and the work is gripped between the great toe and the second toe. The Eskimo women have great confidence in their own skill at garment-making, and they take suggestions from the inexperienced white men with a good-natured and superior tolerance. When one of the northern belles was shaping a garment for Bartlett to wear on the spring sledge journey, he anxiously urged her to give him plenty of room. Her reply was a mixed Eskimo and English equivalent for: "You just trust me, Captain! When you get out on the road to the Nor Pol, you'll need a draw-string in your jacket, and not gussets." She had seen me and my men come back from previous sledge journeys, and she knew the effect of long continued fatigue and scanty rations in making a man's clothes fit him loosely. The Eskimos had the run of the ship, but the port side of the forward deck house was given to them entirely. A wide platform three or four feet high, made of packing boxes, was placed around the wall of the deck house for them to sleep on. Each family had its own quarters, partitioned off by planks, and screened in front by a curtain. They cooked their own meat and whatever else they desired, though Percy, the ship's steward, provided them with tea and coffee. If they had baked beans, or hash, or anything of that kind from the ship's store, it was cooked for them by Percy; and he also furnished them with his famous bread, which for lightness and crispness is unsurpassed in the round world. The Eskimos seemed always to be eating. There was no table for the crowd of them, as they do not incline to regular meal hours; but each family ate by itself, as appetite dictated. I gave them pots, pans, plates, cups, saucers, knives, forks, and oil stoves. They had access to the ship's galley, day and night; but Percy was always amiable, and the Eskimos at length learned not to wash their hands in the water in which he purposed to boil meat. The third day out the weather was villainous. It rained steadily, and there was a strong southerly wind. The group of dogs on the main deck stood about with low, dejected heads and dripping tails. Only at feeding time did they take courage even to fight or snap at one another. Most of the time the ship was stationary, or drifting slowly with the ice toward the mouth of Dobbin Bay. When at last the ice loosened, we made about ten miles in open water--then the wheel rope broke, and we had to stop for repairs, unable to take advantage of the stretch of water still before us. The captain's remarks when the strands of that cable parted I will leave to the imagination of the reader. Had the accident occurred at a time when the ship was between two big floes, the fortress of the North Pole might still remain uncaptured. It was after midnight before we got under way, and half an hour later we were stopped again by the impassable ice. On the fourth day we lay quiet all day long, with a slight breeze from Princess Marie Bay setting us slowly eastward; but, as the sun was shining, we utilized the time in drying our clothing, wet and soggy from the almost continuous rain and snow of the previous two days. As it was still summertime in the Arctic, we did not suffer from cold. The pools between the ice floes were slowly enlarging, and at nine in the evening we were on our way again, but at eleven we ran into a thick fog. All night we bored and twisted through the ice, which, though thick, was not heavy for the _Roosevelt_, and only once or twice we had to back her. An ordinary ship could have made no headway whatever. Wardwell, the chief engineer, stood his eight-hour or twelve-hour watch the same as his assistants, and during the passage of these dangerous channels he was nearly always in the engine-room, watching the machinery to see that no part of it got out of order at a crucial moment--which would have meant the loss of the ship. When we were between two big floes, forcing our way through, I would call down the tube leading from the bridge to the engine-room: "Chief, you've got to keep her moving until I give you word, no matter what happens." Sometimes the ship would get stuck between the corners of two floes which were slowly coming together. At such a time a minute is an eternity. I would call down the tube to Wardwell, "You've got to jump her now, the length of fifty yards," or whatever it might be. And I could feel the ship shaking under me as she seemed to take the flying leap, under the impulse of live steam poured directly from the boilers into the fifty-two-inch low-pressure cylinder. The engines of the _Roosevelt_ have what is called a by-pass, by which the live steam can be turned into the big cylinder, more than doubling the power of the engines for a few minutes. This simple bit of mechanism has saved us from being crushed flat by the ice on more than one occasion. The destruction of a ship between two ice floes is not sudden, like her destruction by a submarine mine, for instance. It is a slow and gradually increasing pressure from both sides, sometimes till the ice meets in the vitals of the ship. A vessel might stay thus, suspended between two floes, for twenty-four hours--or until the movement of the tides relaxed the pressure, when she would sink. The ice might open at first just sufficiently to let the hull go down, and the ends of the yards might catch on the ice and break, with the weight of the water-filled hull, as was the case with the ill-fated _Jeannette_. One ship, in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, was caught in the ice and dragged over the rocks like a nutmeg over a nutmeg grater. The bottom was sliced off as one would slice a cucumber with a knife, so that the iron blubber tanks in the hold dropped out of her. The ship became nothing but the sides and ends of a box. She remained some twenty-four hours, gripped between the floes, and then went down. On the 22d of August, the fifth day, our lucky stars must have been working overtime; for we made a phenomenal run--more than a hundred miles, right up the middle of Kennedy Channel, uninterrupted by ice or fog! At midnight the sun burst gloriously through the clouds, just over Cape Lieber. It seemed a happy omen. Could such good fortune continue? Though my hopes were high, the experience of former journeys reminded me that the brightest coin has always a reverse side. In a day we had run the whole length of Kennedy Channel, and immediately before us there was only scattered ice. But beyond lay Robeson Channel, only some thirty miles away, and the navigator who knows Robeson Channel will never be sanguine that it has anything good in store for him. Soon we encountered both ice and fog, and, while working slowly along in search of an opening, we were forced clear across to the Greenland coast at Thank God Harbor, the winter quarters of the _Polaris_ in 1871-72. I have mentioned the lane of water which often lies at ebb tide between the land and the moving central pack; but the reader must not fancy that this is an unobstructed lane. On the contrary, its passage means constant butting of the smaller ice, and constant dodging of larger pieces. Of course the steam is up at all times, ready, like ourselves, for anything at a moment's notice. When the ice is not so heavy as to be utterly impenetrable, the ship under full steam moves back and forth continually, butting and charging the floes. Sometimes a charge will send the ship forward half her length, sometimes her whole length--sometimes not an inch. When, with all the steam of the boilers, we can make no headway whatever, we wait for the ice to loosen up, and economize our coal. We do not mind using the ship as a battering ram--that is what she was made for; but beyond Etah coal is precious, and every ounce of it must yield its full return of northward steaming. The coal at present in our bunkers was all that we should have until our return the following year, when the Peary Arctic Club would send a ship to meet us at Etah. [Illustration: THE MIDNIGHT SUN AS SEEN IN THE WHALE SOUND REGION] It must be remembered that during all this time we were in the region of constant daylight, in the season of the midnight sun. Sometimes the weather was foggy, sometimes cloudy, sometimes sunny; but there was no darkness. The periods of day and night were measured only by our watches--not, during the passage of these channels, by sleeping and waking, for we slept only in those brief intervals when there was nothing else to do. Unresting vigilance was the price we paid for our passage. Bartlett's judgment was reliable, but the cabin had no attraction for me when the ship and the fortunes of the expedition were swaying in the balance. Then, too, when the ship was butting the ice, the shock of the impact would have made Morpheus himself sit up and rub his eyes every few minutes. [Illustration: CAPTAIN BARTLETT IN THE CROW'S NEST] Owing to the stupendous and resistless character of the heavier ice, a ship would be utterly helpless if she were ever caught fairly and squarely between two giant floes. In such a case there would be no escape for any structure which man could design or build. More than once a brief nip between two big blue floes has set the whole one hundred and eighty-four-foot length of the _Roosevelt_ vibrating like a violin string. At other times, under the pressure on the cylinders of the by-pass before described, the vessel would rear herself upon the ice like a steeplechaser taking a fence. It was a glorious battle--this charging of the ship against man's coldest enemy and possibly his oldest, for there is no calculating the age of this glacial ice. Sometimes, as the steel-shod stem of the _Roosevelt_ split a floe squarely in two, the riven ice would emit a savage snarl that seemed to have behind it all the rage of the invaded immemorial Arctic struggling with the self-willed intruder, man. Sometimes, when the ship was in special peril, the Eskimos on board would set up their strange barbaric chant--calling on the souls of their ancestors to come from the invisible realm and help us. Often on this last expedition of the _Roosevelt_, as on the former one, have I seen a fireman come up from the bowels of the ship, panting for a breath of air, take one look at the sheet of ice before us, and mutter savagely: "By God, she's _got_ to go through!" Then he would drop again into the stoke hole, and a moment later an extra puff of black smoke would rise from the stack, and I knew the steam pressure was going up. During the worst parts of the journey, Bartlett spent most of his time in the crow's nest, the barrel lookout at the top of the main mast. I would climb up into the rigging just below the crow's nest, where I could see ahead and talk to Bartlett, backing up his opinion with my own, when necessary, to relieve him, in the more dangerous places, of too great a weight of responsibility. Clinging with Bartlett, high up in the vibrating rigging, peering far ahead for a streak of open water, studying the movement of the floes which pressed against us, I would hear him shouting to the ship below us as if coaxing her, encouraging her, commanding her to hammer a way for us through the adamantine floes: "Rip 'em, Teddy! Bite 'em in two! Go it! That's fine, my beauty! Now--again! Once more!" At such a time the long generations of ice and ocean fighters behind this brave, indomitable young Newfoundland captain seemed to be re-living in him the strenuous days that carried the flag of England 'round the world. [Illustration: TABULAR ICEBERG AND FLOE ICE] CHAPTER XII THE ICE FIGHT GOES ON To recount all the incidents of this upward journey of the _Roosevelt_ would require a volume. When we were not fighting the ice, we were dodging it, or--worse still--waiting in some niche of the shore for an opportunity to do more fighting. On Sunday, the sixth day out from Etah, the water continued fairly open, and we made good progress until one o'clock in the afternoon, when we were held up by the ice pack as we were nearing Lincoln Bay. A cable was run out, and the ship secured to a great floe, which extended some two miles to the north and several to the east. The tide, which was running north at the time, had carried the smaller ice with it, leaving the _Roosevelt_ in a sort of lake. While we were resting there, some of the men observed a black object far out on the great ice floe to which we were attached, and Dr. Goodsell and Borup, with two Eskimos, started out to investigate. This walking across the floes is dangerous, as the ice is full of cracks, some of them quite wide, and on the day in question the cracks were for the most part concealed by a recent snowfall. In jumping across a lead, the men had a narrow escape from drowning, and when they got within shooting distance of the black object they were seeking, it proved to be only a block of stone. Before the return of Borup and the doctor the ice had already begun to close in around the ship and, as soon as the men were safe on board, the cable was hauled in and the _Roosevelt_ drifted south with the pack. So close was the ice that night, that we had to swing the boats inward on the davits to protect them from the great floes, which at times crowded the rail. Finally, the captain worked the ship into another small lake to the southeast of our former position by the great floe, and there we remained several hours, steaming back and forth in order to keep the pool open. About eleven o'clock that night, for all our efforts, the ice closed in again around the _Roosevelt_; but I observed a small lead to the southeast, which led into another body of open water, and gave orders to ram the vessel through, if possible. By working the nose of the ship into the small opening, and then by butting the ice on alternate sides, we succeeded in widening the lead sufficiently to allow of our passing through to the pool of open water beyond. At four o'clock the next morning we were again under way, working northward through slack ice to a point a little beyond Shelter River, where we were again stopped by ice about nine o'clock in the forenoon. The _Roosevelt_ moved in near the shore and her head was shoved against a big floe, to avoid her being jammed or carried southward by the now swiftly running tide and the ice pack. After supper that night, MacMillan, Borup, and Dr. Goodsell, with two Eskimos, started for the shore over the jammed ice, with the intention of getting some game; but before they reached the shore there was so much movement in the adjacent floes that I considered their journey too hazardous for inexperienced men. A recall was sounded with the ship's whistle, and they started back over the now moving floes. Their movements were impeded by their guns, but fortunately they carried boat hooks, without which they could never have made their way back. Using the boat hooks as vaulting poles, they leaped from one floe to another, when the leads were not too wide. When the open water was impassable in that way, they crossed it on small floating pieces of ice, using their hooks to push and pull themselves along. First the doctor slipped on the edge of a floe, and went into the icy water to the waist, but he was quickly hauled up by Borup. Then Borup slipped and went in to the waist, but he was out again as quickly. Meanwhile the ice had separated about the _Roosevelt_, leaving a wide lane of water between her and the men; but by running the ship against one of the larger floes, we enabled them to clamber aboard. They lost no time in exchanging their wet garments for dry ones, and in a few minutes they were all laughing and recounting their exploits to an interested--and possibly amused--group of listeners. A man who could not laugh at a wetting or take as a matter of course a dangerous passage over moving ice, would not be a man for a serious arctic expedition. It was with a feeling of intense satisfaction that I watched these three men, MacMillan, Borup, and Dr. Goodsell, my arctic "tenderfeet," as I called them, proving the mettle of which they were made. I had selected these three men from among a host of applicants for membership in the expedition, because of the special fitness of each one. Dr. Goodsell was a solid, sturdy, self-made physician of Pennsylvania stock. His specialism in microscopy I trusted might give valuable results in a field not hitherto investigated in the North. He was to make microscopic studies of the germ diseases of the Eskimos. MacMillan, a trained athlete and physical instructor, I had known, and known about, for years. I chose him because of his intense interest in the work, his intense desire to be of the party, and his evident mental and physical fitness for the rigorous demands of the Arctic. Borup, the youngest member of the party, impressed me with his enthusiasm and physical abilities. He had a record as a Yale runner, and I took him on general principles, because I liked him, satisfied that he was of the right stuff for arctic work. It was a fortunate selection, as the photographs brought back by the expedition are due in a large measure to his expert knowledge of film developing. I have been asked how the members of my party amused themselves during the long waits, when the ship was held up by the ice. The principal amusement of the new members was in trying to acquire from the Eskimos on board a smattering of their language. As interpreter, they had Matt Henson. Sometimes, looking down from the bridge of the ship onto the main deck, I would see one of these new men surrounded by a group of Eskimos, gesticulating and laughing, and I knew that a language lesson was in progress. The women were delighted at the opportunity to teach Borup the Eskimo words for jacket, hood, boots, sky, water, food, et cetera, as they seemed to be of the opinion that he was a fine boy. The _Roosevelt_ lay quietly in open water all night on the 24th of August, but in the forenoon of the 25th steamed northward nearly to Cape Union. Beyond there the ice was densely packed. I climbed up into the rigging to take a look but, finding no suitable shelter, decided to turn back to Lincoln Bay, where we made the ship fast between two grounded ice floes. The day before had been calm and sunny, but the 25th was snowy and disagreeable, with a raw northerly wind. The snow was driving in horizontal sheets across the decks, the water was black as ink, the ice a spectral white, and the coast near us looked like the shores of the land of ghosts. One of our berg pieces was carried away by the flood tide, and we were obliged to shift our position to the inner side of the other one; but there were other grounded bergs outside us to take the impact of the larger floes. On general principles, I landed a cache of supplies at this point on the following day. The possibility of losing the ship was always present; but if everything went well the cache could be made use of in the hunting season. The supplies, in their wooden boxes, were simply piled upon the shore. Wandering arctic hares, reindeer, and musk-oxen never attempt to regale themselves on tin cans or wooden boxes. I went ashore and walked over to Shelter River, living over again the experiences there in 1906, when, during my absence at Cape Thomas Hubbard, Captain Bartlett--for he was then, as now, the master of the _Roosevelt_--had tried to drive the ship south from her exposed position at Cape Sheridan to a more sheltered place in Lincoln Bay, where I was to rejoin them. At Shelter River, the _Roosevelt_ had been caught between the moving pack and the vertical face of the ice-foot, receiving almost a fatal blow. She had been lifted bodily out of the water, the stern-post and rudder smashed into kindling wood, and a blade ripped off the propeller. Everything was landed from the vessel in the expectation that when the ice slacked off and she settled into the water, she would be leaking so badly it would be impossible to keep her afloat. Bartlett and his men worked manfully in stopping the leaks, as far as possible; and when the pressure from the ice was partially released, the ship was floated. But she lay there nearly a month, and twice during that time even the rigging of the ship was landed, when it seemed impossible that she could survive. Here at Shelter River I had found the _Roosevelt_ on my return from "farthest west." A new rudder was improvised, and the crippled and almost helpless ship floated around into Lincoln Bay, whence she finally limped home to New York. After an hour of retrospection at this place I walked back to the ship. Borup and MacMillan had also gone ashore, in the hope of obtaining game but had not found any. It was a dull, raw, overcast day and MacMillan, Borup, the doctor, and Gushue, the mate, amused themselves by target-shooting with their Winchesters. The next day was seemingly endless, and still we lay there at Lincoln Bay, with a strong, raw, northeast wind blowing steadily and with increasing violence. The edge of the moving pack was only a few yards from the ship, but we were fairly well protected by large pieces which had grounded outside of us. Every little while a big floe came rushing past, crowding everything out of its way and giving our protectors a shove that set them and us nearer the shore. From the crow's nest we could see a little open water near the east coast of the channel, but there was none in our vicinity--only ice, ice, ice, of every imaginable shape and thickness. Still another day, and the _Roosevelt_ was in the same position, with the ice crowding against her; but at the crest of the high tide the grounded floe-berg to which we were attached by cable went adrift, and we all hurried on deck. The lines were hastily detached from the berg. As the ice went south, it left a stretch of open water before us about a mile long, and we steamed northward along the shore, pushing our way behind the grounded bergs, trying to find another niche where we might be secure from the now rapidly approaching pack. It was well for us that the wind was blowing violently off shore, as it eased the pressure of the pack against us. One place seemed secure, and we were making ready to attach the cables, when an ice-floe, about an acre in extent with a sharp, projecting point like the ram of a battleship, came surging along toward the _Roosevelt_, and we were obliged to shift our position. Before the ship was secured, she was again threatened by the same floe, which seemed to be endowed with malign intelligence and to follow us like a bloodhound. We retired to still another position, and secured the vessel and finally the threatening floe passed onwards to the south. There was no sleep for any one that sunlit night. About ten o'clock the berg fragment to which we were attached drifted loose under the pressure of the furious wind and the rising tide. In contracted space, with the ice whirling and eddying about us, we hastily got our lines in and shifted to another place, only to be driven out of it. We sought still another place of shelter, and in turn were also driven out of that. A third attempt to find safety was successful, but before it was accomplished the _Roosevelt_ had twice been aground forward, her heel had been caught by a berg's spur, and her after rail smashed by the onslaught of another berg. Saturday, the 29th, was another day of delay but I found some comfort in thinking of my little son in the far-away home. It was his fifth birthday, and Percy, Matt, and I, his three chums, drank a bottle of champagne in his honor. Robert E. Peary, Junior! What were they doing at home? I wondered. I think that none of the members of the expedition will ever forget the following day, the 30th of August. The _Roosevelt_ was kicked about by the floes as if she had been a football. The game began about four o'clock in the morning. I was in my cabin trying to get a little sleep--with my clothes on, for I had not dared to remove them for a week. My rest was cut short by a shock so violent that, before I realized that anything _had_ happened, I found myself on deck--a deck that inclined to starboard some twelve or fifteen degrees. I ran, or rather climbed the deck, to the port side and saw what had happened. A big floe, rushing past with the current, had picked up the grounded berg to which we were attached by the hawsers, as if that thousand-ton berg had been a toy, and dashed it against the _Roosevelt_ and clear along her port side, smashing a big hole in the bulwarks at Marvin's room. The berg brought up against another one just aft of us, and the _Roosevelt_ slipped from between the two like a greased pig. As soon as the pressure was relaxed and the ship regained an even keel, we discovered that the cable which had been attached to the floe-berg at the stern had become entangled with the propeller. It was a time for lightning thought and action; but by attaching a heavier cable to the parted one and taking a hitch round the steam capstan, we finally disentangled it. This excitement was no sooner over than a great berg that was passing near us split in two of its own accord, a cube some twenty-five or thirty feet in diameter dropping toward the ship, and missing our quarter by only a foot or two. "Bergs to the right of them, bergs to the left of them, bergs on top of them," I heard somebody say, as we caught our breath at this miraculous escape. The ship was now quite at the mercy of the drifting ice, and with the pressure from the outer pack the _Roosevelt_ again careened to starboard. I knew that if she were driven any higher upon the shore, we should have to discharge a large part of the coal in order to lighten her sufficiently to get her off again. So I decided to dynamite the ice. I told Bartlett to get out his batteries and dynamite, and to smash the ice between the _Roosevelt_ and the heavy floes outside, making a soft cushion for the ship to rest on. The batteries were brought up from the lazaret, one of the dynamite boxes lifted out with caution, and Bartlett and I looked for the best places in the ice for the charges. Several sticks of dynamite were wrapped in pieces of old bagging and fastened on the end of long spruce poles, which we had brought along specially for this purpose. A wire from the battery had, of course, been connected with one of the primers buried in the dynamite. Pole, wire, and dynamite were thrust down through cracks in the ice at several places in the adjacent floes. The other end of each wire was then connected with the battery, every one retreated to a respectful distance on the far side of the deck, and a quick, sharp push on the plunger of the battery sent the electric current along the wires. _Rip! Bang! Boom!_ The ship quivered like a smitten violin string, and a column of water and pieces of ice went flying a hundred feet into the air, geyser fashion. The pressure of the ice against the ship being thus removed, she righted herself and lay quietly on her cushion of crushed ice--waiting for whatever might happen next. As the tide lowered, the _Roosevelt_ was bodily aground from amidships forward, heeling first to one side and then to the other with the varying pressure of the ice. It was a new variation of "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep"--one that sent Eskimo babies, the dogs, the boxes, and even ourselves, tumbling about the decks. When the tide rose, efforts were made to dislodge the ship from her stranded position. From the port side of the bow a line was made fast to a stationary floe-berg, and the captain called for full steam, first ahead, then astern. For some time there was no perceptible movement of the ship. Finally, the pull on the port bow from the cable, with full speed astern, had the desired effect and the vessel slid off and floated free; but the ice was so heavily packed behind us that we could not move her away. It was far from a pleasant spot. CHAPTER XIII CAPE SHERIDAN AT LAST To put it mildly, the position in which we now found ourselves was dangerous--even with the assistance of so experienced and steady an ice fighter as Bartlett. As day followed day and still we hung there at Lincoln Bay, we should doubtless have been extremely anxious had the _Roosevelt_ not had a similar experience on the preceding voyage. But we believed that sooner or later the movement of the ice would enable us to steam the few remaining miles to Cape Sheridan, and possibly beyond there; for our objective point was some twenty-five miles to the northwest of our former winter quarters in 1905-06. We tried to possess our souls in patience, and if sometimes the delay got on our nerves, there was nothing to be gained by talking about it. On the first of September the ice did not seem to be moving quite so rapidly. The evening before MacMillan had been sent ashore to the bluffs beyond Shelter River, and he had reported that there was considerable open water along the shore. Bartlett then went forward to reconnoiter. On his return he also reported open water, but with corners of big floes barring it in every direction. That the fall hunting might get under way, Ootah, Aletah, Ooblooyah, and Ooqueah started off for the Lake Hazen region, with a sledge and eight dogs, after musk-oxen and reindeer. It had been planned that they should hunt there until joined by other Eskimos from the ship, after she reached Cape Sheridan or Porter Bay. But in the absence of snow, the going was too rough for even a light sledge, and the Eskimos returned. At last, a little before midnight on the 2d, we got out of the _impasse_ at Lincoln Bay, where we had been held up for ten days. The cables were taken in, and the _Roosevelt_, steaming first forward and then astern, extricated herself from the shore pack. We felt as men must feel who are released from prison. There was a narrow lane of open water following the shore, and along that course we steamed, rounding Cape Union about half an hour before midnight. But we were soon held up again by the ice, a little below Black Cape, a dark cone-shaped mountain standing alone, on the eastern side washed by the waters of the sea, on the west separated by deep valleys from the adjacent mountains. It was a scene of indescribable grandeur, for the coast was lined for miles with bergs, forced shoreward, broken and tilted at right angles. At Black Cape we had made half the distance between our former position at Lincoln Bay and the longed-for shelter at Cape Sheridan. As we made fast against the land ice, a sixty-foot thick fragment of a floe was driven with frightful force up on the shore a little to the north of us. Had we been in the way of it--but a navigator of these channels must not dwell too much on such contingencies. As an extra precaution, I had the Eskimos with axes bevel off the edge of the ice-foot abreast of the ship, to facilitate her rising if she should be squeezed by the heavy floes outside. It was snowing lightly all day long; but I went ashore, walking along the ice-foot to the next river, and up to the summit of Black Cape. An occasional walk on land was a relief from the stench and disorder of the ship, for the dogs kept the _Roosevelt_ in a very unclean condition. Many persons have asked how we could endure the presence of nearly two hundred and fifty dogs on the deck of a small ship; but every achievement has its drawbacks, and it must not be forgotten that without the dogs we could not have reached the Pole. At this point we landed another cache, similar to the one at Lincoln Bay, to be ready for anything that might happen. On the 4th, the wind came strong from the south, and as there seemed to be a little open water ahead, at eight in the morning we started to get out of our berth. It took an hour to break up the "slob" ice which had cemented about the ship. We were happy to be under way again; but at the delta just ahead of us the ice refused to open, the drift ice from the south was coming up rapidly before the wind, and we were compelled to hurry back to our former berth below Black Cape. We did not get in again without some trouble as the strong wind made the _Roosevelt_ hard to manage. The starboard quarter boat was badly smashed against the corner of a big berg piece, and the starboard corner of the forward deck house was almost ripped from the decking. But all hands were stimulated by the thought that we were now only a few miles from Cape Sheridan--so near our goal that we were restless to be off again. That evening, with the ebb tide, the ice slackened, and the order was given to steam ahead. After one or two narrow escapes between the rapidly running floes, we reached the delta of Black Cape River, a few miles beyond our former place. But when the tide turned we were obliged to hurry back about a quarter of a mile to the shelter of a grounded berg. When the hawsers were made fast I went ashore and up to the delta to look at the ice beyond. Not a crack or hole was visible to the north, and the path by which we had retreated to our present position was now a sea of solid ice. Should we _ever_ be able to make the few remaining miles? The wind continued to blow violently from the south, the ice began to slack off a little behind us, and at three o'clock in the morning of the 5th of September there was a gradually widening lead to the north. I felt that it was now or never, and the order went down for every pound of steam and full speed. Thus we rounded Cape Rawson, and Cape Sheridan was in view. At last! That sloping headland looked more beautiful than the gates of paradise to our vigil-wearied eyes. We rounded the cape at a quarter past seven, fifteen minutes later than the time of our arrival in 1905. Since the 23d of August, thirteen days before, neither Bartlett nor I had had our clothes off. Should we stop here? There was still open water beyond. I gave orders to steam ahead, hoping that we might reach Porter Bay. But after two miles we came to another impassable barrier of ice, and it was decided that it was Cape Sheridan again for this year's winter quarters. Back we went, and the work of getting the _Roosevelt_ inside the tide crack was begun. My heart was light. Those two miles beyond Cape Sheridan had given us the record of "farthest north" which any vessel had ever reached under her own steam, 82° 30´. One vessel only, Nansen's _Fram_, had been farther north, but she had drifted there stern foremost, a plaything of the ice. Again the little black, strenuous _Roosevelt_ had proven herself the champion. There are some feelings which a man cannot express in words. Such were mine as the mooring lines went out onto the ice foot at Cape Sheridan. We had kept the scheduled time of our program and had negotiated the first part of the difficult proposition--that of driving a ship from New York to a point within striking distance of the Pole. All the uncertainties of ice navigation--the possible loss of the _Roosevelt_ and a large quantity of our supplies--were at an end. Another source of gratification was the realization that this last voyage had further accentuated the value of detailed experience in this arduous work. Notwithstanding the delays which had sometimes seemed endless, we had made the voyage with only a small percentage of the anxieties and injury to the ship which we had experienced on the former upward journey in 1905. Lying there, with the northern bounds of all known lands--except those close to us--lying far to the south, we were in a position properly to attack the second part of our problem, the projection of a sledge party from the ship to the Pole itself. This rounding of Cape Sheridan was not the ultimate achievement probable. So great was our relief at having driven the _Roosevelt_ through the ice of Robeson Channel, that as soon as the mooring lines were out at Cape Sheridan we set to work unloading the ship with light-hearted eagerness. The _Roosevelt_ was grounded inside the tide crack, and the first things we got ashore were the two hundred and forty-six dogs, which had made the ship a noisy and ill-smelling inferno for the last eighteen days. They were simply dropped over the rail onto the ice, and in a few minutes the shore in all directions was dotted with them, as they ran, leaped and barked in the snow. The decks were washed down with hose, and the work of unloading began. First the sledges came down from the bridge deck, where they had been built during the upward voyage, a fine fleet of twenty-three. [Illustration: THE ROOSEVELT DRYING OUT HER SAILS AT CAPE SHERIDAN, SEPTEMBER, 1908 (The Dark Spots on the Shore are the Supplies and Equipment of the Expedition)] We wanted to get the ship well inside the ice barrier where she would be really safe, so we lightened her that she might float with the high tide. We made chutes from planks, and down these we slid the oil cases from the main deck and the hold. It was necessary to work carefully, as the ice was thin at that season. Later two or three sledge loads of supplies broke through, and the Eskimos with them; but as the water was only five or six feet deep, and the supplies were packed in tins, no serious damage was done. While the oil was being unloaded, a party of men went out with ice chisels, poles, saws, and so forth, chopping away the ice so that we could warp the _Roosevelt_ in, broadside to the shore. Bartlett and I were determined to get the ship beyond the floe-berg barrier and into the shallow water of the ice-foot. We were not looking forward to another winter of such torment as we had lived through on the last previous expedition, with the ship just on the edge of the ice-foot and subject to every movement of the hostile pack outside. [Illustration: THE ROOSEVELT ON SEPTEMBER 12, 1908 Marie Ahnighito Peary's Birthday] After the oil cases came the tons of whale meat from the quarter-deck, some of it in chunks as large as a Saratoga trunk. It was thrown over the side onto the ice, sledged ashore by the Eskimos, some hundred yards over the ice-foot, and heaped in great piles, protected by the bags of coal which had also been taken from the quarter-deck. Then came the whale-boats, which were lowered from the davits and run ashore like sledges. They were later turned bottom side up for the winter and weighted down, so that the wind could not move them. [Illustration: "PEARY" SLEDGES ON BOARD THE ROOSEVELT] The work of landing the supplies and equipment consumed several days. This is the very first work of every well-managed arctic expedition on reaching winter quarters. With the supplies ashore, the loss of the ship by fire or by crushing in the ice, would mean simply that the party might have to walk home. It would not interfere with the sledge work, nor seriously cripple the expedition. Had we lost the _Roosevelt_ at Cape Sheridan, we should have spent the winter in the box houses which we constructed and in the spring should have made the dash for the Pole just the same. We should then have walked the three hundred and fifty miles to Cape Sabine, crossed the Smith Sound ice to Etah, and waited for a ship. The adjacent shore for a quarter of a mile was lined with boxes, each item of provisions having a pile to itself. This packing-box village was christened Hubbardville, in honor of General Thomas H. Hubbard, president of the Peary Arctic Club. When the boxes which had served as a bed platform in the Eskimo quarters of the _Roosevelt's_ forward deck were removed, the place was swept and scrubbed; then a bed platform was built of boards, divided into sections for the various families and screened in front by curtains. Under the bed platform was an open space, where the Eskimos could keep their cooking utensils and other personal belongings. The fastidious reader who is shocked at the idea of keeping frying-pans under the bed should see an Eskimo family in one of their native houses of stone and earth, eight feet across, where meat and drink, men, women, and children are crowded indiscriminately for month upon month in winter. We next landed about eighty tons of coal, so that, in case we should have to live in the box houses, there would be plenty of fuel. At that time of the year it was not very cold. On the 8th of September the thermometer stood at 12 above zero, the next day at 4. The heavier cases, containing the tins of bacon, pemmican (the condensed meat food used in the Arctic), flour, et cetera, were utilized ashore like so many blocks of granite in constructing three houses, about fifteen feet by thirty. All the supplies were especially packed for this purpose, in boxes of specified dimensions--one of the innumerable details which made for the success of the expedition. In building the houses the tops of the boxes were placed inside, the covers removed, and the contents taken out as needed, as from a shelf, the whole house being one large grocery. The roofs were made of sails thrown over boat booms or spars, and later the walls and roof were banked in solidly with snow. Stoves were set up, so that, if everything went well, the houses could be used as workshops during the winter. So here we were, safely bestowed at Cape Sheridan, and the prize seemed already in our grasp. The contingencies which had blocked our way in 1906 were all provided for on this last expedition. We knew just what we had to do, and just how to do it. Only a few months of waiting, the fall hunting, and the long, dark winter were all that lay between me and the final start. I had the dogs, the men, the experience, a fixed determination (the same impulse which drove the ships of Columbus across the trackless western sea)--and the end lay with that Destiny which favors the man who follows his faith and his dream to the last breath. CHAPTER XIV IN WINTER QUARTERS When the removal of supplies had lightened the _Roosevelt_ so much that Bartlett got her considerably farther in shore, she lay with her nose pointing almost true north. It cheered us, for this was her constant habit. It seemed almost like the purpose of a living creature. Whenever on the upward voyage--either this time or on her first trip in 1905--the ship was beset in the ice so that we lost control of her, she always swung around of her own accord and pointed north. When twisting through the ice, if we got caught when the ship was headed east or west, it was only a little while before the pressure would swing her round till once more she looked northward. Even on the return journey, in 1906, it was the same--as if the ship realized she had not accomplished her purpose and wanted to go back. The sailors noticed it, and used to talk about it. They said the _Roosevelt_ was not satisfied, that she knew she had not done her work. When we got the vessel as near the shore as possible, the ship's people began to make her ready for the winter. The engine-room force was busy blowing down the boilers, putting the machinery out of commission, removing every drop of water from the pipes and elbows so the cold of winter should not burst them; and the crew was busy taking down the sails, slacking off the rigging, so the contraction from the intense cold of winter should not cause damage, with a thousand and one details of like character. Before the sails were taken down, they were all set, that they might be thoroughly dried out by sun and wind. The ship was a beautiful sight, held fast in the embrace of the ice and with her cables out, but with every sail filled with wind like a yacht in a race. While this work was going on small hunting parties of Eskimos were sent to the Lake Hazen region, but they met with little success. A few hares were secured, but musk-oxen seemed to have vanished. This troubled me, for it raised a fear that the hunting of the former expedition had killed off the game, or driven it away. The Eskimo women set their fox traps all along the shore for five miles or so each way, and they were more successful than the men, obtaining some thirty or forty foxes in the course of the fall and winter. The women also went on fishing trips to the ponds of the neighborhood, and brought in many mottled beauties. The Eskimo method of fishing is interesting. The fish in that region will not rise to bait but are captured by cutting a hole in the ice and dropping in a piece of ivory carved in the shape of a small fish. When the fish rises to examine this visitor, it is secured with a spear. The Eskimo fish spear has a central shaft with a sharp piece of steel, usually an old nail, set in the end. On each side is a piece of deer antler pointing downward, lashed onto the shaft with a fine line, and sharp nails, pointing inward, are set in the two fragments of antler. When this spear is thrust down on the fish, the antlers spread as they strike the fish's back; he is impaled by the sharp point above him, and the sharp barbs on either side keep him from getting away. The char (?) of North Grant Land is a beautiful mottled fish, weighing sometimes as much as eleven or twelve pounds. I believe that the pink fiber of these fish--taken from water never warmer than 35° or 40° above zero--is the firmest and sweetest fish fiber in the world. During my early expeditions in this region, I would spear one of these beauties and throw him on the ice to freeze, then pick him up and fling him down so as to shatter the flesh under the skin, lay him on the sledge, and as I walked away pick out morsels of the pink flesh and eat them as one would eat strawberries. In September of 1900 with these fish a party of six men and twenty-three dogs were supported for some ten days, until we found musk-oxen. We speared the fish in the way the Eskimos taught us, using the regular native spear. The new members of the expedition were naturally anxious to go sight-seeing. MacMillan had an attack of the grip, but Borup and Dr. Goodsell scoured the surrounding country. Hubbardville could not boast its Westminster Abbey nor its Arc de Triomphe, but there were Petersen's grave and the _Alert_ and _Roosevelt_ cairns, both in the neighborhood, and visible from the ship. About a mile and a half southwest from our winter quarters was the memorial headboard of Petersen, the Danish interpreter of the English expedition of 1875-76. He died as the result of exposure on a sledge trip, and was buried there abreast of the _Alert's_ winter quarters. The grave is covered with a large flat slab, and at the head is a board covered with a copper sheet from the boiler room of the _Alert_, with the inscription punched in it. There may be a lonelier grave somewhere on earth, but if so I have no knowledge of it. No explorer, not even the youngest and most thoughtless, could stand before that "mute reminder of heroic bones" without a feeling of reverence and awe. There is something menacing in that dark silhouette against the white snow, as if the mysterious Arctic were reminding the intruder that he might be chosen next to remain with her forever. Not far away is the _Alert's_ cairn, from which I took the British record in 1905, a copy of it being replaced by Ross Marvin, according to the custom of explorers. In view of his tragic end, in the spring of 1909, the farthest north of all deaths known to man, this visit of Marvin's to the neighborhood of Petersen's grave has a peculiar pathos. The _Roosevelt_ cairn, erected by Marvin in 1906, is directly abreast of the ship's location at Cape Sheridan in 1905-06 and about one mile inland. It is on a high point of land, about four hundred feet above the water. The record is in a prune can, at the bottom of the pile of stones, and was written by Marvin himself in lead-pencil. The cairn is surmounted by a cross, made of the oak plank from our sledge runners. It faces north, and at the intersection of the upright and the crosspiece there is a large "R" cut in the wood. When I went up to see it, soon after our arrival this last time, the cross was leaning toward the north, as if from the intentness of its three years' northward gazing. On the 12th of September we had a holiday, it being the fifteenth birthday of my daughter, Marie Ahnighito, who was born at Anniversary Lodge, Greenland--the most northerly born of all white children. Ten years before, we had celebrated her fifth birthday on the Windward. Many icebergs had drifted down the channels since then, and I was still following the same ideal which had given my daughter so cold and strange a birthplace. There was a driving snowstorm that day, but Bartlett dressed the ship in all the flags, the full international code, and the bright colors of the bunting made a striking contrast to the gray-white sky. Percy, the steward, had baked a special birthday cake, and we had it, surmounted with fifteen blazing candles, on our supper table. Just after breakfast the Eskimos came in with a polar bear, a female yearling six feet long, and I determined to have it mounted for Marie's birthday bear. It should be standing and advancing, one paw extended as if to shake, the head on one side and a bearish smile on the face. The bear provided us with juicy steaks, and we had a special tablecloth, our best cups and saucers, new spoons, et cetera. A day or two later we began to get the dogs made fast, in preparation for the first sledge parties. There was now sufficient snow to begin the transportation of supplies toward Cape Columbia, and Black Cliffs Bay was frozen over. The Eskimos tied the dogs, in teams of five or six, to stakes driven into the shore or holes cut in the ice. They made a fine picture, looking shoreward from the ship--nearly two hundred and fifty of them--and their barking could be heard at all hours. It must be remembered that day and night were still determined only by the clock, as the ever-circling sun had not yet set. By reason of the industry of all hands on the upward voyage, everything was now ready for the fall work. The Eskimos had built the sledges and made the dog harnesses, and Matt Henson had finished the "kitchen boxes," which enclosed our oil stoves in the field, while the busy needles of the Eskimo women had provided every man with a fur outfit. In the North we wear the regular Eskimo garments, with certain modifications. First of all, there is the _kooletah_, a fur jacket with no buttons, which goes on over the head. For summer wear the Eskimos make it of sealskin, but for winter it is made of fox or deerskin. For our own use, we had jackets made of Michigan sheepskin. We took the skins up with us, and the women made the garments, but when it was very cold we wore the deerskin or foxskin jacket of the Eskimos. Attached to this jacket is a hood, and around the face is a thick roll made of fox-tails. The _ahteah_ is a shirt, usually of fawn skin, with the hair inside, and the Eskimos wear it even in summer. In some of the photographs of natives, the skilful piecing together of the skins in the shirt can be traced. The Eskimo women are more adept at this work than are any of the furriers of civilization. They sew the skins with the sinew taken from the back of the deer--the jumping muscle. It is absolutely unbreakable, and moisture does not rot it. For the coarser work of sewing boots, canoes, and tents, they use the sinew from the tail of the narwhal. The sewing is now done with the steel needles I have given them; but in former years they used a punch made of bone, passing the sinew through the hole, as a shoemaker uses a "waxed end." They do not cut the skins with shears, as that would injure the fur; but with a "woman's knife," similar to an old-fashioned mincemeat chopper. The shaggy fur trousers are invariably made from the skins of the polar bear. Then there are stockings of hareskin, and the _kamiks_, or boots, of sealskin, soled with the heavier skin of the square-flipper seal. On the ship, on sledge journeys, and in all the field work of the winter, the regular footgear of the Eskimos was worn. Add the warm fur mittens, and the winter wardrobe is complete. It may reasonably be inquired whether the close housing for so long a time of such a considerable number of human beings did not result in personal friction, due to the inevitable accumulation of a thousand and one petty irritations. To some extent it did. But the principal members of the expedition were men of such character that they were able to exercise an admirable self-restraint that prevented any unpleasant results of consequence. Practically the only trouble of a personal sort that was of any importance occurred between one of the sailors and an Eskimo whom we called Harrigan. Harrigan acquired this sobriquet on account of his ear for music. The crew used to be fond of singing that energetic Irish air which was popular for some years along Broadway and which concludes ungrammatically with the words "Harrigan--that's me." The Eskimo in question seemed fascinated by this song and in time learned those three words and practised them with so much assiduity that he was ultimately able to sing them in a manner not wholly uncouth. In addition to his musical leanings, Harrigan was a practical joker, and on one occasion he was exercising his humorous talents in the forecastle to the considerable discomfort of one of the crew. Ultimately the sailor, unable to rid himself of his persecutor in any other way, resorted to the use of his fists. The Eskimos, while good wrestlers, are far from adepts at the "manly art of self-defense," and the result was that Harrigan emerged from the forecastle with a well-blackened eye and a keen sense of having been ill used. He complained bitterly of his treatment, but I gave him a new shirt and told him to keep away from the forecastle where the sailors were, and in a few hours he had forgotten it like a school boy, so that the affair passed off without leaving any permanent ill feeling, and soon Harrigan was again cheerfully croaking his "Harrigan--that's me." CHAPTER XV THE AUTUMN WORK The main purpose of the autumn sledge parties was the transportation to Cape Columbia of supplies for the spring sledge journey toward the Pole. Cape Columbia, ninety miles northwest from the ship, had been chosen because it was the most northerly point of Grant Land, and because it was far enough west to be out of the ice current setting down Robeson Channel. From there we could strike straight north over the ice of the Polar Sea. [Illustration: VIEW BETWEEN THE ROOSEVELT AND CAPE COLUMBIA] The moving of thousands of pounds of supplies for men and dogs for a distance of ninety miles, under the rigorous conditions of the Arctic, presented problems for calculation. The plan was to establish stations along the route, instead of sending each party through to Cape Columbia and back. The first party was to go to Cape Belknap, about twelve miles from the ship, deposit their supplies, and return the same day. The second party was to go to Cape Richardson, about twenty miles away, deposit their supplies, return part way and pick up the supplies at Cape Belknap, taking them forward to Cape Richardson. The next station was at Porter Bay, the next at Sail Harbor, the next at Cape Colan, and the final station at Cape Columbia itself. Parties would thus be going back and forth the whole time, the trail would constantly be kept open, and hunting could be done along the way. The tractive force was, of course, the Eskimo dogs, and sledges were the means of transportation. The sledges were of two types: the Peary sledge, which had never been used before this expedition, and the regular Eskimo sledge, increased somewhat in length for special work. The Peary type of sledge is from twelve to thirteen feet in length, two feet in width, and seven inches in height; the Eskimo type of sledge is nine feet in length, two feet in width, and seven inches in height. Another difference is that the Eskimo sledge is simply two oak runners an inch or an inch and a quarter thick and seven inches wide, shaped at the front to give the easiest curve for passage over the ice, and shod with steel, while the Peary sledge has oak sides rounded, both in front and behind, with two-inch wide bent ash runners attached, the runners being shod with two-inch wide steel shoes. The sides of both are solid, and they are lashed together with sealskin thongs. The Peary sledge is the evolution of twenty-three years of experience in arctic work and is believed to be the strongest and easiest running sledge yet used for arctic traveling. On a level surface this sledge will support ten or twelve hundred pounds. The Eskimos have used their own type of sledge from time immemorial. When they had no wood, before the advent of the white man, they made their sledges of bone--the shoulder-blades of the walrus, and the ribs of the whale, with deer antlers for up-standers. For dog harnesses, I have adopted the Eskimo pattern, but have used different material. The Eskimo harness is made of sealskin--two loops joined by a cross strip at the back of the neck and under the throat. The dog's forelegs pass through the loops, and the ends are joined over the small of the back, where the trace is attached. This harness is very simple and flexible, and it allows the dog to exert his whole strength. The objection to sealskin as a harness material is a gastronomic one. When the dogs are on short rations they eat their harnesses at night in camp. To obviate this difficulty, I use for the harnesses a special webbing or belting, about two or two and a half inches in width, and replace the customary rawhide traces of the Eskimos by a braided linen sash cord. The dogs are hitched to the sledge fanwise. The standard team is eight dogs; but for rapid traveling with a heavy load, ten or twelve are sometimes used. They are guided by the whip and the voice. The Eskimo whip has a lash sometimes twelve, sometimes eighteen, feet long, and so skilful are the Eskimos in its manipulation that they can send the lash flying through the air and reach any part of any particular dog they wish. A white man can learn to use an Eskimo whip, but it takes time. It takes time also to acquire the exact Eskimo accent to the words "_How-eh, how-eh, how-eh_," meaning to the right; "_Ash-oo, ash-oo, ash-oo_," to the left; as well as the standard, "_Huk, huk, huk_," which is equivalent to "go on." Sometimes, when the dogs do not obey, the usual "_How-eh, how-eh, how-eh_," will reverse its accent, and the driver will yell, "_How-ooooooo_," with an accompaniment of other words in Eskimo and English which shall be left to the imagination of the reader. The temperature of a new man trying to drive a team of Eskimo dogs is apt to be pretty high. One is almost inclined to believe with the Eskimos that demons take possession of these animals. Sometimes they seem to be quite crazy. A favorite trick of theirs is to leap over and under and around each other, getting their traces in a snarl beside which the Gordian knot would be as nothing. Then, in a temperature anywhere between zero and 60° below, the driver has to remove his heavy mittens and disentangle the traces with his bare hands, while the dogs leap and snap and bark and seem to mock him. And this brings me to an incident which practically always happens when a new man starts out to drive Eskimo dogs. [Illustration: "PEARY" TYPE OF SLEDGE 12-1/2 ft. Long, 2 ft. Wide, 7 in. High; With Steel Shoes 2 in. Wide] [Illustration: ESKIMO TYPE OF SLEDGE USED ON JOURNEY 9 ft. 6 in. Long, 2 ft. Wide, 8 in. High; With Steel Shoes 1-1/4 in. Wide Each has standard load of supplies for team and driver for fifty days--pemmican, biscuit, milk, tea, oil, alcohol] A member of the expedition--I, who have also suffered, will not give his name away--started out with his dog team. Some hours later shouts and hilarious laughter were heard from the Eskimos. It was not necessary to inquire what had happened. The dog team had returned to the ship--without the sledge. The new dog driver, in attempting to unsnarl the traces of his dogs, had let them get away from him. Another hour or two went by, and the man himself returned, crestfallen and angry clear through. He was greeted by the derisive shouts of the Eskimos, whose respect for the white man is based primarily on the white man's skill in the Eskimo's own field. The man gathered up his dogs again and went back for the sledge. The gradual breaking in of the new men is one of the purposes of the short trips of the fall. They have to become inured to such minor discomforts as frosted toes and ears and noses, as well as the loss of their dogs. They have to learn to keep the heavy sledges right side up when the going is rough and sometimes, before a man gets hardened, this seems almost to rip the muscles from the shoulder blades. Moreover, they have to learn how to wear their fur clothing. On the 16th of September the first train of supplies was sent to Cape Belknap: Marvin, Dr. Goodsell, and Borup, with thirteen Eskimos, sixteen sledges, and about two hundred dogs. They were an imposing procession as they started northwest along the ice-foot, the sledges going one behind the other. It was a beautiful day--clear, calm, and sunny,--and we could hear, when they were a long distance away, the shouts of the Eskimo drivers, "_Huk, huk, huk_," "_Ash-oo_," "_How-eh_," the cracking of the whips, and the crisp rustle and creaking of the sledges over the snow. It is often asked how we keep warm when riding on the sledges. We do not ride, save in rare instances. We walk, and when the going is hard we have to help the dogs by lifting the sledges over rough places. The first party returned the same day with the empty sledges, and the next day two Eskimo hunting parties came in with three deer, six hares, and two eider ducks. Neither party had seen any tracks of musk-oxen. On the 18th, the second sledge party was sent out to carry fifty-six cases of crew pemmican to Cape Richardson, where they were to camp, bring up the biscuit from Cape Belknap to Cape Richardson the following day, and then return to the ship. That gave them one night in the field. A man's first night in a canvas tent in the Arctic is likely to be rather wakeful. The ice makes mysterious noises; the dogs bark and fight outside the tent where they are tethered; and as three Eskimos and one white man usually occupy a small tent, and the oil-stove is left burning all night, the air, notwithstanding the cold, is not over-pure; and sometimes the Eskimos begin chanting to the spirits of their ancestors in the middle of the night, which is, to say the least, trying. Sometimes, too, the new man's nerves are tried by hearing wolves howl in the distance. The tents are specially made. They are of light-weight canvas, and the floor of the tent is sewed directly into it. The fly is sewed up, a circular opening cut in it, just large enough to admit a man, and that opening fitted with a circular flap which is closed by a draw-string, making the tent absolutely snow-proof. An ordinary tent, when the snow is flying, would be filled in no time. The tent is pyramidal, with one pole in the center, and the edges are usually held down by the sledge runners or by snowshoes used as tent pegs. The men sleep on the floor in their clothes, with a musk-ox skin under, and a light deerskin over them. I have not used sleeping bags since my arctic trip of 1891-92. The "kitchen box" for our sledge journeys is simply a wooden box containing two double-burner oil-stoves, with four-inch wicks. The two cooking pots are the bottoms of five-gallon coal-oil tins, fitted with covers. When packed they are turned bottom side up over each stove, and the hinged cover of the wooden box is closed. On reaching camp, whether tent or snow igloo, the kitchen box is set down inside, the top of the box is turned up and keeps the heat of the stove from melting the wall of the igloo or burning the tent; the hinged front of the box is turned down and forms a table. The two cooking pots are filled with pounded ice and put on the stoves; when the ice melts one pot is used for tea, and the other may be used to warm beans, or to boil meat if there is any. Each man has a quart cup for tea, and a hunting knife which serves many purposes. He does not carry anything so polite as a fork, and one teaspoon is considered quite enough for a party of four. Each man helps himself from the pot--sticks in his knife and fishes out a piece of meat. The theory of field work is that there shall be two meals a day, one in the morning and one at night. As the days grow short, the meals are taken before light and after dark, leaving the period of light entirely for work. Sometimes it is necessary to travel for twenty-four hours without stopping for food. The Cape Richardson party returned on the evening of the 19th, and was sent out again on the 21st, nineteen Eskimos and twenty-two sledges, to take 6,600 pounds of dog pemmican to Porter Bay. MacMillan, being still under the weather with the grip, missed this preliminary training; but I felt certain that he would overtake the experience of the others as soon as he was able to travel. When the third party returned, on the 24th, they brought back the meat and skins of fourteen deer. [Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY CAPTAIN BARTLETT AND HIS PARTY Panikpah, "Harrigan," Ooqueah, Bartlett. (A Typical Unit Division of the Expedition) (Tents Were Used for Shelter in Earlier Autumn Hunting and Transportation of Supplies. In Winter Traveling and in the Sledge Journey Igloos Were Used)] On the 28th there was a general exodus from the ship: Henson, Ootah, Alletah, and Inighito were to hunt on the north side of Lake Hazen; Marvin, Poodloonah, Seegloo, and Arco on the east end and the south side of Lake Hazen; and Bartlett, with Panikpah, Inighito, Ooqueah, Dr. Goodsell, with Inighito, Keshungwah, Kyutah, and Borup, with Karko, Tawchingwah, and Ahwatingwah, were to go straight through to Cape Columbia. I had planned from the beginning to leave most of the hunting and other field work to the younger members of the expedition. Twenty odd years of arctic experience had dulled for me the excitement of everything but a polar-bear chase; the young men were eager for the work; there was much to do on board ship in planning for the spring, and I wished to conserve my energies for the supreme effort. There was no systematic training, because I do not believe in it. My body has always been able thus far to follow my will no matter what the demands might be, and my winter's work was largely a matter of refinement of equipment, and of mathematical calculations of pounds of supplies and miles of distance. It was the lack of food which had forced us to turn back at 87° 6´. Hunger, not cold, is the dragon which guards the Rhinegold of the Arctic. I did allow myself one break in the monotony of ship life--a trip to Clements Markham Inlet, in October. Ever since April, 1902, when I had looked around the angle of Cape Hecla into the unexplored depths of this great fiord, I had had a longing to penetrate it. On the previous expedition I had started twice with that purpose, but had been prevented from carrying it out, partly on account of bad weather, partly by reason of my anxiety for the _Roosevelt_, which I had left in a precarious position. But now the _Roosevelt_ was safe; and though the sun was circling near the horizon and the winter night would soon be upon us, I decided to make the trip. On the 1st of October I left the ship with three Eskimos, Egingwah, Ooblooyah, and Koolatoonah, three sledges with teams of ten dogs each, and supplies for two weeks only. With the sledges thus lightly loaded, and the trail broken for us by the parties which had preceded us, we made rapid progress, reaching Porter Bay, thirty-five miles from the ship, for our first camp in a few hours. Here we found two Eskimos, Onwagipsoo and Wesharkoopsi, who had been sent out a day or two before. Onwagipsoo went back to the ship, but Wesharkoopsi we took along with us to carry a load of supplies to Sail Harbor, which we expected to reach on the next march; from there he also would return to the ship. Our camp at Porter Bay was in the permanent tent which had been erected there by the first of the autumn parties, the canvas tent with the sewed-in floor which has already been described. It was not very cold that night, and we slept comfortably after a hearty supper of beans and tea. Beans and tea! Perhaps it does not sound like a Lucullan feast, but after a day in the field in Grant Land it tastes like one. CHAPTER XVI THE BIGGEST GAME IN THE ARCTIC We slept splendidly on that banquet, and, breaking out early the next morning, we passed up the ice of Porter Bay to its head, then, taking to the land, crossed the five-mile-wide isthmus which separates Porter Bay from the head of James Ross Bay. Every foot of this route was familiar to me and rich with memories. Reaching the other side, we descended to the ice again and made rapid progress along the western shore. The dogs were lively and well-fed, trotting along with tails and ears erect; the weather was good, and the sun, now low on the horizon, cast long, fantastic shadows on the ice from every man and dog. Suddenly the quick eyes of Egingwah spied a moving speck on the slope of the mountain to our left. "_Tooktoo_," he cried, and the party came to an instant standstill. Knowing that the successful pursuit of a single buck reindeer might mean a long run, I made no attempt to go after him myself; but I told Egingwah and Ooblooyah, my two stalwart, long-legged youngsters, to take the 40-82 Winchesters and be off. At the word they were flying across country, eager as dogs loosed from the traces, crouching low and running quickly. They took a course which would intercept the deer a little farther along the slope of the mountain. I watched them through my glasses. The deer, when he caught sight of them, started off leisurely in another direction, looking back every now and then, suspiciously alert. When the deer halted suddenly and swung round facing them, it was clear that they had given the magic call taught by Eskimo father to Eskimo son through generation after generation, the imitation call at which every buck reindeer stops instantly--a peculiar hissing call like the spitting of a cat, only more lingering. The two men leveled their rifles, and the magnificent buck went down in his tracks. The dogs had been watching, with heads and ears erect; but at the report of the rifles they swung sharply to the shore, and the next instant we were hurrying across the rocks and over the snow, the dogs dragging the sledges as if they had been empty. When we reached the two hunters they were standing patiently beside the deer. I had told them not to disturb him, as some good photographs were desired. He was a beautiful creature, almost snow-white, with magnificent branching antlers. When the photographs were taken, all four of the men set to work, skinning and cutting him up. [Illustration: FAMILY GROUP OF PEARY CARIBOU (RANGIFER PEARYI), ARRANGED BY "FROZEN TAXIDERMY" AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY FLASHLIGHT] The scene is vivid in memory: the towering mountains on both sides of James Ross Bay, with the snow-covered foreshore stretching down to the white surface of the bay; in the south the low-lying sun, a great glare of vivid yellow just showing through the gap of the divide, the air full of slowly dropping frost crystals; and the four fur-clad figures grouped around the deer, with the dogs and the sledges at a little distance--the only signs of life in that great white wilderness. When the deer was skinned and dressed, the pelt was carefully rolled and put on one of the sledges, the meat was made into a pile for Wesharkoopsi to take back to the ship when he returned from Sail Harbor with empty sledge, and we pushed along the western shore of the bay; then, taking to the land again, still westward across this second peninsula and low divide, till we came to the little bight, called Sail Harbor by the English, on the western side of Parry Peninsula. Here, out at the mouth of the harbor, under the lee of the protecting northern point, we made our second camp. Wesharkoopsi deposited his load of supplies, and I wrote a note for Bartlett, who was west of us on his way to Cape Columbia. That night we had deer steak for supper--a feast for a king. After a few hours' sleep we started, straight as the crow flies, across the eastern end of the great glacial fringe, heading for the mouth of Clements Markham Inlet. Reaching the mouth of the inlet, we kept on down its eastern shore, finding very good going; for the tides rising in the crack next the shore had saturated the overlying snow, then freezing had formed a narrow but smooth surface for the sledges. A part of this shore was musk-ox country, and we scanned it carefully, but saw none of the animals. Some miles down the bay we came upon the tracks of a couple of deer. A little farther on we were electrified by a tense whisper from the ever sharp-sighted Egingwah: "_Nanooksoah!_" He was pointing excitedly toward the center of the fiord, and following the direction of his finger we saw a cream-colored spot leisurely moving toward the mouth of the fiord--a polar bear! If there is anything that starts the blood lust in an Eskimo's heart more wildly than the sight of a polar bear, I have yet to discover it. Hardened as I am to arctic hunting, I was thrilled myself. [Illustration: POLAR BEAR, ARRANGED BY "FROZEN TAXIDERMY" AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY FLASHLIGHT] While I stood in front of the dogs with a whip in each hand, to keep them from dashing away--for the Eskimo dog knows the meaning of "_nanooksoah_" as well as his master--the three men were throwing things off the sledges as if they were crazy. When the sledges were empty, Ooblooyah's team shot by me, with Ooblooyah at the up-standers. Egingwah came next, and I threw myself on his sledge as it flew past. Behind us came Koolatoonah with the third team. The man who coined the phrase "greased lightning" must have ridden on an empty sledge behind a team of Eskimo dogs on the scent of a polar bear. The bear had heard us, and was making for the opposite shore of the fiord with prodigious bounds. I jumped to the up-standers of the flying sledge, leaving Egingwah to throw himself on it and get his breath, and away we went, wild with excitement, across the snow-covered surface of the fiord. When we got to the middle the snow was deeper, and the dogs could not go so fast, though they strained ahead with all their might. Suddenly they scented the trail--and then neither deep snow nor anything else could have held them. Ooblooyah, with a crazy team and only himself at the up-standers, distanced the rest of us, arriving at the farther shore almost as soon as the leaping bear. He loosed his dogs immediately, and we could see the bear in the distance, followed by minute dots that looked hardly larger than mosquitoes swarming up the steep slope. Before our slower teams got to the shore, Ooblooyah had reached the top of the slope, and he signaled us to go around, as the land was an island. When we reached the other side, we found where the bear had descended to the ice again and kept on across the remaining width of the fiord to the western shore, followed by Ooblooyah and his dogs. A most peculiar circumstance, commented on by Egingwah as we flew along, was that this bear, contrary to the custom of bears in Eskimo land, did not stop when the dogs reached him, but kept right on traveling. This to Egingwah was almost certain proof that the great devil himself--terrible Tornarsuk--was in that bear. At the thought of chasing the devil, my sledge companion grew even more excited. On the other side of the island the snow was deeper and our progress slower, and when we reached the western shore of the fiord, up which, as on the island, we had seen from a distance the bear and Ooblooyah's dogs slowly climbing, both we and our dogs were pretty well winded. But we were encouraged by hearing the barking of the free dogs up somewhere among the cliffs. This meant that the bear had at last been brought to bay. When we reached the shore our dogs were loosed from the sledges. They swarmed up the hot trail, and we followed as best we could. A little farther on we came to a deep cañon, and as we could tell by the sounds, the dogs and the bear were at the bottom. But where we stood the walls were too precipitous for even an Eskimo to descend, and we could not see our quarry. He was evidently under some projecting ledge on our side. Moving up the cañon to find a place of descent, I heard Egingwah shout that the bear had started down the cañon and was climbing up the other side. Hurrying back through the deep snow and over the rough rocks, I suddenly saw the beast, perhaps a hundred yards away, and raised my rifle. But I must have been too much winded to take good aim, for though I fired two shots at him the bear kept right on up the cañon side. Surely Tornarsuk was in him! I found that I had given the stumps of both my feet--my toes were frozen off at Fort Conger in 1899--some severe blows against the rocks; and as they were complaining with vehemence, I decided not to follow the bear any farther along the steep boulder-strewn bluffs. Handing my rifle to Egingwah, I told him and Koolatoonah to go after the bear while I went back down the bluffs to the sledges and followed along the bay ice. But before I had gone far along the bay ice shouting was heard in the distance, and soon an Eskimo appeared on a summit and waved his hand--a signal that they had bagged the bear. Just ahead, and abreast of where the Eskimo had appeared, was the mouth of a ravine, and I stopped the sledge there and waited. In a little while my men appeared slowly working their way down the ravine. The dogs which had been in at the death were attached to the bear, as if he had been a sledge, and they were dragging him after them. It was an interesting scene: the steep and rocky ravine in its torn mantle of snow, the excited dogs straining ahead with their unusual burden, the inert cream-colored, blood-streaked form of the great bear, and the shouting and gesticulating Eskimos. When they finally got the bear down to the shore, and while I was taking photographs of him, the Eskimos walked up and down excitedly discussing the now certain fact that the devil had been in this animal, or he never would have traveled as he did after the dogs overtook him. The subtleties of arctic demonology being beyond the grasp of any mere white man, I did not join in the argument as to whither the devil had betaken himself when the rifle of Ooblooyah laid low his fleshly tenement. Our prize was soon skinned and cut up by the skilful knives of the Eskimos, the meat was piled on the shore for future parties to bring back to the ship, the bearskin was carefully folded on one of the sledges, and we returned to the place where we had first seen the bear, on the other side of the bay. There we found the supplies which had been thrown from the sledges to lighten them for the bear chase; and as the men and dogs were tired out, and we were satisfied with the day's work, we camped on the spot. Our tent was unfolded and set up, the oil-stoves were lighted, and we had a plentiful supply of bear steak--all the juicier, perhaps, for the recent presence of Tornarsuk. CHAPTER XVII MUSK-OXEN AT LAST On the next march we had gone only some six or seven miles when, rounding a point on the eastern shore of the Inlet, we saw black dots on a distant hillside. "_Oomingmuksue!_" said Ooblooyah, excitedly, and I nodded to him, well pleased. To the experienced hunter, with one or two dogs, seeing musk-oxen should be equivalent to securing them. There may be traveling over the roughest kind of rough country, with wind in the face and cold in the blood; but the end should always be the trophies of hides, horns, and juicy meat. For myself, I never associate the idea of sport with musk-oxen--too often in the years gone by the sighting of those black forms has meant the difference between life and death. In 1896, in Independence Bay, the finding of a herd of musk-oxen saved the lives of my entire party. On my way back from 87° 6´, in 1906, if we had not found musk-oxen on Nares Land, the bones of my party might now be bleaching up there in the great white waste. When we saw the significant black dots in the distance, we headed for them. There were five close together, and another a little way off. When we got within less than a mile, two of the dogs were loosed. They were wild with excitement, for they also had seen the black dots and knew what they meant; and as soon as the traces were unfastened they were off--straight as the flight of a homing bee. We followed, at our leisure, knowing that when we arrived the herd would be rounded up, ready for our rifles. A single musk-ox, when he sees the dogs, will make for the nearest cliff and get his back against it; but a herd of them will round up in the middle of a plain with tails together and heads toward the enemy. Then the bull leader of the herd will take his place outside the round-up, and charge the dogs. When the leader is shot, another takes his place, and so on. A few minutes later I stood again, as I had stood on previous expeditions, with that bunch of shaggy black forms, gleaming eyes and pointed horns before me--only this time it did not mean life or death. [Illustration: HEAD OF BULL MUSK-OX KILLED ON PARRY PENINSULA] Yet, as I raised my rifle, again I felt clutching at my heart that terrible sensation of life hanging on the accuracy of my aim; again in my bones I felt that gnawing hunger of the past; that aching lust for red, warm, dripping meat--the feeling that the wolf has when he pulls down his quarry. He who has ever been really hungry, either in the Arctic or elsewhere, will understand this feeling. Sometimes the memory of it rushes over me in unexpected places. I have felt it after a hearty dinner, in the streets of a great city, when a lean-faced beggar has held out his hand for alms. I pulled the trigger, and the bull leader of the herd fell on his haunches. The bullet had found the vulnerable spot under the fore shoulder, where one should always shoot a musk-ox. To aim at the head is a waste of ammunition. As the bull went down, out from the herd came a cow, and a second shot accounted for her. The others, a second cow and two yearlings, were the work of a few moments; then I left Ooblooyah and Koolatoonah to skin and cut them up, while Egingwah and I started for the single animal, a couple of miles away. As the dogs approached this fellow, he launched up the hill and disappeared over a nearby crest. The light surface snow along the path he had taken was brushed away by the long, matted hair of his sides and belly, which hung down to the ground. The dogs had disappeared after the musk-ox, but Egingwah and myself were guided by their wild barking. Our quarry had taken refuge among the huge rocks in the bottom of a stream-bed, where his rear and both sides were protected, and there he stood at bay with the yelping dogs before him. One shot was enough; and leaving Egingwah to skin and cut up the animal, I started to walk back to the other two men, as it had been decided to camp at the place where they were cutting up the five musk-oxen. But as I emerged from the mouth of the cañon, I saw up the valley still another of the big, black shaggy forms. Quickly I retraced my steps, and gathering in two of the dogs, secured this fellow as easily as the others. This last specimen was, however, of peculiar interest, as the white hair of the legs, just above the hoofs, was dashed with a bright red--a marking which I had never before seen in any of these arctic animals. Taking the dogs with me and leaving the musk-ox, I went on to the place selected for a camp. Ooblooyah and Koolatoonah were just finishing cutting up the fifth musk-ox, and were immediately sent off with a sledge and team of dogs, to help Egingwah with the two big bulls. When they were gone, I set up the tent myself and began to prepare the tea for our supper. As soon as the voices of the Eskimos were audible in the distance, I put on the musk-ox steaks to broil and in a few minutes we were enjoying the reward of our labor. Surely this was living on the fat of the land indeed, deer steak the second night, bear steak last night, to-night the luscious meat of the musk-ox! [Illustration: HERD OF MUSK-OXEN ROUNDED UP] In the morning we continued our course, and during the day three more musk-oxen were gathered in, the meat being cached as before. That night we camped at the head of the hitherto unexplored inlet, and I had the satisfaction of knowing that one more stretch of previously unknown territory had been added to the world's map. Next day we started north along the west side of the inlet. We had been traveling for hours and were just looking for a suitable place to camp, being then at the foot of a steep bluff some fifty feet in height, when suddenly the dogs made a break for the shore and attempted to climb the bluff. Of course they could not do this on account of the sledges; but we knew what their wild action meant--more musk-oxen. [Illustration: WESHARKOOPSI AND MUSK-OX CALF] In a moment Egingwah and I, with rifles in our hands, were climbing the bluff. Peering over the top we saw a herd of five. It was nearly dark now, the arctic twilight being so dense that we could simply make out five dark spots. We waited for a moment to catch our breath, then I motioned to Ooblooyah to bring two of the dogs, leaving Koolatoonah with the others at the sledges. Notwithstanding the uncertain light, we made short work of this herd. Again I pitched the tent and prepared supper, while my brown friends paid their final respects to the musk-oxen on the bluff. It is necessary to eviscerate these animals as soon as they are killed, otherwise the excessive heat of the great shaggy bodies will cause the meat to become tainted. When the three Eskimos came down to the tent the darkness was already upon us--a promise of the long black night to come. The next day we completed the circuit of the western shore of the Inlet, then started on a bee line for Sail Harbor, making this a forced march. At Sail Harbor we found a note from Bartlett, showing that he had passed there the previous day on his way back from Cape Columbia to the ship. There we camped again; and in the morning, while the men were breaking camp and lashing up the sledges, I started with the very first rays of the morning light across the peninsula towards James Ross Bay. As I crested the divide, I saw--down on the shore of the Bay--a group of dark spots which were clearly recognized as a camp; and a little later I sang out to the party, which comprised the divisions of Bartlett, Goodsell, and Borup. By the time the sleepy-eyed, stiff figures of the three men--who, as I soon learned, had been asleep only an hour or so--emerged from the tents, my sledges and Eskimos were close at my heels. I can see now the bulging eyes of the men, and particularly of young Borup, when they saw the sledge loads of shaggy skins. On the top of the leading sledge was the magnificent snowy pelt of the polar bear, with the head forward; behind this was the deerskin with its wide-antlered head, and more musk-ox heads than they had had time to count. "Oh, gee!" exclaimed Borup, when his open-mouthed astonishment would permit of articulation. I had no time for visiting, as I wanted to reach the ship on that march; and after a few words left the men to finish their interrupted sleep. It was long after dark when we reached the _Roosevelt_. We had been absent seven sleeps, had traveled over two hundred miles, had accomplished the exploration of Clements Markham Inlet, had made a rough map of it, and incidentally had obtained magnificent specimens of the three great animals of the arctic regions, thus adding a few thousand pounds of fresh meat to our winter supply. So, with a feeling of entire satisfaction, I had a hot bath in my cabin bathroom on the _Roosevelt_, and then turned in to my bunk for a long and refreshing sleep. [Illustration: BEAR KILLED IN CLEMENTS MARKHAM INLET] Throughout the month of October the work of transporting supplies and of hunting went on. The captain made two round trips from the ship to Cape Columbia; but he was working backward and forward all the time along the route. In the course of this work he obtained four musk-oxen. [Illustration: MUSK-OX HEADS IN THE RIGGING OF THE ROOSEVELT] [Illustration: CARIBOU HEADS IN THE RIGGING OF THE ROOSEVELT] (From Photographs taken on the Return Voyage) MacMillan recovered from his attack of grip, and on the 14th of October was sent with two sledges, two Eskimos, and twenty dogs to make a survey of Clements Markham Inlet and obtain musk-oxen and deer. He bagged five of the former. The last of the month the doctor also had an attack of grip, which kept him in bed for a week or two. Many small parties were sent out on short hunting trips and there was hardly a day during the fall when the men were all on the ship at one time. While, from the time of our arrival at Cape Sheridan early in September to the date of our departure from land for the Pole on March 1, every member of the expedition was almost constantly engaged in work that had for its object the completing of preparations for the final sledge journey in the spring, no small part of this work was educational in purpose and result. That is to say, it was intended to inure the "tenderfeet" of the party to the hardships of long journeys over rough going and through low temperatures, snow and wind. It taught them how to take care of themselves under difficult conditions, how to defend themselves against the ever-present peril of frost-bite, how to get the greatest comfort and protection from their fur clothing, how to handle their valuable dogs and how to manage their Eskimo helpers so as to get the best results from their efforts. An entry in Dr. Goodsell's journal is so typical of the chief troubles of any arctic sledging journey that it is worth repeating here. "Have been utilizing the time," wrote Dr. Goodsell, "in trying to dry out stockings and boots. It is extremely difficult to dry out stockings because of the cold and the necessity of economizing fuel. The general procedure is to discard footgear when it is nearly saturated with moisture. As long as the footgear is dry there is little danger of frosting the feet, if ordinary precautions are taken. With wet footgear one is in constant danger of freezing the feet. The oil-stove with the three-inch burner is barely sufficient to dry the gloves, of which two pairs are worn, an outer pair of bearskin, and an inner pair of deerskin." Another journal entry deals with a different kind of peril: "Toxingwa and Weesockasee were overcome by the lack of oxygen and the fumes of alcohol while MacMillan was preparing tea. Weesockasee fell back as though asleep. Toxingwa was twisting around, as though to get his arm free from one sleeve of his jacket. He too, finally fell back. MacMillan surmised the cause and kicked the door to one side. In about fifteen or twenty minutes they came around all right. The Commander on another of his expeditions nearly had a similar experience when he saw his Eskimos acting strangely, and quickly kicked out the side of the igloo." Still another peril that is omnipresent in sledge journeys over a polar sea is that of falling through thin ice and getting thoroughly wet. Perhaps it is not necessary to enlarge upon the gravity of this danger, since it was precisely such an accident that cost Professor Marvin his life. Even if the victim of such an accident should be able to drag himself out of the water, he would in all probability speedily freeze to death. Death by freezing comes speedily to a water-soaked man when temperatures are ranging anywhere from 20 to 60 degrees below zero. "Just finished changing my boots for a dry pair," writes the doctor. "Crossing a lead covered with thin ice and fissured in the center, my left leg went in to the knee. Fortunately my right foot was forward on firm ice and I threw myself ahead, going down on my left knee on the edge of firm ice and drawing my leg out of the water. At another lead the ice gave way as I sprang from its surface. My right foot dipped into the water to the ankle. I do not understand why I did not go down bodily into the water. Had I gone in to my waist there would have been a serious result, for the sledges were some distance away and the temperature was 47° below zero. In the absence of an igloo and a change of clothes near at hand, a ducking in this temperature would certainly have a serious termination." Trying conditions these--yet the thing had its irresistible fascination, and now and then came reflective moments like the one on February 25, when the doctor, encamped on the way from the _Roosevelt_ to Cape Columbia, wrote as follows: "When I was nearing Point Good, insensibly I paused time and again to view the scene. I could see Cape Hecla to the rear and the Parry Peninsula. In advance the twin peaks of Cape Columbia beckoned us on to the second point of departure in the Commander's northward march. To the north as we progressed, beyond the comparatively smooth glacial fringe loomed the floes and pinnacles of rough ice which will try us all to the utmost for weeks to come. To the south the circumference of the horizon was bounded by the sharp, jagged, serrated mountain ranges, mostly parallel to the coast. Every day we have a glorious dawn lasting for hours. A golden gleam is radiated from parallel ranges of serrated mountains. Individual peaks reflect the light of the sun, which will illuminate them with its direct rays in a few days. There is a cornea of golden glow, crimson and yellow, with strata of darker clouds floating parallel to the coast ranges--Turner effects for hours each day and for days in succession, the effect increasing from day to day. I am writing under difficulties, Inighito (an Eskimo) holding the candle. My hands are so cold that I can scarcely guide my pencil, as I recline on the bed platform of the igloo." But all this anticipates. On the 12th of October the sun had bidden us good-by for the year, and the rapidly darkening twilight increased the difficulties of the field work. Our photographs grew daily less satisfactory. We had not been able to take snapshots since about the middle of September; for, when the sun is near the horizon, though the light is apparently as brilliant as in summer, it seems to have no actinic power. Our first time-exposures were five seconds; our last, on the 28th of October, were ninety minutes. The temperature also was gradually getting lower, and on the 29th of October it was 26° below zero. The fall work ended with the return of Bartlett and his party from Cape Columbia, on November 5th, the other men having all returned before. By that time the light had disappeared, and it would be necessary to wait for the recurring moons of the long winter night before we could do any more work. We had gone up there in the arctic noon, had worked and hunted through the arctic twilight, and now the night was upon us--the long arctic night which seems like the valley of the shadow of death. With nearly all the supplies for the spring sledge journey already at Cape Columbia, with a good store of fresh meat for the winter, and our party all in good health, we entered the Great Dark with fairly contented hearts. Our ship was apparently safe; we were well housed and well fed; and if sometimes the terrible melancholy of the dark clutched for a moment at the hearts of the men, they bravely kept the secret from each other and from me. CHAPTER XVIII THE LONG NIGHT It may well be doubted if it is possible for a person who has never experienced four months of constant darkness to imagine what it is. Every school boy learns that at the two ends of the earth the year is composed of one day and one night of equal length, and the intervening periods of twilight; but the mere recital of that fact makes no real impression on his consciousness. Only he who has risen and gone to bed by lamplight, and risen and gone to bed again by lamplight, day after day, week after week, month after month, can know how beautiful is the sunlight. During the long arctic night we count the days till the light shall return to us, sometimes, toward the end of the dark period, checking off the days on the calendar--thirty-one days, thirty days, twenty-nine days, and so on, till we shall see the sun again. He who would understand the old sun worshipers should spend a winter in the Arctic. [Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY ILLUMINATION OF THE ROOSEVELT IN WINTER QUARTERS ON A MOONLIGHT NIGHT Showing the Ice Pressure Close to the Ship] Imagine us in our winter home on the _Roosevelt_, four hundred and fifty miles from the North Pole: the ship held tight in her icy berth, a hundred and fifty yards from the shore, the ship and the surrounding world covered with snow, the wind creaking in the rigging, whistling and shrieking around the corners of the deck houses, the temperature ranging from zero to sixty below and the ice-pack in the channel outside groaning and complaining with the movement of the tides. During the moonlit period of each month, some eight or ten days, when the moon seems to circle round and round the heavens, the younger members of the expedition were nearly always away on hunting trips; but during the longer periods of utter blackness most of us were on the ship together, as the winter hunting is done only by moonlight. It must be understood that the arctic moon has its regular phases, its only peculiarity being the course it appears to travel in the sky. When the weather is clear there is starlight, even in the dark period; but it is a peculiar, cold, and spectral starlight, which, to borrow the words of Milton, seems but to make the "darkness visible." When the stars are hidden, which may be much of the time, the darkness is so thick that it seems as if it could almost be grasped with the hand, and in a driving wind and snowstorm, if a man ventures to put his head outside the cabin door, he seems to be hurled back by invisible hands of demoniacal strength. During the early part of the winter the Eskimos lived in the forward deck house of the ship. There was always a fire in the galley stove, a fire in the Eskimo quarters, and one in the crew's quarters; but though I had a small cylindrical coal stove in my cabin, it was not lighted throughout the winter. Leaving the forward door of my cabin open into the galley a part of the time, kept my cabin comfortably warm. Bartlett occasionally had a fire in his cabin, and the other members of the expedition sometimes lighted their oil-stoves. On the first of November we adopted the winter schedule of two meals a day, breakfast at nine, dinner at four. This is the weekly bill of fare which Percy, the steward, and I made out and which was followed throughout the winter: Monday. _Breakfast_: Cereal. Beans and brown bread. Butter. Coffee. _Dinner_: Liver and bacon. Macaroni and cheese. Bread and butter. Tea. Tuesday. _Breakfast_: Oatmeal. Ham and eggs. Bread and butter. Coffee. _Dinner_: Corned beef and creamed peas. Duff. Tea. Wednesday. _Breakfast_: Choice of two kinds of cereal. Fish, forward (that is, for the sailors); sausage, aft (for the members of the expedition). Bread and butter. Coffee. _Dinner_: Steak and tomatoes. Bread and butter. Tea. Thursday. _Breakfast_: Cereal. Ham and eggs. Bread and butter. Coffee. _Dinner_: Corned beef and peas. Duff. Tea. Friday. _Breakfast_: Choice of cereal. Fish. Hamburger on starboard (our own) table. Bread and butter. Coffee. _Dinner_: Pea soup. Fish. Cranberry pie. Bread and butter. Tea. Saturday. _Breakfast_: Cereal. Meat stew. Bread and butter. Coffee. _Dinner_: Steak and tomatoes. Bread and butter. Tea. Sunday. _Breakfast_: Cereal. "Brooze" (Newfoundland hard biscuit, softened and boiled with salt codfish). Bread and butter. Coffee. _Dinner_: Salmon trout. Fruit. Chocolate. Our table conversation was mainly with regard to our work. We would discuss the details of the last sledge trip, or talk over the plans for the next one. There was always something going on, and the minds of the men were so occupied that they did not have time to yield themselves to the traditional, maddening winter melancholy of the Arctic. Moreover, men of sanguine temperament had been selected, and much material in the rough had been carried along in order to keep everybody busy working it into shape for use. On Sunday mornings I breakfasted in my cabin, thus leaving the men to themselves. On these occasions conversation was less technical and ranged from books to table manners, and sometimes Bartlett seized the opportunity to give his companions half-serious, half-humorous advice on the matter of table conduct, telling them that the time would come when they must return to civilization, and that they must not allow themselves to get into careless habits. Thus the academic and the practical elements of the party met on even ground. I have never adopted rigorous rules for the members of my expeditions, because it is not necessary. There were regular hours for meals in the mess rooms. It was understood that lights should be out at midnight, but if any man wanted a light later, he could have it. These were our rules. The Eskimos were allowed to eat when they pleased. They might sit up late at night, if they chose, but their work of making sledges and fur clothing had to proceed just the same the next day. There was only one rigid rule for them: that no loud noises, such as chopping dog meat or shouting, were to be made from ten o'clock at night until eight in the morning. While living on the _Roosevelt_, in winter quarters, we abandoned much of the routine of ship life afloat. The only regular bells were those at ten and twelve at night, the first a signal for all loud noises to cease, the latter a signal for lights to be turned out. The only watches were those of the regular day and night watchmen. With the exception of a few cases of grip, the health of the party was good during the whole period of our life at winter quarters. Grip in the Arctic, coincident with epidemics in Europe and America, is rather an interesting phenomenon. My first experience with it was in 1892, following one of the peculiar Greenland storms, similar to those in the Alps--a storm which evidently swept over the entire width of Greenland from the southeast, raising the temperature from the minus thirties to plus forty-one in twenty-four hours. Following that atmospheric disturbance every member of my party, and even some of the Eskimos, had a pronounced attack of grip. It was our opinion that the germs were brought to us by this storm, which was more than a local disturbance. Aside from rheumatism and bronchial troubles, the Eskimos are fairly healthy; but the adults are subject to a peculiar nervous affection which they call _piblokto_--a form of hysteria. I have never known a child to have _piblokto_; but some one among the adult Eskimos would have an attack every day or two, and one day there were five cases. The immediate cause of this affection is hard to trace, though sometimes it seems to be the result of a brooding over absent or dead relatives, or a fear of the future. The manifestations of this disorder are somewhat startling. The patient, usually a woman, begins to scream and tear off and destroy her clothing. If on the ship, she will walk up and down the deck, screaming and gesticulating, and generally in a state of nudity, though the thermometer may be in the minus forties. As the intensity of the attack increases, she will sometimes leap over the rail upon the ice, running perhaps half a mile. The attack may last a few minutes, an hour, or even more, and some sufferers become so wild that they would continue running about on the ice perfectly naked until they froze to death, if they were not forcibly brought back. When an Eskimo is attacked with _piblokto_ indoors, nobody pays much attention, unless the sufferer should reach for a knife or attempt to injure some one. The attack usually ends in a fit of weeping, and when the patient quiets down, the eyes are bloodshot, the pulse high, and the whole body trembles for an hour or so afterward. The well-known madness among the Eskimo dogs is also called _piblokto_. Though it does not seem to be infectious, its manifestations are similar to those of hydrophobia. Dogs suffering from _piblokto_ are usually shot, but they are often eaten by the Eskimos. The first winter moon came early in November, and on the 7th MacMillan started for Cape Columbia for a month of tidal observations, taking with him Jack Barnes, a sailor, Egingwah, and Inighito and their wives. Poodloonah, Ooblooyah and Seegloo went as MacMillan's supporting party, to carry supplies, and Wesharkoopsi and Keshungwah started for Cape Richardson to bring back the musk-ox skins which had been left there during the fall hunting trips. The tidal observations by MacMillan at Cape Columbia were made in connection with the tidal observations which were constantly going on at Cape Sheridan during the fall and winter, and with those taken later at Cape Bryant on the other side of Robeson Channel. These tidal observations of the expedition of 1908-09 were the farthest north of all continuous series ever recorded anywhere, though similar observations had been taken by the Lady Franklin Bay Expedition at Fort Conger, about sixty miles southwest. Marvin and Borup, during the November moon, continued the tidal observations at Cape Sheridan. The tidal igloo, which was built on the ice just inside the tide crack, about one hundred and eighty yards from the ship, was an ordinary Eskimo snow igloo and was used as a protection to the men in taking the observations at the tide staff. This staff, about twelve feet long, was driven into the bottom, and its length was marked off in feet and inches. As the tide rose and fell, the ice and the igloo moved with the water, but the staff remained stationary, and by the position of the ice upon the staff we measured the tides, varying with the day, the moon and the season. The tides along the north coast of Grant Land are remarkable for the slightness of the rise and fall, which varies from an average of 1.8 feet at Cape Sheridan to .8 at Cape Columbia. As is well known to navigators, the tides at Sandy Hook, New York, sometimes rise twelve feet, while the tides in the Bay of Fundy are often over fifty feet; in Hudson Strait they are about forty, and there are places on the coast of China where the extreme rise is even greater. The two Eskimo women were sent to Cape Columbia with MacMillan's party because the Eskimo men like to have their families with them when they go on long trips. The women are useful in drying and mending the fur garments which are constantly going to pieces in the rough usage of the sledge trips. Some of them can drive a dog team as well as the men, and many of them are good shots. I have known them to shoot musk-oxen and even bears. They do not attempt the walrus, yet they can paddle a kayak as well as the men--to the limit of their strength. The accomplishments of the Eskimo women are of the useful rather than the ornamental kind. The handling of the native lamp, for instance, requires great skill. If the lamp is well trimmed, it is as clear and smokeless as our own lamps; if it is neglected, it smokes and smells vilely. As the Eskimos are not highly romantic, a woman's skill in dressing skins and in making clothes largely determines the quality of husband she is likely to get. The Eskimo men have not a very critical eye for feminine beauty, but they are strong in appreciation of domestic accomplishments. Even so early as November we began to be worried about the dogs. Many of them had died; they were nearly all in poor condition, and the food was none too abundant. It is always necessary to take up twice as many dogs as will be needed, in order to provide for probable accidents. On the 8th of November there were only one hundred and ninety-three out of the two hundred and forty-six with which we had left Etah in August. The whale meat brought for them seemed to be lacking in nutrition. Four more that were in the worst condition were killed, to save the dog food, and on the 10th we had to kill five more. Then we tried the experiment of feeding them on pork, with the result that seven more died. I began to wonder whether we should have enough dogs left for the spring journey toward the Pole. It is absolutely impossible to figure on the Eskimo dog's uncertain tenure of life. The creatures will endure the severest hardships; they will travel and draw heavy loads on practically nothing to eat; they will live for days exposed to the wildest arctic blizzard; and then, sometimes in good weather, after an ordinary meal of apparently the best food, they will lie down and die. On the 25th of November we again overhauled and counted the dogs. There were now only one hundred and sixty left, and ten of these were in bad condition. But I discovered that day, on having the frozen walrus meat ripped up on the forecastle, that we had a greater supply than we had believed, and the discovery drove away the nightmare which had been haunting us. From now on the dogs could be fed a little more generous allowance of the best kind of food. For, after we had tried practically everything, including our bacon, it was found that walrus meat agreed with them better than anything else. The importance of this matter must not be lost sight of for an instant. Dogs, and plenty of them, were vitally necessary to the success of the expedition. Had an epidemic deprived us of these animals, we might just as well have remained comfortably at home in the United States. All the money, brains and labor would have been utterly thrown away, so far as concerned the quest of the North Pole. CHAPTER XIX THE ROOSEVELT'S NARROW ESCAPE It is perfectly true that the building business is not extensive in the arctic regions, but it is also a fact that if you expect to travel extensively there you must know how to build your own dwellings. If you neglect to instruct yourself in this direction the chances are that some time or other you will regret it. Toward the end of the autumn field work, the use of the canvas tents had been discontinued, and snow igloos had been constructed along the line of march. These were permanent, and were used by the various parties, one after the other. The new members of the expedition were instructed in the art of igloo building by Marvin, Henson, and the Eskimos. No man should go into the field in the North in winter unless he knows how to build a shelter for himself against the cold and the storm. The size of the igloo depends usually upon the number of men in the party. If built for three men, it will be about five by eight feet on the inside; if for five men, it will be about eight by ten, in order to give greater width to the sleeping platform. Four good men can build one of these snow houses in an hour. Each takes a saw knife from the up-standers of the sledge and sets to work cutting snow blocks. The saw knives are about eighteen inches long and are strong and stiff, with a cutting edge on one side and saw-teeth on the other. The blocks of snow are of different sizes, those for the bottom row being larger and heavier than those for the upper rows, and all are curved on the inner side, so that when set together they will form a circle. The thickness of the walls depends upon the hardness of the snow. If it is closely packed, the walls may be only a few inches thick; if the snow is soft, the blocks are thicker, that they may hold their shape. The blocks for the bottom layer are sometimes two or three feet long and two feet high; but sometimes they are much smaller, as there is no ironclad rule about it. When sufficient blocks have been cut to make an igloo, an Eskimo takes his position on the spot (usually a sloping bank of snow) which is to be the center of the structure. Then the others bring the snow blocks and place them end to end, on edge, to form an egg-shaped ring about the man in the center, who deftly joints and fits them with his snow knife. The second row is placed on top of the first, but sloping slightly inward; and the following rows are carried up in a gradually ascending spiral, each successive layer leaning inward a little more, and each block held in place by the blocks on either side, until finally an aperture is left in the top to be filled with one block. This block is then properly shaped by the man inside the igloo; he pushes it up endwise through the aperture, turns it over by reaching through the top, lowers it into place, and chips off with his knife until it fits the hole like the keystone of an arch, firmly keying the structure, whose general proportions are not unlike those of a beehive. A hole just large enough for a man to crawl through is cut close to the bottom on one side, and any superfluous snow inside the igloo is thrown out through this hole. In the rear or larger end, the sloping floor is leveled off to form a bed platform, and in front of this the floor is dug down a foot or more for a standing space and a place for the cookers. Then the sleeping gear and cooking outfit are passed into the igloo, and, after the dogs have been fed and tethered for the night, the members of the party enter, the opening at the bottom is closed by a large block of snow, the edges of which have been shaped and chipped by a saw knife to make a tight joint, and everything is ready for the night. After the cookers are lighted, the igloo is soon comparatively warm, and in the arctic regions, when men are tired out from a long march, they generally fall asleep easily. Insomnia is not one of the arctic annoyances. We never carry alarm clocks in the field to arouse us in the morning. The first man who has had his sleep out looks at his watch, and if it is time to be on the march again, he wakes the others. After breakfast we break camp and are out again. I did not join the field parties during the winter moons this time, but remained on the ship, going over and perfecting the plans for the spring campaign--the sledge journey toward the Pole--and giving considerable study to the new type of Peary sledge, to the improvement of details of clothing, and to experimenting with the new alcohol stove which I had designed for the spring work--determining the most effective charge of alcohol, the most effective size of broken ice for melting, and so on. The question of weights is a most important factor in all sledge equipment, and it was necessary constantly to study to obtain the maximum effectiveness with the minimum weight and bulk. For relaxation, I devoted many hours to a new form of taxidermy. About the middle of November I had a large snow igloo built on the top of the hatch on the main deck of the _Roosevelt_, which we called "the studio," and Borup and I began to experiment with flashlight pictures of the Eskimos. They had become accustomed to seeing counterfeit presentments of themselves on paper, and were very patient models. We also got some good moonlight pictures--time exposures varying from ten minutes to two or three hours. On this last expedition I did not permit myself to dream about the future, to hope, or to fear. On the 1905-06 expedition I had done too much dreaming; this time I knew better. Too often in the past had I found myself face to face with impassable barriers. Whenever I caught myself building air castles, I would either attack some work requiring intense application of the mind, or would go to sleep--it was hard sometimes to fight back the dreams, especially in my solitary walks on the ice-foot under the arctic moon. On the evening of November 11, there was a brilliant paraselene, two distinct halos and eight false moons being visible in the southern sky. This phenomenon is not unusual in the Arctic, and is caused by the frost crystals in the air. On this particular occasion the inner halo had a false moon at its zenith, another at its nadir, and one each at the right and left. Outside was another halo, with four other moons. Sometimes during the summer we see the parhelion, a similar phenomenon of the sun. I have seen the appearance of the false suns--or sun-dogs as the sailors call them--so near that the lowest one would seem to fall between me and a snow-bank twenty feet away, so near that by moving my head backward and forward I could shut it out or bring it into view. This was the nearest I ever came to finding the pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow. On the night of November 12, the ice of the channel pack, which for more than two months had seemed unmindful of our intrusive presence, arose in wrath and tried to hurl us upon the equally inhospitable shore. All that evening the wind had been gradually increasing in violence, and about half-past eleven the ship began to complain, creaking, groaning and muttering to herself. I lay in my bunk and listened to the wind in the humming rigging, while the moonlight, shining through the porthole, filled the cabin with dim shadows. Toward midnight, mingled with the noises of the ship, another and more ominous sound became audible--the grinding of the ice in the channel outside. I threw on my clothes and went on deck. The tide was running flood, and the ice was moving resistlessly past the point of the cape. The nearer ice, between us and the outer pack, was humming and groaning with the steadily increasing pressure. By the light of the moon we could see the pack as it began to break and pile up just beyond the edge of the ice-foot outside us. A few minutes later the whole mass broke with a rabid roar into a tumbling chaos of ice blocks, some upheaving, some going under, and a big rafter, thirty feet high, formed at the edge of the ice-foot within twenty feet of the ship. The invading mass grew larger and larger and steadily advanced toward us. The grounded piece off our starboard beam was forced in and driven against the big ice block under our starboard quarter. The ship shook a little, but the ice block did not move. With every pulse of the tide the pressure and the motion continued, and in less than an hour from the time I had come on deck, a great floe-berg was jammed against the side of the _Roosevelt_ from amidships to the stern. It looked for a minute as if the ship were going to be pushed bodily aground. All hands were called, and every fire on board was extinguished. I had no fear of the ship being crushed by the ice, but she might be thrown on her side, when the coals, spilled from a stove, might start that horror of an arctic winter night, the "ship on fire." The Eskimos were thoroughly frightened and set up their weird howling. Several families began to gather their belongings, and in a few minutes women and children were going over the port rail onto the ice, and making for the box houses on the shore. The list of the _Roosevelt_ toward the port or shore side grew steadily greater with the increasing pressure from outside. With the turn of the tide about half-past one in the morning, the motion ceased, but the _Roosevelt_ never regained an even keel until the following spring. The temperature that night was 25° below zero, but it did not seem so very cold. Marvin's tidal igloo was split in two, but he continued his observations, which were of peculiar interest that night; and as soon as the ice had quieted down Eskimos were sent out to repair the igloo. Strange to say, none of the Eskimos was attacked with _piblokto_ because of their fright, and I learned that one of the women, Ahtetah, had remained quietly sewing in the Eskimo quarters during the whole disturbance. After this experience, however, some of the Eskimo families took up their winter residence in the box houses and in snow igloos ashore. The winter winds of the Far North are almost unimaginable by any one who has never experienced them. Our winter at Cape Sheridan this last time was less severe than the winter of 1905-06, but we had several storms that reminded us of old times. The north and northwest winds sweeping down along the coast are the coldest; but for absolutely insane fury the winds from the south and the southwest, falling off the highland of the coast with almost the impact of a wall of water, are unsurpassed anywhere else in the arctic regions. Sometimes these storms come on gradually, the wind from the northwest steadily increasing in force and swinging through the west to the southwest, gathering fury with every hour, until the snow is picked up bodily from the land and the ice-foot and carried in blinding, horizontal sheets across the ship. On deck it is impossible to stand or move, except in the shelter of the rail, and so blinding is the cataract of snow that the lamps, powerful as are their reflectors, are absolutely indistinguishable ten feet away. When a party in the field is overtaken by a storm, they have to stay in the snow igloo until the fury is over. If there is no igloo near them, they build one just as quickly as they can when they see the storm approaching, or, if there is not time for that, they have to make a dugout in a snow bank. Thursday, the 26th of November, was proclaimed to be Thanksgiving Day in Grant Land. For dinner we had soup, macaroni and cheese, and mince pie made of musk-ox meat. During the December moon Captain Bartlett, with two Eskimos, two sledges, and twelve dogs, went out to scour the region between the ship and Lake Hazen for game. Henson, with similar equipment, went to Clements Markham Inlet. Borup, with seven Eskimos, seven sledges, and forty-two dogs, set out for Cape Colan and Cape Columbia. Dr. Goodsell started at the same time with three Eskimos, two sledges, and twelve dogs, to hunt in the region from Black Cliffs Bay to James Ross Bay. The parties were to use the regular arctic ration of tea, pemmican, and biscuit, unless they found game, in which case they were to use fresh meat for both men and dogs. In addition to the hunting, supplies for the spring sledge work were to be moved from one cache to another along the coast. To give variety to the work, the men who remained with the ship during one moon went into the field the next. The ship's men, engineers and sailors, seldom went on hunting trips but remained with the ship, attending to their regular duties and sometimes helping with the work of equipment. I had in my cabin a good arctic library--absolutely complete as regards the work of later years. This included Abruzzi's "On the _Polar Star_ in the Arctic Sea," Nansen's "Farthest North," Nares' "Voyage to the Polar Sea," Markham's two volumes on arctic explorations, the narratives of Greely, Hall, Hayes, Kane, Inglefield--in fact, all the stories of the navigators of the Smith Sound region, as well as those who have attempted the Pole from other directions, such as the Austrian expedition under Payer and Weyprecht, Koldewey's East Greenland expedition, and so forth. Then, in antarctic literature I had Captain Scott's two magnificent volumes, "The Voyage of the _Discovery_," Borchgrevink's "The _Southern Cross_ Expedition to the Antarctic," Nordenskjöld's "Antarctica," the "Antarctica" of Balch, and Carl Fricker's "The Antarctic Regions," as well as Hugh Robert Mills' "Siege of the South Pole." The members of the expedition used to borrow these books, one at a time, and I think that before the winter was over they all knew pretty well what had been done by other men in this field. Every week or ten days throughout the winter we had to remove from our cabins the ice caused by the condensation of the moist air where it came in contact with the cold outer walls. Behind every article of furniture near the outer wall the ice would form, and we used to chop it out from under our bunks by the pailful. The books were always placed far forward on the shelves, because if a book were pushed back it would freeze solid to the wall. Then, if a warmer day came, or a fire was built in the cabin, the ice would melt, the water would run down and the leaves of the book would mold. The sailors amused themselves after the manner of sailors everywhere, playing dominoes, cards and checkers, boxing and telling stories. They used to play at feats of strength, such as finger-pulling, with the Eskimos. One of the men had an accordion, another a banjo, and as I sat working in my cabin I used often to hear them singing "Annie Rooney," "McGinty," "The Spanish Cavalier," and sometimes "Home, Sweet Home." Nobody seemed to be bored. Percy, who had special charge of the phonograph, often treated the men to a concert, and all through the winter I heard nobody complain of monotony or homesickness. CHAPTER XX CHRISTMAS ON THE ROOSEVELT The four December field parties returned to the ship one after the other. Captain Bartlett was the only one who had found any game, and he got only five hares. During this trip the captain had an experience which might have been decidedly uncomfortable for him, had it turned out a bit less fortunately. He was up in the Lake Hazen region with his Eskimos, and he had left them at the igloo while he looked around for game. He had just found some deer tracks when the moon went behind a bank of clouds and the night became suddenly black. He waited an hour or two for the moon to come out that he might see where he was, and meanwhile the two Eskimos, thinking he was lost, broke camp and set out for the ship. As soon as there was light enough, he started off to the south of the igloo, and after a time overtook his companions. Had he gone even a little way to the north he would not have met them, and would have had to walk back alone to the ship, without supplies, a distance of seventy or eighty miles, with a storm brewing. This party had bad weather nearly all the way home. The temperature was comparatively mild, only ten or fifteen degrees below zero, and the sky was overcast. The captain made the last march a long one, notwithstanding the darkness. Of course he could not always keep the trail. Sometimes he would be walking along over snow as level as a floor, then suddenly the level would drop ten or fifteen feet, and, walking right on in the dark, he would land on the back of his head with such force that he saw stars which do not appear in any scientific celestial map. At one point in the journey they struck going so rough that it was impossible to push ahead and drive the dogs without light. They had no lantern, but Bartlett took a sugar tin, cut holes in the sides, and put a candle in it. With this makeshift beacon he was able to keep somewhere near the trail. But there was considerable wind, and he declared that he used enough matches in relighting the candle on that march to keep an Eskimo family cheerful throughout a whole winter. The failure of these parties to obtain game was a serious matter. In order to save food I had still further to reduce the number of dogs. We overhauled them, and fourteen of the poorest--they would not have survived the winter--were killed and used as food for the others. I am often asked how the wild herbivorous animals, like the musk-ox and the reindeer, survive the winter in that snow-covered land. By a strange paradox, the wild winds that rage in that country help them in their struggle for existence, for the wind sweeps the dried grasses and scattered creeping willows bare of snow over great stretches of land, and there the animals can graze. December 22 marked the midnight of the "Great Night," the sun from that day starting on the return journey north. In the afternoon all the Eskimos were assembled on deck, and I went to them with my watch in my hand, telling them that the sun was now coming back. Marvin rang the ship's bell, Matt Henson fired three shots, and Borup set off some flashlight powder. Then the men, women, and children formed in line and marched into the after deck house by the port gangway, passing the galley, where each one received, in addition to the day's rations, a quart of coffee, with sugar and milk, ship's biscuit, and musk-ox meat; the women were also given candy and the men tobacco. After the celebration, Pingahshoo, a boy of twelve or thirteen, who helped Percy in the galley, started confidently south over the hills to meet the sun. After a few hours he returned to the ship, quite crestfallen, and Percy had to explain to him that while the sun was really on its way back, it would not get to us for nearly three months more. The next day after the winter solstice, our supply of water from the Cape Sheridan River having failed, Eskimos were sent out to reconnoiter the ponds of the neighborhood. The English expedition on the _Alert_ had melted ice during their entire winter, and on the expedition of 1905-06 we had been obliged to melt ice for a month or two; but this year the Eskimos sounded the ponds, and about fifteen feet of water was found in one a mile inland from the _Roosevelt_. Over the hole in the ice they built a snow igloo with a light wooden trap-door, so as to keep the water in the hole from freezing too quickly. The water was brought to the ships in barrels on sledges drawn by the Eskimo dogs. As Christmas fell in the dark of the moon, all the members of the expedition were on the ship, and we celebrated with a special dinner, field sports, raffles, prizes, and so on. It was not very cold that day, only minus 23°. In the morning we greeted each other with the "Merry Christmas" of civilization. At breakfast we all had letters from home and Christmas presents, which had been kept to be opened on that morning. MacMillan was master of ceremonies and arranged the program of sports. At two o'clock there were races on the ice-foot. A seventy-five-yard course was laid out, and the ship's lanterns, about fifty of them, were arranged in two parallel rows, twenty feet apart. These lanterns are similar to a railway brakeman's lantern, only larger. It was a strange sight--that illuminated race-course within seven and a half degrees of the earth's end. The first race was for Eskimo children, the second for Eskimo men, the third for Eskimo matrons with babies in their hoods, the fourth for unencumbered women. There were four entries for the matrons' race, and no one could have guessed from watching them that it was a running race. They came along four abreast, dressed in furs, their eyes rolling, puffing like four excited walruses, the babies in their hoods gazing with wide and half-bewildered eyes at the glittering lanterns. There was no question of cruelty to children, as the mothers were not moving fast enough to spill their babies. Then there were races for the ship's men and the members of the expedition, and a tug of war between the men aft and forward. Nature herself participated in our Christmas celebrations by providing an aurora of considerable brilliancy. While the races on the ice-foot were in progress, the northern sky was filled with streamers and lances of pale white light. These phenomena of the northern sky are not, contrary to the common belief, especially frequent in these most northerly latitudes. It is always a pity to destroy a pleasant popular illusion; but I have seen auroras of a greater beauty in Maine than I have ever seen beyond the Arctic Circle. Between the races and the dinner hour, which was at four o'clock, I gave a concert on the æolian in my cabin, choosing the merriest music in the rack. Then we separated to "dress for dinner." This ceremony consisted in putting on clean flannel shirts and neckties. The doctor was even so ambitious as to don a linen collar. Percy, the steward, wore a chef's cap and a large white apron in honor of the occasion, and he laid the table with a fine linen cloth and our best silver. The wall of the mess room was decorated with the American flag. We had musk-ox meat, an English plum pudding, sponge cake covered with chocolate, and at each plate was a package containing nuts, cakes, and candies, with a card attached: "A Merry Christmas, from Mrs. Peary." After dinner came the dice-throwing contests, and the wrestling and pulling contests in the forecastle. The celebration ended with a graphophone concert, given by Percy. But perhaps the most interesting part of our day was the distribution of prizes to the winners in the various contests. In order to afford a study in Eskimo psychology, there was in each case a choice between prizes. Tookoomah, for instance, who won in the women's race, had a choice among three prizes: a box of three cakes of scented soap; a sewing outfit, containing a paper of needles, two or three thimbles, and several spools of different-sized thread; and a round cake covered with sugar and candy. The young woman did hot hesitate. She had one eye, perhaps, on the sewing outfit, but both hands and the other eye were directed toward the soap. She knew what it was meant for. The meaning of cleanliness had dawned upon her--a sudden ambition to be attractive. The last time that all the members of the expedition ate together was at the four o'clock dinner on December 29, for that evening Marvin, the captain, and their parties started for the Greenland coast; and when we met together at the ship after my return from the Pole there was one who was not with us--one who would never again be with us. Ross Marvin was, next to Captain Bartlett, the most valuable man in the party. Whenever the captain was not in the field, Marvin took command of the work, and on him devolved the sometimes onerous, sometimes amusing labor of breaking in the new members. During the latter part of the former expedition in the _Roosevelt_, Marvin had grasped more fully than any other man the underlying, fundamental principles of the work. He and I together had planned the details of the new method of advance and relay parties. This method, given a fixed surface over which to travel, could be mathematically demonstrated, and it has proved to be the most effective way to carry on an arctic sledge journey. The party that started for the Greenland coast, across the ice of Robeson Channel, on the evening of December 29, consisted of Marvin, the captain, nine Eskimos, and fifty-four dogs. They were all to go south along the coast to Cape Union, then cross the channel to Cape Brevoort, Marvin, with his men and supporting parties, going north to Cape Bryant for a month of tidal observations, the captain and his men going south along the ice of Newman Bay and on to the Polaris Promontory to hunt. The following day, Dr. Goodsell and Borup, each with his party of Eskimos and dogs, started by way of Cape Belknap, the doctor to hunt in Clements Markham Inlet, Borup to hunt in the region of the first glacier north of Lake Hazen. No such extensive field work had ever before been attempted by any arctic expedition, the radius of territory covered being about ninety miles in all directions from our winter quarters. While distributing material for the spring sewing among the Eskimo women in the forward deck house and in the box houses and snow igloos on shore, I learned that some of the Eskimo men felt somewhat shaky about going north again on the ice of the polar sea. They had not forgotten the narrow escape we had had in recrossing the "big lead" on the return journey from the "farthest north" of 1906. Though I felt confident of my ability to handle them when the time came, still, I realized that we might have trouble with them yet. But I would not permit myself to worry about the outcome. The first of the January hunting parties, Dr. Goodsell's, came in on the 11th. They had had no luck, though they had seen fresh tracks of musk-oxen. Borup came in the next morning with eighty-three hares, and an interesting story. They were right up against the glacier when they came across a whole colony of the little white arctic animals. He said there must have been nearly a hundred of them. The arctic hares are not wild; they will come so near to the hunter that he can almost grasp them with his hand. They have not learned the fear of man, because in their wilds man is practically unknown. Borup and the Eskimos surrounded the hares, until finally they got so near to them that instead of using any more ammunition they knocked the creatures over the heads with the butts of their rifles. One day, during this hunting trip, Borup and his Eskimos became confused and were unable to find their igloo for twenty-four hours. The saw-knives, essential in constructing a snow igloo, had been left behind, and none of the men had even an ordinary knife which might have been used as a substitute. There was a gale of wind, the moon was obscured, the air was full of whirling snow, and it was very cold. They spent most of the time walking to and fro to keep warm. At last, when they were exhausted, they turned the sledges on their sides, the Eskimos worked out with their feet snow blocks which reinforced the shelter, and they were able to snatch a little sleep. When the weather cleared, they found themselves half a mile from their igloo. The day following Borup's return, the captain came in with his men and Marvin's supporting party of four. We were just beginning to be worried about them, as the ice of Robeson Channel in the dark of winter is not the safest road for a sledge party. The captain reported that they had been only six hours in crossing the channel; but, though he had reconnoitered the whole plain of the Polaris Promontory, he had seen no musk-oxen. By the end of January we could see a faint redness in the south at noon, and the twilight was increasing. The last moon of the winter was now circling in the sky, and I wrote in my diary: "Thank Heaven, no more moons!" No matter how many dark winters a man may have gone through in the Arctic, the longing for the sun does not grow less intense. In the February moon Bartlett went to Cape Hecla, Goodsell moved more supplies from Hecla to Cape Colan, and Borup went to Markham Inlet on another hunting trip. Before leaving, the doctor completed a record of the approximate mean temperatures for the season, which showed that every month except October had been colder than three years before. For December the mean was eight degrees lower. Marvin was still at Cape Bryant, but the last of the February parties came in on the 9th, and from that time on we were all busy preparing for the great and last journey. On Sunday night, February 14, I had a brief talk with the Eskimo men, telling them what we proposed to do, what was expected of them, and what each man who went to the farthest point with me would get when he returned: boat, tent, Winchester repeater, shotgun, ammunition, box of tobacco, pipes, cartridges, numerous knives, hatchets, et cetera. Their fears of the "big lead" took flight at the prospect of what to them was untold riches; and when it came to the point of making up my sledge parties, only one Eskimo, Panikpah, would admit any fears. They had seen me return so many times that they were ready to take their chances with me this one time more. Bartlett left the ship on Monday, February 15, with instructions to go straight through to Cape Columbia, then put in two or three days hunting for musk-oxen in the neighborhood. The three divisions following Bartlett had instructions to go to Cape Columbia with their loads; then return to Cape Colan, where there was a cache, and take full loads from there to Cape Columbia. Goodsell's division started on Tuesday, on Wednesday it was stormy, and MacMillan and Henson got away on Thursday. They were all to meet me at Cape Columbia on the last day of February. Marvin and his party had come in from Cape Bryant about six o'clock on Wednesday night. They were all well. Borup's division left the ship on Friday, Marvin's division got away on Sunday, the 21st, and I was left alone on the ship for one day. That last day was one of perfect quiet and rest, free from interruption. The morning I devoted to going over carefully the details of the work already done, to see that no slenderest necessary thread had been overlooked, and to considering again, point by point, the details of the coming journey. [Illustration: CRANE CITY, CAPE COLUMBIA, AT THE TIME OF DEPARTURE March 1st, 1909] When I had satisfied myself (as I had not been able to do during the bustle and constant interruptions of the last two weeks) that everything was in its place and every possible contingency provided for, I had a few hours in which to look the situation squarely in the face, and to think of those other times, when, as now, I was on the eve of departure into the void and unknown North. When at last I turned in for a few hours' sleep before the morning start, it was with the consciousness that so far as my knowledge and ability went, everything had been done, and that every member of the party, as well as myself, would put into his efforts all there was in him of will and sinew and vitality. This being settled, the outcome rested with the elements--the vagaries of the arctic pack, and the quality and amount of our own physical and mental stamina. [Illustration: FACE OF THE LAND ICE, "GLACIAL FRINGE," OFF CAPE COLUMBIA] This was my final chance to realize the one dream of my life. The morning start would be the drawing of the string to launch the last arrow in my quiver. [Illustration: PINNACLE NEAR THE SHORE] CHAPTER XXI ARCTIC ICE SLEDGING AS IT REALLY IS Perhaps it will assist the reader to form a more vivid picture of the sort of work that now lay before the expedition and which the expedition eventually performed, if an effort is made to make him understand exactly what it means to travel nearly a thousand miles with dog sledges over the ice of the polar pack. In that belief, I shall at this point endeavor to describe as briefly as is consistent with clearness the conditions that confronted us and the means and methods by which those conditions were met. Between the winter quarters of the _Roosevelt_ at Cape Sheridan, and Cape Columbia, the most northerly point on the north coast of Grant Land, which I had chosen as the point of departure for the ice journey, lay ninety miles in a northwesterly direction along the ice-foot and across the land, which we must traverse before plunging onto the trackless ice fields of the Arctic Ocean. From Cape Columbia we were to go straight north over the ice of the Polar Sea,--four hundred and thirteen geographical miles. Many persons whose memories go back to the smooth skating ponds of their childhood, picture the Arctic Ocean as a gigantic skating pond with a level floor over which the dogs drag us merrily--we sitting comfortably upon the sledges with hot bricks to keep our toes and fingers warm. Such ideas are distinctly different from the truth, as will appear. There is no land between Cape Columbia and the North Pole and no smooth and very little level ice. For a few miles only after leaving the land we had level going, as for those few miles we were on the "glacial fringe." This fringe, which fills all the bays and extends across the whole width of North Grant Land, is really an exaggerated ice-foot; in some places it is miles in width. While the outer edge in places is afloat and rises and falls with the movement of the tides, it never moves as a body, except where great fields of ice break off from it and float away upon the waters of the Arctic Ocean. Beyond the glacial fringe is the indescribable surface of the shore lead, or tidal crack--that zone of unceasing conflict between the heavy floating ice and the stationary glacial fringe. This shore lead is constantly opening and shutting; opening when there are offshore winds, or spring ebb-tides, crushing shut when there are northerly winds or spring flood-tides. Here the ice is smashed into fragments of all sizes and piled up into great pressure ridges parallel with the shore. The ice is smashed into these pressure ridges by the sheer and unimaginable force with which the floes are driven against the edge of the glacial fringe, just as farther out the pressure ridges are caused by the force with which the great floes themselves are crushed and smashed together by the force of the wind and the tides. These pressure ridges may be anywhere from a few feet to a few rods in height; they may be anywhere from a few rods to a quarter of a mile in width; the individual masses of ice of which they are composed may vary, respectively, from the size of a billiard ball to the size of a small house. Going over these pressure ridges one must pick his trail as best he can, often hacking his way with pickaxes, encouraging the dogs by whip and voice to follow the leader, lifting the five-hundred-pound loaded sledges over hummocks and up acclivities whose difficulties sometimes seem likely to tear the muscles from one's shoulder-blades. Between the pressure ridges are the old floes, more or less level. These floes, contrary to wide-spread and erroneous ideas, are not formed by direct freezing of the water of the Arctic Ocean. They are made up of great sheets of ice broken off from the glacial fringe of Grant Land and Greenland, and regions to the westward, which have drifted out into the polar sea. These fields of ice are anywhere from less than twenty to more than one hundred feet in thickness, and they are of all shapes and sizes. As a result of the constant movement of the ice during the brief summer, when great fields are detached from the glaciers and are driven hither and thither under the impulse of the wind and the tides--impinging against one another, splitting in two from the violence of contact with other large fields, crushing up the thinner ice between them, having their edges shattered and piled up into pressure ridges--the surface of the polar sea during the winter may be one of almost unimaginable unevenness and roughness. At least nine-tenths of the surface of the polar sea between Cape Columbia and the Pole is made up of these floes. The other one-tenth, the ice between the floes, is formed by the direct freezing of the sea water each autumn and winter. This ice never exceeds eight or ten feet in thickness. The weather conditions of the fall determine to a great extent the character of the ice surface of the polar sea during the following winter. If there have been continuous shoreward winds at the time when the increasing cold was gradually cementing the ice masses together, then the heavier ice will have been forced toward the shore; and the edges of the ice-fields farther out, where they come in contact, will have piled up into a series of pressure ridges, one beyond the other, which any one traveling northward from the land must go over, as one would go over a series of hills. If, on the other hand, there has been little wind in the fall, when the surface of the polar sea was becoming cemented and frozen over, many of these great floes will have been separated from other floes of a like size and character, and there may be stretches of comparatively smooth, young, or new, ice between them. If, after the winter has set in, there should still be violent winds, much of this thinner ice may be crushed up by the movement of the heavier floes; but if the winter remains calm, this smoother ice may continue until the general breaking up in the following summer. But the pressure ridges above described are not the worst feature of the arctic ice. Far more troublesome and dangerous are the "leads" (the whalers' term for lanes of open water), which are caused by the movement of the ice under the pressure of the wind and tides. These are the ever-present nightmare of the traveler over the frozen surface of the polar ocean--on the upward journey for fear that they may prevent further advance; on the return journey for fear they may cut him off from the land and life, leaving him to wander about and starve to death on the northern side. Their occurrence or non-occurrence is a thing impossible to prophesy or calculate. They open without warning immediately ahead of the traveler, following no apparent rule or law of action. They are the unknown quantity of the polar equation. Sometimes these leads are mere cracks running through old floes in nearly a straight line. Sometimes they are zigzag lanes of water just wide enough to be impossible to cross. Sometimes they are rivers of open water from half a mile to two miles in width, stretching east and west farther than the eye can see. There are various ways of crossing the leads. One can go to the right or the left, with the idea of finding some place where the opposite edges of the ice are near enough together so that our long sledges can be bridged across. Or, if there are indications that the lead is closing, the traveler can wait until the ice comes quite together. If it is very cold, one may wait until the ice has formed thick enough to bear the loaded sledges going at full speed. Or, one may search for a cake of ice, or hack out a cake with pickaxes, which can be used as a ferry-boat on which to transport the sledges and teams across. But all these means go for naught when the "big lead," which marks the edge of the continental shelf where it dips down into the Arctic Ocean, is in one of its tantrums, opening just wide enough to keep a continual zone of open water or impracticable young ice in the center, as occurred on our upward journey of 1906 and the never-to-be-forgotten return journey of that expedition, when this lead nearly cut us off forever from life itself. A lead might have opened right through our camp, or through one of the snow igloos, when we were sleeping on the surface of the polar sea. Only--it didn't. Should the ice open across the bed platform of an igloo, and precipitate its inhabitants into the icy water below, they would not readily drown, because of the buoyancy of the air inside their fur clothing. A man dropping into the water in this way might be able to scramble onto the ice and save himself; but with the thermometer at 50° below zero it would not be a pleasant contingency. This is the reason why I have never used a sleeping-bag when out on the polar ice. I prefer to have my legs and arms free, and to be ready for any emergency at a moment's notice. I never go to sleep when out on the sea ice without my mittens on, and if I pull my arms inside my sleeves I pull my mittens in too, so as to be ready for instant action. What chance would a man in a sleeping-bag have, should he suddenly wake to find himself in the water? The difficulties and hardships of a journey to the North Pole are too complex to be summed up in a paragraph. But, briefly stated, the worst of them are: the ragged and mountainous ice over which the traveler must journey with his heavily loaded sledges; the often terrific wind, having the impact of a wall of water, which he must march against at times; the open leads already described, which he must cross and recross, somehow; the intense cold, sometimes as low as 60° below zero, through which he must--by fur clothing and constant activity--keep his flesh from freezing; the difficulty of dragging out and back over the ragged and "lead" interrupted trail enough pemmican, biscuit, tea, condensed milk, and liquid fuel to keep sufficient strength in his body for traveling. It was so cold much of the time on this last journey that the brandy was frozen solid, the petroleum was white and viscid, and the dogs could hardly be seen for the steam of their breath. The minor discomfort of building every night our narrow and uncomfortable snow houses, and the cold bed platform of that igloo on which we must snatch such hours of rest as the exigencies of our desperate enterprise permitted us, seem hardly worth mentioning in comparison with the difficulties of the main proposition itself. At times one may be obliged to march all day long facing a blinding snowstorm with the bitter wind searching every opening in the clothing. Those among my readers who have ever been obliged to walk for even an hour against a blizzard, with the temperature ten or twenty degrees _above_ zero, probably have keen memories of the experience. Probably they also remember how welcome was the warm fireside of home at the end of their journey. But let them imagine tramping through such a storm all day long, over jagged and uneven ice, with the temperature between fifteen and thirty degrees _below_ zero, and no shelter to look forward to at the end of the day's march excepting a narrow and cold snow house which they would themselves be obliged to build in that very storm before they could eat or rest. I am often asked if we were hungry on that journey. I hardly know whether we were hungry or not. Morning and night we had pemmican, biscuit and tea, and the pioneer or leading party had tea and lunch in the middle of the day's march. Had we eaten more, our food supply would have fallen short. I myself dropped twenty-five pounds of flesh between my departure from the ship and my return to it. But fortitude and endurance alone are not enough in themselves to carry a man to the North Pole. Only with years of experience in traveling in those regions, only with the aid of a large party, also experienced in that character of work, only with the knowledge of arctic detail and the equipment necessary to prepare himself and his party for any and every emergency, is it possible for a man to reach that long sought goal and return. CHAPTER XXII ESSENTIALS THAT BROUGHT SUCCESS Something has already been said regarding the fact that our journey to the North Pole was no haphazard, hit or miss "dash." It was not really a "dash" at all. Perhaps it may properly be described as a "drive"--in the sense that when the sledge journey got under way we pressed forward with a speed at times almost breathless. But nothing was done impulsively. Everything was done in accordance with a scheme long contemplated and plotted out in advance with every possible care. The source of our success was a carefully planned system, mathematically demonstrated. Everything that could be controlled was controlled, and the indeterminate factors of storms, open leads and accidents to men, dogs and sledges, were taken into consideration in the percentage of probabilities and provided for as far as possible. Sledges would break and dogs would fall by the way, of course; but we could generally make one sledge out of two broken ones, and the gradual depletion of the dogs was involved in my calculations. The so-called "Peary system" is too complex to be covered in a paragraph, and involves too many technical details to be outlined fully in any popular narrative. But the main points of it are about as follows: To drive a ship through the ice to the farthest possible northern land base from which she can be driven back again the following year. To do enough hunting during the fall and winter to keep the party healthily supplied with fresh meat. To have dogs enough to allow for the loss of sixty per cent. of them by death or otherwise. To have the confidence of a large number of Eskimos, earned by square dealing and generous gifts in the past, so that they will follow the leader to any point he may specify. To have an intelligent and willing body of civilized assistants to lead the various divisions of Eskimos--men whose authority the Eskimos will accept when delegated by the leader. To transport beforehand to the point where the expedition leaves the land for the sledge journey, sufficient food, fuel, clothing, stoves (oil or alcohol) and other mechanical equipment to get the main party to the Pole and back and the various divisions to their farthest north and back. To have an ample supply of the best kind of sledges. To have a sufficient number of divisions, or relay parties, each under the leadership of a competent assistant, to send back at appropriate and carefully calculated stages along the upward journey. To have every item of equipment of the quality best suited to the purpose, thoroughly tested, and of the lightest possible weight. To know, by long experience, the best way to cross wide leads of open water. _To return by the same route followed on the upward march, using the beaten trail and the already constructed igloos to save the time and strength that would have been expended in constructing new igloos and in trail-breaking._ To know exactly to what extent each man and dog may be worked without injury. To know the physical and mental capabilities of every assistant and Eskimo. Last, but not least, to have the absolute confidence of every member of the party, white, black, or brown, so that every order of the leader will be implicitly obeyed. Bartlett's division was to pioneer the road, and keep one day ahead of the main party. It was my plan at this time to keep the pioneer party close to the main party, and thus prevent the possibility of its being cut off from the main party by a rapidly forming lead, with insufficient supplies either for a further advance or for regaining the main division. Bartlett's pioneer division comprised himself and three Eskimos, Poodloonah, "Harrigan," and Ooqueah, with one sledge and team of dogs, carrying their own gear and five days' supplies for the division. Borup's division comprised himself and three Eskimos, Keshungwah, Seegloo, and Karko, with four sledges and dog teams carrying nearly the standard loads. His division was to act as an advance supporting party, and was to accompany Bartlett for three marches and then return to Cape Columbia in one march with empty sledges. He was to deposit his loads and one sledge at the place where he left Bartlett, making a cache on the line of march; then hurry back to Columbia, re-load, and overtake the main party, which would leave the land one day after himself and Bartlett. By this arrangement, if there were no delays, the main party would begin its third march at the same time when Borup started back; the evening of the third day would find the main party at Borup's cache, and Borup at Cape Columbia; the next morning, when the main party began its fourth march, Borup would be leaving Cape Columbia three marches behind, which difference, with a well-traveled trail to follow, he could probably eliminate in three marches. It chanced that this sending back of Borup for additional loads to overtake the main party, with the later complications which grew out of it, through the opening of leads between him and the main party, was a link in the chain of delays which might have caused serious trouble, as will be hereafter explained. In order that the reader may understand this journey over the ice of the polar sea, it is necessary that the theory and practise of both pioneer and supporting parties should be fully understood. Without this system, as has been amply demonstrated by the experience of previous expeditions, it would be a physical impossibility for any man to reach the North Pole, and return. The use of relay parties in arctic work is, of course, not new, though the idea was carried further in the last expedition of the Peary Arctic Club than ever before; but the pioneer party is original with my expeditions and for that reason it is perhaps worth while to describe it in detail. The pioneer party was one unit division, made up of four of the most active and experienced men of the expedition, with sledges lightly loaded with five or six days' provisions, drawn by the best dog teams of the entire pack. When we started from Cape Columbia, this pioneer party, headed by Bartlett, went out twenty-four hours in advance of the main party. Later on, when we reached the time of continuous daylight and sunlight through the twenty-four hours, the pioneer party was but twelve hours in advance of the main party. The duty of this pioneer party was to make a march in every twenty-four hours in spite of every obstacle--excepting, of course, some impassable lead. Whether there was a snowstorm or violent winds to be faced, or mountainous pressure ridges were to be climbed over, the march of the pioneer party must be made; for past experience had proved that whatever distance was covered by the advance party with its light sledges could be covered in less time by the main party even with heavily loaded sledges, because the main party, having the trail to follow, was not obliged to waste time in reconnoitering. In other words, the pioneer party, was the pace-maker of the expedition, and whatever distance it made was the measure of accomplishment for the main party. The leader of the pioneer party, in the first instance Bartlett, would start out ahead of his division, usually on snowshoes; then the light sledges of the party would follow him. Thus the leader of the pioneer division was pioneering ahead of his own party, and that whole division was pioneering ahead of the main party. It is necessary that the arduous work of trail-breaking for the first two-thirds of the distance over the rougher ice nearer the land should be done by one division after another, in succession, in order to save the strength of the main party for their final drive. One great advantage which I had on this expedition was that, owing to the size of my party, whenever the men in this pioneer division became exhausted with their arduous labor and lack of sleep, I could withdraw them into the main party, and send out another division to take their place. Supporting parties are essential to success because, a single party, comprising either a small or a large number of men and dogs, could not possibly drag (in gradually lessening quantities) all the way to the Pole and back (some nine hundred odd miles) as much food and liquid fuel as the men and dogs of that party would consume during the journey. It will be readily understood that when a large party of men and dogs starts out over the trackless ice to the polar sea, where there is no possibility of obtaining a single ounce of food on the way, after several days' marching, the provisions of one or more sledges will have been consumed by the men and dogs. When this occurs, the drivers and dogs with those sledges should be sent back to the land at once. _They are superfluous mouths which cannot be fed from the precious supply of provisions which are being dragged forward on the sledges._ Still further on, the food on one or two more sledges will have been consumed. These sledges also, with their dogs and drivers, must be sent back, in order to ensure the furthest possible advance by the main party. Later on, still other divisions must be sent back for the same reason. But my supporting parties had another duty to perform, only a little less important than the one already noted; that was to keep the trail open for the rapid return of the main party. The magnitude of this duty is clear. The ice of the polar sea is not an immovable surface. Twenty-four hours--or even twelve hours--of strong wind, even in the depth of the coldest winter, will set the big floes grinding and twisting among themselves, crushing up into pressure ridges in one place, breaking into leads in another place. Under normal conditions, however, this movement of the ice is not very great in a period of eight or ten days, so that a party starting back over an outward trail at the end of several days is able to knit together all faults and breaks in the trail that have occurred during that period by reason of the movement of the ice. The second supporting party, starting back several days later from a point still farther on, knits together the broken ends of the trail of its own division; and when it comes upon the trail of the first supporting party, reunites such other breaks as have occurred since the first supporting party went over it on its way back to land. So with the third and fourth supporting parties. When I speak of knitting together breaks in the trail, I mean simply that the passage of the supporting party from that point where the trail was broken by the movement of the ice to the point where the trail went on again, some distance either to the east or west, would itself renew the broken trail, the passage of the men and dog teams packing down the ice and snow. So that when the main party came back it would simply follow the track of the supporting party, and not have to scout for the trail. As a result of this method of keeping the return trail continuously open, when the main party starts to return it has a continuous trail back to the land, which it can follow with from fifty to one hundred per cent. greater speed than it was possible to make on the outward journey. The reasons for this are obvious: no time is wasted in selecting and breaking a trail; the dogs are more energetic when following a beaten track and when on the road home; no time is wasted in making camp, the snow igloos built on the outward journey being reoccupied on the return journey. [Illustration: TYPICAL TRAIL IN SOFT SNOW (LOOKING BACKWARD)] It must be understood that when each supporting party reached the land again, its work in regard to the polar dash was over. It did not come back onto the ice with any further supplies for the main party. At the very end, when the supporting parties have performed their important work of trail-breaking and transportation of supplies, the main party for the final journey _must_ be small and carefully selected, as the small party resulting from the successive selection of the fittest, can travel much faster than a large one. Each division of four men was absolutely independent and had its complete traveling outfit; in fact, except for the alcohol stove and cooking utensils, each sledge was complete in itself. On each sledge were the provisions for men and dogs, and clothing for the driver. The standard sledge load would support the driver and the dog team for about fifty days, and by sacrificing a few dogs and using them as food for the other dogs and the men, this time could have been extended to sixty days. Had any sledge and its provisions been cut off from the rest of the division, the man with it would have had everything he needed, except the cooking outfit. Had the sledge which carried the alcohol stove been lost, either in a lead or otherwise, the party to which it belonged would have had to double up with one of the other divisions. [Illustration: TYPICAL VIEW OF THE ICE OF THE ARCTIC OCEAN, NORTH OF GRANT LAND] The new alcohol stove, the design of which I had perfected during the winter, was used altogether on this northern sledge trip. We did not carry oil-stoves at all, except some very small ones with two-inch wicks, which we used for drying mittens. The standard method for loading each sledge was as follows: On the bottom was a layer of dog pemmican in red tins, covering the entire length and width of the sledge; on this were two tins of biscuit, and crew pemmican in blue tins; then the tins of alcohol and condensed milk, a small skin rug for the man to sleep on at night in the igloo, snowshoes and spare footgear, a pickax and a saw knife for cutting snow blocks. Practically the only extra items of wearing apparel which were carried were a few pairs of Eskimo sealskin _kamiks_ (boots), for it can readily be imagined that several hundred miles of such walking and stumbling over snow and ice would be rather hard on any kind of footgear which could be made. Compactness was the main idea in packing one of these sledges, the center of gravity of the load being brought as low as possible in order that the sledges might not easily overturn. The standard daily ration for work on the final sledge journey toward the Pole on all expeditions has been as follows: 1 lb. pemmican, 1 lb. ship's biscuit, 4 oz. condensed milk, 1/2 oz. compressed tea, 6 oz. liquid fuel, alcohol or petroleum. A total of 2 lbs. 4-1/2 oz. of solids per man, per day. On this ration a man can work hard and keep in good condition in the lowest temperatures for a very long time. I believe that no other item of food, either for heat or muscle building, is needed. The daily ration for the dogs is one pound of pemmican per day; but so hardy are these descendants of the arctic wolves that when there is a scarcity of food they can work for a long time on very little to eat. I have, however, always endeavored so to proportion provisions to the length of time in the field, that the dogs should be at least as well fed as myself. A part of the scientific work of the expedition was a series of deep-sea soundings from Cape Columbia to the Pole. The sounding apparatus of the expedition on leaving Cape Columbia comprised two wooden reels of a length equal to the width of the sledge, a detachable wooden crank to go on each end of the reel, to each reel a thousand fathoms (six thousand feet) of specially made steel piano wire of a diameter .028 inches, and one fourteen-pound lead having at its lower end a small bronze clam-shell device, self-tripping when it reached the bottom, for the purpose of bringing up samples of the ocean bed. The weights of this outfit were as follows: each thousand fathoms of wire 12.42 pounds, each wooden reel 18 pounds, each lead 14 pounds. A complete thousand-fathom outfit weighed 44.42 pounds. The two outfits, therefore, weighed 89 pounds, and a third extra lead brought this total up to 103 pounds. Both the sounding leads and the wire were made especially for the expedition, and so far as I know they were the lightest, for their capacity, that have ever been used. [Illustration: TYPICAL CAMP ON THE ICE] One sounding apparatus was carried by the main division and the other by the pioneer party, in the early stages of our progress. When there was a lead we sounded from the edge of it; when there was no open water we made a hole in the ice if we could find any that was thin enough for the purpose. Two men could readily make these deep-sea soundings by reason of the lightness of the equipment. The distance which we traveled day by day was at first determined by dead reckoning, to be verified later by observations for latitude. Dead reckoning was simply the compass course for direction, and for distance the mean estimate of Bartlett, Marvin, and myself as to the length of the day's march. On board ship dead reckoning is the compass course for direction and the reading of the log for distance. On the inland ice of Greenland my dead reckoning was the compass course, and the reading of my odometer, a wheel with a cyclometer registering apparatus. This could not possibly be used on the ice of the polar sea, as it would be smashed to pieces in the rough going. One might say in general that dead reckoning on the polar ice is the personal estimate of approximate distance, always checked and corrected from time to time by astronomical observations. Three members of the expedition had had sufficient experience in traveling over arctic ice to enable them to estimate a day's journey very closely. These three were Bartlett, Marvin, and myself. When we checked up our dead reckoning by astronomical observations, the mean of our three estimates was found to be a satisfactory approximation to the results of the observations. It goes without saying that mere dead reckoning, entirely unchecked by astronomical observations, would be insufficient for scientific purposes. During the earlier stages of our journey there was no sun by which to take observations. Later, when we had sunlight, we took what observations were necessary to check our dead reckonings--but no more, since I did not wish to waste the energies or strain the eyes of Marvin, Bartlett, or myself. As a matter of fact observations were taken every five marches, as soon as it was possible to take them at all. CHAPTER XXIII OFF ACROSS THE FROZEN SEA AT LAST The work of the expedition, to which all the former months of detail were merely preliminary, began with Bartlett's departure from the _Roosevelt_ on the 15th of February for the final sledge journey toward the Pole. The preceding summer we had driven the ship through the almost solid ice of the channels lying between Etah and Cape Sheridan; we had hunted through the long twilight of the autumn to supply ourselves with meat; we had lived through the black and melancholy months-long arctic night, sustaining our spirits with the hope of final success when the returning light should enable us to attack the problem of our passage across the ice of the polar sea. Now these things were all behind us, and the final work was to begin. It was ten o'clock on the morning of February 22d--Washington's Birthday--when I finally got away from the ship and started on the journey toward the Pole. This was one day earlier than I had left the ship three years before on the same errand. I had with me two of the younger Eskimos, Arco and Kudlooktoo, two sledges and sixteen dogs. The weather was thick, the air was filled with a light snow, and the temperature was 31° below zero. There was now light enough to travel by at ten o'clock in the morning. When Bartlett had left the ship a week before, it was still so dark that he had been obliged to use a lantern in order to follow the trail northward along the ice-foot. When I finally got away from the ship, there were in the field, for the northern work, seven members of the expedition, nineteen Eskimos, one hundred and forty dogs, and twenty-eight sledges. As already stated, the six advance divisions were to meet me at Cape Columbia on the last day of February. These parties, as well as my own, had all followed the regular trail to Cape Columbia, which had been kept open during the fall and winter by the hunting parties and supply-trains. This trail followed the ice-foot along the coast the greater part of the way, only taking to the land occasionally to cut across a peninsula and thus shorten the road. On the last day of February Bartlett and Borup got away to the North with their divisions, as soon as it was light enough to travel. The weather still remained clear, calm, and cold. After the pioneer division had started north, all the remaining sledges were lined up, and I examined them to see that each had the standard load and full equipment. On leaving the _Roosevelt_ I had in the field exactly enough dogs to put twenty teams of seven dogs each on the ice, and had counted on doing this; but while we were at Cape Columbia the throat distemper broke out in one team, and six dogs died. This left me only enough for nineteen teams. My plans were further disarranged by the disabling of two Eskimos. I had counted on having a pickax brigade, composed of Marvin, MacMillan, and Dr. Goodsell, ahead of the main party, improving the road, but found that two Eskimos would be unfit to go on the ice--one having a frosted heel, and the other a swollen knee. This depletion in the ranks of sledge drivers meant that Marvin and MacMillan would each have to drive a dog team, and that the pickax squad would be reduced to one man--Dr. Goodsell. As it turned out, this did not make much difference. The going was not so rough in the beginning as I had anticipated, and most of the pickax work that was required could be done by the drivers of the sledges as they reached the difficult places. When I awoke before light on the morning of March 1st, the wind was whistling about the igloo. This phenomenon, appearing on the very day of our start, after so many days of calm, seemed the perversity of hard luck. I looked through the peep-hole of the igloo and saw that the weather was still clear, and that the stars were scintillating like diamonds. The wind was from the east--a direction from which I had never known it to blow in all my years of experience in that region. This unusual circumstance, a really remarkable thing, was of course attributed by my Eskimos to the interference of their arch enemy, Tornarsuk--in plain English, the devil--with my plans. After breakfast, with the first glimmer of daylight, we got outside the igloo and looked about. The wind was whistling wildly around the eastern end of Independence Bluff; and the ice-fields to the north, as well as all the lower part of the land, were invisible in that gray haze which, every experienced arctic traveler knows, means vicious wind. A party less perfectly clothed than we were would have found conditions very trying that morning. Some parties would have considered the weather impossible for traveling, and would have gone back to their igloos. But, taught by the experience of three years before, I had given the members of my party instructions to wear their old winter clothing from the ship to Cape Columbia and while there, and to put on the new outfit made for the sledge journey when leaving Columbia. Therefore we were all in our new and perfectly dry fur clothes and could bid defiance to the wind. One by one the divisions drew out from the main army of sledges and dog teams, took up Bartlett's trail over the ice and disappeared to the northward in the wind haze. This departure of the procession was a noiseless one, for the freezing east wind carried all sounds away. It was also invisible after the first few moments--men and dogs being swallowed up almost immediately in the wind haze and the drifting snow. I finally brought up the rear with my own division, after getting things into some semblance of order, and giving the two disabled men left at Cape Columbia their final instructions to remain quietly in the igloo there, using certain supplies which were left with them until the first supporting party returned to Cape Columbia, when they were to go back with it to the ship. An hour after I left camp my division had crossed the glacial fringe, and the last man, sledge, and dog of the Northern party--comprising altogether twenty-four men, nineteen sledges, and one hundred and thirty-three dogs--was at last on the ice of the Arctic Ocean, about latitude 83°. [Illustration: WORKING THROUGH AN EXPANSE OF ROUGH ICE] Our start from the land this last time was eight days earlier than the start three years before, six days of calendar time and two days of distance, our present latitude being about two marches farther north than Cape Hecla, our former point of departure. When we were far enough out on the ice to be away from the shelter of the land, we got the full force of the violent wind. But it was not in our faces, and as we had a trail which could be followed, even if with heads down and eyes half closed, the wind did not impede us or cause us serious discomfort. Nevertheless, I did not like to dwell upon the inevitable effect which it would have upon the ice farther out--the opening of leads across our route. When we dropped off the edge of the glacial fringe onto the pressure ridges of the tidal crack already described, in spite of the free use of our pickaxes and the pickaxes of the pioneer division, which had gone before, the trail was a most trying one for men, dogs, and sledges, especially the old Eskimo type of sledge. The new "Peary" sledges, by reason of their length and shape, rode much more easily and with less strain than the others. Every one was glad to reach the surface of the old floes beyond this crazy zone of ice which was several miles in width. As soon as we struck the old floes the going was much better. There appeared to be no great depth of snow, only a few inches, and this had been hammered fairly hard by the winter winds. Still the surface over which we traveled was very uneven, and in many places was distinctly trying to the sledges, the wood of which was made brittle by the low temperature, now in the minus fifties. On the whole, however, I felt that if we encountered nothing worse than this in the first hundred miles from the land we should have no serious cause for complaint. [Illustration: PASSING THROUGH A DEFILE IN ROUGH ICE] A little farther on, while walking alone behind my division, I met Kyutah of Marvin's division, hurrying back with empty sledge. He had smashed his sledge so badly that it seemed better to go back to Cape Columbia for one of the reserve sledges there than to attempt to repair the broken one. He was cautioned not to waste a minute and to be sure to overtake us at our camp that night, and he was soon disappearing into the wind haze in our rear. Still farther on I met Kudlooktoo, returning on the same errand, and a little later came upon some of the other divisions that had been obliged to stop to repair their sledges which had suffered severely in their encounters with the rough ice. Finally I reached the captain's first camp, ten miles out. Here I took one of the two igloos, and Marvin took the other. The divisions of Goodsell, MacMillan, and Henson were to build their own igloos this first night. Bartlett and Borup being in advance, would each build an igloo at every one of their camps. I, being the oldest man in the party, was to take one of these, and the order of precedence in which the divisions of Marvin, MacMillan, Goodsell, and Henson were to occupy the second of the already constructed igloos had been determined by lot at Columbia, the first lot falling to Marvin. Later, when Bartlett's division alone was in the lead, there was only one igloo already built at each camp on the line of march. The day twilight, which now lasted about twelve hours, had disappeared entirely by the time the last sledge reached this first camp. It had been a trying day for the sledges. The new "Peary" type, by reason of its shape and greater length, had come off best. Though two of these had suffered minor damages, none of them had been put out of commission. Two of the old Eskimo type had been smashed completely, and another nearly so. The dogs were soon fed, and each division went for supper and rest to its own igloo, leaving the rugged surface of the ice to the darkness, and the howling wind and drift. The march had been a somewhat hard one for me, because, for the first time in sixteen years, the leg which I had broken in Greenland, in 1891, had been causing me considerable trouble. The door of my igloo had scarcely been closed by a block of snow, when one of Henson's Eskimos came running over, blue with fright, to tell me that Tornarsuk was in camp, and that they could not light the alcohol in their new stove. I did not understand this, as the stoves had all been tested on board ship and had worked to perfection; but I got out and went over to Henson's igloo, where it appeared that he had used up a whole box of matches in unsuccessful efforts to light his stove. Our stoves were of an entirely new design, using no wicks, and a moment's examination disclosed the trouble. It was so cold that there was no vaporization from the alcohol, and it would not light directly as at higher temperatures. A bit of paper dropped into it and lighted was the solution, and there was no further trouble. The failure of even one of our alcohol stoves would have seriously impaired our chances, as the men of that division could not have boiled the tea which is absolutely necessary for work in those low temperatures. Kyutah, the Eskimo who had gone back to land with his broken sledge, came in during the night, but Kudlooktoo failed to put in an appearance. Thus the end of our first day over the polar ice found the expedition one man short. CHAPTER XXIV THE FIRST OPEN WATER The first serious obstacle of the sledge journey was encountered the second day out from land. The day was cloudy, the wind continuing to blow from the east with unabated violence. Again I intentionally brought up the rear of my division, in order to see that everything was going right and that every one was accounted for. The going was much the same as on the previous day, rough and trying to the endurance of men, dogs and sledges. When we had made about three-quarters of a march we saw ahead of us a dark ominous cloud upon the northern horizon, which always means open water. There is always fog in the neighborhood of the leads. The open water supplies the evaporation, the cold air acts as a condenser, and when the wind is blowing just right this forms a fog so dense that at times it looks as black as the smoke of a prairie fire. Sure enough, just ahead of us were black spots against the snow which I knew to be my various divisions held up by a lead. When we came up with them I saw a lane of open water, about a quarter of a mile wide, which had formed since the captain had passed the day before. The wind had been getting in its work! I gave the word to camp (there was nothing else to do), and while the igloos were being built, Marvin and MacMillan made a sounding from the edge of the lead, getting ninety-six fathoms. This march to the edge of the lead put us beyond the British record of 83° 20´ made by Captain Markham, R. N., north of Cape Joseph Henry, May 12, 1876. Before daylight the next morning we heard the grinding of the ice, which told us that the lead was at last crushing together, and I gave the signal to the other three igloos, by pounding with a hatchet on the ice floor of my igloo, to fire up and get breakfast in a hurry. The morning was clear again, excepting for the wind haze, but the wind still continued to blow with unabated violence. With the first of the daylight we were hurrying across the lead on the raftering young ice, which was moving, crushing, and piling up with the closing of the sides of the lead. If the reader will imagine crossing a river on a succession of gigantic shingles, one, two, or three deep and all afloat and moving, he will perhaps form an idea of the uncertain surface over which we crossed this lead. Such a passage is distinctly trying, as any moment may lose a sledge and its team, or plunge a member of the party into the icy water. On the other side there was no sign of Bartlett's trail. This meant that the lateral movement (that is east and west) of the ice shores of the lead had carried the trail along with it. After an hour or two of marching, we found ourselves in the fork of two other leads, and unable to move in any direction. The young ice (that is, the recently frozen ice) on the more westerly of these leads, though too thin to sustain the weight of the sledges, was yet strong enough to bear an Eskimo, and I sent Kyutah to the west to scout for the captain's trail, while the other Eskimos built out of snow blocks a shelter from the wind, and repaired some minor damages to our sledges. In half an hour or so Kyutah returned from the west, signaling that he had found Bartlett's trail. Soon after he reached us a movement of the shores of the lead to the west crushed up the narrow ribbon of unsafe young ice over which he had passed, and we were able to hurry across with sledges and push west for the trail, which was about a mile and a half distant. When we reached the trail we saw, by the tracks of men and dogs pointing south, that Borup had already passed that way on his return to Columbia, in accordance with my program. He had probably crossed the lead and was now scouting for our trail somewhere on the southerly side. As soon as Marvin, who was following me, came up, I had Kyutah throw off his sledge load, and sent Marvin and the Eskimo on the back trail to "Crane City," Cape Columbia. I did this partly because of the possibility that there might be complications there in which Borup, who was new to the work, would feel the need of a man of Marvin's wider experience, and partly because many of our alcohol and petroleum tins had sprung leaks in the rough going of the last few days, and an additional supply was needed to make up for present and possible future loss. The change of the loads was effected in a few minutes, without delay to the main party, which kept right on, and Marvin and his dusky companion were soon out of sight. The captain's third camp was reached before dark that night. All day long the wind kept us company, and we could see by the water clouds all about us that the leads were open here and there in every direction. Fortunately none of them immediately crossed our trail, and the going was much as on the previous day. [Illustration: APPROACHING A LEAD THROUGH ROUGH ICE] During this march we saw, above the summits of the great land mountains which were still visible to the south of us, a flaming blade of yellow light which reached half way to the zenith--in other words, after nearly five months, we could almost see the sun again as he skimmed along just under the southern horizon. Only a day or two more, and his light would shine directly upon us. The feeling of the arctic traveler for the returning sun after the long darkness is a feeling hard to interpret to those who are accustomed to seeing the sun every morning. On the following day, March 4, the weather changed. The sky was overcast with clouds, the wind had swung completely around to the west during the night, there were occasional squalls of light snow, and the thermometer had risen to only 9° below zero. This temperature, after that of the minus fifties, in which we had been traveling, seemed almost oppressively warm. The leads were even more numerous than the day before, and their presence was clearly outlined by the heavy black clouds. A mile or two east of us there was a lead stretching far to the north and directly parallel with our course, which did not cause us any apprehension. But a broad and ominous band of black extending far to the east and west across our course and apparently ten or fifteen miles to the north of us, gave me serious concern. Evidently the ice was all abroad in every direction, and the high temperature and snow accompanying the west wind proved that there was a large amount of open water in that direction. The outlook was not pleasant, but as some compensation the going was not quite so rough. As we advanced, I was surprised to find that as yet none of the leads cut Bartlett's trail. Consequently we made good progress, and though the march was distinctly longer than the previous one, we reached Bartlett's igloo in good time. [Illustration: STOPPED BY OPEN WATER] Here I found a note from Bartlett which had evidently been despatched by an Eskimo, informing me that he was in camp about a mile farther north--held up by open water. This explained the black, ominous band which I had been watching for hours on the northern horizon, and which had gradually risen as we approached until it was now almost overhead. Pushing on, we soon reached the captain's camp. There I found the familiar unwelcome sight which I had so often before me on the expedition of 1905-06--the white expanse of ice cut by a river of inky black water, throwing off dense clouds of vapor which gathered in a sullen canopy overhead, at times swinging lower with the wind and obscuring the opposite shore of this malevolent Styx. The lead had opened directly through the heavy floes, and, considering that these floes are sometimes one hundred feet in thickness, and of almost unimaginable weight, the force that could open such a river through them is comparable with the forces that threw up the mountains on the continents and opened the channels between the lands. Bartlett told me that during the previous night in the camp a mile farther south where I had found his note, the noise caused by the opening of this great lead had awakened him from sleep. The open water was now about a quarter of a mile in width, and extended east and west as far as we could see when we climbed to the highest pinnacle of ice in the neighborhood of our camp. Two or three miles to the east of us, as we could see by the vapor hanging over it, the north and south lead which had paralleled our last two marches intersected the course of the lead beside which we were encamped. Though farther south than where we had encountered the "Big Lead" in 1906, north of Cape Hecla, this one had every resemblance to that great river of open water which on the way up we had called "the Hudson," and on our way back--when it seemed that those black waters had cut us off forever from the land--we had renamed "the Styx." The resemblance was so strong that even the Eskimos who had been with me on the expedition three years before spoke about it. I was glad to see that there was no lateral movement in the ice; that is, that the two shores of the lead were not moving east or west, or in opposite directions. The lead was simply an opening in the ice under the pressure of the wind and the spring tides, which were now swelling to the full moon on the 6th. Captain Bartlett, with his usual thoughtfulness, had an igloo already built for me near his own when I arrived. While the other three divisions were building their igloos the captain took a sounding, and obtained a depth of one hundred and ten fathoms. We were now about forty-five miles north of Cape Columbia. The next day, March 5, was a fine, clear day, with a light westerly breeze, and a temperature of 20° below zero. For a little while about noon the sun lay, a great yellow ball, along the southern horizon. Our satisfaction at seeing it again was almost compensation for our impatience at being delayed there--beside the gradually widening lead. Had it not been cloudy on the 4th, we should have seen the sun one day earlier. During the night the lead had narrowed somewhat, raftering the young ice. Then, under the impulse of the tidal wave, it had opened wider than ever, leaving, in spite of the constantly forming ice, a broad band of black water before us. I sent MacMillan back with three dog teams and three Eskimos to bring up the load which Kyutah had thrown off before he went back to the land with Marvin, and also to bring up a portion of Borup's cache which we had not been able to load on our sledges. MacMillan also took a note to leave at Kyutah's cache, telling Marvin where we were held up, and urging him to hurry forward with all possible speed. The remainder of the party occupied themselves repairing damaged sledges and in drying their clothing over the little oil hand lamps. All the next day we were still there beside the lead. Another day, and we were still there. Three, four, five days passed in intolerable inaction, and still the broad line of black water spread before us. Those were days of good traveling weather, with temperatures ranging from minus 5° to minus 32°, a period of time which might have carried us beyond the 85th parallel but for those three days of wind at the start which had been the cause of this obstruction in our course. During those five days I paced back and forth, deploring the luck which, when everything else was favorable--weather, ice, dogs, men, and equipment--should thus impede our way with open water. Bartlett and I did not talk much to each other during those days. It was a time when silence seemed more expressive than any words. We looked at each other occasionally, and I could see from the tightening of Bartlett's jaw all that I needed to know of what was going on in his mind. Each day the lead continued to widen before us, and each day we looked anxiously southward along the trail for Marvin and Borup to come up. But they did not come. Only one who had been in a similar position could understand the gnawing torment of those days of forced inaction, as I paced the floe in front of the igloos most of the time, climbing every little while to the top of the ice pinnacle back of the igloos to strain my eyes through the dim light to the south, sleeping through a few hours out of each twenty-four, with one ear open for the slightest noise, rising repeatedly to listen more intently for the eagerly desired sound of incoming dogs--all this punctuated, in spite of my utmost efforts at self-control, with memories of the effect of the delay at the "Big Lead" on my prospects in the previous expedition. Altogether, I think that more of mental wear and tear was crowded into those days than into all the rest of the fifteen months we were absent from civilization. The additional supply of oil and alcohol, which Marvin and Borup were to bring to me, was, I felt, vital to our success; but even if they did not come in with it, I could not turn back here. While pacing the floe, I figured out how we should use our sledges piecemeal as fuel in our cookers, to make tea after the oil and alcohol were gone. By the time the wood of the sledges was exhausted, it would be warm enough so that we could suck ice or snow to assuage our thirst, and get along with our pemmican and raw dog without tea. But, though I planned, it was a plan of desperation. It was a harrowing time, that period of waiting. CHAPTER XXV SOME OF MY ESKIMOS LOSE THEIR NERVE The protracted delay, hard as it was upon all the members of the expedition, had a demoralizing psychological effect upon some of my Eskimos. Toward the end of the period of waiting I began to notice that some of them were getting nervous. I would see them talking together in twos and threes, just out of earshot. Finally two of the older men, who had been with me for years and whom I had trusted, came to me pretending to be sick. I have had sufficient experience to know a sick Eskimo when I see one, and the excuses of Poodloonah and Panikpah did not convince me. I told them by all means to go back to the land just as quickly as they could, and to take with them a note to Marvin, urging him to hurry. I also sent by them a note to the mate of the ship, giving instructions in regard to these two men and their families. As the days went by, other Eskimos began to complain of this and that imaginary ailment. Two of them were rendered temporarily unconscious by the fumes of the alcohol cooker in their igloo, frightening all the rest of the Eskimos half out of their wits, and I was seriously puzzled as to what I should do with them. This was an illustration of the fact, which may not have occurred to every one, that the leader of a polar expedition has sometimes other things to contend with than the natural conditions of ice and weather. On the 9th or 10th we might possibly have crossed the lead on the young ice, by taking desperate chances; but, considering our experience of 1906, when we had nearly lost our lives while recrossing the "Big Lead" on the undulating ice, and also considering that Marvin _must_ be somewhere near by this time, I waited these two more days to give him a chance to catch up. MacMillan was invaluable to me during this period. Seeing the restlessness of the Eskimos, and without waiting for any suggestion from me, he gave himself absolutely to the problem of keeping them occupied and interested in games and athletic "stunts" of one kind and another. This was one of those opportunities which circumstances give a man silently to prove the mettle of which he is made. On the evening of March 10, the lead being nearly closed, I gave orders to get under way the next morning. The delay had become unendurable, and I decided to take the chance of Marvin's overtaking us with the oil and alcohol. Of course there was the alternative of my going back to see what was the trouble. But that idea was dismissed. There was little attraction in ninety miles of extra travel, to say nothing of the psychological effect on the members of the expedition. I had no anxiety about the men themselves. Borup, I felt sure, had reached the land without delay. Marvin, if he had been held up temporarily by the opening of the shore lead, had the load which had been thrown off by Kudlooktoo when his sledge was smashed, and this load contained all essential items of supplies. But I could not believe that the shore lead had remained open so long. The morning of the 11th was clear and calm, with a temperature of minus 40°, which meant that all the open water was frozen over. We got under way early, leaving in my igloo at this camp the following note for Marvin: 4th CAMP, _March_ 11, 1909. Have waited here (6) days. Can wait no longer. We are short of fuel. Push on with all possible speed to overtake us. Shall leave note at each camp. When near us rush light sledge and note of information ahead to overhaul us. Expect send back Dr. & Eskimos 3 to 5 marches from here. He should meet you & give you information. We go straight across this lead (E. S. E.) There has been no lateral motion of the ice during 7 days. Only open and shut. _Do not camp here._ CROSS THE LEAD. Feed full rations & speed your dogs. It is _vital_ you overtake us and give us fuel. Leaving at 9 A.M., Thursday, Mar. 11. PEARY. P.S. On possibility you arrive too late to follow us, have asked captain take general material from your bags. We crossed the lead without trouble, and made a fair march of not less than twelve miles. This day we crossed seven leads, each being from half a mile to one mile in width, all covered with barely negotiable young ice. At this time the various divisions, including Bartlett's, were all traveling together. On this march we crossed the 84th parallel. That night the ice was raftering about our camp with the movement of the tide. The continual grinding, groaning, and creaking, as the pieces of ice crunched together, kept up all night long. The noise, however, did not keep me from sleeping, as our igloos were on a heavy ice-floe, which was not likely itself to be broken up, most of the ice around it being young and thin. [Illustration: ATHLETIC SPORTS AT THE LEAD CAMP] In the morning it was still clear, and the temperature was down to minus 45°. Again we made a fair march of not less than twelve nautical miles, crossing in the first half many cracks and narrow leads, and in the latter half traversing an unbroken series of old floes. I felt confident that this zone of numerous leads which we had crossed in the last two marches was the "Big Lead," and was of the opinion that we were now safely across it. We hoped that Marvin and Borup, with their men and vital supply of fuel, would get across the "Big Lead" before we had any more wind; for six hours of a good fresh breeze would utterly obliterate our trail, by reason of the movement of the ice, and their search for us in the broad waste of that white world would have been like the proverbial search for a needle in a haystack. [Illustration: PICKAXING A ROAD THROUGH ZONE OF ROUGH ICE] The following march, on the 13th, was distinctly crisp. When we started the thermometer was minus 53°, the minimum during the night having been minus 55°; and when the twilight of evening came on it was down to minus 59°. With the bright sunshine at midday, and with no wind, in our fur clothing we did not suffer from the cold. The brandy, of course, was solid, the petroleum was white and viscid, and the dogs as they traveled were enveloped in the white cloud of their own breath. I traveled ahead of my division this march, and whenever I looked back could see neither men nor dogs--only a low-lying bank of fog glistening like silver in the horizontal rays of the sun behind it to the south--this fog being the steam of the dog teams and the men. [Illustration: A CHARACTERISTIC VIEW OF THE EXPEDITION ON THE MARCH IN FINE WEATHER (Indian File Used to Economize the Strength of Men and Dogs and to Accentuate the Trail. The Passage of Each Sledge Makes the Trail Easier for the Ones Behind It)] The going during this march was fairly good, except at the beginning, where for about five miles we zigzagged through a zone of very rough ice. The distance covered was at least twelve miles. Our camp that night was on a large old floe in the lee of a large hummock of ice and snow. Just as we had finished building our igloos, one of the Eskimos who was standing on the top of the hummock shouted excitedly: "Kling-mik-sue!" (Dogs are coming.) In a moment I was on the hummock beside him. Looking south I could see, a long distance away, a little bank of silvery white mist lying on our trail. Yes, it was surely the dogs. A little later Seegloo, of Borup's party, dashed up on a light sledge drawn by eight dogs, with a note from Marvin containing the welcome news that he, Borup, and their men had slept the previous night at our second camp back; that they would sleep the next night at our first camp back, and catch up with us on the following day. The rear party, with its precious loads of oil and alcohol, was over the "Big Lead!" Henson at once received instructions to get away early the next morning with his division of Eskimos and sledges, to pioneer the road for the next five marches. The doctor was informed definitely that he was to return to the land the next morning with two men. The rest of the party would remain here repairing sledges and drying clothes until Marvin and Borup came in, when I could reapportion my loads, and send back all superfluous men, dogs, and sledges. That night, my mind again at rest, I slept like a child. In the morning Henson got away early to the north with his pioneer division of three Eskimos, Ootah, Ahwatingwah, Koolootingwah, and sledges and teams. A little later Dr. Goodsell with two Eskimos, Wesharkoopsi and Arco, one sledge, and twelve dogs took the back trail. The doctor had assisted me in every possible way; but his services in the field were gratuitous and were understood so to be. His place was naturally at the ship, where the greater number still remained, for the moral effect of his presence even if his medical services should not be much needed, and I did not feel justified in subjecting him further to the dangers of the leads with their treacherous young ice. The latitude where the doctor turned back was about 84° 29´. In the latter part of the afternoon, March 14, another cloud of silvery smoke was seen advancing along our trail, and a little later Marvin came swinging in at the head of the rear division, men and dogs steaming like a squadron of battle-ships, and bringing in an ample supply of fuel. Otherwise his loads were light, to permit rapid traveling. Many times in the past had I been glad to see the true eyes of Ross Marvin, but never more glad than this time. The sledges which were now repaired were laden with the standard loads already described, and I found that I had just twelve. This left some men and dogs over, so that it was not serious news when MacMillan called my attention to a frosted heel with which he had been worrying along for several days without saying anything to any one about it. I saw at once that the only thing for him to do was to turn back. It was a disappointment to me to lose MacMillan so early, as I had hoped that he would be able to go to a comparatively high latitude; but his disability did not affect the main proposition. I had ample personnel, as well as provisions, sledges, and dogs; and the men, like the equipment, were interchangeable. Here it may be well to note that, beyond my saying to Bartlett at Cape Columbia that I hoped conditions might be such as to give me the benefit of his energy and sturdy shoulders to some point beyond Abruzzi's farthest, no member of the party knew how far he was to go, or when he was to turn back. Yet this made no difference in the eagerness of their work. Naturally I had my definite program; but conditions or accidents might necessitate such instant and radical modifications of it that it seemed hardly worth while to make it known. Few, if any, other explorers have had so efficient and congenial a party as mine this last time. Every man was glad to subordinate his own personal feelings and ambitions to the ultimate success of the expedition. Marvin made a sounding about a half mile north of the camp and got eight hundred and twenty-five fathoms, which substantiated my belief that we had crossed the "Big Lead." This lead probably follows the continental shelf which this sounding showed to be between there and Camp No. 4 (with the probability of its being between Camp Nos. 4 and 5), probably at about the 84th parallel. The continental shelf is simply a submerged plateau surrounding all the continent, the "Big Lead" marking the northern edge of that shelf where it dips into the polar sea. Monday, March 15, was also clear and cold, with a temperature between 45° and 50° below zero. The wind had shifted again to the east and was very penetrating. Bartlett and Marvin started off with the pickaxes as soon as they had finished their morning tea and pemmican, and their divisions, with Borup and his division, followed as soon as their sledges were stowed. MacMillan got away for Columbia with two Eskimos, two sledges, and fourteen dogs. The main expedition now comprised sixteen men, twelve sledges, and one hundred dogs. One sledge had been broken up to repair the others, three had been taken back with the returning parties, and two were left at this camp to be utilized on the return. Of the sledges that now went on, seven were the new type of Peary sledge and five were the old Eskimo pattern. After saying good-by to MacMillan I followed the other three divisions to the north, bringing up the rear as previously. The going in this march was similar to that of the previous one, fairly good, as it was over the old floes. The soreness in my fractured leg which had troubled me more or less all the way from Cape Columbia was now almost entirely gone. Late in the afternoon we began to hear loud reports and rumblings among the floes, as well as the more sibilant sound of the raftering young ice in various directions. This meant more open water ahead of us. Soon an active lead cut right across our path, and on the farther or northern side of it we could see that the ice was moving. The lead seemed to narrow toward the west, and we followed it a little way until we came to a place where there were large pieces of floating ice, some of them fifty or a hundred feet across. We got the dogs and sledges from one piece of ice to another--the whole forming a sort of pontoon bridge. As Borup was getting his team across the open crack between two pieces of floating ice, the dogs slipped and went into the water. Leaping forward, the vigorous young athlete stopped the sledge from following the dogs, and, catching hold of the traces that fastened the dogs to the sledge, he pulled them bodily out of the water. A man less quick and muscular than Borup might have lost the whole team as well as the sledge laden with five hundred pounds of supplies, which, considering our position far out in that icy wilderness, were worth more to us than their weight in diamonds. Of course, had the sledge gone in, the weight of it would have carried the dogs to the bottom of the sea. We drew a long breath, and, reaching the solid ice on the other side of this pontoon bridge, plunged on to the north. But we had gone only a short distance when right in front of us the ice separated with loud reports, forming another open lead, and we were obliged to camp. The temperature that night was 50° below zero; there was a fresh breeze from the southeast and enough moisture in the open water close by us to give the wind a keen edge, which made the time occupied in building igloos decidedly unpleasant. But we were all so thankful over our escape from losing that imperiled sledge with its precious load that personal discomforts seemed indeed of small account. CHAPTER XXVI BORUP'S FARTHEST NORTH That night was one of the noisiest that I have ever spent in an igloo, and none of us slept very soundly. Hour after hour the rumbling and complaining of the ice continued, and it would not have surprised us much if at any moment the ice had split directly across our camp, or even through the middle of one of our igloos. It was not a pleasant situation, and every member of the party was glad when the time came to get under way again. In the morning we found a passage across the lead a short distance to the east of our camp over some fragments which had become cemented together during the cold night. We had only gone forward a few hundred yards when we came upon the igloo which Henson had occupied. This did not indicate rapid progress. [Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY A TYPICAL EXAMPLE OF THE DIFFICULTIES OF WORKING SLEDGES OVER A PRESSURE RIDGE] At the end of six hours we came upon another of Henson's igloos--not greatly to my surprise. I knew, from experience, that yesterday's movement of the ice and the formation of leads about us would take all the spirit out of Henson's party until the main party should overtake them again. Sure enough, the next march was even shorter. At the end of a little over four hours we found Henson and his division in camp, making one sledge out of the remains of two. The damage to the sledges was the reason given for the delay. This march having been largely over a broad zone of rough rubble ice, some of my own sledges had suffered slight damage, and the entire party was now halted and the sledges were overhauled. After a short sleep I put Marvin ahead to pick the trail, with instructions to try to make two long marches to bring up the average. Marvin got away very early, followed a little later by Bartlett, Borup, and Henson, with pickaxes to improve further the trail made by Marvin. After that came the sledges of their divisions, I, as usual, bringing up the rear with my division, that I might have everything ahead of me and know just how things were going. Marvin gave us a good march of not less than seventeen miles, at first over very rough ice, then over larger and more level floes, with a good deal of young ice between. At the end of this march, on the evening of the 19th, while the Eskimos were building the igloos, I outlined to the remaining members of my party, Bartlett, Marvin, Borup, and Henson, the program which I should endeavor to follow from that time on. At the end of the next march (which would be five marches from where MacMillan and the doctor turned back) Borup would return with three Eskimos, twenty dogs, and one sledge, leaving the main party--twelve men, ten sledges, and eighty dogs. Five marches farther on Marvin would return with two Eskimos, twenty dogs, and one sledge, leaving the main party with nine men, seven sledges, and sixty dogs. Five marches farther on Bartlett would return with two Eskimos, twenty dogs, and one sledge, leaving the main party six men, forty dogs, and five sledges. I hoped that with good weather, and the ice no worse than that which we had already encountered, Borup might get beyond 85°, Marvin beyond 86°, and Bartlett beyond 87°. At the end of each five-march section I should send back the poorest dogs, the least effective Eskimos, and the worst damaged sledges. As will appear, this program was carried out without a hitch, and the farthest of each division was even better than I had hoped. At this camp the supplies, equipment, and personal gear of Borup and his Eskimos were left for them to pick up on their way home, thus avoiding the transportation of some two hundred and fifty pounds out and back over the next march. The 19th was a brilliant day of yellow sunlight. The season was now so far advanced that the sun, circling as always in this latitude around and around the heavens, was above the horizon nearly half the time, and during the other half there was almost no darkness--only a gray twilight. The temperature this day was in the minus fifties, as evidenced by the frozen brandy and the steam-enshrouded dogs; but bubbles in all my spirit thermometers prevented a definite temperature reading. These bubbles were caused by the separation of the column, owing to the jolting of the thermometer with our constant stumbling over the rough ice of the polar sea. The bubbles might be removed at night in camp, but this required some time, and the accurate noting of temperatures during our six or seven weeks' march to the Pole and back did not seem sufficiently vital to our enterprise to make me rectify the thermometer every night. When I was not too tired, I got the bubbles out. Again Marvin, who was still pioneering the trail, gave us a fair march of fifteen miles or more, at first over heavy and much-raftered ice, then over floes of greater size and more level surface. But the reader must understand that what we regard as a level surface on the polar ice might be considered decidedly rough going anywhere else. The end of this march put us between 85° 7´ and 85° 30´, or about the latitude of our "Storm Camp" of three years before; but we were twenty-three days ahead of that date, and in the matter of equipment, supplies, and general condition of men and dogs there was no comparison. Bartlett's estimate of our position at this camp was 85° 30´, Marvin's 85° 25´, and my own 85° 20´. The actual position, as figured back later from the point where we were first able, by reason of the increasing altitude of the sun, to take an observation for latitude, was 85° 23´. In the morning Bartlett again took charge of the pioneer division, starting early with two Eskimos, sixteen dogs, and two sledges. Borup, a little later, with three Eskimos, sixteen dogs, and one sledge, started on his return to the land. I regretted that circumstances made it expedient to send Borup back from here in command of the second supporting party. This young Yale athlete was a valuable member of the expedition. His whole heart was in the work, and he had hustled his heavy sledge along and driven his dogs with almost the skill of an Eskimo, in a way that commanded the admiration of the whole party and would have made his father's eyes glisten could he have seen. But with all his enthusiasm for this kind of work, he was still inexperienced in the many treacheries of the ice; and I was not willing to subject him to any further risks. He had also, like MacMillan, frosted one of his heels. It was a serious disappointment to Borup that he was obliged to turn back; but he had reason to feel proud of his work--even as I was proud of him. He had carried the Yale colors close up to eighty-five and a half degrees, and had borne them over as many miles of polar ice as Nansen had covered in his entire journey from his ship to his "farthest north." I can still see Borup's eager and bright young face, slightly clouded with regret, as he turned away at last and disappeared with his Eskimos and steaming dogs among the ice hummocks of the back trail. A few minutes after Borup went south, Henson with two Eskimos, three sledges, and twenty-four dogs began to follow Bartlett's trail to the north. Marvin and myself, with four Eskimos, five sledges, and forty dogs, were to remain in camp twelve hours longer in order to give Bartlett one march the start of us. With the departure of Borup's supporting party, the main expedition comprised twelve men, ten sledges, and eighty dogs. From this camp on, each division comprised three men instead of four; but I did not reduce the division daily allowance of tea, milk, and alcohol. This meant a slightly greater individual consumption of these supplies, but so long as we kept up the present rate of speed I considered it justified. With the increasing appetite caused by the continuous work, three men were easily able to consume four men's tea rations. The daily allowance of pemmican and biscuit I could not increase. Three men in an igloo were also more comfortable than four, and the smaller igloos just about balanced in time and energy the lesser number of men that were left to build them. We had now resumed the program of advance party and main party, which had been interrupted during the last two marches. The now continuous daylight permitted a modification of the previous arrangement so as to bring the two parties in touch every twenty-four hours. The main party remained in camp for about twelve hours after the departure of the advance. The advance party made its march, camped, and turned in. When the main party had covered the march made by the advance party and arrived at their igloos, the advance party broke out and started on while the main party occupied their igloos and turned in for sleep. Thus I was in touch with Bartlett and his division every twenty-four hours, to make any changes in the loads that seemed advisable, and to encourage the men if necessary. At this stage in our journey Henson's party traveled with Bartlett's pioneer party, and Marvin and his men traveled with mine. This arrangement kept the parties closer together, relieved the pioneers of all apprehension, and reduced by fifty per cent. the chance of separation of the parties by the opening of a lead. Occasionally I found it advisable to transfer an Eskimo from one division to another. Sometimes, as has been seen, these odd people are rather difficult to manage; and if Bartlett or any other member of the expedition did not like a certain Eskimo, or had trouble in managing him, I would take that Eskimo into my own division, giving the other party one of my Eskimos, because I could get along with any of them. In other words, I gave the other men their preferences, taking myself the men who were left. Of course, when I came to make up my division for the final dash, I took my favorites among the most efficient of the Eskimos. At the next camp Marvin made a sounding and to our surprise reached bottom at only three hundred and ten fathoms, but in the process of reeling up the wire it separated, and the lead and some of the wire were lost. Soon after midnight we got under way, Marvin taking a sledge, and after a short march--only some ten miles--we reached Bartlett's camp. He had been delayed by the breaking of one of his sledges, and I found one of his men and Henson's party still there repairing the sledge. Bartlett himself had gone on, and Henson and the other men got away soon after our arrival. Marvin made another sounding of seven hundred fathoms and no bottom, unfortunately losing two pickaxes (which had been used in place of a lead) and more of the wire in hauling it up. Then we turned in. It was a fine day, with clear, brilliant sunlight, a fine breeze from the north, and temperature in the minus forties. The next march, on the 22d, was a fair one of not less than fifteen miles. The going was at first tortuous, over rough, heavy ice, which taxed the sledges, dogs, and drivers to the utmost; then we struck a direct line across large and level floes. At the end of this march I found that Bartlett and one of his men had already left; but Henson and his party were in their igloo. Ooqueah, of Bartlett's party, whose sledge had broken down the day before, was also in camp. I turned Marvin's sledge over to Ooqueah, so that Bartlett should have no further hindrance in his work of pioneering, and started him and Henson's party off. The damaged sledge I turned over to Marvin, giving him a light load. We were not without our difficulties at this period of the journey, but our plan was working smoothly and we were all hopeful and in excellent spirits. CHAPTER XXVII GOOD-BY TO MARVIN Up to this time no observations had been taken. The altitude of the sun had been so low as to make observations unreliable. Moreover, we were traveling at a good clip, and the mean estimate of Bartlett, Marvin, and myself, based on our previous ice experience, was sufficient for dead reckoning. Now, a clear, calm day, with the temperature not lower than minus forty, made a checking of our dead reckoning seem desirable. So I had the Eskimos build a wind shelter of snow, in order that Marvin might take a meridian altitude for latitude. I intended that Marvin should take all the observations up to his farthest, and Bartlett all beyond that to his farthest. This was partly to save my eyes, but principally to have independent observations with which to check our advance. The mercury of the artificial horizon was thoroughly warmed in the igloo; a semi-circular wind-guard of snow blocks two tiers high was put up, opening to the south; a musk-ox skin was laid upon the snow inside this; my special instrument box was placed at the south end and firmly bedded into the snow in a level position; the artificial horizon trough, especially devised for this kind of work, was placed on top and the mercury poured into it until it was even full, when it was covered with the glass horizon roof. [Illustration: MARVIN TAKING AN OBSERVATION IN A SNOW SHELTER] Marvin, then lying full length upon his face, with his head to the south and both elbows resting upon the snow, was able to hold the sextant steady enough to get his contact of the sun's limb in the very narrow strip of the artificial horizon which was available. A pencil and open note-book under the right hand offered the means of noting the altitudes as they were obtained. The result of Marvin's observations gave our position as approximately 85° 48´ north latitude, figuring the correction for refraction only to a temperature of minus 10 F., the lowest temperature for which we had tables. It was from this point that, reckoning twenty-five miles for our last two marches, we calculated the position of Camp 19, where Borup turned back, as being 85° 23´, as against our respective dead reckoning estimates of 85° 20´, 85° 25´, and 85° 30´. This observation showed that we had thus far averaged eleven and a half minutes of latitude _made good_ for each actual march. Included in these marches had been four short ones resulting from causes the recurrence of which I believed I could prevent in future. I was confident that if we were not interrupted by open water, against which no calculations and no power of man can prevail, we could steadily increase this average from this time on. The next march was made in a temperature of minus thirty and a misty atmosphere which was evidently caused by open water in the neighborhood. About five miles from camp we just succeeded by the liveliest work in getting four of our five sledges across an opening lead. Getting the last sledge over caused a delay of a few hours, as we had to cut an ice raft with pickaxes to ferry the sledge, dogs, and Eskimo driver across. This impromptu ferry-boat was cut on our side and was moved across the lead by means of two coils of rope fastened together and stretching from side to side. When the cake was ready, two of my Eskimos got on it, we threw the line across to the Eskimo on the other side, the Eskimos on the ice raft took hold of the rope, the Eskimos on either shore held the ends, and the raft was pulled over. Then the dogs and sledge and the three Eskimos took their place on the ice cake, and we hauled them over to our side. While we were engaged in this business we saw a seal disporting himself in the open water of the lead. At the end of the next march, which was about fifteen miles, and which put us across the 86th parallel, we reached Bartlett's next camp, where we found Henson and his party in their igloo. I got them out and under way at once, sending by one of them a brief note of encouragement to Bartlett, telling him that his last camp was beyond 86°, that he would probably sleep that night beyond the Norwegian record, and urging him to speed us up for all he was worth. In this march there was some pretty heavy going. Part of the way was over small old floes, which had been broken up by many seasons of unceasing conflict with the winds and tides. Enclosing these more or less level floes were heavy pressure ridges over which we and the dogs were obliged to climb. Often the driver of a heavily loaded sledge would be forced to lift it by main strength over some obstruction. Those who have pictured us sitting comfortably on our sledges, riding over hundreds of miles of ice smooth as a skating pond, should have seen us lifting and tugging at our five-hundred-pound sledges, adding our own strength to that of our dogs. The day was hazy, and the air was full of frost, which, clinging to our eyelashes, almost cemented them together. Sometimes, in opening my mouth to shout an order to the Eskimos, a sudden twinge would cut short my words--my mustache having frozen to my stubble beard. This fifteen mile march put us beyond the Norwegian record (86° 13´ 6´´; see Nansen's "Farthest North," Vol. 2, page 170) and fifteen days ahead of that record. My leading sledge found both Bartlett and Henson in camp; but they were off again, pioneering the trail, before I, bringing up the rear as usual, came in. Egingwah's sledge had been damaged during this march, and as our loads could now be carried on four sledges, owing to what we had eaten along the way, we broke up Marvin's damaged sledge and used the material in it for repairing the other four. As Marvin and two Eskimos were to turn back from the next camp, I left here his supplies for the return and part of his equipment, in order to save unnecessary transportation out and back. The time employed in mending the sledges and shifting the loads cut into our hours of sleep, and after a short rest of three hours we were again under way, with four sledges and teams of ten dogs each. The next march was a good one. Bartlett had responded like a thoroughbred to my urging. Favored by good going, he reeled off full twenty miles, notwithstanding a snowstorm part of the time, which made it hard to see. The temperature, which varied from 16° to 30° below zero, indicated that there was more or less open water to the west, from which direction the wind came. During this march we crossed several leads covered with young ice, treacherous under the recently fallen snow. Along the course of one of these leads we saw the fresh track of a polar bear going west, over two hundred miles from land. [Illustration: REPAIRING SLEDGES IN CAMP] At half-past ten on the morning of the 25th I came upon Bartlett and Henson with their men, all in camp, in accordance with my instructions to wait for me at the end of their fifth march. I turned them all out, and every one jumped in to repair the sledges, redistribute the loads, weed out the least efficient dogs, and rearrange the Eskimos in the remaining divisions. While this work was going on, Marvin, favored by clear weather, took another meridian observation for latitude and obtained 86° 38´. This placed us, as I expected, beyond the Italian record, and showed that in our last three marches we had covered a distance of fifty minutes of latitude, an average of sixteen and two-thirds miles per march. We were thirty-two days ahead of the Italian record in time. I was doubly glad of the result of the observations, not only for the sake of Marvin, whose services had been invaluable and who deserved the privilege of claiming a higher northing than Nansen and Abruzzi, but also for the honor of Cornell University, to the faculty of which he belonged, and two of whose alumni and patrons had been generous contributors to the Peary Arctic Club. I had hoped that Marvin would be able to make a sounding at his farthest north, but there was no young ice near the camp through which a hole could be made. [Illustration: A MOMENTARY HALT IN THE LEE OF A BIG HUMMOCK NORTH OF 88°] About four o'clock in the afternoon Bartlett, with Ooqueah and Karko, two sledges, and eighteen dogs, got away for the advance. Bartlett started off with the determination to bag the 88th parallel in the next five marches (after which he was to turn back), and I sincerely hoped that he would be able to reel off the miles to that point, as he certainly deserved such a record. Later I learned that he had intended to cover twenty-five or thirty miles in his first march, which he would have done had conditions not been against him. Though tired with the long march and the day's work in camp, after a short sleep the night before, I was not able to turn in for several hours after Bartlett got away. There were numerous details which required personal attention. There were letters to write and orders for Marvin to take back, together with his instructions for his projected trip to Cape Jesup. The next morning, Friday, March 26, I rapped the whole party up at five o'clock, after a good sleep all round. As soon as we had eaten our usual breakfast of pemmican, biscuit, and tea, Henson, Ootah, and Keshungwah, with three sledges and twenty-five dogs, got away on Bartlett's trail. Marvin, with Kudlooktoo and "Harrigan," one sledge, and seventeen dogs, started south at half-past nine in the morning. No shadow of apprehension for the future hung over that parting. It was a clear, crisp morning, the sunlight glittered on the ice and snow, the dogs were alert and active after their long sleep, the air blew cold and fresh from the polar void, and Marvin himself, though reluctant to turn back, was filled with exultation that he had carried the Cornell colors to a point beyond the farthest north of Nansen and Abruzzi, and that, with the exception of Bartlett and myself, he alone of all white men had entered that exclusive region which stretches beyond 86° 34´ north latitude. I shall always be glad that Marvin marched with me during those last few days. As we tramped along together we had discussed the plans for his trip to Cape Jesup, and his line of soundings from there northward; and as he turned back to the land his mind was glowing with hope for the future--the future which he was destined never to know. My last words to him were: "Be careful of the leads, my boy!" So we shook hands and parted in that desolate white waste, and Marvin set his face southward toward his death, and I turned again northward toward the Pole. CHAPTER XXVIII WE BREAK ALL RECORDS By an odd coincidence, soon after Marvin left us on his fatal journey from 86° 38´ back to land, the sun was obscured and a dull, lead-colored haze spread over all the sky. This grayness, in contrast to the dead white surface of the ice and snow and the strangely diffused quality of the light, gave an indescribable effect. It was a shadowless light and one in which it was impossible to see for any considerable distance. That shadowless light is not unusual on the ice-fields of the polar sea; but this was the first occasion on which we had encountered it since leaving the land. One looking for the most perfect illustration of the arctic inferno would find it in that gray light. A more ghastly atmosphere could not have been imagined even by Dante himself--sky and ice seeming utterly wan and unreal. Notwithstanding the fact that I had now passed the "farthest north" of all my predecessors and was approaching my own best record, with my eight companions, sixty dogs, and seven fully loaded sledges in far better condition than I had even dared to hope, the strange and melancholy light in which we traveled on this day of parting from Marvin gave me an indescribably uneasy feeling. Man in his egotism, from the most primitive ages to our own, has always imagined a sympathetic relationship between nature and the events and feelings of human life. So--in the light of later events--admitting that I felt a peculiar awe in contemplating the ghastly grayness of that day, I am expressing only an ineradicable instinct of the race to which I belong. The first three-quarters of the march after Marvin turned back, on March 26, the trail was fortunately in a straight line, over large level snow-covered floes of varying height, surrounded by medium-rough old rafters of ice; and the last quarter was almost entirely over young ice averaging about one foot thick, broken and raftered, presenting a rugged and trying surface to travel over in the uncertain light. Without Bartlett's trail to follow, the march would have been even more difficult. Near the end of the day we were again deflected to the west some distance by an open lead. Whenever the temperature rose as high as minus 15°, where it had stood at the beginning of the day, we were sure of encountering open water. But just before we reached the camp of Bartlett's pioneer division, the gray haze in which we had traveled all day lifted, and the sun came out clear and brilliant. The temperature had also dropped to minus 20°. Bartlett was just starting out again when I arrived, and we agreed that we had made a good fifteen miles in the last march. The next day, March 27, was a brilliant dazzling day of arctic sunshine, the sky a glittering blue, and the ice a glittering white, which, but for the smoked goggles worn by every member of the party, would certainly have given some of us an attack of snow blindness. From the time when the reappearing sun of the arctic spring got well above the horizon, these goggles had been worn continuously. The temperature during this march dropped from minus 30° to minus 40°, there was a biting northeasterly breeze, and the dogs traveled forward in their own white cloud of steam. On the polar ice we gladly hail the extreme cold, as higher temperatures and light snow always mean open water, danger, and delay. Of course, such minor incidents as frosted and bleeding cheeks and noses we reckon as part of the great game. Frosted heels and toes are far more serious, because they lessen a man's ability to travel, and traveling is what we are there for. Mere pain and inconvenience are inevitable, but, on the whole, inconsiderable. This march was by far the hardest for some days. At first there was a continuation of the broken and raftered ice, sharp and jagged, that at times seemed almost to cut through our sealskin kamiks and hareskin stockings, to pierce our feet. Then we struck heavy rubble ice covered with deep snow, through which we had literally to plow our way, lifting and steadying the sledges until our muscles ached. During the day we saw the tracks of two foxes in this remote and icy wilderness, nearly two hundred and forty nautical miles beyond the northern coast of Grant Land. Finally we came upon Bartlett's camp in a maze of small pieces of very heavy old floes raftered in every direction. He had been in his igloo but a short time, and his men and dogs were tired out and temporarily discouraged by the heart-racking work of making a road. I told him to take a good long sleep before getting under way again; and while my men were building the igloos, I lightened the loads of Bartlett's sledges about one hundred pounds, to put them in better trim for pioneering in this rough going. The added weight would be less burdensome on our own sledges than on his. Notwithstanding the crazy road over which we had traveled, this march netted us twelve good miles toward the goal. We were now across the 87th parallel and into the region of perpetual daylight, as the sun had not set during the last march. The knowledge that we had crossed the 87th parallel with men and dogs in good condition, and plenty of supplies upon the sledges, sent me to sleep that night with a light heart. Only about six miles beyond this point, at 87° 6´, I had been obliged to turn back nearly three years before, with exhausted dogs, depleted supplies, and a heavy and discouraged heart. It seemed to me then that the story of my life was told and that the word failure was stamped across it. Now, three years older, with three more years of the inevitable wear and tear of this inexorable game behind me, I stood again beyond the 87th parallel still reaching forward to that goal which had beckoned to me for so many years. Even now, on reaching my highest record with every prospect good, I dared not build too much on the chances of the white and treacherous ice which stretched one hundred and eighty nautical miles northward between me and the end. I had believed for years that this thing could be done and that it was my destiny to do it, but I always reminded myself that many a man had felt thus about some dearly wished achievement, only to fail in the end. When I awoke the following day, March 28, the sky was brilliantly clear; but ahead of us there was a thick, smoky, ominous haze drifting low over the ice, and a bitter northeast wind, which, in the orthography of the Arctic, plainly spelled open water. Did this mean failure again? No man could say. Bartlett had, of course, left camp and taken to the trail again long before I and the men of my division were awake. This was in accordance with my general plan, previously outlined, that the pioneer division should be traveling while the main division slept, and _vice versa_, so that the two divisions might be in communication every day. After traveling at a good rate for six hours along Bartlett's trail, we came upon his camp beside a wide lead, with a dense, black, watery sky to the northwest, north, and northeast, and beneath it the smoky fog which we had been facing all day long. In order not to disturb Bartlett, we camped a hundred yards distant, put up our igloos as quietly as possible, and turned in, after our usual supper of pemmican, biscuit, and tea. We had made some twelve miles over much better going than that of the last few marches and on a nearly direct line over large floes and young ice. I was just dropping off to sleep when I heard the ice creaking and groaning close by the igloo, but as the commotion was not excessive, nor of long duration, I attributed it to the pressure from the closing of the lead which was just ahead of us; and after satisfying myself that my mittens were where I could get them instantly, in an emergency, I rolled over on my bed of deerskins and settled myself to sleep. I was just drowsing again when I heard some one yelling excitedly outside. Leaping to my feet and looking through the peep-hole of our igloo, I was startled to see a broad lead of black water between our two igloos and Bartlett's, the nearer edge of water being close to our entrance; and on the opposite side of the lead stood one of Bartlett's men yelling and gesticulating with all the abandon of an excited and thoroughly frightened Eskimo. Awakening my men, I kicked our snow door into fragments and was outside in a moment. The break in the ice had occurred within a foot of the fastening of one of my dog teams, the team escaping by just those few inches from being dragged into the water. Another team had just escaped being buried under a pressure ridge, the movement of the ice having providentially stopped after burying the bight which held their traces to the ice. Bartlett's igloo was moving east on the ice raft which had broken off, and beyond it, as far as the belching fog from the lead would let us see, there was nothing but black water. It looked as if the ice raft which carried Bartlett's division would impinge against our side a little farther on, and I shouted to his men to break camp and hitch up their dogs in a hurry, in readiness to rush across to us should the opportunity present itself. Then I turned to consider our own position. Our two igloos, Henson's and mine, were on a small piece of old floe, separated by a crack and a low pressure ridge, a few yards away, from a large floe lying to the west of us. It was clear that it would take very little strain or pressure to detach us and set us afloat also like Bartlett's division. I routed Henson and his men out of their igloo, gave orders to everybody to pack and hitch up immediately, and, while this was being done, leveled a path across the crack to the big floe at the west of us. This was done with a pickax, leveling the ice down into the crack, so as to make a continuous surface over which the sledges could pass. As soon as the loads were across and we were safe on the floe, we all went to the edge of the lead and stood ready to assist Bartlett's men in rushing their sledges across the moment their ice raft should touch our side. Slowly the raft drifted nearer and nearer, until the side of it crunched against the floe. The two edges being fairly even, the raft lay alongside us as a boat lies against a wharf, and we had no trouble in getting Bartlett's men and sledges across and onto the floe with us. Though there is always a possibility that a lead may open directly across a floe as large as this one, we could not waste our sleeping hours in sitting up to watch for it. Our former igloos being lost to us, there was nothing to do but to build another set and turn in immediately. It goes without saying that this extra work was not particularly agreeable. That night we slept with our mittens on, ready at a moment's notice for anything that might happen. Had a new lead formed directly across the sleeping platform of our igloo, precipitating us into the icy water, we should not have been surprised after the first shock of the cold bath, but should have clambered out, scraping the water off our fur garments, and made ready for the next move on the part of our treacherous antagonist--the ice. Notwithstanding the extra fatigue and the precarious position of our camp, this last march had put us well beyond my record of three years before, probably 87° 12´, so that I went to sleep with the satisfaction of having at last beaten my own record, no matter what the morrow might bring forth. The following day, March 29, was not a happy one for us. Though we were all tired enough to rest, we did not enjoy picnicking beside this arctic Phlegethon, which, hour after hour, to the north, northeast, and northwest, seemed to belch black smoke like a prairie fire. So dense was this cloud caused by the condensation of the vapor and the reflection in it of the black water below that we could not see the other shore of the lead--if, indeed, it had a northern shore. As far as the evidence of our senses went, we might be encamped on the edge of that open polar sea which myth-makers have imagined as forever barring the way of man to the northern end of the earth's axis. It was heart-breaking, but there was nothing to do but wait. After breakfast we overhauled the sledges and made a few repairs, dried out some of our garments over the little oil lamps which we carried for that purpose, and Bartlett made a sounding of 1,260 fathoms, but found no bottom. He did not let all the line go out, fearing there might be a defect in the wire which would lose us more of it, as we were desirous of keeping all that we had for a sounding at our "farthest north," which we hoped would be at the Pole itself. I had only one sounding lead now left, and I would not let Bartlett risk it at this point, but had him use a pair of sledge shoes (brought along for this very purpose from the last broken up sledge) to carry the line down. When our watches told us that it was bedtime--for we were now in the period of perpetual sunlight--we again turned into the igloos which had been hurriedly built after our exciting experience the night before. A low murmur as of distant surf was issuing from the blackness ahead of us, and steadily growing in volume. To the inexperienced it might have seemed an ominous sound, but to us it was a cheering thing because we knew it meant the narrowing, and perhaps the closing, of the stretch of open water that barred our way. So we slept happily in our frosty huts that "night." CHAPTER XXIX BARTLETT REACHES 87° 47´ Our hopes were soon realized, for at one o'clock in the morning, March 30, when I awoke and looked at my watch, the murmur from the closing lead had increased to a hoarse roar, punctuated with groans and with reports like those of rifles, dying away to the east and west like the sounds from a mighty firing line. Looking through the peep-hole, I saw that the black curtain had thinned so that I could see through it to another similar, though blacker, curtain behind, indicating still another lead further on. [Illustration: CROSSING A LARGE LAKE OF YOUNG ICE, NORTH OF 87° ("As Level as a Floor" for Six or Seven Miles. In Places This Ice Was so Thin That It Buckled Under the Sledges and Drivers)] At eight o'clock in the morning the temperature was down to minus 30°, with a bitter northwest breeze. The grinding and groaning of the ice had ceased, and the smoke and haze had disappeared, as is usual when a lead closes up or freezes over. We rushed across before the ice should open again. All this day we traveled together, Bartlett's division, Henson's, and mine, constantly crossing narrow lanes of young ice, which had only recently been open water. During this march we had to cross a lake of young ice some six or seven miles across--so thin that the ice buckled under us as we rushed on at full speed for the other side. We did our best to make up for the previous day's delay, and when we finally camped on a heavy old floe we had made a good twenty miles. The entire region through which we had come during the last four marches was full of unpleasant possibilities for the future. Only too well we knew that violent winds for even a few hours would set the ice all abroad in every direction. Crossing such a zone on a journey north, is only half the problem, for there is always the return to be figured on. Though the motto of the Arctic must be, "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," we ardently hoped there might not be violent winds until we were south of this zone again on the return. The next march was to be Bartlett's last, and he let himself out to do his best. The going was fairly good, but the weather was thick. There was a strong northerly wind blowing full in our faces, bitter and insistent, and the temperature was in the minus thirties. But this northerly wind, though hard to struggle against, was better than an easterly or westerly one, either of which would have set us adrift in open water, while, as it was, the wind was closing up every lead behind us and thus making things easier for Bartlett's supporting party on its return. True, the wind pressure was forcing to the south the ice over which we traveled, and thus losing us miles of distance; but the advantage of frozen leads was more than compensation for this loss. So good was Bartlett's pace during the last half of the march that if I stopped an instant for any purpose I had to jump on a sledge or run, to catch up, and during the last few miles I walked beside Bartlett in advance. He was very sober and anxious to go further; but the program was for him to go back from here in command of the fourth supporting party, and we did not have supplies enough for an increase in the main party. The food which he and his two Eskimos and dog teams would have consumed between this point and the Pole, on the upward and return journeys, might mean that we would all starve before we could reach the land again. Had it been clear we should undoubtedly have covered twenty-five miles in this march; but it is difficult to break a trail in thick weather as rapidly as in clear, and this day netted us only twenty miles. We knew that if we were not on or close to the 88th parallel at the end of this march, it would be because the northern winds of the past two days had set the ice south, crushing up the young ice in the leads between us and the land. The sun came out just as we were preparing to camp, and it looked as if we should have clear weather the next day for Bartlett's meridian observations at his "farthest north." When our igloos were built, I told the two Eskimos, Keshungwah and Karko, that they were to go back with the captain the next day; so they could get their clothes as dry as possible, as they probably would not have time to dry them on the forced march home. Bartlett was to return with these two Eskimos, one sledge, and eighteen dogs. After about four hours' sleep, I turned everyone out at five o'clock in the morning. The wind had blown violently from the north all night, and still continued. After breakfast Bartlett started to walk five or six miles to the north in order to make sure of reaching the 88th parallel. On his return he was to take a meridian observation to determine our position. While he was gone I culled the best dogs from his teams, replacing them with the poorer dogs from the teams of the main party. The dogs were on the whole in very good condition, far better than on any of my previous expeditions. I had been throwing the brunt of the dragging on the poorest dogs, those that I judged were going to fail, so as to keep the best dogs fresh for the final spurt. My theory was to work the supporting parties to the limit, in order to keep the main party fresh; and those men who I expected from the beginning would form the main party at the last had things made as easy as possible for them all the way up. Ootah, Henson and Egingwah were in this group. Whenever I could do so I had eased their loads for them, giving them the best dogs, and keeping the poorest dogs with the teams of those Eskimos who I knew were going back. It was a part of the deliberate plan to work the supporting parties as hard as possible, in order to keep the main party fresh up to the farthest possible point. From the beginning there were certain Eskimos who, I knew, barring some unforeseen accident, would go to the Pole with me. There were others who were assigned not to go anywhere near there, and others who were available for either course. If any accidents occurred to those men whom I had originally chosen, I planned to fill their places with the next best ones who were all willing to go. On Bartlett's return the Eskimos built the usual wind shelter already described, and Bartlett took a latitude observation, getting 87° 46´ 49´´. Bartlett was naturally much disappointed to find that even with his five-mile northward march of the morning he was still short of the 88th parallel. Our latitude was the direct result of the northerly wind of the last two days, which had crowded the ice southward as we traveled over it northward. We had traveled fully twelve miles more than his observation showed in the last five marches, but had lost them by the crushing up of the young ice in our rear and the closing of the leads. Bartlett took the observations here, as had Marvin five camps back partly to save my eyes and partly to have independent observations by different members of the expedition. When the calculations were completed, two copies were made, one for Bartlett and one for me, and he got ready to start south on the back trail in command of my fourth supporting party, with his two Eskimos, one sledge, and eighteen dogs. I felt a keen regret as I saw the captain's broad shoulders grow smaller in the distance and finally disappear behind the ice hummocks of the white and glittering expanse toward the south. But it was no time for reverie, and I turned abruptly away and gave my attention to the work which was before me. I had no anxiety about Bartlett. I knew that I should see him again at the ship. My work was still ahead, not in the rear. Bartlett had been invaluable to me, and circumstances had thrust upon him the brunt of the pioneering instead of its being divided among several, as I had originally planned. Though he was naturally disappointed at not having reached the 88th parallel, he had every reason to be proud, not only of his work in general, but that he had surpassed the Italian record by a degree and a quarter. I had given him the post of honor in command of my last supporting party for three reasons: first, because of his magnificent handling of the _Roosevelt_; second, because he had cheerfully and gladly stood between me and every possible minor annoyance from the start of the expedition to that day; third, because it seemed to me right that, in view of the noble work of Great Britain in arctic exploration, a British subject should, next to an American, be able to say that he had stood nearest the North Pole. With the departure of Bartlett, the main party now consisted of my own division and Henson's. My men were Egingwah and Seegloo; Henson's men were Ootah and Ooqueah. We had five sledges and forty dogs, the pick of one hundred and forty with which we had left the ship. With these we were ready now for the final lap of the journey. We were now one hundred and thirty-three nautical miles from the Pole. Pacing back and forth in the lee of the pressure ridge near which our igloos were built, I made out my program. Every nerve must be strained to make five marches of at least twenty-five miles each, crowding these marches in such a way as to bring us to the end of the fifth march by noon, to permit an immediate latitude observation. Weather and leads permitting, I believed that I could do this. From the improving character of the ice, and in view of the recent northerly winds, I hoped that I should have no serious trouble with the going. If for any reason I fell short of these proposed distances, I had two methods in reserve for making up the deficit. One was to double the last march--that is, make a good march, have tea and a hearty lunch, rest the dogs a little, and then go on again, without sleep. The other was, at the conclusion of my fifth march, to push on with one light sledge, a double team of dogs, and one or two of the party, leaving the rest in camp. Even should the going be worse than was then anticipated, eight marches like the three from 85° 48´ to 86° 38´, or six similar to our last one, would do the trick. [Illustration: CAMP AT 85° 48´ NORTH, MARCH 22, 1909] Underlying all these calculations was the ever-present knowledge that a twenty-fours' gale would open leads of water which might be impassable, and that all these plans would be negatived. As I paced to and fro, making out my plans, I remembered that three years ago that day we had crossed the "big lead" on our way north, April 1, 1906. A comparison of conditions now and then filled me with hope for the future. This was the time for which I had reserved all my energies, the time for which I had worked for twenty-two years, for which I had lived the simple life and trained myself as for a race. In spite of my years, I felt fit for the demands of the coming days and was eager to be on the trail. As for my party, my equipment, and my supplies, they were perfect beyond my most sanguine dreams of earlier years. My party might be regarded as an ideal which had now come to realization--as loyal and responsive to my will as the fingers of my right hand. My four Eskimos carried the technic of dogs, sledges, ice, and cold as their racial heritage. Henson and Ootah had been my companions at the farthest point on the expedition three years before. Egingwah and Seegloo had been in Clark's division, which had such a narrow escape at that time, having been obliged for several days to subsist upon their sealskin boots, all their other food being gone. And the fifth was young Ooqueah, who had never before served in any expedition; but who was, if possible, even more willing and eager than the others to go with me wherever I should elect. For he was always thinking of the great treasures which I had promised each of the men who should go to the farthest point with me--whale-boat, rifle, shotgun, ammunition, knives, et cetera--wealth beyond the wildest dreams of Eskimos, which should win for him the daughter of old Ikwah of Cape York, on whom he had set his heart. All these men had a blind confidence that I would somehow get them back to land. But I recognized fully that all the impetus of the party centered in me. Whatever pace I set, the others would make good; but if I played out, they would stop like a car with a punctured tire. I had no fault to find with the conditions, and I faced them with confidence. CHAPTER XXX THE FINAL SPURT BEGUN At this time it may be appropriate to say a word regarding my reasons for selecting Henson as my fellow traveler to the Pole itself. In this selection I acted exactly as I have done on all my expeditions for the last fifteen years. He has in those years always been with me at my point farthest north. Moreover, Henson was the best man I had with me for this kind of work, with the exception of the Eskimos, who, with their racial inheritance of ice technic and their ability to handle sledges and dogs, were more necessary to me, as members of my own individual party, than any white man could have been. Of course they could not lead, but they could follow and drive dogs better than any white man. Henson, with his years of arctic experience, was almost as skilful at this work as an Eskimo. He could handle dogs and sledges. He was a part of the traveling machine. Had I taken another member of the expedition also, he would have been a passenger, necessitating the carrying of extra rations and other impedimenta. It would have amounted to an additional load on the sledges, while the taking of Henson was in the interest of economy of weight. The second reason was that while Henson was more useful to me than any other member of my expedition when it came to traveling with my last party over the polar ice, he would not have been so competent as the white members of the expedition in getting himself and his party back to the land. If Henson had been sent back with one of the supporting parties from a distance far out on the ice, and if he had encountered conditions similar to those which we had to face on the return journey in 1906, he and his party would never have reached the land. While faithful to me, and when _with me_ more effective in covering distance with a sledge than any of the others, he had not, as a racial inheritance, the daring and initiative of Bartlett, or Marvin, MacMillan, or Borup. I owed it to him not to subject him to dangers and responsibilities which he was temperamentally unfit to face. As to the dogs, most of them were powerful males, as hard as iron, in good condition, but without an ounce of superfluous fat; and, by reason of the care which I had taken of them up to this point, they were all in good spirits, like the men. The sledges, which were being repaired that day, were also in good condition. My food and fuel supplies were ample for forty days, and by the gradual utilization of the dogs themselves for reserve food, might be made to last for fifty days if it came to a pinch. As the Eskimos worked away at repairing the sledges while we rested there on the first day of April, they stopped from time to time to eat some of the boiled dog which the surplus numbers in Bartlett's returning team had enabled them to have. They had killed one of the poorest dogs and boiled it, using the splinters of an extra broken sledge for fuel under their cooker. It was a change for them from the pemmican diet. It was fresh meat, it was hot, and they seemed thoroughly to enjoy it. But though I remembered many times when from sheer starvation I had been glad to eat dog meat raw, I did not feel inclined to join in the feast of my dusky friends. A little after midnight, on the morning of April 2, after a few hours of sound, warm, and refreshing sleep, and a hearty breakfast, I started to lift the trail to the north, leaving the others to pack, hitch up, and follow. As I climbed the pressure ridge back of our igloo, I took up another hole in my belt, the third since I left the land--thirty-two days before. Every man and dog of us was as lean and flat-bellied as a board, and as hard. Up to this time I had intentionally kept in the rear, to straighten out any little hitch or to encourage a man with a broken sledge, and to see that everything was in good marching order. Now I took my proper place in the lead. Though I held myself in check, I felt the keenest exhilaration, and even exultation, as I climbed over the pressure ridge and breasted the keen air sweeping over the mighty ice, pure and straight from the Pole itself. These feelings were not in any way dampened when I plunged off the pressure ridge into water mid-thigh deep, where the pressure had forced down the edge of the floe north of us and had allowed the water to flow in under the surface snow. My boots and trousers were tight, so that no water could get inside, and as the water froze on the fur of my trousers I scraped it off with the blade of the ice lance which I carried, and was no worse for my involuntary morning plunge. I thought of my unused bath tub on the _Roosevelt_, three hundred and thirty nautical miles to the south, and smiled. It was a fine marching morning, clear and sunlit, with a temperature of minus 25°, and the wind of the past few days had subsided to a gentle breeze. The going was the best we had had since leaving the land. The floes were large and old, hard and level, with patches of sapphire blue ice (the pools of the preceding summer). While the pressure ridges surrounding them were stupendous, some of them fifty feet high, they were not especially hard to negotiate, either through some gap or up the gradual slope of a huge drift of snow. The brilliant sunlight, the good going save for the pressure ridges, the consciousness that we were now well started on the last lap of our journey, and the joy of again being in the lead affected me like wine. The years seemed to drop from me, and I felt as I had felt in those days fifteen years before, when I headed my little party across the great ice-cap of Greenland, leaving twenty and twenty-five miles behind my snowshoes day after day, and on a spurt stretching it to thirty or forty. * * * * * Perhaps a man always thinks of the very beginning of his work when he feels it is nearing its end. The appearance of the ice-fields to the north this day, large and level, the brilliant blue of the sky, the biting character of the wind--everything excepting the surface of the ice, which on the great cap is absolutely dead level with a straight line for a horizon--reminded me of those marches of the long ago. The most marked difference was the shadows, which on the ice-cap are absent entirely, but on the polar ice, where the great pressure ridges stand out in bold relief, are deep and dark. Then, too, there are on the polar ice those little patches of sapphire blue already mentioned, made from the water pools of the preceding summer. On the Greenland ice-cap years ago I had been spurred on by the necessity of reaching the musk-oxen of Independence Bay before my supplies gave out. Now I was spurred on by the necessity of making my goal, if possible, before the round face of the coming full moon should stir the tides with unrest and open a network of leads across our path. After some hours the sledges caught up with me. The dogs were so active that morning, after their day's rest, that I was frequently obliged to sit on a sledge for a few minutes or else run to keep up with them, which I did not care to do just yet. Our course was nearly, as the crow flies, due north, across floe after floe, pressure ridge after pressure ridge, headed straight for some hummock or pinnacle of ice which I had lined in with my compass. In this way we traveled for ten hours without stopping, covering, I felt sure, thirty miles, though, to be conservative, I called it twenty-five. My Eskimos said that we had come as far as from the _Roosevelt_ to Porter Bay, which by our winter route scales thirty-five miles on the chart. Anyway, we were well over the 88th parallel, in a region where no human being had ever been before. And whatever distance we made, we were likely to retain it now that the wind had ceased to blow from the north. It was even possible that with the release of the wind pressure the ice might rebound more or less and return us some of the hard-earned miles which it had stolen from us during the previous three days. Near the end of the march I came upon a lead which was just opening. It was ten yards wide directly in front of me, but a few hundred yards to the east was an apparently practicable crossing where the single crack was divided into several. I signaled to the sledges to hurry; then, running to the place, I had time to pick a road across the moving ice cakes and return to help the teams across before the lead widened so as to be impassable. This passage was effected by my jumping from one cake to another, picking the way, and making sure that the cake would not tilt under the weight of the dogs and the sledge, returning to the former cake where the dogs were, encouraging the dogs ahead while the driver steered the sledge across from cake to cake, and threw his weight from one side to the other so that it could not overturn. We got the sledges across several cracks so wide that while the dogs had no trouble in jumping, the men had to be pretty active in order to follow the long sledges. Fortunately the sledges were of the new Peary type, twelve feet long. Had they been of the old Eskimo type, seven feet long, we might have had to use ropes and pull them across hand over hand on an ice cake. It is always hard to make the dogs leap a widening crack, though some of the best dog drivers can do it instantly, using the whip and the voice. A poor dog driver would be likely to get everything into the water in the attempt. It is sometimes necessary to go ahead of the dogs, holding the hand low and shaking it as though it contained some dainty morsel of food, thus inspiring them with courage for the leap. Perhaps a mile beyond this, the breaking of the ice at the edge of a narrow lead as I landed from a jump sent me into the water nearly to my hips; but as the water did not come above the waistband of my trousers, which were water-tight, it was soon scraped and beaten off before it had time to freeze. This lead was not wide enough to bother the sledges. As we stopped to make our camp near a huge pressure ridge, the sun, which was gradually getting higher, seemed almost to have some warmth. While we were building our igloos, we could see, by the water clouds lying to the east and southeast of us some miles distant, that a wide lead was opening in that direction. The approaching full moon was evidently getting in its work. As we had traveled on, the moon had circled round and round the heavens opposite the sun, a disk of silver opposite a disk of gold. Looking at its pallid and spectral face, from which the brighter light of the sun had stolen the color, it seemed hard to realize that its presence there had power to stir the great ice-fields around us with restlessness--power even now, when we were so near our goal, to interrupt our pathway with an impassable lead. The moon had been our friend during the long winter, giving us light to hunt by for a week or two each month. Now it seemed no longer a friend, but a dangerous presence to be regarded with fear. Its power, which had before been beneficent, was now malevolent and incalculably potent for evil. When we awoke early in the morning of April 3, after a few hours' sleep, we found the weather still clear and calm. There were some broad heavy pressure ridges in the beginning of this march, and we had to use pickaxes quite freely. This delayed us a little, but as soon as we struck the level old floes we tried to make up for lost time. As the daylight was now continuous we could travel as long as we pleased and sleep as little as we must. We hustled along for ten hours again, as we had before, making only twenty miles, because of the early delay with the pickaxes and another brief delay at a narrow lead. We were now half-way to the 89th parallel, and I had been obliged to take up another hole in my belt. Some gigantic rafters were seen during this march, but they were not in our path. All day long we had heard the ice grinding and groaning on all sides of us, but no motion was visible to our eyes. Either the ice was slacking back into equilibrium, sagging northward after its release from the wind pressure, or else it was feeling the influence of the spring tides of the full moon. On, on we pushed, and I am not ashamed to confess that my pulse beat high, for the breath of success seemed already in my nostrils. CHAPTER XXXI ONLY ONE DAY FROM THE POLE With every passing day even the Eskimos were becoming more eager and interested, notwithstanding the fatigue of the long marches. As we stopped to make camp, they would climb to some pinnacle of ice and strain their eyes to the north, wondering if the Pole was in sight, for they were now certain that we should get there this time. We slept only a few hours the next night, hitting the trail again a little before midnight between the 3d and 4th of April. The weather and the going were even better than the day before. The surface of the ice, except as interrupted by infrequent pressure ridges, was as level as the glacial fringe from Hecla to Cape Columbia, and harder. I rejoiced at the thought that if the weather held good I should be able to get in my five marches before noon of the 6th. Again we traveled for ten hours straight ahead, the dogs often on the trot and occasionally on the run, and in those ten hours we reeled off at least twenty-five miles. I had a slight accident that day, a sledge runner having passed over the side of my right foot as I stumbled while running beside a team; but the hurt was not severe enough to keep me from traveling. Near the end of the day we crossed a lead about one hundred yards wide, on young ice so thin that, as I ran ahead to guide the dogs, I was obliged to slide my feet and travel wide, bear style, in order to distribute my weight, while the men let the sledges and dogs come over by themselves, gliding across where they could. The last two men came over on all fours. I watched them from the other side with my heart in my mouth--watched the ice bending under the weight of the sledges and the men. As one of the sledges neared the north side, a runner cut clear through the ice, and I expected every moment that the whole thing, dogs and all, would go through the ice and down to the bottom. But it did not. This dash reminded me of that day, nearly three years before, when in order to save our lives we had taken desperate chances in recrossing the "Big Lead" on ice similar to this--ice that buckled under us and through which my toe cut several times as I slid my long snowshoes over it. A man who should wait for the ice to be really safe would stand small chance of getting far in these latitudes. Traveling on the polar ice, one takes all kinds of chances. Often a man has the choice between the possibility of drowning by going on or starving to death by standing still, and challenges fate with the briefer and less painful chance. That night we were all pretty tired, but satisfied with our progress so far. We were almost inside of the 89th parallel, and I wrote in my diary: "Give me three more days of this weather!" The temperature at the beginning of the march had been minus 40°. That night I put all the poorest dogs in one team and began to eliminate and feed them to the others, as it became necessary. We stopped for only a short sleep, and early in the evening of the same day, the 4th, we struck on again. The temperature was then minus 35°, the going was the same, but the sledges always haul more easily when the temperature rises, and the dogs were on the trot much of the time. Toward the end of the march we came upon a lead running north and south, and as the young ice was thick enough to support the teams, we traveled on it for two hours, the dogs galloping along and reeling off the miles in a way that delighted my heart. The light air which had blown from the south during the first few hours of the march veered to the east and grew keener as the hours wore on. I had not dared to hope for such progress as we were making. Still the biting cold would have been impossible to face by anyone not fortified by an inflexible purpose. The bitter wind burned our faces so that they cracked, and long after we got into camp each day they pained us so that we could hardly go to sleep. The Eskimos complained much, and at every camp fixed their fur clothing about their faces, waists, knees, and wrists. They also complained of their noses, which I had never known them to do before. The air was as keen and bitter as frozen steel. At the next camp I had another of the dogs killed. It was now exactly six weeks since we left the _Roosevelt_, and I felt as if the goal were in sight. I intended the next day, weather and ice permitting, to make a long march, "boil the kettle" midway, and then go on again without sleep, trying to make up the five miles which we had lost on the 3d of April. During the daily march my mind and body were too busy with the problem of covering as many miles of distance as possible to permit me to enjoy the beauty of the frozen wilderness through which we tramped. But at the end of the day's march, while the igloos were being built, I usually had a few minutes in which to look about me and to realize the picturesqueness of our situation--we, the only living things in a trackless, colorless, inhospitable desert of ice. Nothing but the hostile ice, and far more hostile icy water, lay between our remote place on the world's map and the utmost tips of the lands of Mother Earth. I knew of course that there was always a _possibility_ that we might still end our lives up there, and that our conquest of the unknown spaces and silences of the polar void might remain forever unknown to the world which we had left behind. But it was hard to realize this. That hope which is said to spring eternal in the human breast always buoyed me up with the belief that, as a matter of course, we should be able to return along the white road by which we had come. Sometimes I would climb to the top of a pinnacle of ice to the north of our camp and strain my eyes into the whiteness which lay beyond, trying to imagine myself already at the Pole. We had come so far, and the capricious ice had placed so few obstructions in our path, that now I dared to loose my fancy, to entertain the image which my will had heretofore forbidden to my imagination--the image of ourselves at the goal. We had been very fortunate with the leads so far, but I was in constant and increasing dread lest we should encounter an impassable one toward the very end. With every successive march, my fear of such impassable leads had increased. At every pressure ridge I found myself hurrying breathlessly forward, fearing there might be a lead just beyond it, and when I arrived at the summit I would catch my breath with relief--only to find myself hurrying on in the same way at the next ridge. At our camp on the 5th of April I gave the party a little more sleep than at the previous ones, as we were all pretty well played out and in need of rest. I took a latitude sight, and this indicated our position to be 89° 25´, or thirty-five miles from the Pole; but I determined to make the next camp in time for a noon observation, if the sun should be visible. [Illustration: CUTTING BLOCKS OF SNOW FOR IGLOOS AT NEXT TO LAST CAMP, 89° 25´ NORTH (At This Camp It Was Difficult to Find Enough Snow for the Igloos)] Before midnight on the 5th we were again on the trail. The weather was overcast, and there was the same gray and shadowless light as on the march after Marvin had turned back. The sky was a colorless pall gradually deepening to almost black at the horizon, and the ice was a ghastly and chalky white, like that of the Greenland ice-cap--just the colors which an imaginative artist would paint as a polar ice-scape. How different it seemed from the glittering fields, canopied with blue and lit by the sun and full moon, over which we had been traveling for the last four days. The going was even better than before. There was hardly any snow on the hard granular surface of the old floes, and the sapphire blue lakes were larger than ever. The temperature had risen to minus 15°, which, reducing the friction of the sledges, gave the dogs the appearance of having caught the high spirits of the party. Some of them even tossed their heads and barked and yelped as they traveled. Notwithstanding the grayness of the day, and the melancholy aspect of the surrounding world, by some strange shift of feeling the fear of the leads had fallen from me completely. I now felt that success was certain, and, notwithstanding the physical exhaustion of the forced marches of the last five days, I went tirelessly on and on, the Eskimos following almost automatically, though I knew that they must feel the weariness which my excited brain made me incapable of feeling. When we had covered, as I estimated, a good fifteen miles, we halted, made tea, ate lunch, and rested the dogs. Then we went on for another estimated fifteen miles. In twelve hours' actual traveling time we made thirty miles. Many laymen have wondered why we were able to travel faster after the sending back of each of the supporting parties, especially after the last one. To any man experienced in the handling of troops this will need no explanation. The larger the party and the greater the number of sledges, the greater is the chance of breakages or delay for one reason or another. A large party cannot be forced as rapidly as a small party. [Illustration: THE HALT FOR LUNCH IN LAST FORCED MARCH, 89° 25´ TO 89° 57´, SHOWING ALCOHOL STOVES IN SNOW SHELTER Left to Right: Henson, Egingwah, Ootah, Seegloo, Ooqueah] Take a regiment, for instance. The regiment could not make as good an average daily march for a number of forced marches as could a picked company of that regiment. The picked company could not make as good an average march for a number of forced marches as could a picked file of men from that particular company; and this file could not make the same average for a certain number of forced marches that the fastest traveler in the whole regiment could make. So that, with my party reduced to five picked men, every man, dog, and sledge under my individual eye, myself in the lead, and all recognizing that the moment had now come to let ourselves out for all there was in us, we naturally bettered our previous speed. When Bartlett left us the sledges had been practically rebuilt, all the best dogs were in our pack, and we all understood that we must attain our object and get back as quickly as we possibly could. The weather was in our favor. The average march for the whole journey from the land to the Pole was over fifteen miles. We had repeatedly made marches of twenty miles. Our average for five marches from the point where the last supporting party turned back was about twenty-six miles. CHAPTER XXXII WE REACH THE POLE The last march northward ended at ten o'clock on the forenoon of April 6. I had now made the five marches planned from the point at which Bartlett turned back, and my reckoning showed that we were in the immediate neighborhood of the goal of all our striving. After the usual arrangements for going into camp, at approximate local noon, of the Columbia meridian, I made the first observation at our polar camp. It indicated our position as 89° 57´. [Illustration: CAMP MORRIS K. JESUP, 89° 57´, APRIL 6 AND 7, 1909] We were now at the end of the last long march of the upward journey. Yet with the Pole actually in sight I was too weary to take the last few steps. The accumulated weariness of all those days and nights of forced marches and insufficient sleep, constant peril and anxiety, seemed to roll across me all at once. I was actually too exhausted to realize at the moment that my life's purpose had been achieved. As soon as our igloos had been completed and we had eaten our dinner and double-rationed the dogs, I turned in for a few hours of absolutely necessary sleep, Henson and the Eskimos having unloaded the sledges and got them in readiness for such repairs as were necessary. But, weary though I was, I could not sleep long. It was, therefore, only a few hours later when I woke. The first thing I did after awaking was to write these words in my diary: "The Pole at last. The prize of three centuries. My dream and goal for twenty years. Mine at last! I cannot bring myself to realize it. It seems all so simple and commonplace." Everything was in readiness for an observation[1] at 6 P.M., Columbia meridian time, in case the sky should be clear, but at that hour it was, unfortunately, still overcast. But as there were indications that it would clear before long, two of the Eskimos and myself made ready a light sledge carrying only the instruments, a tin of pemmican, and one or two skins; and drawn by a double team of dogs, we pushed on an estimated distance of ten miles. While we traveled, the sky cleared, and at the end of the journey, I was able to get a satisfactory series of observations at Columbia meridian midnight. These observations indicated that our position was then beyond the Pole. [Illustration: THE DOUBLE TEAM OF DOGS USED WITH THE RECONNOITERING SLEDGE AT THE POLE, SHOWING THEIR ALERTNESS AND GOOD CONDITION (Each Dog had Received Nearly Double the Standard Ration of One Pound of Pemmican Per Day)] Nearly everything in the circumstances which then surrounded us seemed too strange to be thoroughly realized; but one of the strangest of those circumstances seemed to me to be the fact that, in a march of only a few hours, I had passed from the western to the eastern hemisphere and had verified my position at the summit of the world. It was hard to realize that, in the first miles of this brief march, we had been traveling due north, while, on the last few miles of the same march, we had been traveling south, although we had all the time been traveling precisely in the same direction. It would be difficult to imagine a better illustration of the fact that most things are relative. Again, please consider the uncommon circumstance that, in order to return to our camp, it now became necessary to turn and go north again for a few miles and then to go directly south, all the time traveling in the same direction. As we passed back along that trail which none had ever seen before or would ever see again, certain reflections intruded themselves which, I think, may fairly be called unique. East, west, and north had disappeared for us. Only one direction remained and that was south. Every breeze which could possibly blow upon us, no matter from what point of the horizon, must be a south wind. Where we were, one day and one night constituted a year, a hundred such days and nights constituted a century. Had we stood in that spot during the six months of the arctic winter night, we should have seen every star of the northern hemisphere circling the sky at the same distance from the horizon, with Polaris (the North Star) practically in the zenith. [Illustration: THE RECONNOITERING PARTY AT THE POLE (On the Sledge are Merely the Instruments, a Tin of Pemmican and a Skin or Two.) (Note the Firm Character of the Surface Ice. Snow Shoes Were not Required Here)] All during our march back to camp the sun was swinging around in its ever-moving circle. At six o'clock on the morning of April 7, having again arrived at Camp Jesup, I took another series of observations. These indicated our position as being four or five miles from the Pole, towards Bering Strait. Therefore, with a double team of dogs and a light sledge, I traveled directly towards the sun an estimated distance of eight miles. Again I returned to the camp in time for a final and completely satisfactory series of observations on April 7 at noon, Columbia meridian time. These observations gave results essentially the same as those made at the same spot twenty-four hours before. I had now taken in all thirteen single, or six and one-half double, altitudes of the sun, at two different stations, in three different directions, at four different times. All were under satisfactory conditions, except for the first single altitude on the sixth. The temperature during these observations had been from minus 11° Fahrenheit to minus 30° Fahrenheit, with clear sky and calm weather (except as already noted for the single observation on the sixth). I give here a facsimile of a typical set of these observations. (See the two following pages.) In traversing the ice in these various directions as I had done, I had allowed approximately ten miles for possible errors in my observations, and at some moment during these marches and countermarches, I had passed over or very near the point[2] where north and south and east and west blend into one. [Illustration: PEARY WITH CHRONOMETER, SEXTANT AND ARTIFICIAL HORIZON AT THE POLE] [Illustration: PEARY TAKING AN OBSERVATION AT THE POLE, WITH ARTIFICIAL HORIZON, IN A SNOW SHELTER] Photos by Henson, April 7 [Illustration: FACSIMILE OF OBSERVATIONS AT CAMP MORRIS JESUP, APRIL 7, 1909] [Illustration: FACSIMILE OF OBSERVATIONS AT CAMP MORRIS JESUP, APRIL 7, 1909] [Illustration: THE FOUR NORTH POLE ESKIMOS: From Left to Right: Ootah, Ooqueah, Seegloo, Egingwah] Of course there were some more or less informal ceremonies connected with our arrival at our difficult destination, but they were not of a very elaborate character. We planted five flags at the top of the world. The first one was a silk American flag which Mrs. Peary gave me fifteen years ago. That flag has done more traveling in high latitudes than any other ever made. I carried it wrapped about my body on every one of my expeditions northward after it came into my possession, and I left a fragment of it at each of my successive "farthest norths": Cape Morris K. Jesup, the northernmost point of land in the known world; Cape Thomas Hubbard, the northernmost known point of Jesup Land, west of Grant Land; Cape Columbia, the northernmost point of North American lands; and my farthest north in 1906, latitude 87° 6´ in the ice of the polar sea. By the time it actually reached the Pole, therefore, it was somewhat worn and discolored. A broad diagonal section of this ensign would now mark the farthest goal of earth--the place where I and my dusky companions stood. It was also considered appropriate to raise the colors of the Delta Kappa Epsilon fraternity, in which I was initiated a member while an undergraduate student at Bowdoin College, the "World's Ensign of Liberty and Peace," with its red, white, and blue in a field of white, the Navy League flag, and the Red Cross flag. [Illustration: PEARY'S IGLOO AT CAMP MORRIS K. JESUP, APRIL 6, 1909; The Most Northerly Human Habitation in the World. In the Background Flies Peary's North Polar Flag Which He Had Carried for Fifteen Years] After I had planted the American flag in the ice, I told Henson to time the Eskimos for three rousing cheers, which they gave with the greatest enthusiasm. Thereupon, I shook hands with each member of the party--surely a sufficiently unceremonious affair to meet with the approval of the most democratic. The Eskimos were childishly delighted with our success. While, of course, they did not realize its importance fully, or its world-wide significance, they did understand that it meant the final achievement of a task upon which they had seen me engaged for many years. Then, in a space between the ice blocks of a pressure ridge, I deposited a glass bottle containing a diagonal strip of my flag and records of which the following is a copy: 90 N. LAT., NORTH POLE, April 6, 1909. Arrived here to-day, 27 marches from C. Columbia. I have with me 5 men, Matthew Henson, colored, Ootah, Egingwah, Seegloo, and Ooqueah, Eskimos; 5 sledges and 38 dogs. My ship, the S. S. _Roosevelt_, is in winter quarters at C. Sheridan, 90 miles east of Columbia. The expedition under my command which has succeeded in reaching the Pole is under the auspices of the Peary Arctic Club of New York City, and has been fitted out and sent north by the members and friends of the club for the purpose of securing this geographical prize, if possible, for the honor and prestige of the United States of America. The officers of the club are Thomas H. Hubbard, of New York, President; Zenas Crane, of Mass., Vice-president; Herbert L. Bridgman, of New York, Secretary and Treasurer. I start back for Cape Columbia to-morrow. ROBERT E. PEARY, _United States Navy_. 90 N. LAT., NORTH POLE, April 6, 1909. I have to-day hoisted the national ensign of the United States of America at this place, which my observations indicate to be the North Polar axis of the earth, and have formally taken possession of the entire region, and adjacent, for and in the name of the President of the United States of America. I leave this record and United States flag in possession. ROBERT E. PEARY, _United States Navy_. If it were possible for a man to arrive at 90° north latitude without being utterly exhausted, body and brain, he would doubtless enjoy a series of unique sensations and reflections. But the attainment of the Pole was the culmination of days and weeks of forced marches, physical discomfort, insufficient sleep, and racking anxiety. It is a wise provision of nature that the human consciousness can grasp only such degree of intense feeling as the brain can endure, and the grim guardians of earth's remotest spot will accept no man as guest until he has been tried and tested by the severest ordeal. [Illustration: MEMBERS OF THE PARTY CHEERING THE STARS AND STRIPES AT THE POLE, APRIL 7, 1909 From Left to Right; Ooqueah, Ootah, Henson, Egingwah and Seegloo] Perhaps it ought not to have been so, but when I knew for a certainty that we had reached the goal, there was not a thing in the world I wanted but sleep. But after I had a few hours of it, there succeeded a condition of mental exaltation which made further rest impossible. For more than a score of years that point on the earth's surface had been the object of my every effort. To its attainment my whole being, physical, mental, and moral, had been dedicated. Many times my own life and the lives of those with me had been risked. My own material and forces and those of my friends had been devoted to this object. This journey was my eighth into the arctic wilderness. In that wilderness I had spent nearly twelve years out of the twenty-three between my thirtieth and my fifty-third year, and the intervening time spent in civilized communities during that period had been mainly occupied with preparations for returning to the wilderness. The determination to reach the Pole had become so much a part of my being that, strange as it may seem, I long ago ceased to think of myself save as an instrument for the attainment of that end. To the layman this may seem strange, but an inventor can understand it, or an artist, or anyone who has devoted himself for years upon years to the service of an idea. [Illustration: EGINGWAH SEARCHING THE HORIZON FOR LAND] [Illustration: PEARY SEARCHING THE HORIZON FOR LAND] From Top of Pressure Ridge Back of Igloos at Camp Jesup But though my mind was busy at intervals during those thirty hours spent at the Pole with the exhilarating thought that my dream had come true, there was one recollection of other times that, now and then, intruded itself with startling distinctness. It was the recollection of a day three years before, April 21, 1906, when after making a fight with ice, open water, and storms, the expedition which I commanded had been forced to turn back from 87° 6´ north latitude because our supply of food would carry us no further. And the contrast between the terrible depression of that day and the exaltation of the present moment was not the least pleasant feature of our brief stay at the Pole. During the dark moments of that return journey in 1906, I had told myself that I was only one in a long list of arctic explorers, dating back through the centuries, all the way from Henry Hudson to the Duke of the Abruzzi, and including Franklin, Kane, and Melville--a long list of valiant men who had striven and failed. I told myself that I had only succeeded, at the price of the best years of my life, in adding a few links to the chain that led from the parallels of civilization towards the polar center, but that, after all, at the end the only word I had to write was failure. [Illustration: LOOKING TOWARD CAPE CHELYUSKIN] [Illustration: LOOKING TOWARD SPITZBERGEN] [Illustration: LOOKING TOWARD CAPE COLUMBIA] [Illustration: LOOKING TOWARD BERING STRAIT] (The Four Directions from the Pole) But now, while quartering the ice in various directions from our camp, I tried to realize that, after twenty-three years of struggles and discouragement, I had at last succeeded in placing the flag of my country at the goal of the world's desire. It is not easy to write about such a thing, but I knew that we were going back to civilization with the last of the great adventure stories--a story the world had been waiting to hear for nearly four hundred years, a story which was to be told at last under the folds of the Stars and Stripes, the flag that during a lonely and isolated life had come to be for me the symbol of home and everything I loved--and might never see again. [Illustration: RETURNING TO CAMP WITH THE FLAGS, APRIL 7, 1909] The thirty hours at the Pole, what with my marchings and countermarchings, together with the observations and records, were pretty well crowded. I found time, however, to write to Mrs. Peary on a United States postal card which I had found on the ship during the winter. It had been my custom at various important stages of the journey northward to write such a note in order that, if anything serious happened to me, these brief communications might ultimately reach her at the hands of survivors. This was the card, which later reached Mrs. Peary at Sydney:-- "90 NORTH LATITUDE, April 7th. "_My dear Jo_, "I have won out at last. Have been here a day. I start for home and you in an hour. Love to the "kidsies." "BERT." In the afternoon of the 7th, after flying our flags and taking our photographs, we went into our igloos and tried to sleep a little, before starting south again. I could not sleep and my two Eskimos, Seegloo and Egingwah, who occupied the igloo with me, seemed equally restless. They turned from side to side, and when they were quiet I could tell from their uneven breathing that they were not asleep. Though they had not been specially excited the day before when I told them that we had reached the goal, yet they also seemed to be under the same exhilarating influence which made sleep impossible for me. Finally I rose, and telling my men and the three men in the other igloo, who were equally wakeful, that we would try to make our last camp, some thirty miles to the south, before we slept, I gave orders to hitch up the dogs and be off. It seemed unwise to waste such perfect traveling weather in tossing about on the sleeping platforms of our igloos. Neither Henson nor the Eskimos required any urging to take to the trail again. They were naturally anxious to get back to the land as soon as possible--now that our work was done. And about four o'clock on the afternoon of the 7th of April we turned our backs upon the camp at the North Pole. Though intensely conscious of what I was leaving, I did not wait for any lingering farewell of my life's goal. The event of human beings standing at the hitherto inaccessible summit of the earth was accomplished, and my work now lay to the south, where four hundred and thirteen nautical miles of ice-floes and possibly open leads still lay between us and the north coast of Grant Land. One backward glance I gave--then turned my face toward the south and toward the future. FOOTNOTES: [1] The instruments used in taking observations for latitude may be either a sextant and an artificial horizon, or a small theodolite. Both these instruments were taken on the sledge journey; but the theodolite was not used, owing to the low altitude of the sun. Had the expedition been delayed on the return until May or June, the theodolite would then have been of value in determining position and variation of the compass. The method of taking meridian observations with a sextant and an artificial horizon on a polar sledge journey is as follows: if there is any wind, a semi-circular wind-guard of snow blocks, two tiers high, is put up, opening to the south. If there is no wind, this is not necessary. The instrument box is firmly bedded in the snow, which is packed down to a firm bearing and snow is packed around the box. Then something, usually a skin, is thrown over the snow, partly to prevent any possible warmth from the sun melting the snow and shifting the bearing of the box; partly to protect the eyes of the observer from the intense reflected glare of light from the snow. The mercury trough of the artificial horizon is placed on top of the level box, and the mercury, which has been thoroughly warmed in the igloo, is poured into the trough until it is full. In the case of the special wooden trough devised and used on the last expedition, it was possible to bring the surface of the mercury level with the edges of the trough, thus enabling us to read angles very close to the horizon. The mercury trough is covered with what is called the roof--a metal framework carrying two pieces of very accurately ground glass, set inclined, like the opposite sides of the roof of a house. The object of this roof is to prevent any slightest breath of wind disturbing the surface of the mercury and so distorting the sun's image in it, and also to keep out any fine snow or frost crystals that may be in the atmosphere. In placing the trough and the roof on the top of the instrument box, the trough is placed so that its longer diameter will be directed toward the sun. A skin is then thrown down on the snow close to the box and north of it, and the observer lies down flat on his stomach on this, with his head to the south, and head and sextant close to the artificial horizon. He rests both elbows on the snow, holding the sextant firmly in both hands, and moving his head and the instrument until the image or part of the image of the sun is seen reflected on the surface of the mercury. The principle on which the latitude of the observer is obtained from the altitude of the sun at noon is very simple. It is this: that the latitude of the observer is equal to the distance of the center of the sun from the zenith, plus the declination of the sun for that day and hour. The declination of the sun for any place at any hour may be obtained from tables prepared for that purpose, which give the declination for noon of every day on the Greenwich meridian, and the hourly change in the declination. Such tables for the months of February, March, April, May, June, and July, together with the ordinary tables for refraction to minus 10° Fahrenheit, I had with me on pages torn from the "Nautical Almanac and Navigator." [2] Ignorance and misconception of all polar matters seem so widespread and comprehensive that it appears advisable to introduce here a few a b c paragraphs. Anyone interested can supplement these by reading the introductory parts of any good elementary school geography or astronomy. The North Pole (that is, the geographical pole as distinguished from the magnetic pole, and this appears to be the first and most general stumbling block of the ignorant) is simply the point where that imaginary line known as the earth's axis--that is, the line on which the earth revolves in its daily motion--intersects the earth's surface. Some of the recent sober discussions as to the size of the North Pole, whether it was as big as a quarter, or a hat, or a township, have been intensely ludicrous. Precisely speaking, the North Pole is simply a mathematical point, and therefore, in accordance with the mathematical definition of a point, it has neither length, breadth, nor thickness. If the question is asked, how closely can the Pole be determined (this is the point which has muddled some of the ignorant wiseacres), the answer will be: That depends upon the character of the instruments used, the ability of the observer using them, and the number of observations taken. If there were land at the Pole, and powerful instruments of great precision, such as are used in the world's great observatories, were mounted there on suitable foundations and used by practised observers for repeated observations extending over years, then it would be possible to determine the position of the Pole with great precision. With ordinary field instruments, transit, theodolite, or sextant, an extended series of observations by an expert observer should permit the determination of the Pole within entirely satisfactory limits, but not with the same precision as by the first method. A single observation at sea with sextant and the natural horizon, as usually taken by the master of a ship, is assumed under ordinary satisfactory conditions to give the observer's position within about a mile. In regard to the difficulties of taking observations in the arctic regions, I have found a tendency on the part of experts who, however, have not had practical experience in the arctic regions themselves, to overestimate and exaggerate the difficulties and drawbacks of making these observations due to the cold. My personal experience has been that, to an experienced observer, dressed in furs and taking observations in calm weather, in temperatures not exceeding say 40° below zero Fahrenheit, the difficulties of the work resulting from cold alone are not serious. The amount and character of errors due to the effect of cold upon the instrument might perhaps be a subject for discussion, and for distinct differences of opinion. My personal experience has been that my most serious trouble was with the eyes. To eyes which have been subjected to brilliant and unremitting daylight for days and weeks, and to the strain of continually setting a course with the compass, and traveling towards a fixed point in such light, the taking of a series of observations is usually a nightmare; and the strain of focusing, of getting precise contact of the sun's images, and of reading the vernier, all in the blinding light of which only those who have taken observations in bright sunlight on an unbroken snow expanse in the arctic regions can form any conception, usually leaves the eyes bloodshot and smarting for hours afterwards. The continued series of observations in the vicinity of the Pole, noted above, left me with eyes that were, for two or three days, useless for anything requiring careful vision, and had it been necessary for me to set a course during the first two or three days of our return I should have found it extremely trying. Snow goggles, as worn by us continually during the march, while helping, do not entirely relieve the eyes from strain, and during a series of observations the eyes become extremely tired and at times uncertain. Various authorities will give different estimates of the probable error in observations taken at the Pole. I am personally inclined to think that an allowance of five miles is an equitable one. No one, except those entirely ignorant of such matters, has imagined for a moment that I was able to determine with my instruments the precise position of the Pole, but after having determined its position approximately, then setting an arbitrary allowance of about ten miles for possible errors of the instruments and myself as observer, and then crossing and recrossing that ten mile area in various directions, no one except the most ignorant will have any doubt but what, at some time, I had passed close to the precise point, and had, perhaps, actually passed over it. CHAPTER XXXIII GOOD-BY TO THE POLE We turned our backs upon the Pole at about four o'clock of the afternoon of April 7. Some effort has been made to give an adequate impression of the joy with which that remote spot had been reached, but however much pleasure we experienced upon reaching it, I left it with only that tinge of sadness that sometimes flashes over one at the thought, "This scene my eyes will never see again." Our pleasure at being once more upon the homeward trail was somewhat lessened by a distinct feeling of anxiety with regard to the task that still lay before us. All the plans for the expedition were formulated quite as much with an eye toward a safe return from the Pole as toward the task of reaching it. The North Pole expedition has some relation to the problem of flying: a good many people have found that, while it was not so very difficult to fly, the difficulties of alighting in safety were more considerable. It will be remembered, doubtless, that the greatest dangers of the expedition of 1905-06 were encountered not upon the upward journey, but in the course of our return from our farthest north over the polar ice, for it was then that we encountered the implacable "Big Lead," whose perils so nearly encompassed the destruction of the entire party. And it will be further remembered that even after the "Big Lead" was safely crossed and we had barely managed to stagger ashore upon the inhospitable edge of northernmost Greenland we escaped starvation only by the narrowest possible margin. [Illustration: ATTEMPTED SOUNDING, APRIL 7, 1909] Memories of this narrow escape were, therefore, in the minds of every member of our little party as we turned our backs upon the North Pole, and I dare say that every one of us wondered whether a similar experience were in store for us. We had found the Pole. Should we return to tell the story? Before we hit the trail I had a brief talk with the men of the party and made them understand that it was essential that we should reach the land before the next spring tides. To this end every nerve must be strained. From now on it was to be a case of "big travel," little sleep, and hustle every minute. My plan was to try to make double marches on the entire return journey; that is to say, to start out, cover one northward march, make tea and eat luncheon, then cover another march, then sleep a few hours, and push on again. As a matter of fact, we did not fall much short of accomplishing this program. To be accurate, day in and day out we covered five northward marches in three return marches. Every day we gained on the return lessened the chances of the trail being destroyed by high winds shifting the ice. There was one region just above the 87th parallel, a region about fifty-seven miles wide, which gave me a great deal of concern until we had passed it. Twelve hours of strong wind blowing from any quarter excepting the north would have turned that region into an open sea. I breathed a sigh of relief when we left the 87th parallel behind. [Illustration: ACTUAL SOUNDING, FIVE MILES SOUTH OF THE POLE, APRIL 7, 1909, 1500 FATHOMS (9000 FT.) NO BOTTOM] It will be recalled, perhaps, that though the expedition of 1905-06 started for the Pole from the northern shore of Grant Land, just as did this last expedition, the former expedition returned by a different route, reaching land again on the Greenland coast. This result was caused by the fact that strong winds carried the ice upon which we traveled far to the eastward of our upward course. This time, however, we met with no such misfortune. For the most part we found the trail renewed by our supporting parties easily recognizable and in most cases in good condition. Moreover there was an abundance of food both for men and for dogs, and so far as equipment went we were stripped as if for racing. Nor must the stimulating effects of the party's high spirits be forgotten. Everything, in short, was in our favor. We crowded on all speed for the first five miles of our return journey. Then we came to a narrow crack which was filled with recent ice, which furnished a chance to try for a sounding, a thing that had not been feasible at the Pole itself on account of the thickness of the ice. Here, however, we were able to chop through the ice until we struck water. Our sounding apparatus gave us 1500 fathoms of water with no bottom. As the Eskimos were reeling in, the wire parted and both the lead and wire went to the bottom. With the loss of the lead and wire, the reel became useless, and was thrown away, lightening Ooqueah's sledge by eighteen pounds. The first camp, at 89° 25´, was reached in good time, and the march would have been a pleasant one for me but for my eyes burning from the strain of the continued observations of the previous hours. After a few hours' sleep we hurried on again, Eskimos and dogs on the _qui vive_. At this camp I began the system followed throughout the return march, of feeding the dogs according to the distance covered; that is, double rationing them when we covered two marches. I was able to do this, on account of the reserve supply of food which I had in my dogs themselves, in the event of our being seriously delayed by open leads. At the next camp we made tea and ate our lunch in the igloos, rested the dogs, and then pushed on again. The weather was fine, though there were apparently indications of a coming change. It took all of our will power to reach the next igloos, but we did it, and were asleep almost before we had finished our supper. Without these igloos to look forward to and work for, we should not have made this march. Friday, April 9, was a wild day. All day long the wind blew strong from the north-northeast, increasing finally to a gale, while the thermometer hung between 18° and 22° below zero. All the leads that we had passed here on the upward journey were greatly widened and new ones had been formed. We struck one just north of the 88th parallel which was at least a mile wide, but fortunately it was all covered with practicable young ice. It was not a reassuring day. For the last half of this march the ice was raftering all about us and beneath our very feet under the pressure of the howling gale. Fortunately we were traveling nearly before the wind, for it would have been impossible to move and follow a trail with the gale in our faces. As it was, the dogs scudded along before the wind much of the time on the gallop. Under the impact of the storm the ice was evidently crushing southward and bearing us with it. I was strongly reminded of the wild gale in which we regained "storm camp" on our return march in 1906. Luckily there was no lateral movement of the ice, or we should have had serious trouble. When we camped that night, at 87° 47´, I wrote in my diary: "From here to the Pole and back has been a glorious sprint with a savage finish. Its results are due to hard work, little sleep, much experience, first class equipment, and good fortune as regards weather and open water." [Illustration: BARTLETT AND HIS PARTY READY TO START BACK FROM 87° 47´ NORTH, APRIL 1, 1909] During the night the gale moderated and gradually died away, leaving the air very thick. All hands found the light extremely trying to the eyes. It was almost impossible for us to see the trail. Though the temperature was only 10° below zero, we covered only Bartlett's last march that day. We did not attempt to do more because the dogs were feeling the effects of the recent high speed and it was desired to have them in the best possible condition for the next day, when I expected some trouble with the young ice we were sure to meet. At this spot certain eliminations which we were compelled to make among the dogs left us a total of thirty-five. [Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY CROSSING A LEAD ON AN ICE-CAKE AS A FERRY-BOAT] Sunday, April 11, proved a brilliant day, the sun breaking through the clouds soon after we left camp. The air was nearly calm, the sun seemed almost hot, and its glare was intense. If it had not been for our smoked goggles we should have suffered from snow-blindness. Despite the expectation of trouble with which we began this march, we were agreeably disappointed. On the upward journey, all this region had been covered with young ice, and we thought it reasonable to expect open water here, or at the best that the trail would have been obliterated; but there had not been enough movement of the ice to break the trail. So far there had been no lateral--east and west--movement of the ice. This was the great, fortunate, natural feature of the home trip, and the principal reason why we had so little trouble. We stopped for lunch at the "lead" igloos, and as we finished our meal the ice opened behind us. We had crossed just in time. Here we noticed some fox tracks that had just been made. The animal was probably disturbed by our approach. These are the most northerly animal tracks ever seen. Inspirited by our good fortune, we pressed on again, completing two marches, and when we camped were very near the 87th parallel. The entry that I made in my diary that night is perhaps worth quoting: "Hope to reach the Marvin return igloo to-morrow. I shall be glad when we get there onto the big ice again. This region here was open water as late as February and early March and is now covered with young ice which is extremely unreliable as a means of return. A few hours of a brisk wind, east, west, or south, would make this entire region open water for from fifty to sixty miles north and south and an unknown extent east and west. Only calm weather or a northerly wind keeps it practicable." A double march brought us to Camp Abruzzi, 86° 38´, named in honor of the farthest north of the Duke of the Abruzzi. The trail was faulted in several places, but we picked it up each time without much difficulty. The following day was a bitterly disagreeable one. On this march we had in our faces a fresh southwest wind that, ever and again, spat snow that stung like needles and searched every opening in our clothing. But we were so delighted that we were across the young ice that these things seemed like trifles. The end of this march was at "Camp Nansen," named in honor of Nansen's "Farthest North." This return journey was apparently destined to be full of contrasts, for the next day was one of brilliant sunlight and perfect calm. Despite the good weather the dogs seemed almost lifeless. It was impossible to get them to move faster than a walk, light though the loads were. Henson and the Eskimos also appeared to be a bit stale, so that it seemed wise to make a single march here instead of the usual double march. After a good sleep we started to put in another double march and then we began to feel the effects of the wind. Even before we broke camp the ice began to crack and groan all about the igloo. Close by the camp a lead opened as we set out, and in order to get across it we were obliged to use an ice-cake ferry. [Illustration: SWINGING AN ICE-CAKE ACROSS A LEAD TO FORM AN IMPROMPTU BRIDGE] Between there and the next camp, at 85° 48´, we found three igloos where Marvin and Bartlett had been delayed by wide leads, now frozen over. My Eskimos identified these igloos by recognizing in their construction the handiwork of men in the parties of Bartlett and Marvin. The Eskimos can nearly always tell who built an igloo. Though they are all constructed on one general principle, there are always peculiarities of individual workmanship which are readily recognized by these experienced children of the North. During the first march of the day we found the trail badly faulted, the ice breaking up in all directions under the pressure of the wind, and some of the way we were on the run, the dogs jumping from one piece of ice to another. During the second march we saw a recent bear track, probably made by the same animal whose track we had seen on the upward journey. All along here were numerous cracks and narrow leads, but we were able to cross them without any great delay. There was one lead a mile wide which had formed since the upward trip, and the young ice over it was now breaking up. [Illustration: PASSING OVER THE BRIDGE] Perhaps we took chances here, perhaps not. One thing was in our favor: our sledges were much lighter than on the upward journey, and we could now "rush" them across thin ice that would not have held them a moment then. In any event we got no thrill or irregularity of the pulse from the incident. It came as a matter of course, a part of the day's work. As we left the camp where we had stopped for lunch, a dense, black, threatening bank of clouds came up from the south and we looked for a gale, but the wind fell and we arrived at the next camp, where Marvin had made a 700-fathom sounding and lost wire and pickaxes, in calm and brilliant sunlight after a march of eighteen hours. We were now approximately one hundred and forty-six miles from land. We were coming down the North Pole hill in fine shape now and another double march, April 16-17, brought us to our eleventh upward camp at 85° 8´, one hundred and twenty-one miles from Cape Columbia. On this march we crossed seven leads, which, with the repeated faulting of the trail, lengthened our march once more to eighteen hours. Sunday, April 18, found us still hurrying along over the trail made by Marvin and Bartlett. They had lost the main trail, but this made little difference to us except as to time. We were able to make longer marches when on the main trail because there we camped in the igloos already built on the upward journey instead of having to build fresh ones for ourselves. This was another eighteen-hour march. It had a calm and warm beginning, but, so far as I was concerned, an extremely uncomfortable finish. During the day my clothes had become damp with perspiration. Moreover, as our long marches and short sleeps had brought us round to the calendar day, we were facing the sun, and this, with the southwest wind, burned my face so badly that it was little short of agonizing. But I consoled myself with the reflection that we were now less than a hundred miles from land. I tried to forget my stinging flesh in looking at the land clouds which we could see from this camp. There is no mistaking these clouds, which are permanent and formed of the condensation of the moisture from the land in the upper strata of the atmosphere. To-morrow, we knew, we might even be able to see the land itself. Meantime the dogs had again become utterly lifeless. Three of them had played out entirely. Extra rations were fed to them and we made a longer stop in this camp, partly on their account and partly to bring us around again to "night" marching, with the sun at our backs. During the next march from Sunday to Monday, April 18th to 19th, there was a continuation of the fine weather and we were still coming along on my proposed schedule. Our longer sleep of the night before had heartened both ourselves and the dogs, and with renewed energy we took to the trail again about one o'clock in the afternoon. At a quarter past two we passed Bartlett's igloo on the north side of an enormous lead which had formed since we went up. We were a little over two hours crossing this lead. It was not until eleven that night when we again picked up the main trail, in Henson's first pioneer march. When, traveling well in advance of the sledges I picked it up and signaled to my men that I had found it, they nearly went crazy with delight. The region over which we had just come had been an open sea at the last full moon, and a brisk wind from any direction excepting the north would make it the same again; or the raftering from a north wind would make it a ragged surface of broken plate glass. It may seem strange to the reader that in this monotonous waste of ice we could distinguish between the various sections of our upward marches and recognize them on return. But, as I have said, my Eskimos know who built or even who has occupied an igloo, with the same instinct by which migratory birds recognize their old nests of the preceding year; and I have traveled these arctic wastes so long and lived so long with these instinctive children of Nature that my sense of location is almost as keen as their own. At midnight we came upon pieces of a sledge which Egingwah had abandoned on the way up, and at three o'clock in the morning of the 19th we reached the MacMillan-Goodsell return igloos. We had covered Henson's three pioneer marches in fifteen and one-half hours of travel. [Illustration: BREAKING CAMP. PUSHING THE SLEDGES UP TO THE TIRED DOGS] Another dog played out that day and was shot, leaving me with thirty. At the end of this march we could see the mountains of Grant Land in the far distance to the south, and the sight thrilled us. It was like a vision of the shores of the home land to sea-worn mariners. Again, the next day, we made a double march. Starting late in the afternoon we reached the sixth outward camp, "boiled the kettle," and had a light lunch; then plunged on again until early in the morning of the 20th, when we reached the fifth outward camp. So far we had seemed to bear a charm which protected us from all difficulties and dangers. While Bartlett and Marvin and, as I found out later, Borup had been delayed by open leads, at no single lead had we been delayed more than a couple of hours. Sometimes the ice had been firm enough to carry us across; sometimes we had made a short detour; sometimes we halted for the lead to close; sometimes we used an ice-cake as an improvised ferry: but whatever the mode of our crossing, we had crossed without serious difficulty. [Illustration: LAST CAMP ON THE ICE ON THE RETURN] It had seemed as if the guardian genius of the polar waste, having at last been vanquished by man, had accepted defeat and withdrawn from the contest. Now, however, we were getting within the baleful sphere of influence of the "Big Lead," and in the fifth igloos from Columbia (the first ones north of the lead) I passed an intensely uncomfortable night, suffering from a variety of disagreeable symptoms which I diagnosed as those of quinsy. On this march we had brought the land up very rapidly so that I had some consolation for my discomfort. In three or four days at the most, barring accident, our feet would again press land. Despite my aching throat and no sleep, I took much comfort from this welcome thought. [Illustration: SOUNDING] CHAPTER XXXIV BACK TO LAND AGAIN We had now reached the neighborhood of the "Big Lead" which had held us in check so many days on the upward journey and which had nearly cost the lives of my entire party in 1906. I anticipated trouble, therefore, in the march of April 20-21, and I was not disappointed. Although the "Big Lead" was frozen over we found that Bartlett on his return had lost the main trail here and did not find it again. For the rest of the ice journey, therefore, we were compelled to follow the single trail made by Bartlett instead of our well beaten outward trail. I could not complain. We had kept the beaten road back to within some fifty miles of the land. For me this was the most uncomfortable march of the entire trip. It was made following a sleepless night in a cold igloo. For all that my clothes were wet with perspiration, my jaw and head throbbed and burned incessantly, though toward the end of the march I began to feel the effects of the quinine I had taken, and not long after we reached the captain's igloo the worst of the symptoms had departed. But it was hard drilling that day, and our troubles were in no way lessened by the fact that the dogs seemed utterly without energy or spirit. The beautiful weather which had accompanied us for several days still continued on the next day. It was really a surprising stretch of splendid weather. We marched six hours, then stopped for luncheon, and then drilled along for six hours more. Repeatedly we passed fresh tracks of bear and hare, together with numerous fox tracks. Save for these, the march was uneventful, with the exception of two narrow leads which we crossed over thin young ice. All that day the sun was hot and blinding to an almost intolerable degree. It would have been practically impossible to travel with the sun in our faces, so fierce were its rays. Yet all this day the temperature ranged between 18° and 30° below zero. The last day's journey before we reached shore began at 5 P.M. in that same brilliant, clear, calm weather. A short distance from camp we encountered an impracticable lead which the captain's trail crossed. In one fruitless attempt to pass it we got one of our teams in the water. Ultimately the lead swung to the east, and we found the captain's trail, took it up, and worked around the end of the lead. [Illustration: APPROACHING THE PEAKS OF CAPE COLUMBIA OVER THE SURFACE OF THE "GLACIAL FRINGE"] Only a short distance further on we got our first glimpse of the edge of the glacial fringe ahead of us and stopped our march long enough to take some photographs. Before midnight that night the whole party had reached the glacial fringe of Grant Land. We had now left the ice of the polar sea and were practically on _terra firma_. When the last sledge came to the almost vertical edge of the glacier's fringe I thought my Eskimos had gone crazy. They yelled and called and danced until they fell from utter exhaustion. As Ootah sank down on his sledge he remarked in Eskimo: "The devil is asleep or having trouble with his wife or we should never have come back so easily." We stopped long enough for a leisurely luncheon with tea _ad libitum_ and then pressed on until Cape Columbia was reached. [Illustration: CRANE CITY AT CAPE COLUMBIA, ON THE RETURN] It was almost exactly six o'clock on the morning of April 23 when we reached the igloo of "Crane City" at Cape Columbia and the work was done. Here I wrote these words in my diary: "My life work is accomplished. The thing which it was intended from the beginning that I should do, the thing which I believed could be done, and that I could do, I have done. I have got the North Pole out of my system after twenty-three years of effort, hard work, disappointments, hardships, privations, more or less suffering, and some risks. I have won the last great geographical prize, the North Pole, for the credit of the United States. This work is the finish, the cap and climax of nearly four hundred years of effort, loss of life, and expenditure of fortunes by the civilized nations of the world, and it has been accomplished in a way that is thoroughly American. I am content." [Illustration: BACK ON THE "GLACIAL FRINGE" (Land Ice of Grant Land Near Cape Columbia, April 23, 1909)] Our return from the Pole was accomplished in sixteen marches, and the entire journey from land to the Pole and back again occupied fifty-three days, or forty-three marches. It had been, as a result of our experience and perfected clothing and equipment, an amazingly comfortable return as compared with previous ones, but a little difference in the weather would have given us a different story to tell. There was no one in our party who was not delighted to have passed the treacherous lead and those wide expanses of young thin ice where a gale would have put an open sea between us and the land and rendered our safe return hazardous, to say the least. In all probability no member of that little party will ever forget our sleep at Cape Columbia. We slept gloriously for practically two days, our brief waking intervals being occupied exclusively with eating and with drying our clothes. Then for the ship. Our dogs, like ourselves, had not been hungry when we arrived, but simply lifeless with fatigue. They were different animals now, and the better ones among them stepped out with tightly curled tails and uplifted heads, their iron legs treading the snow with piston-like regularity and their black muzzles every now and then sniffing the welcome scent of the land. [Illustration: EGINGWAH BEFORE STARTING ON THE SLEDGE TRIP] [Illustration: EGINGWAH AFTER THE RETURN FROM THE TRIP] [Illustration: OOTAH BEFORE STARTING ON THE SLEDGE TRIP] [Illustration: OOTAH AFTER THE RETURN FROM THE SLEDGE TRIP] (The Portraits at the Left Were Made by Flashlight on the _Roosevelt_ Before the Journey. Those on the Right Were Taken Immediately After the Return) We reached Cape Hecla in one march of forty-five miles and the _Roosevelt_ in another of equal length. My heart thrilled as, rounding the point of the cape, I saw the little black ship lying there in its icy berth with sturdy nose pointing straight to the Pole. And I thought of that other time three years before when, dragging our gaunt bodies round Cape Rawson on our way from the Greenland coast, I thought the _Roosevelt's_ slender spars piercing the brilliant arctic sunlight as fair a sight as ever I had seen. As we approached the ship I saw Bartlett going over the rail. He came out along the ice-foot to meet me, and something in his face told me he had bad news even before he spoke. "Have you heard about poor Marvin?" he asked. "No," I answered. Then he told me that Marvin had been drowned at the "Big Lead," coming back to Cape Columbia. The news staggered me, killing all the joy I had felt at the sight of the ship and her captain. It was indeed a bitter flavor in the cup of our success. It was hard to realize at first that the man who had worked at my side through so many weary months under conditions of peril and privation, to whose efforts and example so much of the success of the expedition had been due, would never stand beside me again. The manner of his death even will never be precisely known. No human eye was upon him when he broke through the treacherous young ice that had but recently closed over a streak of open water. He was the only white man in the supporting party of which he was in command and with which he was returning to the land at the time he met his death. As was customary, on breaking camp he had gone out ahead of the Eskimos, leaving the natives to break camp, harness the dogs, and follow. When he came to the "Big Lead," the recent ice of which was safe and secure at the edges, it is probable that, hurrying on, he did not notice the gradual thinning of the ice toward the center of the lead until it was too late and he was in the water. The Eskimos were too far in the rear to hear his calls for help, and in that ice-cold water the end must have come very quickly. He who had never shrunk from loneliness in the performance of his duty had at last met death alone. Coming along over the trail in his footsteps, the Eskimos of his party came to the spot where the broken ice gave them the first hint of the accident. One of the Eskimos said that the back of Marvin's fur jacket was still visible at the top of the water, while the condition of the ice at the edge seemed to indicate that Marvin had made repeated efforts to drag himself from the water, but that the ice was so thin that it had crumbled and broken beneath his weight, plunging him again into the icy water. He must have been dead some time before the Eskimos came up. It was, of course, impossible for them to rescue the body, since there was no way of their getting near it. Of course they knew what had happened to Marvin; but with childish superstition peculiar to their race they camped there for a while on the possibility that he might come back. But after a time, when he did not come back, Kudlooktoo and "Harrigan" became frightened. They realized that Marvin was really drowned and they were in dread of his spirit. So they threw from the sledge everything they could find belonging to him, that the spirit, if it came back that way, might find these personal belongings and not pursue the men. Then they hurried for the land as fast as they could go. Quiet in manner, wiry in build, clear of eye, with an atmosphere of earnestness about him, Ross G. Marvin had been an invaluable member of the expedition. Through the long hot weeks preceding the sailing of the _Roosevelt_, he worked indefatigably looking after the assembling and delivery of the countless essential items of our outfit, until he, Bartlett, and myself were nearly exhausted. On the northern voyage he was always willing and ready, whether for taking an observation on deck or stowing cargo in the hold. When the Eskimos came aboard, his good humor, his quiet directness, and his physical competence gained him at once their friendship and respect. From the very first he was able to manage these odd people with uncommon success. Later, when face to face with the stern problems of life and work in the arctic regions, he met them quietly, uncomplainingly, and with a steady, level persistence that could have but one result, and I soon came to know Ross Marvin as a man who would accomplish the task assigned to him, whatever it might be. The tidal and meteorological observations of the expedition were his particular charge, while, during the long dark winter night, his mathematical training enabled him to be of great assistance in working out problems of march formation, transportation and supplies, and arrangements of the supporting parties. In the spring sledge campaign of 1906 he commanded a separate division. When the great storm swept the polar sea and scattered my parties hopelessly in a chaos of shattered ice, Marvin's division, like my own farther north, was driven eastward and came down upon the Greenland coast, whence he brought his men safely back to the ship. From this expedition he returned trained in arctic details and thoroughly conversant with the underlying principles of all successful work in northern regions, so that when he went north with us in 1908, he went as a veteran who could absolutely be depended upon in an emergency. [Illustration: MEMORIAL ERECTED TO THE MEMORY OF PROFESSOR ROSS G. MARVIN, AT CAPE SHERIDAN] The bones of Ross G. Marvin lie farther north than those of any other human being. On the northern shore of Grant Land we erected a cairn of stones, and upon its summit we placed a rude tablet inscribed: "In Memory of Ross G. Marvin of Cornell University, Aged 34. Drowned April 10, 1909, forty-five miles north of C. Columbia, returning from 86° 38´ N. Lat." This cenotaph looks from that bleak shore northward toward the spot where Marvin met his death. His name heads that glorious roll-call of arctic heroes among whom are Willoughby, Franklin, Sontag, Hall, Lockwood, and others who died in the field, and it must be some consolation to those who grieve for him that his name is inseparably connected with the winning of that last great trophy for which, through nearly four centuries, men of every civilized nation have suffered and struggled and died. The Eskimos of whom Marvin was in command at the time he lost his life fortunately overlooked, in throwing Marvin's things upon the ice, a little canvas packet on the up-standers of the sledge containing a few of his notes, among them what is probably the last thing he ever wrote. It is so typical of the man's intelligent devotion to his duty that it is here appended as he wrote it. It will be seen that it was written on the very day that I last saw him alive, that day upon which he turned back to the south from his farthest north. "March 25, 1909. This is to certify that I turned back from this point with the third supporting party, Commander Peary advancing with nine men in the party, seven sledges with the standard loads, and sixty dogs. Men and dogs are in first class condition. The captain, with the fourth and last supporting party, expects to turn back at the end of five more marches. Determined our latitude by observations on March 22, and again to-day, March 25. A copy of the observations and computations is herewith enclosed. Results of observations were as follows: Latitude at noon, March 22, 85° 48´ north. Latitude at noon, March 25, 86° 38´ north. Distance made good in three marches, fifty minutes of latitude, an average of sixteen and two-thirds nautical miles per march. The weather is fine, going good and improving each day. "ROSS G. MARVIN, "_College of Civil Engineering_, _Cornell University_." With a sad heart I went to my cabin on the _Roosevelt_. Notwithstanding the good fortune with which we had accomplished the return, the death of Marvin emphasized the danger to which we had all been subjected, for there was not one of us but had been in the water of a lead at some time during the journey. Despite the mental depression that resulted from this terrible news about poor Marvin, for twenty-four hours after my return I felt physically as fit as ever and ready to hit the trail again if necessary. But at the end of twenty-four hours the reaction came, and it came with a bump. It was, of course, the inevitable result of complete change of diet and atmosphere, and the substitution of inaction in place of incessant effort. I had no energy or ambition for anything. Scarcely could I stop sleeping long enough to eat, or eating long enough to sleep. My ravenous appetite was not the result of hunger or short rations, for we had all had plenty to eat on the return from the Pole. It was merely because none of the ship's food seemed to have the satisfying effect of pemmican, and I could not seem to hold enough to satisfy my appetite. However, I knew better than to gorge myself and compromised by eating not much at a time, but at frequent intervals. Oddly enough, this time there was no swelling of the feet or ankles and in three or four days we all began to feel like ourselves. Anyone who looks at the contrasted pictures of the Eskimos, taken before and after the sledge trip, will realize, perhaps, something of the physical strain of a journey to the Pole and back, and will read into the day-by-day narrative of our progress all the details of soul-racking labor and exhaustion which at the time we had been obliged stoically to consider as a part of the day's work, in order to win our goal. One of the first things done after reaching the ship and bringing our sleep up to date was to reward the Eskimos who had served us so faithfully. They were all fitted out with rifles, shotguns, cartridges, shells, reloading tools, hatchets, knives, and so on, and they behaved like so many children who had just received a boundless supply of toys. Among the things I have given them at various times, none are more important than the telescopes, which enable them to distinguish game in the distance. The four who stood with me at the Pole were to receive whale-boats, tents, and other treasures when I dropped them at their home settlements along the Greenland coast on the southward journey of the _Roosevelt_. CHAPTER XXXV LAST DAYS AT CAPE SHERIDAN It is not long now to the end of the story. On returning to the _Roosevelt_ I learned that MacMillan and the doctor had reached the ship March 21, Borup on April 11, the Eskimo survivors of Marvin's party April 17, and Bartlett on April 24. MacMillan and Borup had started for the Greenland coast, before my return, to deposit caches for me, in the event that I should be obliged by the drifting of the ice to come back that way, as in 1906. (Borup, on his return to the land, had deposited a cache for me at Cape Fanshawe Martin, on the Grant Land coast, some eighty miles west from Cape Columbia, thus providing for a drift in either direction.) [Illustration: PERMANENT MONUMENT ERECTED AT CAPE COLUMBIA TO MARK POINT OF DEPARTURE AND RETURN OF NORTH POLE SLEDGE PARTY] Borup also, with the aid of the Eskimos, built at Cape Columbia a permanent monument, consisting of a pile of stones formed round the base of a guidepost made of sledge planks, with four arms pointing true north, south, east, and west--the whole supported and guyed by numerous strands of heavy sounding wire. On each arm is a copper plate, with an inscription punched in it. On the eastern arm is, "Cape Morris K. Jesup, May 16, 1900, 275 miles;" on the southern arm is, "Cape Columbia, June 6, 1906;" on the western arm is, "Cape Thomas H. Hubbard, July 1, 1906, 225 miles;" on the northern arm, "North Pole, April 6, 1909, 413 miles." Below these arms, in a frame covered with glass to protect it from the weather, is a record containing the following: PEARY ARCTIC CLUB NORTH POLE EXPEDITION, 1908 _S. S. Roosevelt_, June 12th, 1909. This monument marks the point of departure and return of the sledge expedition of the Peary Arctic Club, which in the spring of 1909 attained the North Pole. The members of the expedition taking part in the sledge work were Peary, Bartlett, Goodsell, Marvin,[3] MacMillan, Borup, Henson. The various sledge divisions left here February 28th and March 1st, and returned from March 18th to April 23rd. The Club's Steamer _Roosevelt_ wintered at C. Sheridan, 73 miles east of here. R. E. PEARY, U. S. N. Commander, R. E. Peary, U. S. N., Comdg. Expedition. Captain R. A. Bartlett, Master of _Roosevelt_. Chief Engr. George A. Wardwell. Surgeon J. W. Goodsell. Prof. Ross G. Marvin, Assistant. Prof. D. B. McMillan, " George Borup, " M. A. Henson, " Charles Percy, Steward. Mate Thomas Gushue. Bosun John Connors. Seaman John Coadey. " John Barnes. " Dennis Murphy. " George Percy. 2nd Engr. Banks Scott. Fireman James Bently. Patrick Joyce. Patrick Skeans. John Wiseman. On the 18th MacMillan and Borup with five Eskimos and six sledges had departed for the Greenland coast to establish depots of supplies in case my party should be obliged to make its landing there as in 1906, and also to make tidal readings at Cape Morris Jesup. I, therefore, at once started two Eskimos off for Greenland with a sounding apparatus and a letter informing MacMillan and Borup of our final success. It had been the plan to have Bartlett make a line of ten or five mile soundings from Columbia to Camp No. 8 to bring out the cross section of the continental shelf and the deep channel along it, and Bartlett had got his equipment ready for this purpose. However, I decided not to send him for the reason that he was not in the best physical condition, his feet and ankles being considerably swollen, while he was, moreover, afflicted with a number of Job's comforters. My own physical condition, however, remained perfect during the rest of our stay in the north, with the exception of a bad tooth from which I suffered more or less torture during a space of three weeks. [Illustration: PEARY CAIRN AT CAPE MORRIS K. JESUP, AS PHOTOGRAPHED BY MACMILLAN AND BORUP] This was the first time in all my arctic expeditions that I had been at headquarters through May and June. Hitherto there had always seemed to be something more to be done in the field; but now the principal work was completed, and it remained only to arrange the results. In the meantime the energies of the Eskimos were largely employed in short journeys in the neighborhood, most of them for the purpose of visiting the various supply depots established between the ship and Cape Columbia and removing their unused supplies to the ship. Between them these various small expeditions did some interesting work. Most of this supplementary work in the field was accomplished by other members of the expedition, but I had plenty of work on board the _Roosevelt_. Along about the 10th of May we began to get genuine spring weather. On that day Bartlett and myself began spring housecleaning. We overhauled the cabins, cleared out the dark corners, and dried out everything that needed it, the quarter-deck being littered with all kinds of miscellaneous articles the whole day. On the same day spring work on the ship was also begun, the winter coverings being taken off the _Roosevelt's_ stack and ventilators, and preparations being made for work on the engines. A few days later a beautiful white fox came to the ship and attempted to get on board. One of the Eskimos killed him. The creature behaved in an extraordinary manner, acting, in fact, just like the Eskimo dogs when those creatures run amuck. The Eskimos say that in the Whale Sound region foxes often seem to go mad in the same way and sometimes attempt to break into the igloos. This affliction from which arctic dogs and foxes suffer, while apparently a form of madness, does not seem to have any relation to rabies since it does not appear to be contagious or infectious. The spring weather, though unmistakably the real thing, was fickle on the whole. On Sunday, May 16, for example, the sun was hot and the temperature high, and the snow all about us was disappearing almost like magic, pools of water forming about the ship; but the next day we had a stiff southwest gale with considerable wet snow. On the whole, it was a very disagreeable day. On the 18th the engineer's force began work on the boilers in earnest. Four days later two Eskimos returned from MacMillan, whom they had left at Cape Morris Jesup on the Greenland coast. They brought notes from him giving some details of his work there. On the 31st MacMillan and Borup themselves arrived from Greenland, having made the return trip from Cape Morris Jesup, a distance of 270 miles, in eight marches, an average of 34 miles per march. MacMillan reported that he got as far as 84° 17´ north of Cape Jesup, had made a sounding which showed a depth of 90 fathoms, and had obtained ten days' tidal observations. They brought in as many of the skins and as much of the meat as the sledges could carry of 52 musk-oxen which they had killed. Early in June, Borup and MacMillan continued their work; MacMillan making tidal observations at Fort Conger; and Borup erecting at Cape Columbia the monument which has been already described. MacMillan while taking tidal observations at Fort Conger on Lady Franklin Bay, to connect our work at Capes Sheridan, Columbia, Bryant, and Jesup with the observation of the Lady Franklin Bay expedition of 1881-83, found still some remains of the supplies of the disastrous Greely expedition of 1881-84. They included canned vegetables, potatoes, hominy, rhubarb, pemmican, tea, and coffee. Strange to say, after the lapse of a quarter of a century, many of these supplies were still in good condition, and some of them were eaten with relish by various members of our party. One of the finds was a text book which had belonged to Lieutenant Kislingbury, who lost his life with the Greely party. Upon its flyleaf it bore this inscription: "To my dear father, from his affectionate son, Harry Kislingbury. May God be with you and return you safely to us." Greely's old coat was also found lying on the ground. This also was in good condition and I believe that MacMillan wore it for some days. All hands were now beginning to look forward to the time when the _Roosevelt_ should again turn her nose toward the south and home. Following our own housecleaning, the Eskimos had one on June 12. Every movable article was taken out of their quarters, and the walls, ceilings, and floors were scrubbed, disinfected, and whitewashed. Other signs of returning summer were observed on all sides. The surface of the ice-floe was going blue, the delta of the river was quite bare, and the patches of bare ground ashore were growing larger almost hourly. Even the _Roosevelt_ seemed to feel the change and gradually began to right herself from the pronounced list which she had taken under the press of the ice in the early winter. On June 16 we had the first of the summer rains, though the next morning all the pools of water were frozen over. On the same day Borup captured a live musk calf near Clements Markham Inlet. He managed to get his unique captive back to the ship alive, but the little creature died the next evening, though the steward nursed him carefully in an effort to save his life. On the summer solstice, June 22, midnoon of the arctic summer and the longest day of the year, it snowed all night; but a week later the weather seemed almost tropical, and we all suffered from the heat, strange though it seems to say it. The glimpses of open water off Cape Sheridan were increasing in frequency and size, and on July 2 we could see a considerable lake just off the point of this cape. The 4th of July as we observed it would have pleased the advocates of "a quiet Fourth." What with the recent death of Marvin and the fact that the day was Sunday, nothing out of the ordinary routine was done except to dress the ship with flags, and there was scarcely enough wind even to display our bunting. Three years ago that very day the _Roosevelt_ got away from her winter quarters at almost the same spot in a strong southerly gale; but the experience on that occasion convinced me that it would be best to hang on in our present position just as late in July as possible, and thus give the ice in Robeson and Kennedy Channels more time to break up. It almost seemed as if the _Roosevelt_ shared with us our anticipation of a speedy return, for she continued gradually to regain an even keel, and within four or five days she had automatically completed this operation. On the 8th we put out the eight-inch hawser and made the ship fast, bow and stern, in order to hold her in position in case she should be subjected to any pressure before we were ready to depart. On the same day we began in real earnest to make ready for the homeward departure. The work began with the taking on of coal, which, it will be remembered, had been transferred to shore along with quantities of other supplies when we went into winter quarters, in order to make provisions against the loss of the ship by fire, or ice pressure, or what not, in the course of the winter. The process of getting the ship ready for her homeward voyage does not require detailed description. Suffice it to say that it furnished the entire party with hard work and plenty of it for fully ten days. At the expiration of that period Bartlett reported the ship ready to sail. Observation of conditions off shore revealed the fact that Robeson Channel was practicable for navigation. Our work was done, success had crowned our efforts, the ship was ready, we were all fit, and on July 18, with only the tragic memory of the lost lamented Marvin to lessen our high spirits, the _Roosevelt_ pulled slowly out from the cape and turned her nose again to the south. Off Cape Union the _Roosevelt_ was intentionally forced out into the ice to fight a way down the center of the channel in accordance with my deliberate program. For a ship of the _Roosevelt's_ class, this is the best and quickest return route--far preferable to hugging the shore. The voyage to Battle Harbor was comparatively uneventful. It involved, of course, as does any journey in those waters, even under favorable conditions, unceasing watchfulness and skill in ice navigation, but the trip was without pronounced adventure. On August 8 the _Roosevelt_ emerged from the ice and passed Cape Sabine, and the value of experience and the new departure of forcing the ship down the center of the channel instead of along shore will be appreciated from the fact that we were now thirty-nine days ahead of our 1906 record on the occasion of our previous return from Cape Sheridan, although we had left Cape Sheridan considerably later than before. The voyage from Cape Sheridan to Cape Sabine had been made in fifty-three days, less time than in 1906. We stopped at Cape Saumarez, the Nerke of the Eskimos, and a boat's crew went ashore. It was there I first heard of the movements of Dr. Frederick Cook during the previous year while absent from Anoratok. We arrived at Etah on the 17th of August. There I learned further details as to the movements of Dr. Cook during his sojourn in that region. At Etah we picked up Harry Whitney, who had spent the winter in that neighborhood in arctic hunting. Here, also, we killed some seventy-odd walrus for the Eskimos, whom we distributed at their homes whence we had taken them in the previous summer. They were all as children, yet they had served us well. They had, at times, tried our tempers and taxed our patience; but after all they had been faithful and efficient. Moreover, it must not be forgotten that I had known every member of the tribe for nearly a quarter of a century, until I had come to regard them with a kindly and personal interest, which any man must feel with regard to the members of any inferior race who had been accustomed to respect and depend upon him during the greater part of his adult life. We left them all better supplied with the simple necessities of arctic life than they had ever been before, while those who had participated in the sledge journey and the winter and spring work on the northern shore of Grant Land were really so enriched by our gifts that they assumed the importance and standing of arctic millionaires. I knew, of course, that in all probability I should never see them again. This feeling was tempered with the knowledge of success; but it was not without keen regret that I looked my last upon these strange and faithful people who had meant so much to me. We cleared from Cape York on August 26, and on September 5 we steamed into Indian Harbor. Here the first despatch that went over the wires was to Mrs. Peary: "_Have made good at last. I have the Pole. Am well. Love_," followed in rapid succession by one from Bartlett to his mother; and, among others, one to H. L. Bridgman, secretary of the Peary Arctic Club: "_Sun_," a cipher meaning, "Pole reached. _Roosevelt_ safe." Three days later the _Roosevelt_ reached Battle Harbor. On September 13 the ocean-going tug _Douglas H. Thomas_ arrived from Sydney, C. B., a distance of four hundred and seventy-five miles, bringing Regan and Jefferds, representatives of the Associated Press, whom I greeted by saying, "This is a new record in newspaper enterprise, and I appreciate the compliment." Three days later the Canadian Government cable steamer, _Tyrian_, in command of Captain Dickson, arrived, bringing twenty-three special correspondents who had been hurried north as soon as our first despatches had reached New York, and on the 21st of September, as the _Roosevelt_ was approaching the little town of Sydney, Cape Breton, we saw a beautiful sea-going yacht approaching us. It was the _Sheelah_, whose owner, Mr. James Ross, was bringing Mrs. Peary and our children up to meet me. Further down the bay we met a whole flotilla of boats, gay with bunting and musical with greetings. As we neared the city, the entire water-front was alive with people. The little town to which I had returned so many times unsuccessful gave us a royal welcome as the _Roosevelt_ came back to her once more, flying at her mastheads, besides the Stars and Stripes and the ensign of our Canadian hosts and cousins, a flag which never before had entered any port in history, the North Pole flag. Little more remains to be said. The victory was due to experience; to the courage, endurance, and devotion of the members of the expedition, who put all there was in them into the work; and to the unswerving faith and loyalty of the officers, members, and friends of the Peary Arctic Club, who furnished the sinews of war, without which nothing could have been accomplished. FOOTNOTE: [3] Drowned April 10th, returning from 86° 38´ N. Lat. APPENDIX I SUMMARY OF BATHYMETRICAL, TIDAL, AND METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS[4] BY R. A. HARRIS, _Coast and Geodetic Survey, Washington, D. C._ SOUNDINGS.--Previous to the expeditions of Peary, little was known concerning the depths of that portion of the Arctic Ocean which lies north of Greenland and Grant Land. In 1876 Markham and Parr at a point nearly north of Cape Joseph Henry, in latitude 83° 20-1/2´, and longitude 63° W., found a depth of 72 fathoms. In 1882 Lockwood and Brainard at a point lying northerly from Cape May, in latitude about 82° 38´ N., and longitude about 51-1/4° W., sounded to a depth of 133 fathoms without touching bottom. The motion of the polar pack was inferred by Lockwood from the existence of a tidal crack extending from Cape May to Beaumont Island. Peary's journeys along the northern coast of Greenland in 1900, and upon the Arctic ice in 1902 and 1906, firmly established the motion suspected by Lockwood. In April of the years 1902 and 1906 he found an eastward drifting of the ice due to westerly or northwesterly winds. Moreover, along the line of separation between two ice-fields the northern field had a greater eastward motion than had the field to the south of the line. These facts, together with the water sky observed to the north of Cape Morris Jesup in 1900, strongly indicated the existence of deep water between Greenland and the North Pole. Though few in number, the soundings taken in 1909 between Cape Columbia and the Pole are of great interest to geographers. The accompanying diagram shows the results obtained. [Illustration] These soundings prove the existence of a continental shelf covered by about 100 fathoms of water and whose edge, north of Cape Columbia, lies about 46 sea miles from the shore. In latitude 84° 29´ the depth was found to be 825 fathoms, while in latitude 85° 23´ it was found to be only 310 fathoms. This diminution in depth is a fact of considerable interest in reference to the possible existence of land to the westward. The three soundings taken between the point of comparatively shallow water and the Pole failed to reach bottom. The one made within five sea miles of the Pole proved the depth there to be at least 1500 fathoms. This is not at variance with the northernmost sounding taken by the _Fram_, at a point north of Franz Josef Land and in latitude about 85° 20´, viz., 1640 fathoms and no bottom. TIDES.--Tidal observations upon the arctic coasts of Grant Land and Greenland were carried out under instructions from the Coast and Geodetic Survey, this Bureau having been ordered by President Roosevelt through the Secretary of Commerce and Labor to have such work undertaken. The object was to secure observations along the northern coasts of Grant Land and Greenland at a sufficient number of places for determining the tides in this region; it being the belief that such observations might throw light upon the possible existence of a "considerable land mass in the unknown area of the Arctic Ocean." Systematic tidal and meteorological observations were carried on day and night at Cape Sheridan, Point Aldrich (near Cape Columbia), Cape Bryant, Cape Morris Jesup, and Fort Conger--the periods of time covered at these stations being about 231, 29, 28, 10, and 15 days, respectively.[5] The tides were observed upon vertical staves or poles held in position by means of stones placed around them at the bottom of the shallow water along the coast. At Cape Sheridan, Point Aldrich, and Cape Bryant igloos were built over the tide staves. These being heated, usually by means of oil-stoves, the observers were enabled to maintain open well-holes with comparative ease. In order to secure fixed data of reference, permanent bench marks were established on the land, not far from the igloos or tide staves. The ice-covering of the water nearly obliterated all wind waves which generally impair the accuracy of staff readings made in open bodies of water. The measurement of the height upon staff of the surface of the water, as the surface rose and fell in the well-holes, was carried on with great precision, a fact which the plottings of the observations have well brought out. The observations were taken hourly; and during a large percentage of the time these were supplemented by observations taken more frequently, often at intervals of ten minutes each. The chronometer used in connection with tidal work was compared with true Greenwich time at New York before and after the cruise to the Arctic. The comparisons showed that during this period of 461 days the average daily gain of the chronometer was 2.2 seconds. The mean lunitidal intervals and the mean ranges of tide, together with the approximate geographical positions of the stations, are as follows: -----------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+---------- | | | HW | LW |Mean Rise Station |Latitude |Longitude|Interval |Interval | and Fall -----------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+---------- | ° ´ | ° ´ |_h_ _m_ | _h_ _m_ | Feet Cape Sheridan | 82 27 | 61 21 | 10 31 | 4 14 | 1.76 Point Aldrich | 83 07 | 69 44 | 7 58 | 1 50 | 0.84 Cape Bryant | 82 21 | 55 30 | 0 03 | 6 22 | 1.07 C. Morris Jesup | 83 40 | 33 35 | 10 49 | 4 33 | 0.38 Fort Conger | 81 44 | 64 44 | 11 35 | 5 15 | 4.06 Fort Conger[6] | 81 44 | 64 44 | 11 33 | 5 20 | 4.28 -----------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+---------- The harmonic constants for these places will be given in a paper on Arctic Tides about to be issued by the Coast and Geodetic Survey. As indicated by its name, a "lunitidal interval" is the time elapsing between the passage of the moon across the meridian of the place or station and the occurrence of high or low water. If two stations have the same longitude, then the difference between the lunitidal intervals for the two stations denotes the difference in the times of occurrence of the tides. If they have not the same longitude, then the intervals must be converted into lunar hours (1 lunar hour = 1.035 solar hours) and increased by the west longitude of the stations expressed in hours. The result will be the tidal hours of the stations expressed in Greenwich lunar time. The difference between the tidal hours for two stations will be the difference in the time of occurrence of the tides expressed in lunar hours. One of the most important results brought out from the tidal observations of the expedition is the fact that high water occurs two hours earlier (in absolute time) at Cape Columbia than at Cape Sheridan. The Cape Columbia tides are even earlier than the tides along the northern coast of the Spitzbergen Islands. These facts prove that the tide at Cape Columbia comes from the west. It is the Baffin Bay tide transmitted, first, northwesterly through the eastern portion of the Arctic Archipelago to the Arctic Ocean, and then easterly along the northern coast of Grant Land to Cape Columbia. That the tide wave should be felt after a passage of this kind, instead of practically disappearing after entering the Arctic Ocean, is one argument for the existence of a waterway of limited width to the northwest of Grant Land. This suggests that Crocker Land, first seen by Peary on June 24, 1906, from an altitude of about 2000 feet, may form a portion of the northern boundary of this channel or waterway. The tides along the northern coast of Greenland are due mainly to the large rise-and-fall occurring at the head of Baffin Bay. The Arctic Ocean being of itself a nearly tideless body so far as semidaily tides are concerned, it follows that the time of tide varies but little as one goes through Smith Sound, Kane Basin, Kennedy Channel, and Robeson Channel; in other words there exists a stationary oscillation in this waterway. The northeasterly trend of the shore line of Peary Land beyond Robeson Channel and the deflecting force due to the earth's rotation tend to preserve, far to the northeastward and partly in the form of a free wave of transmission, the disturbance resulting from the stationary oscillation in the straits. The tide observations indicate that this disturbance is felt as far as Cape Morris Jesup, where the semidaily range of tide is only 0.38 foot. At Cape Bryant, northeast of Robeson Channel, the range is 1.07 feet. These values, taken in connection with the Robeson Channel disturbance, indicate that the time of tide along the coast of Peary Land becomes later as one travels eastward from Cape Bryant. Owing to the comparatively short distance between Cape Bryant and Cape Morris Jesup, it is probable that at the latter point the crest of the wave transmitted from the southwest will appear to arrive much earlier than will the crest of the wave passing between Spitzbergen Islands and Greenland. In this way the small size of the semidaily tide at Cape Morris Jesup, as well as its time of occurrence, can be partially explained. A no-tide point doubtless exists in Lincoln Sea, off Peary Land. The semidiurnal tidal forces vanish at the Pole and are very small over the entire Arctic Ocean. As a consequence the semidiurnal portion of the tide wave in these regions is almost wholly derived from the tides in the Atlantic Ocean. The diurnal forces attain a maximum at the Pole and produce sensible tides in the deeper waters of the Arctic Ocean. Such tides are essentially equilibrium tides for this nearly enclosed body of water. The diurnal portion of the Baffin Bay tide produces the diurnal portion of the tide in Smith Sound, Kane Basin, and Kennedy Channel. In passing from Fort Conger to the Arctic Ocean one could reasonably expect to find a great change in the time of occurrence of the diurnal tide in going a comparatively short distance; in other words the change in the tidal hour for the diurnal wave would probably be considerable where the Baffin Bay tide joins the arctic tide. Peary's observations show that such is the case. They show that the diurnal tide at Cape Bryant, Cape Sheridan, Point Aldrich, and Cape Morris Jesup follows that at Fort Conger by respective intervals of 3-1/2, 5, 6, and 8 hours. They also show that in going northward from Fort Conger to Point Aldrich the ratio of the two principal diurnal constituents approximates more and more nearly to the theoretical ratio; that is, to the ratio between the two corresponding tidal forces. This is what one would expect to find in passing from a region possessing diurnal tides derived from the irregular tides of Baffin Bay to a region where the equilibrium diurnal tides of the Arctic become important. The range and time of occurrence of the diurnal tide at Point Aldrich do not differ greatly from their equilibrium values based upon the assumption of a deep polar basin extending from Grant Land and the Arctic Archipelago to the marginal waters off the portion of the coast of Siberia lying east of the New Siberian Islands. But De Long's party observed tides at Bennett Island in 1881. From these observations it is seen that the diurnal tide has a much smaller range than would be permissible under the hypothesis of deep water in the portion of the Arctic Basin just referred to. The diurnal tides at Pitlekaj, Point Barrow, and Flaxman Island are, as noted below, also too small to permit of this hypothesis. The smallness of the diurnal tide in the cases cited can probably be explained on no other assumption than that of obstructing land masses extending over a considerable portion of the unknown region of the Arctic Ocean. No further attempt will be made here to prove the necessity for a tract of land, an archipelago, or an area of very shallow water situated between the present Arctic Archipelago and Siberia. A brief discussion of this question, together with a tidal map of the Arctic Regions, will be found in a paper about to be issued by the Coast and Geodetic Survey and which has been already referred to. A few pertinent facts may, however, be mentioned. (1) At Point Barrow, Alaska, the flood stream comes from the west and not from the north, as the hypothesis of an extensive, deep polar basin implies. (2) The semidaily range of tide at Bennett Island is 2.5 feet, while it is only 0.4 foot at Point Barrow and 0.5 foot at Flaxman Island, Alaska. This indicates that obstructing land masses lie between the deep basin or channel traversed by the _Fram_ and the northern coast of Alaska. (3) The observed tidal hours and ranges of tide show that the semidaily tide is not propagated from the Greenland Sea to the Alaskan coast directly across a deep and uninterrupted polar basin. (4) The observed ranges of the diurnal tides at Teplitz Bay, Franz Josef Land; at Pitlekaj, northeastern Siberia; and at Point Barrow and Flaxman Island have less than one-half of their theoretical equilibrium values based upon the assumption of an uninterrupted and deep polar basin. In addition to these facts are the following items which have a bearing upon the shape and size of this unknown land: The westerly drifting of the _Jeannette_. The westerly drifting north of Alaska observed by Mikkelsen and Leffingwell. The existence of Crocker Land. The shoaling indicated by a sounding of 310 fathoms taken in Lat. 85° 23´ N. The eastward progression of the tide wave along the northern coast of Grant Land as shown by observations at Point Aldrich, Cape Sheridan, and Cape Bryant. The great age of the ice found in Beaufort Sea. Items of some importance in this connection, but which cannot be regarded as established facts are: The probable westerly courses taken by casks set adrift off Point Barrow and off Cape Bathurst, the one recovered on the northeastern coast of Iceland, the other on the northern coast of Norway; The question suggested by Harrison whether or not enough ice escapes from the Arctic to account for the quantity which must be formed there if one were to adopt the assumption of an unobstructed polar basin. Taking various facts into consideration, it would seem that an obstruction (land, islands, or shoals) containing nearly half a million square statute miles probably exists. That one corner lies north of Bennett Island; another, north of Point Barrow; another, near Banks Land and Prince Patrick Island; and another, at or near Crocker Land. METEOROLOGY.--Regular hourly observations of the thermometer and barometer were carried on day and night by the tide observers. A brief résumé of the results obtained is given below, together with a few taken from the Report of the Proceedings of the U. S. Expedition to Lady Franklin Bay by Lieutenant (now General) A. W. Greely. TEMPERATURES ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Cape Sheridan |Fort Conger[7] ----------------------------------------------------------+-------------- |Maximum |Minimum| Mean | Mean -------------------------------+--------+-------+---------+-------------- | ° | ° | ° | ° November 14-30 | - 7 | -39 | -23.96 | December, 1908 | - 5 | -53 | -29.22 | -28.10 January, 1909 | - 6 | -49 | -30.61 | -38.24 February, 1909 | - 7 | -49 | -31.71 | -40.13 March, 1909 | +13 | -52 | -20.87 | -28.10 April, 1909 | +13 | -37 | -15.63 | -13.55 May, 1909 | +46 | -15 | +18.00 | +14.08 June, 1909 | +52 | +15 | +31.51 | +32.65 November 17-December 18, 1908 | - 7 | -39 | -25.75 | January 16-February 12, 1909 | -21 | -48 | -35.48 | May 17-May 22, 1909 | +37 | +12 | +22.97 | June 11-June 25, 1909 | +50 | +25 | +34.17 | ========================================================================== TEMPERATURES ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Station | Date |Maximum | Minimum | Mean | | ° | ° | ° -------------------+-----------------------+--------+---------+---------- Point Aldrich near | | | | Cape Columbia | Nov. 17-Dec. 13, 1908 | -14 | -46 |-31.96 Cape Bryant | Jan. 16-Feb. 12, 1909 | -12 | -55 |-36.68 Cape Morris Jesup | May 17-May 22, 1909 | +35 | +16 |+27.92 Fort Conger | June 11-June 25, 1909 | +54 | +28 |+34.44 Fort Conger[7] | June 11-June 25, 1882 | +44.4 | +26.7 |+34.883 Fort Conger[8] | June 11-June 25, 1883 | +39.6 | +26.4 |+33.393 ========================================================================== From these values we see that from November 17 to December 13, 1908, the average temperature at Point Aldrich was 6.21 degrees lower than the temperature at Cape Sheridan for the same period; that from January 16 to February 12, 1909, the average temperature at Cape Bryant was 1.20 degrees lower than that at Cape Sheridan; that from May 17 to May 22, 1909, the average temperature at Cape Morris Jesup was 4.95 degrees higher than that at Cape Sheridan; and that from June 11 to June 25, 1909, the average temperature at Fort Conger was practically the same as that at Cape Sheridan during this period. BAROMETER READINGS (UNCORRECTED) =================+=======================+========+=======+======+========= Station | Date |Maximum |Minimum| Mean | Mean | | ° | ° | ° | ° | | | | | Fort | | | | |Conger[9] -----------------+-----------------------+--------+-------+------+--------- Cape Sheridan | Nov. 13-30, 1908 | 30.42 |28.96 |29.899| | Dec., 1908 | 30.27 |29.28 |29.749| 29.922 | Jan., 1909 | 30.42 |29.18 |29.752| 29.796 | Feb., 1909 | 30.59 |29.03 |29.772| 29.672 | March, 1909 | 30.89 |29.69 |30.282| 29.893 | April, 1909 | 30.58 |29.20 |29.991| 30.099 | May, 1909 | 30.60 |29.39 |30.105| 30.066 | June, 1909 | 30.21 |29.37 |29.804| 29.878 | Nov. 17-Dec. 13, 1908 | 30.42 |29.26 |29.866| | Jan. 16-Feb. 4, 1909 | 30.40 |29.18 |29.691| |May 14-May 22, 1909 | 30.52 |30.04 |30.304| |June 11-June 25, 1909 | 30.10 |29.47 |29.834| Point Aldrich |Nov. 17-Dec. 13, 1908 | 30.51 |29.35 |29.998| Cape Bryant |Jan. 16-Feb. 4, 1909 | 30.10 |29.83 |29.976| Cape Morris Jesup|May 14-May 22, 1909 | 30.70 |30.24 |30.469| Fort Conger |June 11-June 25, 1909 | 30.19 |29.74 |30.013| Fort Conger[10] |June 11-June 25, 1882 | 30.129 |29.416 |29.817| Fort Conger[10] |June 11-June 25, 1883 | 30.218 |29.590 |29.949| =================+=======================+========+=======+======+========= The above tabulation shows that during the month the average fluctuation of the barometer at Cape Sheridan amounts to 1.2 inches, being greatest in February and least in June. An inspection of the monthly means shows that the barometer at Cape Sheridan is lowest for the months of December and January, or about January 1st, and highest about April 1st, the range of the fluctuation being about 0.5 inch. These results agree well with those obtained by Greely at Fort Conger and illustrated by a diagram upon p. 166, Vol. II, of his Report. From a tabulation made according to hours of the day, but not given here, there is seen to be a diurnal fluctuation at Cape Sheridan amounting to a little more than 1/100 of an inch. The minima of this fluctuation are fairly well defined from November to April and occur at about 2 o'clock both A.M. and P.M. After leaving Etah, August 17, 1908, on the voyage northward until July 12, 1909, thermograms covering 5-1/2 months and barograms covering nine months of this interval were obtained from self-recording instruments. These are records in addition to the direct hourly readings of the thermometer and barometer made by the tide observers and from which the above results have been deduced. FOOTNOTES: [4] Transmitted by O. H. TITTMANN, Superintendent, Coast and Geodetic Survey. [5] These observations were made by Marvin and MacMillan, assisted by Borup, seaman Barnes, and fireman Wiseman.--R.E.P. [6] Results from Greely's observations, 1881-83, covering a period of nearly two years. [7] Observations made in 1875-76 and 1881-83. Greely's Report, Vol. II, p. 230. [8] Greely's Report, Vol. II, pp. 196, 197, 220, 221. Hourly readings used. [9] Observations made in 1881-83. Greely's Report, Vol. II, p. 166. [10] Greely's Report, Vol. II, pp. 122, 123, 146, 147. Hourly readings are reduced to sea level. APPENDIX II _Facsimiles of Original Observations by Marvin, Bartlett, and Peary and of Original Certificates by Marvin and Bartlett, respectively, during the Sledge Journey to the Pole._ I. Marvin's Observations, March 22, 1909. II. Marvin's Observations, March 25, 1909. III. Certificate of Marvin as to the Position of the Expedition on March 25, 1909. IV. Bartlett's Observations, April 1, 1909. V. Certificate of Bartlett as to the Position of the Expedition April 1, 1909. VI. Peary's Observations April 6, 1909. [NOTE.--The originals were all made in pencil in notebooks. The engravings in line printed in this appendix are reproductions in slightly reduced size of tracings carefully made of the original manuscripts. The enclosing line in each case indicates the edges of the leaf on which the original work was written. The size of this leaf is, with practical uniformity throughout the series, 4 x 6-3/4 inches. The facsimiles of Peary's observations of April 7, 1909, (_q.v._) on pages 292 and 293 have been similarly made but are in the exact size of the originals. _The Publishers._] [Illustration: I. (_a_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF MARVIN'S OBSERVATIONS OF MARCH 22, 1909] [Illustration: (_b_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF MARVIN'S OBSERVATIONS OF MARCH 22, 1909] [Illustration: II. (_a_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF MARVIN'S OBSERVATIONS OF MARCH 25, 1909] [Illustration: II. (_b_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF MARVIN'S OBSERVATIONS OF MARCH 25, 1909] [Illustration: II. (_c_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF MARVIN'S OBSERVATIONS OF MARCH 25, 1909] [Illustration: III. (_a_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF MARVIN'S CERTIFICATE OF MARCH 25, 1909] [Illustration: III. (_b_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF MARVIN'S CERTIFICATE OF MARCH 25, 1909] [Illustration: III. (_c_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF MARVIN'S CERTIFICATE OF MARCH 25, 1909] [Illustration: IV. FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF BARTLETT'S OBSERVATIONS OF APRIL 1, 1909] [Illustration: V. (_a_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF BARTLETT'S CERTIFICATE OF APRIL 1, 1909] [Illustration: V. (_b_) FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF BARTLETT'S CERTIFICATE OF APRIL 1, 1909] [Illustration: VI. FACSIMILE, SLIGHTLY REDUCED IN SIZE, OF PEARY'S OBSERVATIONS OF APRIL 6, 1909] APPENDIX III _Report of the sub-committee of the National Geographic Society on Peary's Records, and Some of the Honors Awarded for the Attainment of the Pole._ The Board of Managers of the National Geographic Society at a meeting held at Hubbard Memorial Hall, November 4, 1909, received the following report: "The sub-committee to which was referred the task of examining the records of Commander Peary in evidence of his having reached the North Pole, beg to report that they have completed their task. "Commander Peary has submitted to his sub-committee his original journal and record of observations, together with all his instruments and apparatus, and certain of the most important of the scientific results of his expedition. These have been carefully examined by your sub-committee, and they are unanimously of the opinion that Commander Peary reached the North Pole on April 6, 1909. "They also feel warranted in stating that the organization, planning, and management of the expedition, its complete success, and its scientific results, reflect the greatest credit on the ability of Commander Robert E. Peary, and render him worthy of the highest honors that the National Geographic Society can bestow upon him." (_Signed_) HENRY GANNETT.[11] C. M. CHESTER.[12] O. H. TITTMANN.[13] The foregoing report was unanimously approved. Immediately after this action the following resolutions were unanimously adopted: "_Whereas_, Commander Robert E. Peary has reached the North Pole, the goal sought for centuries; and "_Whereas_, this is the greatest geographical achievement that this society can have opportunity to honor: Therefore "_Resolved_, that a special medal be awarded to Commander Peary." * * * * * Among the home and foreign honors awarded for the attainment of the pole are the following: The Special Great Gold Medal of the National Geographic Society of Washington. The Special Gold Medal of the Philadelphia Geographical Society. The Helen Culver Medal of the Chicago Geographical Society. The Honorary Degree of Doctor of Laws from Bowdoin College. The Special Great Gold Medal of the Royal Geographical Society of London. The Nachtigall Gold Medal of the Imperial German Geographical Society. The King Humbert Gold Medal of the Royal Italian Geographical Society. The Hauer Medal of the Imperial Austrian Geographical Society. The Gold Medal of the Hungarian Geographical Society. The Gold Medal of the Royal Belgian Geographical Society. The Gold Medal of the Royal Geographical Society of Antwerp. [14]A Special Trophy from the Royal Scottish Geographical Society--a replica in silver of the ships used by Hudson, Baffin, and Davis. The Honorary Degree of Doctor of Laws from the Edinburgh University. Honorary Membership in the Manchester Geographical Society. Honorary Membership in the Royal Netherlands Geographical Society of Amsterdam. [Illustration: THE SPECIAL GREAT GOLD MEDAL OF THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC SOCIETY OF WASHINGTON (This medal is four inches in diameter)] [Illustration: THE SPECIAL GREAT GOLD MEDAL OF THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY OF LONDON. (ACTUAL SIZE) (Designed by the wife of Captain Robert F. Scott, R. N., Leader of the British South Polar Expeditions of 1901-1904 and 1910-1912)] FOOTNOTES: [11] HENRY GANNETT, _chairman of the committee_ which reported on Commander Peary's observations, has been chief geographer of the United States Geological Survey since 1882; he is the author of "Manual of Topographic Surveying," "Statistical Atlases of the Tenth and Eleventh Censuses," "Dictionary of Altitudes," "Magnetic Declination in the United States," Stanford's "Compendium of Geography," and of many government reports. Mr. Gannett is vice-president of the National Geographic Society and was one of the founders of the society in 1888. [12] _Rear-Admiral_ COLBY M. CHESTER, _United States Navy_, was graduated from the United States Naval Academy in 1863. He has held practically every important command under the Navy Department, including superintendent of the United States Naval Observatory, commander-in-chief Atlantic Squadron, Superintendent of the United States Naval Academy, Chief Hydrographic Division, United States Navy. Admiral Chester has been known for many years as one of the best and most particular navigators in the service. [13] O. H. TITTMANN has been Superintendent of the United States Coast and Geodetic Survey since 1900. He is the member for the United States of the Alaskan Boundary Commission and was one of the founders of the National Geographic Society. [14] At Edinburgh, at the conclusion of the address to the Royal Scottish Geographical Society, Lord Balfour of Burleigh presented to Commander Peary a silver model of a ship such as was used by illustrious arctic navigators in the olden times. The ship is a copy of a three-masted vessel in full sail, such as was in use in the latter part of the sixteenth century. The model is a beautiful specimen of the silversmith's art. On one of the sails is engraved the badge of the Royal Scottish Geographical Society, while another bears the inscription in Latin from the pen of Mr. W. B. Blaikie, which, translated, is as follows: "This model of a ship, such as was used by John Davis, Henry Hudson, and William Baffin, illustrious arctic navigators of the olden time, has been presented by the Royal Scottish Geographical Society as an evidence of its congratulation, admiration, and recognition to Robert Edwin Peary, American citizen, an explorer of the frozen Arctic, not less daring than his daring predecessors, who was the first to attain to that thrice-noble goal so long sought by innumerable bold mariners, the North Pole. Edinburgh, May 24th, 1910." INDEX _Advance_, S.S., xxii. Africa, 75. Aground, 113. Ahteah, 131. Ahtetah, 178. Ahwatingwah, 141, 235. Akatingwah, 60. Alarm of fire, 35. Alaska, 344, 345. Aldrich, xxiii. _Alert_, S.S., 91, 129, 184. Aletah, 117, 141. Alps, 166. American, flag, 30, 294, 296, 335; route, 5. Amundsen, Roald, xxi. Amusements, 109, 181. Andree, xxvi. Angakok, 65. Anniversary Lodge, 130. Anoratok, 55, 76, 333. Antarctic, xx. "Antarctica," 180. "Antarctic Regions, The," 180. Arco, 141, 213, 235. Arctic, Archipelago, 341, 344; Circle, xvi; (crossing the, 36), 53, 79, 186; fisheries, xv; hares, 54, 110, 127, 138, 182, 189, 315; moon, 163; night, 37; Ocean, 4, 49, 193, 216, 337-344. Asia, xvi, 75. Associated Press, 334. Astronomical observations, 211. Astrup, xxix. Atlantic Ocean, xx, xxi, 343. Aurora, 186. Austrian-Hungarian expedition, xxvii. Back River, xx. Baffin Bay, xxi, xxvii, 3, 88, 90, 341-343. Baffin, William, xxvii. Balch, 180. Bald Head, 33. Balfour, Lord, 365. Banks Land, 346. Barents, William, xv, xxvii. Barnes, John, 23, 167, 326. Barometer reading, 348. Bartlett, Robert, 76. Bartlett, Capt. Robert A., appreciation of, 269; career, 19, 20; decorating the ship, 130; delayed by leads, 308, 312; departure from _Roosevelt_, 213; despatch to his mother, 334; dynamiting the ice, 115; facsimile of certificate, 360, 361; facsimile of observations, 359; farthest north, 267; hunting, 141, 179, 182, 191; in crow's nest, 105; master of the _Roosevelt_, 23, 111, 326; pioneer division, 203, 205, 214, 237, 241; returning to _Roosevelt_, 325; sounding, 262; taking observations, 266, 268; trail, 310, 314. Bartlett, Capt. Sam, 76. Bathurst, Cape, 345. Battle Harbor, 332, 334. Bay, Baffin, xxi, xxvii, 3, 88, 90, 341-343; Black Cliffs, 130, 179; Cape York, 55; Casco, 27; Dobbin, 99; Independence, xxix, 151, 276; James Ross, 143, 144, 155, 179; Lady Franklin, 78, 329; Lincoln, 98, 106, 110, 112, 117, 118; McCormick, xxix; Melville, 36, 37, 39, 40, 53; Newman, 188; North Star, 38, 73; of Fundy, 168; of Naples, 74; Oyster, 26; Porter, 118, 120, 134, 140, 142, 143, 276; Princess Marie, 100; Robertson, 74; Teplitz, 345. Beaufort Sea, 345. Beaumont Island, 337. Beechey, Cape, 90. Belknap, Cape, 134, 138, 188. Benedict, H. H., 31. Bennett Island, 344-346 Bently, James, 23, 326 Bering, Sea, xvii, xx, xxi; Strait, xxi, 290. "Big Lead," crossed, 232, 314; described, 197, 237; Eskimos' fear of, 191. Black Cape, 118, 119; River, 120. Black Cliffs Bay, 130, 179. Blackwell's Island, 25, 26. Booth, Felix, xviii, xix. Boothia Felix, xix. Borchgrevink, 180. Borup, Col., 29. Borup, George, account of walrus hunting, 80-87; added to expedition, 21; built monument at Cape Columbia, 325; captured musk-ox calf, 330; career, 22; celebrating, 184; delayed by leads, 312; deposited cache at Cape Fanshawe Martin, 325; division, 203, 214, 237, 241; farthest north, 243; hunting, 141, 156, 179, 188, 330; return to _Roosevelt_, 325; taking observations, 168; turned back, 243. Bowdoin College, xxviii, 296; degree of LL.D., 365. Box houses, 123, 177, 178, 188. Brainard, xxiii, 337. Breton, Cape, 28. Brevoort, Cape, 188; Island, 90. Bridgman, Herbert L., 16, 25, 27, 334. British Arctic expedition, 38, 129. Bryant, Cape, 168, 188, 190, 191, 330-348. By-pass, 101, 104. Cabot Strait, 35. Cache of supplies, 110, 119, 191. Cagni, xxvi. Cairn, _Alert_, 129; _Roosevelt_, 129. Camp, Abruzzi, 308; Morris K. Jesup, 290; No. 4, 237; No. 5, 237; No. 8, 327; No. 11, 310; No. 19, 249. Canada, xx, 334, 335. Cantilever, 55. Cape, Bathurst, 345; Beechey, 90; Belknap, 134, 138, 188; Breton, 28; Brevoort, 188; Bryant, 168, 188, 190, 191, 339-348; Colan, 134, 179, 190, 191; Columbia, 4, 6, 7, 130-237, 280, 295, 310-329, 338-341, 347; Fanshawe Martin, 325; Farewell, xv; Frazer, 91; Hecla, 141, 159, 190, 217, 226, 280, 317; Joseph Henry, 92, 222, 337; Lieber, 102; May, 337; Morris K. Jesup, 13, 21, 253, 254, 295, 326, 328, 338, 348; Rawson, 120, 317; Richardson, 134, 138, 140, 168; Sabine, 39, 89, 94, 95, 124, 332; Saumarez, 74, 332; Sheridan, 5, 6, 38, 77, 88-129, 157, 168, 178, 193, 213, 325, 330, 332, 339-349; St. Charles, 34; St. George, 35; Thomas Hubbard, 21, 110, 295, 325; Union, 110, 118, 188, 332; York, 32, 35, 39-46, 70-73, 271, 334. Cape Sheridan River, 184. Cape York Bay, 55 Carnegie Institution, 76. Cary Islands, 38. Casco Bay, 27. Central Polar Sea, 38. Char, 128. Chester, C. M., 363. Chicago Geographical Society, medal of, 365. China, xv, 169. Christmas, 185. Clark, 271. Clements Markham Inlet, 141, 145, 156, 157, 179, 188, 190, 330. Coady, John, 23, 326. Coast and Geodetic Survey, 337, 339, 340. Colan, Cape, 134, 179, 190, 191. Collinson, Richard, xxi. Columbia, Cape, 4, 6, 7, 130-237, 280, 295, 310-329, 338-341, 347. Columbus, xxxii. Connors, John, 23, 326. Cook, Dr. Frederick A., 75, 76, 333. Coppermine River, xix. Cornell University, 252, 254, 322. Crafts, C. C., 76. "Crane City," 223, 316. Crane, Zenas, 16, 25. "Crimson Cliffs," 72. Crocker Land, 5, 341, 345, 346. Crow's nest, 105, 112. Crozier, xix, xx. Daily ration, 209. Dante, 255. Daughters of the American Revolution, 30. Davis, John, xv. Davis Strait, xxi, 3, 73. Dawn, 160. Deep-sea soundings, 210. Deer, 65, 87, 138, 140, 144, 145, 182. De Long, Com., xxiv, 344. Delta Kappa Epsilon Fraternity, 30, 296. Departure from _Roosevelt_, 213. Diagram of soundings, 338. Dickson, Capt., 331. _Discovery_, S.S., 91. Dividing line, 40. Dobbin Bay, 99. Dogs, Eskimo, condition of, 169; feeding on return march, 305; harnesses, 136. _Douglas H. Thomas_, S.S., 334. Duck Islands, 37, 38, 39. Duke of the Abruzzi, 12, 180, 236, 252, 254, 298, 308. _Eagle_, S.S., 28. Eagle Island, 27, 28, 31. East Greenland, xxvii. Edinburgh University, Degree of LL.D., 365. Egingwah, 69, 76, 142, 143, 146, 147, 148, 167, 251, 267, 269, 271, 299, 312. Eider-ducks, 138. Ellesmere Land, 76, 89, 90, 93. Emergency outfit, 96. _Erebus_, S.S., xx. _Erik_, S.S., 73, 74, 75, 76, 77. Eskimos, astronomers, 67; burial customs, 65; characteristics of, 46; clothing, 131; dogs, 70, 135, 169; fear of "Big Lead," 191; fish spear, 127; home of a little tribe of, 36, 39; housecleaning on _Roosevelt_, 330; human qualities, 44; language, 50; marriage, 59; method of fishing, 127; money, 72; music, 65; of Danish Greenland, 46; on shipboard, 98; religion, 63; rewarded, 323; sledge, 135, 217, 219, 237; theory as to origin, 49; villages, 42; whip, 136. Etah, 6, 38, 39, 43, 46, 73, 79, 88, 89, 90, 91, 95, 96, 103, 106, 124, 170, 213, 333. Expedition, Austrian-Hungarian, xxvii; British Arctic, 38, 129; first of Peary Arctic Club, 11, 12; German North Polar, xxvii; Greely's, 329; Hayes', 38; Kallistenius, 38; Koldewey's, 180; Lady Franklin Bay, 168; of 1905-6, 2, 91, 184, 302; Polaris, 38. Fanshawe Martin, Cape, 325. "Farthest North" of 1906, 188. Farewell, Cape, xv. Field work, 188. First Despatch from Peary, 334. Flag, American, 30, 294, 296, 335; North Pole, 335. Flaxman Island, 344, 345. Fort Conger, 93, 148, 168, 329, 339-348. Fort Totten, 26. Fourth of July, 331. Fox, 54, 127, 257, 307, 315, 328. _Fram_, S.S., xxv, 121, 338, 345. Franke, Rudolph, 75. Franklin, Lady, xx. Franklin, Sir John, xix, 9, 298, 321; record of death, xxi. Franz Josef Land, xxvi. Frazer, Cape, 91. Frederiksthaal, xxvii. Fricker, Carl, 180. Gannett, Henry, 363. Generosity of the public, 18. German North Polar expedition, xxvii. _Gjoa_, sloop, xxi. Glacial fringe, 194, 216, 314, 315. Goodsell, Dr. J. W., career, 21; extract from his journal, 157; exploring, 106, 128; hunting, 141, 179, 188; moving supplies, 138, 191; reached ship, 325; recording temperature, 190; slips from floe, 108; turns back, 235. Grant Land, 4, 6, 7, 38, 40, 90, 93, 134, 142, 168, 179, 193, 195, 300-315. Great Britain, xv, xxiii, 269. Great Fish River, xix. Great Greenland ice-cap, xxix, 53, 275, 276, 284. "Great Night," 161, 183. Greely, Lieut. A. W., xxx, xxxi, 39, 94, 180, 329, 340, 346, 348. Greenland, xxiii, xxix, xxx, 4, 11, 28, 32, 38, 45, 50, 89, 90, 102, 130, 187, 188, 195, 211-219, 303, 304, 325, 337; storms, 166; Sea, 345. Grinnell, Henry, xxii. Grinnell Land, 49. Grosvenor, Gilbert H., xxxii. Gulf of St. Lawrence, 101. Gushue, Thomas, 23, 112, 326. Hakluyt Island, 73. Hall Basin, xxii. Hall, Chas. Francis, xxii, 3, 180, 328. Hares, arctic, 54, 110, 127, 138, 182, 189, 315. Hareskin stockings, 257. Harkness, 34, 35. "Harrigan," 132, 203, 253, 319. Harris, R. A., 337. Harrison, 345. Hawks Harbor, 34. Hayes, 38, 180. Hecla, Cape, 141, 159, 190, 217, 226, 280. Henry VIII of England, xv. Henson, Matthew, at the Pole, 296; career, 20; celebrating, 184; chosen for final dash, 272; hunting trips, 141, 179; hunting walrus, 81; interpreter, 109; moving supplies, 191; pioneer division, 241; repairing sledge, 246; teaches igloo building, 172; visits Eskimos, 73. House where Peary wintered in 1901-2, 93. Hubbard, General Thomas H., 16, 25, 124. Hubbard Memorial Hall, 363. Hubbardville, 124, 128. "Hudson, the," 226. Hudson, Henry, xv, 298; Strait, 169. Hungarian Geographical Society, medal of, 365. Ice cake ferry, 250, 308. Ice, dynamiting the, 115. Iceland, 345. Igloo, construction of snow, 172, 173; construction of stone, 54, 57. Imperial Austrian Geographical Society, medal of, 365. Imperial German Geographical Society, medal of, 365. Independence, Bay, xxix, 18, 99, 151, 276; Bluff, 215. Inglefield, 180; Gulf, 73. Indian Harbor, 334. Indies, xv, xvi. Inighito, 141, 160, 167. Instrument used for observation at the Pole, 288. Ikwah, 52, 271. Italian record, 252, 269. Island, Beaumont, 337; Bennett, 344, 346; Blackwell, 25, 26; Brevoort, 90; Cary, 38; Duck, 37-39; Eagle, 27, 28, 31; Flaxman, 344, 345; Hakluyt, 73; New Siberian, 49, 344; Northumberland, 73; Prince Patrick, 346; Salvo, 72; Spitzbergen, 341, 342; Turnavik, 35. Itiblu Glacier, 74. Jackman, Captain, 28. Jackson, xxvi. James Ross Bay, 143, 144, 155, 179. Jamestown, xv. _Jeannette_, S.S., xxiv, xxv, 101, 345. Jefferds, 334. Jesup Land, 295. Johansen, xxv. Johnson, 76. Joseph Henry, Cape, 92, 222, 337. Joyce, Patrick, 23, 326. Kallistenius, 38. Kamiks, 132, 209, 257. Kane Basin, 36, 53, 73, 94, 342, 343. Kane, Elisha Kent, xxii, 38, 180, 298. Kangerdlooksoah, 74. Karko, 141, 203, 253, 266. Karnah, 74. Kayaks, 42, 68. Kennedy Channel, 102, 331, 342, 343. Keshungwah, 141, 168, 203, 253, 266. King William Land, xx, xxi. Kislingbury, Lieut., 329. "Kitchen boxes," 131, 139. _Kite_, S.S., xxviii. Knitting breaks in trail, 207. Koldewey, 180. Kookan, 74. Koolatoonah, 142, 146, 148, 153, 155. Kooletah, 131. Koolootingwah, 235. Kudlooktoo, 213, 218, 220, 231, 253, 319. Kyoahpahdo, 65. Kyutah, 141, 218, 220, 223, 227. Labrador, 32, 34, 35, 77. Lady Franklin Bay, 78, 168, 329. Lake Hazen, 118, 127, 141, 179, 182, 188. Land in unknown Arctic, 339. Larned, Walter A., 76. Leads, 196, 207, 221, 222, 236-285, 305. Leffingwell, 345. Lena, xxv. Lieber, Cape, 102. Lincoln, Bay, 93, 106, 110, 112, 117, 118; Sea, 91, 342. Lions of the North, 79. Lockwood, xxiii, 321, 337. Long night, 162. Long, Thomas, xxiv. Low Point Light, 29. Lunar hours, 341. Lunitidal interval, 340. McClintock, Leopold, xxi. McClure, Robert, xxi. McCormick Bay, xxix. MacMillan, Prof. Donald B., career, 21; entertains Eskimos, 231; expedition to Clements Markham Inlet, 157; finds Greely relics, 329; his Eskimos overcome, 158; hunting walrus, 81, 82, 83; ill with grip, 128, 140; moving supplies, 191; reached ship, 325; reconnoitering, 117; sent back for supplies, 227; sounding, 222; takes charge of sports, 185; tidal observations, 167; turns back, 236. Magellan, xxxii. Manchester Geographical Society, honorary membership, 365. Markham, Sir Clements, xxiii, xxx, 49, 180, 222, 337. Marvin, Prof. Ross G., appreciation of his work, 319; celebrating, 184; comes back with supplies, 235; delayed by leads, 308; facsimile of certificate, 356-358; facsimile of observations, 351-355; last message, 321; news of his death, 318; pioneer division, 237, 241, 243; replaces _Alert's_ record, 129; returns to "Crane City," 223; return from Cape Bryant, 191; soundings, 222; starts for Greenland coast, 187; starts south, 253; takes supplies to Cape Belknap, 138; taking observations, 168, 249, 252; teaching igloo building, 172; tidal igloo split by pressure, 177. May, Cape, 337. Mayen, Jan, xv. _Mayflower_, S.S., 26. Medals, 364, 365. Melville Bay, 36, 37, 39, 40, 53. Melville, G. W., xxv., 298. Meridian observations, method of taking, 288. Meteorological observations, 339. Meteorology, 346. Method for loading sledge, 209. Mikkelsen, 345. Mills, Hugh Robert, 180. Mongolian types among Eskimos, 49. Monument to Marvin, 321. Morris K. Jesup, Camp, 290; Cape, 13, 21, 253, 254, 295, 326, 328, 338, 348. Murphy, Denis, 23, 82, 326. Murphy, John, 20, 23, 75, 76. Musk-oxen, 110, 151-157, 183, 189-191. Nansen, Dr., v, xxv, xxix, xxx, 12, 121, 180, 244, 251-254, 308. Nares, George, xxiii, xxx, 180. _Narkeeta_, S.S., 26. Narwhal, 87, 132. National Geographic Society, medal of, 365; report on Peary's record, 363; resolutions, 364. "Nautical Almanac and Navigator," 289. Navy League, 80. Nelson, xvi. Nerke, 74, 332. New Bedford, 27. Newfoundland, 76. New Land, xxiv. Newman Bay, 188. New Siberian Islands, 49, 344. New York, 2, 3, 6, 12, 25, 26, 34, 37, 42, 53, 76, 92, 111, 121. Nordenskjöld, 11, 180. North America, xvi, xix. Northeast Passage, xvi. Northern Greenland, 53. North Grant Land, 90, 128, 194. North Pole, defined, 291; flag, 335; hill, 309; magnetic xvii, xix. North River, 92. _North Star_, S.S., 27, 38. North Star Bay, 38, 73. North Sydney, 29. Northumberland Island, 73. Northwest Passage, xvi, xviii, xx, xxi. Norton, George S., 76. Norway, 345. Norwegian record, 250, 251. Note to Marvin, 232. Nova Zembla, xxvii. Nunatoksoah, 74. Observations, tidal and meteorological, 168, 188, 211, 243, 248, 266, 268, 284, 287, 289, 290, 318, 329, 337, 339, 342, 348, 350-355, 359, 362. Ocean, Arctic, 4, 49, 193, 216, 337, 344; Atlantic, xx, xxi, 343; Pacific, xxi. Odometer, 211. Ohlsen, 38. Onkilon, 49. "On the _Polar Star_ in the Arctic Sea," 180. Onwagipsoo, 142. Ooblooyah, 117, 142, 143, 146, 147, 149, 153, 155, 167. Oomunnui, 78. Ooqueah, 52, 69, 73, 117, 141, 203, 247, 253, 269, 271, 304. Ootah, 7, 69, 76, 117, 141, 235, 253, 267, 269, 271, 316. Oyster Bay, 26. Pacific Ocean, xxi. Panikpah, 141, 191, 230. Paraselene, 175. Parhelion, 176. Parish, Henry, 16. Parr, 337. Parry, xvii, xviii, xix, xxiii, xxx; Peninsula, 145, 159. Payer, xxvi, 180; Harbor, 92, 93, 94. Peabody, Geo., xxii. "Pearyaksoah," 52. Peary Arctic Club, 13, 15, 25, 26, 27, 95, 103, 124, 204, 253, 326, 334, 335. Peary Land, 342. Peary, Marie Ahnighito, 31, 130. Peary, Mrs. Robert E., xxix, 19, 26, 27, 29, 30, 45, 49, 93, 186, 294, 299, 334. Peary, Robert E., Jr., 29, 113. "Peary," sledge, 122, 135, 174, 217, 219, 237, 277. Peary's observation, April 6, facsimile, 362. "Peary system," 201. Percy, Charles, 20, 23, 32, 99, 113, 130, 164, 181, 184, 186, 326, 327. Percy, George, 23, 326. Permanent monument, 325. Petersen, 38, 128. Philadelphia Geographical Society, medal of, 365. Phipps, J. C., xvi. Piblokto, 166, 167, 178. Pilgrim Fathers, xv. Pingahshoo, 184. Pioneer party, 203-205, 214, 237, 241. Pitlekaj, 344, 345. Plan, 3. Plymouth Rock, xv. Point, Aldrich, 339, 340, 343, 345, 347, 348; Amour Light, 33, 34; Barrow, 344-346; Good, 159; Moss, 4. Polar, Basin, 345; bear, 54, 75, 79, 130, 132, 146, 156, 169, 252, 309, 315; Sea, 5, 88, 90, 134, 193, 195, 206, 207, 237, 255, 262, 315, 320. _Polaris_, S.S., xxiii, 38, 91, 102. Polaris Promontory, 188, 190. Polar pack, 337. Poodloonah, 141, 167, 230, 253. Porter Bay, 118, 120, 134, 140, 142, 143, 276. Pressure ridges, 194, 196, 205, 207, 217, 250, 260, 261. Prince Patrick Island, 346. Princess Marie Bay, 100. Pritchard, William, 23, 75. _Proteus_, S.S., 91. _Protococcus nivalis_, 72. Rae, xx. Raven, Anton A., 16. Rawson, Cape, 120, 317. Record of 1906, 262. Recrossing the "big lead" in 1906, 41. Redcliffe Peninsula, 74. "Red snow," 72. Regan, 331. Reindeer, 54, 110, 118, 143, 183. Relay parties, 187. Return in November, 1906, 32. Return of the sun, 227. Richardson, Cape, 134, 138, 140, 168. Robertson Bay, 74. Robeson Channel, 77, 102, 122, 134, 168, 188, 190, 328, 329, 342. Roosevelt, Mrs. Theodore, 26, 27. _Roosevelt_, the, after deckhouse, 31; aground, 115; American built, 19; at Lincoln Bay, 112; bucking ice, 100, 110; cairn, 129; caught off Victoria Head, 95; collision with berg, 89; damaged by ice, 114, 119; departure from, 213; Eskimo quarters on, 98, 124; goes on to Etah, 73; gripped in the ice, 177; igloos on deck, 175; in storm, 1906, 32; in winter quarters, 126; leaves Etah, 89; leaves Lincoln Bay, 118; leaves New York, 25; leaves Sydney, 29; leaving Cape York, 72; leaving winter quarters, 331; loaded deep, 77; loading walrus, 87; method of procedure, 91, 92; passing Cape Sabine, 94; passing Payer Harbor, 93; Peary's cabin on, 30; put in fighting trim, 75; reaches Cape Breton, 334; reaches Cape Sheridan, 120; reaches Cape York, 42; repairs and changes, 13; return to, 317, 325; return to Battle Harbor, 334; standing by hunters, 80; steaming northward, 36; unloading, 122; visits Eagle Island, 27; winter home on the, 162, 166. Roosevelt, Theodore, viii, 26, 27, 30, 339; his good-by to Peary, vii. Ross, James Clark, xix, 334. Ross, Capt. John, 72, xviii. Route of return in 1906, 304. Royal Belgian Geographical Society, medal of, 365. Royal Geographical Society of Antwerp, medal of, 365. Royal Geographical Society of London, 49; medal of, 365. Royal Italian Geographical Society, medal of, 365. Royal Netherlands Geographical Society of Amsterdam, honorary membership, 365. Royal Scottish Geographical Society, special trophy, 365. Sabine, Cape, 39, 89, 94, 95, 124, 332. Sagamore Hill, 27. Sail Harbor, 134, 142, 145, 155. Salvo Island, 72. Sanderson Hope, xv. Sandy Hook, 168. Saumarez, Cape, 74, 332. Scoresby, William, xxvii. Scotch whalers, 37. Scott, Banks, 23, 326. Scott, Capt., 180. Seal, 65, 250. Secretary of Commerce and Labor, 339. Seegloo, 69, 73, 141, 167, 203, 234, 269, 271, 299. _Sheelah_, S.S., 334. Sheridan, Cape, 5, 6, 38, 77, 88-129, 157, 168, 178, 193, 213, 325, 330, 332, 339, 349. Siberia, xxiv, 49, 344, 345. "Siege of the South Pole," 180. Skeans, Patrick, 23, 326. Sledge, Eskimo, 122, 135, 217, 219, 237, 277; "Peary," 122, 135, 174, 217, 219, 237, 277. Smith Sound, xxvii, 3, 5, 76, 77, 124, 180, 342, 343. Sontag, 38, 321. Sounding apparatus, 210. Soundings, 210, 222, 227, 236, 246, 262, 304, 309, 329, 337, 338. "_Southern Cross_ Expedition to the Antarctic," 180. Spitzbergen Islands, xv, xvii, 341, 342. St. Charles, Cape, 34. St. George, Cape, 35. Stepping Stone Light, 26. "Storm camp," 243, 306. Straits of Belle Isle, 3, 32. Styx, 225, 226. Summer solstice, 330. Supplies, 23. Supporting party, 204, 206. Sydney, C. B., 3, 6, 23, 28, 29, 32, 42, 77, 299, 334. Tampa, Florida, 42. Tasmania, xix. Tawchingwah, 141. Temperature tables, 346, 347. Tents, 139. Teplitz Bay, 345. _Terror_, S.S., xix. Thank God Harbor, 102. Thanksgiving Day, 179. Thomas Hubbard, Cape, 21, 110, 295, 325. Tide, staves, 339; table, 340. Tiger of the North, 79. _Tigress_, ship, xxiii. Tittmann, Supt. O. H., 337, 364. Tookoomah, 187. Tornarsuk, 64, 147, 148, 150, 215, 219. Toxingwa, 158. Transportation of supplies, 130, 134, 191, 327. Tupiks, 44, 54, 58, 59. Turnavik Island, 35. _Tyrian_, S.S., 334. Unexplored inlet, 154. Union, Cape, 110, 118, 188, 332. United States, 170, 316. Victoria Head, 95. _Victory_, S.S., xviii. "Voyage of the _Discovery_," 180. "Voyage to the Polar Sea," 180. _Wakiva_, S.S., 34. Walrus, xvi, 65, 77, 79, 80-87, 169, 333. Walrus-hunting, 80-87. Wardwell, George A., 20, 23, 101, 326. Weekly bill of fare, 164. Weesockasee, 158. Wesharkoopsi, 84, 85, 142, 145, 168, 235. Weyprecht, xxvi, 180. Whale-boat, 29, 31, 79, 80, 84, 95, 123. Whale factories, 34. Whale Sound, 3, 54, 74, 79, 87, 328. Whales, xvi. White Nile, viii. Whitney, Harry, 75, 333. Willoughby, 321. _Windward_, S.S., 93, 130. Winter solstice, 184. Wiseman, John, 23, 326. Wolf, 54. Wolf, Dr., 20. Wolstenholm Sound, 73, 79. "World's Ensign of Liberty and Peace," 296. Wrangell Land, xxiv. York, Cape, 32, 35, 39-46, 70-73, 271, 334. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. List of Illustrations, "Weeshakupsi" changed to "Wesharkoopsi". Page 21, "Alleghany" changed to "Allegheny". (the Allegheny Valley Medical) Page 32, word "it" added to text. (reason that it is) Page 59, "tries" changed to "dries" (dries out the oil) Page 64, "appeciation" changed to "appreciation". (appreciation of these) Page 117, "Ookeyah" changed to "Ooqueah". (Ooqueah started off) Page 141, "Kyootah" changed to "Kyutah". (Keshungwah, Kyutah, and Borup) Page 141, "Ookeyah" changed to "Ooqueah". (Inighito, Ooqueah, Dr. Goodsell,) Page 142, "Wesharkoopsee" changed to "Wesharkoopsi". (Wesharkoopsi, who) (Wesharkoopsi we took) Page 145, "Wesharkoopsee" changed to "Wesharkoopsi". (pile for Wesharkoopsi) (Wesharkoopsi deposited) Page 154, "Oobloyah" changed to "Ooblooyah". (a camp. Ooblooyah) Page 160, "Innighito" changed to "Inighito". (Inighito (an Eskimo)) Page 167, "Ooblooah" changed to "Ooblooyah" (Ooblooyah and Seegloo went) Page 168, "Wesharkoopsee" changed to "Weesharkoopsi". (Wesharkoopsi and Keshungwah) Page 177, "floe berg" changed to "floe-berg" to conform to rest of text. Page 203, "Pooadloonah" changed to "Poodloonah". (three Eskimos, Poodloonah,) Page 230, "Pooadloonah" changed to "Poodloonah". (excuses of Poodloonah) Page 237, "good by" changed to "good-by" to conform to rest of text. Also in illustrations. Also in titles of Chapters XXVII and XXXIII. Page 253, "Keshingwah" changed to "Keshungwah". (Keshungwah, with three) Page 266, "Keshingwah" changed to "Keshungwah". (Keshungwah and Karko) Page 271, "Ikwa" changed to "Ikwah". (old Ikwah of Cape) Page 296, "Ookeah" changed to "Ooqueah". (and Ooqueah, Eskimos) Page 319, "Koodlooktoo" changed to "Kudlooktoo". (come back, Kudlooktoo) Page 370, "Johanson" changed to "Johansen". (Johansen, xxv.) Page 317, "Ookeyah, 117" changed to "Ooqueah" and added to "Ooqueah" page list in index. Page 370, "Kernah" changed to "Karnah". (Karnah, 74.) 
36962	----	[Illustration: Frederick A. Cook] _Press Edition_ MY ATTAINMENT OF THE POLE _Being the Record of the Expedition that First Reached the Boreal Center, 1907-1909. With the Final Summary of the Polar Controversy_ _By_ DR. FREDERICK A. COOK THIRD PRINTING, 60TH THOUSAND [Illustration] NEW YORK AND LONDON MITCHELL KENNERLEY MCMXIII By Special arrangements this edition is marketed by The Polar Publishing Co., 601 Steinway Hall, Chicago COPYRIGHT 1913 BY DR. FREDERICK A. COOK _OTHER BOOKS BY DR. COOK_ Through the First Antarctic Night A Narrative of the Belgian South Polar Expedition. To the Top of the Continent Exploration in Sub-Arctic Alaska--The First Ascent of Mt. McKinley My Attainment of the Pole Edition de Luxe Each of above series will be sent post paid for $5.00. All to one address for $14.00. Address: THE POLAR PUBLISHING CO. 601 Steinway Hall, Chicago _To the Pathfinders_ To the Indian who invented pemmican and snowshoes; To the Eskimo who gave the art of sled traveling; To this twin family of wild folk who have no flag Goes the first credit. To the forgotten trail makers whose book of experience has been a guide; To the fallen victors whose bleached bones mark steps in the ascent of the ladder of latitudes; To these, the pathfinders--past, present and future--I inscribe the first page. In the ultimate success there is glory enough To go to the graves of the dead and to the heads of the living. THE PRESENT STATUS OF THE POLAR CONTROVERSY DR. COOK IS VINDICATED. HIS DISCOVERY OF THE NORTH POLE IS ENDORSED BY THE EXPLORERS OF ALL THE WORLD. In placing Dr. Cook on the Chautauqua platform as a lecturer, we have been compelled to study the statements issued for and against the rival polar claims with special reference to the facts bearing upon the present status of the Polar Controversy. Though the question has been argued during four years, we find that it is almost the unanimous opinion of arctic explorers today, that Dr. Cook reached the North Pole on April 21, 1909. With officer Peary's first announcement he chose to force a press campaign to deny Dr. Cook's success and to proclaim himself as the sole Polar Victor. Peary aimed to be retired as a Rear-Admiral on a pension of $6,000 per year. This ambition was granted; but the American Congress rejected his claim for priority by eliminating from the pension bill the words "Discovery of the Pole." The European geographical societies, forced under diplomatic pressure to honor Peary, have also refused him the title of "Discoverer." By a final verdict of the American government and of the highest European authorities, Peary is therefore denied the assumption of being the discoverer of the Pole, though his claim as a re-discoverer is allowed. The evasive inscriptions on the Peary medals prove this statement. Following the acute excitement of the first announcement, it seemed to be desirable to bring the question to a focus by submitting to some authoritative body for decision. Such an institution, however, did not exist. Previously, explorers had been rated by the slow process of historic digestion and assimilation of the facts offered, but it was thought that an academic examination would meet the demands. Officer Peary first submitted his case to a commission appointed by the National Geographical Society of Washington, D. C. This jury promptly said that in their "opinion" Peary reached the Pole on April 6, 1909; but a year later in congress the same men unwillingly admitted that in the Peary proofs there was no positive proof. Dr. Cook's data was sent to a commission appointed by the University of Copenhagen. The Danes reported that the material presented was incomplete and did not constitute positive proof. This verdict, however, did not carry the interpretation that the Pole had not been reached. The Danes have never said, as they have been quoted by the press, that Dr. Cook did not reach the Pole; quite to the contrary, the University of Copenhagen conferred the degree of Ph. D. and the Royal Danish Geographical Society gave a gold medal, both in recognition of the merits of the Polar effort. This early examination was based mostly upon the nautical calculations for position, and both verdicts when analyzed gave the version that in such observations there was no positive proof. The Washington jury ventured an opinion. The Danes refused to give an opinion, but showed their belief in Dr. Cook's success by conferring honorary degrees. It is the unfair interpretation of the respective verdicts by the newspapers which has precipitated the turbulent air of distrust which previously rested over the entire Polar achievement. All this, however, has now been cleared by the final word of fifty of the foremost Polar explorers and scientific experts. In so far as they were able to judge from all the data presented in the final books of both claimants the following experts have given it as their opinion that Dr. Cook reached the Pole, and that officer Peary's similar report coming later is supplementary proof of the first victory: General A. W. Greely, U. S. A., commander of the Lady Franklin Bay Expedition, who spent four years in the region under discussion. Rear Admiral W. S. Schley, U. S. N., commander of the Greely Relief Expedition. Capt. Otto Sverdrup, discoverer of the land over which Dr. Cook's route was forced. Capt. J. E. Bernier, commanding the Canadian Arctic Expeditions. Prof. G. Frederick Wright, author of the "Ice Age of North America." Capt. E. B. Baldwin, commanding the Baldwin-Ziegler Expedition. Prof. W. H. Brewer for 16 years president of the Arctic Club of America. Prof. Julius Payer of the Weyprecht-Payer Expedition. Prof. L. L. Dyche, member of various Peary and Cook Expeditions. Mr. Maurice Connell, Greely Expedition, and U. S. Weather Bureau. Capt. O. C. Hamlet, U. S. A. Arctic Revenue Service. Capt. E. A. Haven, Baldwin-Ziegler Expedition. Mr. Andrew J. Stone, Explorer of North Coast of America. Mr. Dillon Wallace, Labrador Explorer. Mr. Edwin Swift Balch, author of "The North Pole and Bradley Land." Captains Johan Menander, B. S. Osbon and Thomas F. Hall. Messrs. Henry Biederbeck, Frederick B. Wright, F. F. Taylor, Ralph H. Cairns, Theodore Lerner, M. Van Ryssellberghe, J. Knowles Hare, Chas. E. Rilliet, Homer Rogers, R. C. Bates, E. C. Rost, L. C. Bement, Clarence Wychoff, Alfred Church, Archibald Dickinson, Robert Stein, J. S. Warmbath, Geo. B. Butland, Ralph Shainwald, Henry Johnson, S. J. Entrikin, Clark Brown, W. F. Armbruster, John R. Bradley, Harry Whitney and Rudolph Franke. Drs. T. F. Dedrick, Middleton Smith, J. G. Knowlton, H. J. Egbert, W. H. Axtell, A. H. Cordier and Henry Schwartz. Judge Jules Leclercq, and Prof. Georges Lecointe, Secretary of the International Bureau of Polar Research. Thus endorsed by practically all Polar Explorers, Dr. Cook's attainment of the Pole and his earlier work of discovery and exploration is farther established by the following honorary pledges of recognition. (These are now in the possession of Dr. Cook, the press reports to the contrary being untrue). By the King of Belgium, decorated as Knight of the Order of Leopold. By the University of Copenhagen in conferring the degree of Ph. D. By the Royal Danish Geographical Society, presentation of a gold medal. By the Arctic Club of America, presentation of a gold medal. By the Royal Geographical Society of Belgium, presentation of a gold medal. By the Municipality of the City of Brussels, presentation of a gold medal. By the Municipality of the City of New York, with the ceremony of presenting the keys and offering the freedom of the city. Without denying officer Peary's success, we note that his case rests upon the opinion of three of his official associates in Washington. Three men acting for a society financially interested--three men who have never seen a piece of Polar ice--have given it as their "opinion" that Mr. Peary (a year later than Dr. Cook) reached the Pole. By many this was accepted as a final verdict of experts for Peary. But are such men dependable experts? Dr. Cook now offers in substantiation of his work the support and the final verdict of fifty of the foremost explorers and scientific experts. Each in his own way has during the past four years examined the polar problem and pronounced in favor of Dr. Cook. He is therefore vindicated of the propaganda of insinuation and distrust which his enemies forced, and his success in reaching the Pole is conceded and endorsed by his own peers. In his book, "My Attainment of the Pole," Dr. Cook offers with thrilling vividness a most remarkable series of adventures in the enraptured wilderness at the top of the globe. And in his lectures he takes his audience step by step over the haunts of northernmost man and beyond to the sparkling sea of death at the pole. Above all he leaves in the hearts of his listeners the thrills of a fresh vigor and a new inspiration, which opens the way for other worlds to conquer. By his books and by his lectures, Dr. Cook seeks justice at the bar of public opinion, and three million people have applauded his effort on the platform. One hundred thousand people will read his book during the coming year. We are inclined to agree with Capt. E. B. Baldwin and other Arctic explorers who say--"Putting aside the academic and idle argument of pin-point accuracy, the North Pole has been honestly reached by Dr. Cook, three hundred and fifty days before any one else claimed to have been there." May 22, 1913. THE CHAUTAUQUA MANAGERS' ASSOCIATION, ORCHESTRA BUILDING, CHICAGO. Chas. W. Ferguson, Pres. A. L. Flude, Sec'y. PREFACE This narrative has been prepared as a general outline of my conquest of the North Pole. In it the scientific data, the observations, every phase of the pioneer work with its drain of human energy has been presented in its proper relation to a strange cycle of events. The camera has been used whenever possible to illustrate the progress of the expedition as well as the wonders and mysteries of the Arctic wilds. Herein, with due after-thought and the better perspective afforded by time, the rough field notes, the disconnected daily tabulations and the records of instrumental observations, every fact, every optical and mental impression, has been re-examined and re-arranged to make a concise record of successive stages of progress to the boreal center. If I have thus worked out an understandable panorama of our environment, then the mission of this book has served its purpose. Much has been said about absolute geographic proof of an explorer's work. History demonstrates that the book which gives the final authoritative narrative is the test of an explorer's claims. By it every traveler has been measured. From the time of the discovery of America to the piercing of darkest Africa and the opening of Thibet, men who have sought the truth of the claims of discovery have sought, not abstract figures, but the continuity of the narrative in the pages of the traveler's final book. In such a narrative, after due digestion and assimilation, there is to be found either the proof or the disproof of the claims of a discoverer. In such narratives as the one herewith presented, subsequent travelers and other experts, with no other interests to serve except those of fair play, have critically examined the material. With the lapse of time accordingly, when partisanship feelings have been merged in calm and conscientious judgment, history has always finally pronounced a fair and equitable verdict. In a similar way my claim of being first to reach the North Pole will rest upon the data presented between the covers of this book. In working out the destiny of this Expedition, and this book which records its doings, I have to acknowledge my gratitude for the assistance of many people. First among those to whom I am deeply indebted is John R. Bradley. By his liberal hand this Expedition was given life, and by his loyal support and helpfulness I was enabled to get to my base of operations at Annoatok. By his liberal donations of food we were enabled to live comfortably during the first year. To John R. Bradley, therefore, belong the first fruits of the Polar conquest. A tribute of praise must be placed on record for Rudolph Francke. After the yacht returned, he was my sole civilized helper and companion. The faithful manner in which he performed the difficult duties assigned to him, and his unruffled cheerfulness during the trying weeks of the long night, reflect a large measure of credit. The band of little people of the Farthest North furnished without pay the vital force and the primitive ingenuity without which the quest of the Pole would be a hopeless task. These boreal pigmies with golden skins, with muscles of steel, and hearts as finely human as those of the highest order of man, performed a task that cannot be too highly commended. The two boys, Ah-we-lah and E-tuk-i-shook, deserve a place on the tablet of fame. They followed me with a perseverance which demonstrates one of the finest qualities of savage life. They shared with me the long run of hardship; they endured without complaint the unsatisfied hunger, the unquenched thirst, and the maddening isolation, with no thought of reward except that which comes from an unselfish desire to follow one whom they chose to regard as a friend. If a noble deed was ever accomplished, these boys did it, and history should record their heroic effort with indelible ink. At the request of Mrs. Cook, the Canadian Government sent its ship, the "Arctic," under Captain Bernier, with supplementary supplies for me, to Etah. These were left under the charge of Mr. Harry Whitney. The return to civilization was made in comfort, by the splendid manner in which this difficult problem was carried out. To each and all in this combination I am deeply indebted. With sweet memories of the warm hospitality of Danes in Greenland, I here subscribe my never-to-be-forgotten appreciation. I am also indebted to the Royal Greenland Trading Company and to the United S. S. Company for many favors; and, above all, am I grateful to the Danes as a nation, for the whole-souled demonstrations of friendship and appreciation at Copenhagen. In the making of this book, I was relieved of much routine editorial work by Mr. T. Everett Harry, associate editor of Hampton's Magazine, who rearranged much of my material, and by whose handling of certain purely adventure matter a book of better literary workmanship has been made. I am closing the pages of this book with a good deal of regret, for, in the effort to make the price of this volume so low that it can go into every home, the need for brevity has dictated the number of pages. My last word to all--to friends and enemies--is, if you must pass judgment, study the problem carefully. You are as capable of forming a correct judgment as the self-appointed experts. One of Peary's captains has said "that he knew, but never would admit, that Peary did not reach the Pole." Rear Admiral Chester has said the same about me, but he "admits" it in big, flaming type. With due respect to these men, in justice to the cause, I am bound to say that these, and others of their kind, who necessarily have a blinding bias, are not better able to judge than the average American citizen. If you have read this book, then read Mr. Peary's "North Pole." Put the two books side by side. When making comparisons, remember that my attainment of the Pole was one year earlier than Mr. Peary's claim; that my narrative was written and printed months before that of Mr. Peary; that the Peary narrative is such that Rear Admiral Schley has said--"After reading the published accounts daily and critically of both claimants, I was forced to the conclusion from their striking similarity that each of you was the eye-witness of the other's success. Without collusion, it would have been impossible to have written accounts so similar." This opinion, coming as it does from one of the highest Arctic and Naval authorities, is endorsed by practically all Arctic explorers. Captain E. B. Baldwin goes even further, and proves my claim from the pages of Peary's own book. Governor Brown of Georgia, after a critical examination of the two reports, says, "If it is true, as Peary would like us to believe, that Cook has given us a gold brick, then Peary has offered a paste diamond." Since my account was written and printed first, the striking analogy apparent in the Peary pages either proves my position at the Pole or it convicts Peary of using my data to fill out and impart verisimilitude to his own story of a second victory. Much against my will I find myself compelled to uncover the dark pages of the selfish unfairness of rival interests. In doing so my aim is not to throw doubt and distrust on Mr. Peary's success, but to show his incentive and his methods in attempting to leave the sting of discredit upon me. I would prefer to close my eye to a long series of wrong doings as I have done in the passing years, but the Polar controversy cannot be understood unless we get the perspective of the man who has forced it. Heretofore I have allowed others to expend their argumentative ammunition. The questions which I have raised are minor points. On the main question of Polar attainment there is not now room for doubt. The Pole has been honestly reached--the American Eagle has spread its wings of glory over the world's top. Whether there is room for one or two or more under those wings, I am content to let the future decide. FREDERICK A. COOK. The Waldorf-Astoria, New York, June 15, 1911. [Illustration] TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE I THE POLAR FIGHT 1 II INTO THE BOREAL WILDS 23 THE YACHT BRADLEY LEAVES GLOUCESTER--INVADES THE MAGIC WATERS OF THE ARCTIC SEAS--RECOLLECTIONS OF BOYHOOD AMBITIONS--BEYOND THE ARCTIC CIRCLE--THE WEAVING OF THE POLAR SPELL III THE DRIVING SPUR OF THE POLAR QUEST 42 ON THE FRIGID PATHWAY OF THREE CENTURIES OF HEROIC MARTYRS-- MEETING THE STRANGE PEOPLE OF THE FARTHEST NORTH--THE LIFE OF THE STONE AGE--ON THE CHASE WITH THE ESKIMOS--MANEE AND SPARTAN ESKIMO COURAGE IV TO THE LIMITS OF NAVIGATION 62 EXCITING HUNTS FOR GAME WITH THE ESKIMOS--ARRIVAL AT ETAH-- SPEEDY TRIP TO ANNOATOK, THE WINDY PLACE, WHERE SUPPLIES ARE FOUND IN ABUNDANCE--EVERYTHING AUSPICIOUS FOR DASH TO THE POLE--DETERMINATION TO ESSAY THE EFFORT--BRADLEY INFORMED-- DEBARK FOR THE POLE--THE YACHT RETURNS V PREPARATIONS FOR THE POLAR DASH 73 AN ENTIRE TRIBE BREATHLESSLY AND FEVERISHLY AT WORK--MAPPING OUT THE POLAR CAMPAIGN VI THE CURTAIN OF NIGHT DROPS 81 TRIBE OF TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY NATIVES BUSILY BEGIN PREPARATIONS FOR THE POLAR DASH--EXCITING HUNTS FOR THE UNICORN AND OTHER GAME FROM ANNOATOK TO CAPE YORK--EVERY ANIMAL CAUGHT BEARING UPON THE SUCCESS OF THE VENTURE--THE GRAY-GREEN GLOOM OF TWILIGHT IN WHICH THE ESKIMO WOMEN COMMUNICATE WITH THE SOULS OF THE DEAD VII FIRST WEEK OF THE LONG NIGHT 99 HUNTING IN THE ARCTIC TWILIGHT--PURSUING BEAR, CARIBOU AND SMALLER GAME IN SEMI-GLOOM VIII THE MOONLIGHT QUEST OF THE WALRUS 114 DESPERATE AND DANGEROUS HUNTING, IN ORDER TO SECURE ADEQUATE SUPPLIES FOR THE POLAR DASH--A THRILLING AND ADVENTUROUS RACE IS MADE OVER FROZEN SEAS AND ICY MOUNTAINS TO THE WALRUS GROUNDS--TERRIFIC EXPLOSION OF THE ICE ON WHICH THE PARTY HUNTS--SUCCESS IN SECURING OVER SEVEN SLED-LOADS OF BLUBBER MAKES THE POLE SEEM NEARER--AN ARCTIC TRAGEDY IX MIDNIGHT AND MID-WINTER 130 THE EQUIPMENT AND ITS PROBLEMS--NEW ART IN THE MAKING OF SLEDGES COMBINING LIGHTNESS--PROGRESS OF THE PREPARATIONS-- CHRISTMAS WITH ITS GLAD TIDINGS AND AUGURIES FOR SUCCESS IN QUEST OF THE POLE X EN ROUTE FOR THE POLE 149 THE CAMPAIGN OPENS--LAST WEEKS OF THE POLAR NIGHT--ADVANCE PARTIES SENT OUT--AWAITING THE DAWN XI EXPLORING A NEW PASS OVER ACPOHON 162 FROM THE ATLANTIC WATERS AT FLAGLER BAY TO THE PACIFIC WATERS AT BAY FIORD--THE MECCA OF THE MUSK OX--BATTLES WITH THE BOVINE MONSTERS OF THE ARCTIC--SUNRISE AND THE GLORY OF SUNSET XII IN GAME TRAILS TO LAND'S END 176 SVERDRUP'S NEW WONDERLAND--FEASTING ON GAME EN ROUTE TO SVARTEVOEG--FIRST SHADOW OBSERVATIONS--FIGHTS WITH WOLVES AND BEARS--THE JOYS OF ZERO'S LOWEST--THRESHOLD OF THE UNKNOWN XIII THE TRANS-BOREAL DASH BEGINS 194 BY FORCED EFFORTS AND THE USE OF AXES SPEED IS MADE OVER THE LAND-ADHERING PACK ICE OF POLAR SEA--THE MOST DIFFICULT TRAVEL OF THE PROPOSED JOURNEY SUCCESSFULLY ACCOMPLISHED-- REGRETFUL PARTING WITH THE ESKIMOS XIV OVER THE POLAR SEA TO THE BIG LEAD 208 WITH TWO ESKIMO COMPANIONS, THE RACE POLEWARD CONTINUES OVER ROUGH AND DIFFICULT ICE--THE LAST LAND FADES BEHIND--MIRAGES LEAP INTO BEING AND WEAVE A MYSTIC SPELL--A SWIRLING SCENE OF MOVING ICE AND FANTASTIC EFFECTS--STANDING ON A HILL OF ICE, A BLACK, WRITHING, SNAKY CUT APPEARS IN THE ICE BEYOND--THE BIG LEAD--A NIGHT OF ANXIETY--FIVE HUNDRED MILES ALREADY COVERED--FOUR HUNDRED TO THE POLE XV CROSSING MOVING SEAS OF ICE 221 CROSSING THE LEAD--THE THIN ICE HEAVES LIKE A SHEET OF RUBBER--CREEPING FORWARD CAUTIOUSLY, THE TWO DANGEROUS MILES ARE COVERED--BOUNDING PROGRESS MADE OVER IMPROVING ICE--THE FIRST HURRICANE--DOGS BURIED AND FROZEN INTO MASSES IN DRIFTS OF SNOW--THE ICE PARTS THROUGH THE IGLOO--WAKING TO FIND ONE'S SELF FALLING INTO THE COLD SEA XVI LAND DISCOVERED 232 FIGHTING PROGRESS THROUGH CUTTING COLD AND TERRIFIC STORMS-- LIFE BECOMES A MONOTONOUS ROUTINE OF HARDSHIP--THE POLE INSPIRES WITH ITS RESISTLESS LURE--NEW LAND DISCOVERED BEYOND THE EIGHTY-FOURTH PARALLEL--MORE THAN TWO HUNDRED MILES FROM SVARTEVOEG--THE FIRST SIX HUNDRED MILES COVERED XVII BEYOND THE RANGE OF LIFE 248 WITH A NEW SPRING TO WEARY LEGS BRADLEY LAND IS LEFT BEHIND-- FEELING THE ACHING VASTNESS OF THE WORLD BEFORE MAN WAS MADE-- CURIOUS GRIMACES OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN--SUFFERINGS INCREASE--BY PERSISTENT AND LABORIOUS PROGRESS ANOTHER HUNDRED MILES IS COVERED XVIII OVER POLAR SEAS OF MYSTERY 260 THE MADDENING TORTURES OF A WORLD WHERE ICE WATER SEEMS HOT, AND COLD KNIVES BURN ONE'S HANDS--ANGUISHED PROGRESS ON THE LAST STRETCH OF TWO HUNDRED MILES OVER ANCHORED LAND ICE-- DAYS OF SUFFERING AND GLOOM--THE TIME OF DESPAIR--"IT IS WELL TO DIE," SAYS AH-WE-LAH; "BEYOND IS IMPOSSIBLE" XIX TO THE POLE--LAST HUNDRED MILES 269 OVER PLAINS OF GOLD AND SEAS OF PALPITATING COLOR THE DOG TEAMS, WITH NOSES DOWN, TAILS ERECT, DASH SPIRITEDLY LIKE CHARIOT HORSES--CHANTING LOVE SONGS THE ESKIMOS FOLLOW WITH SWINGING STEP--TIRED EYES OPEN TO NEW GLORY--STEP BY STEP, WITH THUMPING HEARTS THE EARTH'S APEX IS NEARED--AT LAST! THE GOAL IS REACHED! THE STARS AND STRIPES ARE FLUNG TO THE FRIGID BREEZES OF THE NORTH POLE! XX AT THE NORTH POLE 286 OBSERVATIONS AT THE POLE--METEOROLOGICAL AND ASTRONOMICAL PHENOMENA--SINGULAR STABILITY AND UNIFORMITY OF THE THERMOMETER AND BAROMETER--A SPOT WHERE ONE'S SHADOW IS THE SAME LENGTH EACH HOUR OF THE TWENTY-FOUR--EIGHT POLAR ALTITUDES OF THE SUN XXI THE RETURN--A BATTLE FOR LIFE 314 TURNED BACKS TO THE POLE AND TO THE SUN--THE DOGS, SEEMINGLY GLAD AND SEEMINGLY SENSIBLE THAT THEIR NOSES WERE POINTED HOMEWARD, BARKED SHRILLY--SUFFERING FROM INTENSE DEPRESSION-- THE DANGERS OF MOVING ICE, OF STORMS AND SLOW STARVATION--THE THOUGHT OF FIVE HUNDRED AND TWENTY MILES TO LAND CAUSES DESPAIR XXII BACK TO LIFE AND BACK TO LAND 326 THE RETURN--DELUDED BY DRIFT AND FOG--CARRIED ASTRAY OVER AN UNSEEN DEEP--TRAVEL FOR TWENTY DAYS IN A WORLD OF MISTS, WITH THE TERROR OF DEATH--AWAKENED FROM SLEEP BY A HEAVENLY SONG--THE FIRST BIRD--FOLLOWING THE WINGED HARBINGER--WE REACH LAND--A BLEAK, BARREN ISLAND POSSESSING THE CHARM OF PARADISE--AFTER DAYS VERGING ON STARVATION, WE ENJOY A FEAST OF UNCOOKED GAME XXIII OVERLAND TO JONES SOUND 341 HOURS OF ICY TORTURE--A FRIGID SUMMER STORM IN THE BERG-DRIVEN ARCTIC SEA--A PERILOUS DASH THROUGH TWISTING LANES OF OPENING WATER IN A CANVAS CANOE--THE DRIVE OF HUNGER XXIV UNDER THE WHIP OF FAMINE 355 BY BOAT AND SLEDGE, OVER THE DRIFTING ICE AND STORMY SEAS OF JONES SOUND--FROM ROCK TO ROCK IN QUEST OF FOOD--MAKING NEW WEAPONS XXV BEAR FIGHTS AND WALRUS BATTLES 365 DANGEROUS ADVENTURES IN A CANVAS BOAT--ON THE VERGE OF STARVATION, A MASSIVE BRUTE, WEIGHING THREE THOUSAND POUNDS, IS CAPTURED AFTER A FIFTEEN-HOUR STRUGGLE--ROBBED OF PRECIOUS FOOD BY HUNGRY BEARS XXVI BULL FIGHTS WITH THE MUSK OX 378 AN ANCIENT CAVE EXPLORED FOR SHELTER--DEATH BY STARVATION AVERTED BY HAND-TO-HAND ENCOUNTERS WITH WILD ANIMALS XXVII A NEW ART OF CHASE 393 THREE WEEKS BEFORE THE SUNSET OF 1908--REVELLING IN AN EDEN OF GAME--PECULIARITIES OF ANIMALS OF THE ARCTIC--HOW NATURE DICTATES ANIMAL COLOR--THE QUEST OF SMALL LIFE XXVIII A HUNDRED NIGHTS IN AN UNDERGROUND DEN 406 LIVING LIKE MEN OF THE STONE AGE--THE DESOLATION OF THE LONG NIGHT--LIFE ABOUT CAPE SPARBO--PREPARING EQUIPMENT FOR THE RETURN TO GREENLAND--SUNRISE, FEBRUARY 11, 1909 XXIX HOMEWARD WITH A HALF SLEDGE AND HALF-FILLED STOMACHS 425 THREE HUNDRED MILES THROUGH STORM AND SNOW AND UPLIFTED MOUNTAINS OF ICE TROUBLES--DISCOVER TWO ISLANDS--ANNOATOK IS REACHED--MEETING HARRY WHITNEY--NEWS OF PEARY'S SEIZURE OF SUPPLIES XXX ANNOATOK TO UPERNAVIK 447 ELEVEN HUNDRED MILES SOUTHWARD OVER SEA AND LAND--AT ETAH-- OVERLAND TO THE WALRUS GROUNDS--ESKIMO COMEDIES AND TRAGEDIES-- A RECORD RUN OVER MELVILLE BAY--FIRST NEWS FROM PASSING SHIPS-- THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN--SOUTHWARD BY STEAMER GODTHAAB XXXI FROM GREENLAND TO COPENHAGEN 463 FOREWARNING OF THE POLAR CONTROVERSY--BANQUET AT EGGEDESMINDE--ON BOARD THE HANS EGEDE--CABLEGRAMS SENT FROM LERWICK--THE OVATION AT COPENHAGEN--BEWILDERED AMIDST THE GENERAL ENTHUSIASM--PEARY'S FIRST MESSAGES--EMBARK ON OSCAR II FOR NEW YORK XXXII COPENHAGEN TO THE UNITED STATES 476 ACROSS THE ATLANTIC--RECEPTION IN NEW YORK--BEWILDERING CYCLONE OF EVENTS--INSIDE NEWS OF THE PEARY ATTACK--HOW THE WEB OF SHAME WAS WOVEN XXXIII THE KEY TO THE CONTROVERSY 507 PEARY AND HIS PAST--HIS DEALING WITH RIVAL EXPLORERS--THE DEATH OF ASTRUP--THE THEFT OF THE "GREAT IRON STONE," THE NATIVES' SOLE SOURCE OF IRON XXXIV THE MT. MCKINLEY BRIBERY 521 THE BRIBED, FAKED AND FORGED NEWS ITEMS--THE PRO-PEARY MONEY POWERS ENCOURAGE PERJURY--MT. MCKINLEY HONESTLY CLIMBED--HOW, FOR PEARY, A SIMILAR PEAK WAS FAKED XXXV THE DUNKLE-LOOSE FORGERY 535 ITS PRO-PEARY MAKING XXXVI HOW A GEOGRAPHIC SOCIETY PROSTITUTED ITS NAME 541 THE WASHINGTON VERDICT--THE COPENHAGEN VERDICT RETROSPECT 557 THE PRESENT STATUS OF THE POLAR CONTROVERSY (Preceding Preface) (a) Dr. Cook Vindicated--His Discovery of the North Pole Endorsed by the Explorers of all the World. THE PEARY-PARKER-BROWN HUMBUG UP TO DATE (To Finish Page) 534 Parker contradicts former Statement--Says he climbed Mt. McKinley by Northeast Ridge.--The Ridge used by Dr. Cook. VERDICT OF THE GEOGRAPHIC HISTORIAN (By Edwin Swift Balch) 595 Dr. Cook's Record is Accurate--It is Certified--It is Corroborated--He is the Discoverer of the North Pole. A REQUEST FOR A NATIONAL INVESTIGATION (By Dr. Frederick A. Cook) 600 Nation should decide--Congress Should Investigate Rival Claims--Letter to the President. CAN THE GOVERNMENT ESCAPE THE RESPONSIBILITY (By Fred High, Editor of the Platform) 605 Cook Should Have a Fair Deal--An Unbiased Comparison--Letters to and from Prominent Men. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS FREDERICK A. COOK _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE RUDOLPH FRANCKE IN ARCTIC COSTUME 12 MIDNIGHT--"A PANORAMA OF BLACK LACQUER AND SILVER" 13 ON THE CHASE FOR BEAR--THE BOX-HOUSE AT ANNOATOK AND ITS WINTER ENVIRONMENT 76 MAN'S PREY OF THE ARCTIC SEA--WALRUS ASLEEP 77 THE HELPERS--NORTHERNMOST MAN AND HIS WIFE 108 A MECCA OF MUSK OX ALONG EUREKA SOUND--A NATIVE HELPER--AH-WE-LAH'S PROSPECTIVE WIFE 109 THE CAPTURE OF A BEAR--ROUNDING UP A HERD OF MUSK OXEN 140 SVARTEVOEG--CAMPING 500 MILES FROM THE POLE 141 "THE IGLOO BUILT, WE PREPARE FOR OUR DAILY CAMP" 172 CAMPING TO EAT AND TAKE OBSERVATIONS--ON AGAIN 173 DASHING FORWARD EN ROUTE TO THE POLE 204 DEPARTURE OF SUPPORTING PARTY--A BREATHING SPELL--POLEWARD 205 BRADLEY LAND DISCOVERED--SUBMERGED ISLAND OF POLAR SEA--GOING BEYOND THE BOUNDS OF LIFE 236 SWIFT PROGRESS OVER SMOOTH ICE--BUILDING AN IGLOO--A LIFELESS WORLD OF COLD AND ICE 237 "TOO WEARY TO BUILD IGLOOS, WE USED THE SILK TENT" "ACROSS SEAS OF CRYSTAL GLORY TO THE BOREAL CENTRE" 268 MENDING NEAR THE POLE 269 FIRST CAMP AT THE POLE, APRIL 21, 1908 300 AT THE POLE--"WE WERE THE ONLY PULSATING CREATURES IN A DEAD WORLD OF ICE" 301 "WITH EAGER EYES WE SEARCHED THE DUSKY PLAINS OF CRYSTAL, BUT THERE WAS NO LAND, NO LIFE, TO RELIEVE THE PURPLE RUN OF DEATH" 332 RECORD LEFT IN BRASS TUBE AT NORTH POLE 333 OBSERVATION DETERMINING THE POLE--PHOTOGRAPH FROM ORIGINAL NOTE 364 BACK TO LAND AND BACK TO LIFE--AWAKENED BY A WINGED HARBINGER 365 E-TUK-I-SHOOK WAITING FOR A SEAL AT A BLOW HOLE 396 TOWARD CAPE SPARBO IN CANVAS BOAT--WALRUS--(PRIZE OF 15-HOUR BATTLE) 4,000 LBS. OF MEAT AND FAT 397 PUNCTURED CANVAS BOAT IN WHICH WE PADDLED 1,000 MILES--FAMINE DAYS, WHEN ONLY STRAY BIRDS PREVENTED STARVATION--DEN IN WHICH WE SPENT 100 DOUBLE NIGHTS 428 BULL FIGHTS WITH THE MUSK OX ABOUT CAPE SPARBO 429 SAVED FROM STARVATION--THE RESULT OF ONE OF OUR LAST CARTRIDGES 460 "MILES AND MILES OF DESOLATION"--HOMEWARD BOUND 461 GOVERNOR KRAUL IN HIS STUDY--ARRIVAL AT UPERNAVIK 492 POLAR TRAGEDY--A DESERTED CHILD OF THE SULTAN OF THE NORTH AND ITS MOTHER 493 My Attainment of the Pole I. THE POLAR FIGHT On April 21, 1908, I reached a spot on the silver-shining desert of boreal ice whereat a wild wave of joy filled my heart. I can remember the scene distinctly--it will remain one of those comparatively few mental pictures which are photographed with a terribly vivid distinctness of detail, because of their emotional effect, during everyone's existence, and which reassert themselves in the brain like lightning flashes in stresses of intense emotion, in dreams, in the delirium of sickness, and possibly in the hour of death. I can see the sun lying low above the horizon, which glittered here and there in shafts of light like the tip of a long, circular, silver blade. The globe of fire, veiled occasionally by purplish, silver-shot mists, was tinged with a faint, burning lilac. Through opening cracks in the constantly moving field of ice, cold strata of air rose, deflecting the sun's rays in every direction, and changing the vision of distant ice irregularities with a deceptive perspective, as an oar blade seen in the depth of still water. Huge phantom-shapes took form about me; they were nebulous, their color purplish. About the horizon moved what my imagination pictured as the ghosts of dead armies--strange, gigantic, wraith-like shapes whose heads rose above the horizon as the heads of a giant army appearing over the summits of a far-away mountain. They moved forward, retreated, diminished in size, and titanically reappeared again. Above them, in the purple mists and darker clouds, shifted scintillantly waving flashes of light, orange and crimson, the ghosts of their earthly battle banners, wind-tossed, golden and bloodstained. I stood gazing with wonder, half-appalled, forgetting that these were mirages produced by cold air and deflected light rays, and feeling only as though I were beholding some vague revelation of victorious hosts, beings of that other world which in olden times, it is said, were conjured at Endor. It seemed fitting that they should march and remarch about me; that the low beating of the wind should suddenly swell into throbbing martial music. For that moment I was intoxicated. I stood alone, apart from my two Eskimo companions, a shifting waste of purple ice on every side, alone in a dead world--a world of angry winds, eternal cold, and desolate for hundreds of miles in every direction as the planet before man was made. I felt in my heart the thrill which any man must feel when an almost impossible but dearly desired work is attained--the thrill of accomplishment with which a poet must regard his greatest masterpiece, which a sculptor must feel when he puts the finishing touch to inanimate matter wherein he has expressed consummately a living thought, which a conqueror must feel when he has mastered a formidable alien army. Standing on this spot, I felt that I, a human being, with all of humanity's frailties, had conquered cold, evaded famine, endured an inhuman battling with a rigorous, infuriated Nature in a soul-racking, body-sapping journey such as no man perhaps had ever made. I had proved myself to myself, with no thought at the time of any worldy applause. Only the ghosts about me, which my dazzled imagination evoked, celebrated the glorious thing with me--a thing in which no human being could have shared. Over and over again I repeated to myself that I had reached the North Pole, and the thought thrilled through my nerves and veins like the shivering sound of silver bells. That was my hour of victory. It was the climacteric hour of my life. The vision and the thrill, despite all that has passed since then, remain, and will remain with me as long as life lasts, as the vision and the thrill of an honest, actual accomplishment. That I stood at the time on the very pivotal pin-point of the earth I do not and never did claim; I may have, I may not. In that moving world of ice, of constantly rising mists, with a low-lying sun whose rays are always deflected, such an ascertainment of actual position, even with instruments in the best workable condition, is, as all scientists will agree, impossible. That I reached the North Pole approximately, and ascertained my location as accurately, as painstakingly, as the terrestrial and celestial conditions and the best instruments would allow; that I thrilled with victory, and made my claim on as honest, as careful, as scientific a basis of observations and calculations as any human being could, I do emphatically assert. That any man, in reaching this region, could do more than I did to ascertain definitely the mathematical Pole, and that any more voluminous display of figures could substantiate a claim of greater accuracy, I do deny. I believe still what I told the world when I returned, that I am the first white man to reach that spot known as the North Pole as far as it is, or ever will be, humanly possible to ascertain the location of that spot. Few men in all history, I am inclined to believe, have ever been made the subject of such vicious attacks, of such malevolent assailing of character, of such a series of perjured and forged charges, of such a widespread and relentless press persecution, as I; and few men, I feel sure, have ever been made to suffer so bitterly and so inexpressibly as I because of the assertion of my achievement. So persistent, so egregious, so overwhelming were the attacks made upon me that for a time my spirit was broken, and in the bitterness of my soul I even felt desirous of disappearing to some remote corner of the earth, to be forgotten. I knew that envy was the incentive to all the unkind abuses heaped upon me, and I knew also that in due time, when the public agitation subsided and a better perspective followed, the justice of my claim would force itself to the inevitable light of truth. With this confidence in the future, I withdrew from the envious, money-waged strife to the calm and restfulness of my own family circle. The campaign of infamy raged and spent its force. The press lined up with this dishonest movement by printing bribed, faked and forged news items, deliberately manufactured by my enemies to feed a newspaper hunger for sensation. In going away for a rest it did not seem prudent to take the press into my confidence, a course which resulted in the mean slurs that I had abandoned my cause. This again was used by my enemies to blacken my character. In reality, I had tried to keep the ungracious Polar controversy within the bounds of decent, gentlemanly conduct; but indecency had become the keynote, and against this, mild methods served no good purpose. I preferred, therefore, to go away and allow the atmosphere to clear of the stench stirred up by rival interest; but while I was away, my enemies were watched, and I am here now to uncover the darkest campaign of bribery and conspiracy ever forged in a strife for honor. Now that my disappointment, my bitterness has passed, that my hurt has partly healed, I have determined to tell the whole truth about myself, about the charges made against me, and about those by whom the charges were made. Herein, FOR THE FIRST TIME, I will tell how and why I believed I reached the North Pole, and give fully the record upon which this claim is based. Only upon such a complete account of day-by-day traveling and such observations, can any claim rest. Despite the hullabaloo of voluminous so-called proofs offered by a rival, I am certain that the unprejudiced reader will herein find as complete a story, and as valuable figures as those ever offered by anyone for any such achievement in exploration as mine. Herein, for the first time, shall I answer _in toto_ all charges made against me, and this because the entire truth concerning these same charges I have not succeeded in giving the world through other channels. Because of the power of those who arrayed themselves against me, I found the columns of the press closed to much that I wished to say; articles which I wrote for publication underwent editorial excision, and absolutely necessary explanations, which in themselves attacked my assailants, were eliminated. Only by reading my own story, as fully set down herein, can anyone judge of the relative value of my claim and that of my rival claimant; only by so doing can anyone get at the truth of the plot made to discredit me; only by doing so can one learn the reason for all of my actions, for my failure to meet charges at the time they were made, for my disappearing at a time when such action was unfairly made to confirm the worst charges of my detractors. That I have been too charitable with those who attempted to steal the justly deserved honors of my achievement, I am now convinced; when desirable, I shall now, having felt the smarting sting of the world's whip, and in order to justify myself, use the knife. I shall tell the truth even though it hurts. I have not been spared, and I shall spare no one in telling the unadorned and unpleasant story of a man who has been bitterly wronged, whose character has been assailed by bought and perjured affidavits, whose life before he returned from the famine-land of ice and cold--the world of his conquest--was endangered, designedly or not, by a dishonest appropriation of food supplies by one who afterwards endeavored to steal from him his honor, which is more dear than life. To be doubted, and to have one's honesty assailed, has been the experience of many explorers throughout history. The discoverer of our own continent, Christopher Columbus, was thrown into prison, and another, Amerigo Vespucci, was given the honor, his name to this day marking the land which was reached only through the intrepidity and single-hearted, single-sustained confidence of a man whose vision his own people doubted. Even in my own time have explorers been assailed, among them Stanley, whose name for a time was shrouded with suspicion, and others who since have joined the ranks of my assailants. Unfortunately, in such cases the matter of proof and the reliability of any claim, basicly, must rest entirely upon the intangible evidence of a man's own word; there can be no such thing as a palpable and indubitable proof. And in the case when a man's good faith is aspersed and his character assailed, the world's decision must rest either upon his own word or that of his detractors. Returning from the North, exhausted both in body and brain by a savage and excruciating struggle against famine and cold, yet thrilling with the glorious conviction of a personal attainment, I was tossed to the zenith of worldly honor on a wave of enthusiasm, a world-madness, which startled and bewildered me. In that swift, sudden, lightning-flash ascension to glory, which I had not expected, and in which I was as a bit of helpless drift in the thundering tossing of an ocean storm, I was decorated with unasked-for honors, the laudations of the press of the world rang in my ears, the most notable of living men hailed me as one great among them. I found myself the unwilling and uncomfortable guest of princes, and I was led forward to receive the gracious hand of a King. Returning to my own country, still marveling that such honors should be given because I had accomplished what seemed, and still seems, a merely personal achievement, and of little importance to anyone save to him who throbs with the gratification of a personal success, I was greeted with mad cheers and hooting whistles, with bursting guns and blaring bands. I was led through streets filled with applauding men and singing children and arched with triumphal flowers. In a dizzy whirl about the country--which now seems like a delirious dream--I experienced what I am told was an ovation unparalleled of its kind. Coincident with my return to civilization, and while the world was ringing with congratulations, there came stinging through the cold air from the North, by wireless electric flashes, word from Mr. Peary that he had reached the North Pole and that, in asserting such a claim myself, I was a liar. I did not then doubt the good faith of Peary's claim; having reached the boreal center myself, under extremely favorable weather conditions, I felt that he, with everything in his favor, could do as much a year later, as he claimed. I replied with all candor what I felt, that there was glory enough for two. But I did, of course, feel the sting of my rival's unwarranted and virulent attacks. In the stress of any great crisis, the average human mind is apt to be carried away by unwise impulses. Following Mr. Peary's return, I found myself the object of a campaign to discredit me in which, I believe, as an explorer, I stand the most shamefully abused man in the history of exploration. Deliberately planned, inspired at first, and at first directed, by Mr. Peary from the wireless stations of Labrador, this campaign was consistently and persistently worked out by a powerful and affluent organization, with unlimited money at its command, which has had as its allies dishonest pseudo-scientists, financially and otherwise interested in the success of Mr. Peary's expedition. With a chain of powerful newspapers, a financial backer of Peary led a campaign to destroy confidence in me. I found myself in due time, before I realized the importance of underhand attacks, in a quandary which baffled and bewildered me. Without any organization behind me, without any wires to pull, without, at the time, any appreciable amount of money for defence, I felt what anyone who is not superhuman would have felt, a sickening sense of helplessness, a disgust at the human duplicity which permitted such things, a sense of the futility of the very thing I had done and its little worth compared to the web of shame my enemies were endeavoring to weave about me. One of the remarkable things about modern journalism is that, by persistent repetition, it can create as a fact in the public mind a thing which is purely immaterial or untrue. Taking the cue from Peary, there was at the beginning a widespread and unprecedented call for "proofs," which in some vague way were to consist of unreduced reckonings. Mr. Peary had his own--he had buried part of mine. I did not at the time instantly produce these vague and obscure proofs, knowing, as all scientists know, that figures must inevitably be inadequate and that any convincing proof that can exist is to be found only in the narrative account of such a quest. I did not appreciate that in the public mind, because of the newspapers' criticisms, there was growing a demand for this vague something. For this reason, I did not consider an explanation of the absurdity of this exaggerated position necessary. Nor did I appreciate the relative effect of the National Geographic Society's "acceptance" of Mr. Peary's so-called "proofs" while mine were not forthcoming. I did not know at the time, what has since been brought out in the testimony given before the Naval Committee in Washington, that the National Geographic Society's verdict was based upon an indifferent examination of worthless observations and a few seconds' casual observation of Mr. Peary's instruments by several members of the Society in the Pennsylvania Railroad Station at Washington. With many lecture engagements, I considered that I was right in doing what every other explorer, including Mr. Peary himself, had done before me; that is, to fulfill my lecture and immediate literary opportunities while there was a great public interest aroused, and to offer a narrative of greater length, with field observations and extensive scientific data, later. Following the exaggerated call for proofs, there began a series of persistently planned attacks. So petty and insignificant did many of them seem to me that I gave them little thought. My speed limits were questioned, this charge being dropped when it was found that Mr. Peary's had exceeded mine. The use by the newspaper running my narrative story of photographs of Arctic scenes--which never change in character--that had been taken by me on previous trips, was held up as visible evidence that I was a faker! Errors which crept into my newspaper account because of hasty preparation, and which were not corrected because there was no time to read proofs, were eagerly seized upon, and long, abstruse and impressive mathematical dissertations were made on these to prove how unscrupulous and unreliable I was. The photograph of the flag at the Pole was put forth by one of Mr. Peary's friends to prove on _prima facie_ evidence that I had faked. Inasmuch as the original negative was vague because of the non-actinic light in the North, the newspaper photographers retouched the print and painted on it a shadow as being cast from the flag and snow igloos. This shadow was seized upon avidly, and after long and learned calculations, was cited as showing that the picture was taken some five hundred miles from the Pole. A formidable appearing statement, signed by various members of his expedition, and copyrighted by the clique of honor-blind boosters, was issued by Mr. Peary. In this he gave statements of my two Eskimo companions to the effect that I had not gotten out of sight of land for more than one or two "sleeps" on my trip. I knew that I had encouraged the delusion of my Eskimos that the mirages and low-lying clouds which appeared almost daily were signs of land. In their ignorance and their eagerness to be near land, they believed this, and by this innocent deception I prevented the panic which seizes every Arctic savage when he finds himself upon the circumpolar sea out of sight of land. I have since learned that Mr. Peary's Eskimos became panic-stricken near the Big Lead on his last journey and that it was only by the life-threatening announcement to them of his determination to leave them alone on the ice (to get back to land as best they might or starve to death) that he compelled them to accompany him. In any case, I did not consider as important any testimony of the Eskimos which Mr. Peary might cite, knowing as well as he did that one can get any sort of desired reply from these natives by certain adroit questioning, and knowing also that the alleged route on his map which he said they drew was valueless, inasmuch as an Eskimo out of sight of land and in an unfamiliar region has no sense of location. I felt the whole statement to be what it was, a trumped-up document in which my helpers, perhaps unwittingly, had been adroitly led to affirm what Mr. Peary by jesuitical and equivocal questioning planned to have them say, and that it was therefore unworthy of a reply. I had left my instruments and part of the unreduced reckonings with Mr. Harry Whitney, a fact which Mr. Whitney himself confirmed in published press interviews when he first arrived--in the heat of the controversy and after I left Copenhagen--in Sidney. When interviews came from Mr. Peary insinuating that I had left no instruments in the North, this becoming a definite charge which was taken up with great hue and cry, I bitterly felt this to be a deliberate untruth on Mr. Peary's part. I have since learned that one of Mr. Peary's officers cross-questioned my Eskimos, and that by showing them Mr. Peary's own instruments he discovered just what instruments I had had with me on my trip, and that by describing the method of using these instruments to E-tuk-i-shook and Ah-we-lah, Bartlett learned from them that I did take observations. This information he conveyed to Mr. Peary before his expedition left Etah for America, and this knowledge Mr. Peary and his party, deliberately and with malicious intent, concealed on their return. At the time I had no means of refuting this insinuation; it was simply my word or Mr. Peary's. [Illustration: RUDOLPH FRANCKE IN ARCTIC COSTUME] [Illustration: MIDNIGHT--"A PANORAMA OF BLACK LACQUER AND SILVER."] I had no extraordinary proofs to offer, but, such as they were, I now know, by comparison with the published reports of Mr. Peary himself, they were as good as any offered by anyone. I was perhaps unfortunate in not having, as Mr. Peary had, a confederate body of financially interested friends to back me up, as was the National Geographic Society. Not satisfied with unjustly attacking my claim, Mr. Peary's associates proceeded to assail my past career, and I was next confronted by an affidavit made by my guide, Barrill, to the effect that I had not scaled Mt. McKinley, an affidavit which, as I later secured evidence, had been bought. A widely heralded "investigation" was announced by a body of "explorers" of which Peary was president. One of Colonel Mann's muck-rakers was secretary, while its moving spirit was Mr. Peary's press agent, Herbert L. Bridgman. In a desperate effort to help Peary, a cowardly side issue was forced through Professor Herschell Parker, who had been with me on the Mt. McKinley trip but who had turned back after becoming panic-stricken in the crossing of mountain torrents. Mr. Parker expressed doubt of my achievements because he differed with me as to the value of the particular instrument to ascertain altitude which I, with many other mountain climbers, used. I had offered all possible proofs as to having climbed the mountain, as full and adequate proofs as any mountaineer could, or ever has offered. I resented the meddlesomeness of this pro-Peary group of kitchen explorers, not one of whom knew the first principles of mountaineering. From such an investigation, started to help Peary in his black-hand effort to force the dagger, with the money power easing men's conscience--as was evident at the time everywhere--no fair result could be expected. And as to the widely printed Barrill affidavit--this carried on its face the story of pro-Peary bribery and conspiracy. I have since learned that for it $1,500 and other considerations were paid. Here was a self-confessed liar. I did not think that a sane public therefore could take this underhanded pro-Peary charge as to the climb of Mt. McKinley seriously. Indeed, I paid little attention to it, but by using the cutting power of the press my enemies succeeded in inflicting a wound in my side. I was thus plunged into the bewildering chaos which friends and enemies created, and swept for three months through a cyclone of events which I believe no human being could have stood. Before returning, I felt weakened mentally and physically by the rigors of the North, where for a year I barely withstood starvation. I was now whirled about the country, daily delivering lectures, greeting thousands of people, buffeted by mobs of well-meaning beings, and compelled to attend dinners and receptions numbering two hundred in sixty days. The air hissed about me with the odious charges which came from every direction. I was alone, helpless, without a single wise counsellor, under the charge of the enemies' press, mud-charged guns fired from every point of the compass. Unlimited funds were being consumed in the infamous mill of bribery. I had not the money nor the nature to fight in this kind of battle--so I withdrew. At once, howls of execration gleefully rose from the ranks of my enemies; my departure was heralded gloriously as a confession of imposture. Advantage was taken of my absence and new, perjured, forged charges were made to blacken my name. Far from my home and unable to defend myself, Dunkle and Loose swore falsely to having manufactured figures and observations under my direction. When I learned of this, much as it hurt me, I knew that the report which I had sent to Copenhagen would, if it did anything, disprove by the very figures in it the malicious lying document published in the New York _Times_. This, combined with the verdict rendered by the University of Copenhagen--a neutral verdict which carried no implication of the non-attainment of the Pole, but which was interpreted as a rejection--helped to stamp me in the minds of many people as the most monumental impostor the world has ever seen. I fully realized that under the circumstances the only verdict of an unprejudiced body on any such proofs to such a claim must be favorable or neutral. The members of the University of Copenhagen who examined my papers were neither personal friends nor members of a body financially interested in my quest. Their verdict was honest. Mr. Peary's Washington verdict was dishonest, for two members of the jury admitted a year later in Congress, under pressure, that in the Peary data there was no absolute proof. By the time I determined to return to my native country and state my case, I had been placed, I am certain, in a position of undeserved discredit unparalleled in history. No epithet was too vile to couple with my name. I was declared a brazen cheat who had concocted the most colossal lie of ages whereby to hoax an entire world for gain. I was made the subject of cheap jokes. My name in antagonistic newspapers had become a synonym for cheap faking. I was compelled to see myself held up gleefully as an impostor, a liar, a fraud, an unscrupulous scoundrel, one who had tried to steal honors from another, and who, to escape exposure, had fled to obscurity. All the scientific work which scientists themselves had accepted as valuable, all the necessary hardships and the inevitable agonies of my last Arctic journey were forgotten; I was coupled with the most notorious characters in history in a press which panders to the lowest of human emotions and delights in men's shame. When I realized how egregious, how frightful, how undeserved was all this, my soul writhed; when I saw clearly, with the perspective which only time can give, how I, stepping aside, in errors of confused judgment which were purely human, had seemingly contributed to my unhappy plight, I felt the sting of ignominy greater than that which has broken stronger men's hearts. For the glory which the world gives to such an accomplishment as the discovery of the North Pole, I care very little, but when the very result of such a victory is used as a whip to inflict cuts that mark my future destiny, I have a right to call a halt. I have claimed no national honors, want no medals or money. My feet stepped over the Polar wastes with a will fired only by a personal ambition to succeed in a task where all the higher human powers were put to the test of fitness. That victory was honestly won. All that the achievement ever meant to me--the lure of it before I achieved it, the only satisfaction that remains since--is that it is a personal accomplishment of brain and muscle over hitherto unconquered forces, a thought in which I have pride. From the tremendous ovations that greeted me when I returned to civilization I got not a single thrill. I did thrill with the handclasp of confident, kindly people. I still thrill with the handclasp of my countrymen. Insofar as the earthly glory and applause are concerned, I should be only too glad to share them, with all material accruements, to any honest, manly rivals--those of the past and those of the future. But against the unjust charges which have been made against me, against the aspersions on my personal integrity, against the ignominy with which my name has been besmirched, I will fight until the public gets a normal perspective. I have never hoaxed a mythical achievement. Everything I have ever claimed was won by hard labor, by tremendous physical fortitude and endurance, and by such personal sacrifice as only I, and my immediate family, will ever know. For this reason, I returned to my country in the latter part of 1910, as I always intended to do, after a year's rest. By this time I knew that my enemies would have said all that was possible about me; the excitement of the controversy would have quieted, and I should have the advantage of the last word. In the heat of the controversy, only just returned in a weakened condition from the North, and mentally bewildered by the unexpected maelstrom of events, I should not have been able, with justice to myself, to have met all the charges, criminal and silly, which were made against me. Even what I did say was misquoted and distorted by a sensational press which found it profitable to add fuel to the controversy. Sometimes I feel that no man ever born has been so variedly, so persistently lied about, misrepresented, made the butt of such countless untruths as myself. When I consider the lies, great and small, which for more than a year, throughout the entire world, have been printed about me, I am filled almost with hopelessness. And sometimes, when I think how I have been unjustly dubbed as the most colossal liar of history, I am filled with a sort of sardonic humor. Returning to my country, determined to state my case freely and frankly, and making the honest admission that any claim to the definite, actual attainment of the North Pole--the mathematical pin-point on which the earth spins--must rest upon assumptions, because of the impossibility of accuracy in observations, I found that this admission, which every explorer would have to make, which Mr. Peary was unwillingly forced to make at the Congressional investigation, was construed throughout the country and widely heralded as a "confession," that garbled extracts were lifted from the context of my magazine story and their meaning distorted. In hundreds of newspapers I was represented as confessing to a fraudulent claim or as making a plea of insanity. A full answer to the charges made against me, necessary in order to justly cover my case, because of the controversial nature of certain statements which involved Mr. Peary, was prohibited by the contract I found it necessary to sign in order to get any statement of a comparatively ungarbled sort before a public which had read Mr. Peary's own account of his journey. I found the columns of the press of my country closed to the publication of statements which involved my enemies, because of the unfounded prejudice created against me during my absence and because of the power of Mr. Peary's friends. It is almost impossible in any condition for anyone to secure a refutation for an unfounded attack in the American papers. With the entire press of the country printing misstatements, I was almost helpless. The justice, kindliness and generous spirit of fair dealing of the American people, however, was extended to me--I found the American people glad--nay, eager--to listen. It is this spirit which has encouraged me, after the shameful campaign of opprobrium which well-nigh broke my spirit, to tell the entire and unalterable truth about myself and an achievement in which I still believe--in fairness to myself, in order to clear myself, in order that the truth about the discovery of the North Pole may be known by my people and in order that history may record its verdict upon a full, free and frank exposition. I do not address myself to any clique of geographers or scientists, but to the great public of the world, and herein, for the first time, shall I give fully whatever proofs there may be of my conquest. Upon these records must conviction rest. Did I actually reach the North Pole? When I returned to civilization and reported that the boreal center had been attained, I believed that I had reached the spot toward which valiant men had strained for more than three hundred years. I still believe that I reached the boreal center as far as it is possible for any human being to ascertain it. If I was mistaken in approximately placing my feet upon the pin-point about which this controversy has raged, I maintain that it is the inevitable mistake any man must make. To touch that spot would be an accident. That any other man has more accurately determined the Pole I do deny. That Mr. Peary reached the North Pole--or its environs--with as fair accuracy as was possible, I have never denied. That Mr. Peary was better fitted to reach the Pole, and better equipped to locate this mythical spot, I do not admit. In fact, I believe that, inasmuch as the purely scientific ascertainment is a comparatively simple matter, I stood a better chance of more scientifically and more accurately marking the actual spot than Mr. Peary. I reached my goal when the sun was twelve degrees above the horizon, and was therefore better able to mark a mathematical position than Mr. Peary could have with the sun at less than seven degrees. Mr. Peary's case rests upon three observations of sun altitude so low that, as proof of a position, they are worthless. Besides taking observations, which, as I shall explain in due course in my narrative, cannot be adequate, I also ascertained what I believed to be my approximate position at the boreal center and en route by measuring the shadows each hour of the long day. Inasmuch as one's shadow decreases or increases in length as the sun rises toward the meridian or descends, at the boreal center, where the sun circles the entire horizon at practically the same height during the entire day, one's shadow in this region of mystery is of the same length. In this observation, which is so simple that a child may understand it, is a sure and certain means of approximately ascertaining the North Pole. I took advantage of this method, which does not seem to have occurred to any other Arctic traveler, and this helped to bring conviction. I shall in this volume present with detail the story of my Arctic journey--I shall tell how it was possible for me to reach my goal, why I believe I attained that goal; and upon this record must the decision of my people rest. I shall herein tell the story of an unfair and unworthy plot to ruin the reputation of an innocent man because of an achievement the full and prior credit of which was desired by a brutally selfish, brutally unscrupulous rival. I shall tell of a tragedy compared with which the North Pole and any glory accruing to its discoverer pales into insignificance--the tragedy of a spirit that was almost broken, of a man whose honor and pride was cut with knives in unclean hands. When you have read all this, then, and only then, in fairness to yourself and in fairness to me, do I ask you to form your opinion. Only by reading this can you learn the full truth about me, about my claim and about the plot to discredit me, of the charges made against me, and the reason for all of my own actions. So persistent, so world-wide has been the press campaign made by my enemies, and so egregious have the charges seemed against me, so multitudinous have the lies, fake stories, fake interviews, fake confessions been, so blatant have rung the hideous cries of liar, impostor, cheat and fraud, that the task to right myself, explain myself, and bring the truth into clean relief has seemed colossal. To return to my country and face the people in view of all that was being said, with my enemies exultant, with antagonistic press men awaiting me as some beast to be devoured, required a determined gritting of the teeth and a reserve temperament to prevent an undignified battle. For against such things nature dictates the tactics of the tiger. I faced my people, I found them fair and kindly. I accused my enemies of their lies, and they have remained silent. Titanic as is this effort of forcing fair play where biased abuse has reigned so long, I am confident of success. I am confident of the honesty and justice of my people; of their ability spiritually to sense, psychically to appreciate the earmarks of a clean, true effort--a worthy ambition and a real attainment. INTO THE BOREAL WILDS THE YACHT BRADLEY LEAVES GLOUCESTER--INVADES THE MAGIC OF THE WATERS OF THE ARCTIC SEAS--RECOLLECTION OF BOYHOOD AMBITIONS--BEYOND THE ARCTIC CIRCLE--THE WEAVING OF THE POLAR SPELL II OVER THE ARCTIC CIRCLE On July 3, 1907, between seven and eight o'clock in the evening, the yacht, which had been renamed the _John B. Bradley_, quietly withdrew from the pier at Gloucester, Massachusetts, and, turning her prow oceanward, slowly, quietly started on her historic journey to the Arctic seas. In the tawny glow of sunset, which was fading in the western sky, she looked, with her new sails unfurled, her entire body newly painted a spotless white, like some huge silver bird alighting upon the sunshot waters of the bay. On board, all was quiet. I stood alone, gazing back upon the picturesque fishing village with a tender throb at my heart, for it was the last village of my country which I might see for years, or perhaps ever. Along the water's edge straggled tiny ramshackle boat houses, dun-colored sheds where fish are dried, and the humble miniature homes of the fisherfolk, in the windows of which lights soon after appeared. On the bay about us, fishing boats were lazily bobbing up and down; in some, old bearded fishermen with broad hats, smoking clay and corncob pipes, were drying their seines. Other boats went by, laden with wriggling, silver-scaled fish; along the shore I could still see tons of fish being unloaded from scores of boats. Through the rosy twilight, voices came over the water, murmurous sounds from the shore, cries from the sea mixed with the quaint oaths of fisherfolk at work. Ashore, the boys of the village were testing their firecrackers for the morrow; sputtering explosions cracked through the air. Occasionally a faint fire rocket scaled the sky. But no whistles tooted after our departure. No visiting crowds of curiosity-seekers ashore were frenziedly waving us good-bye. An Arctic expedition had been born without the usual clamor. Prepared in one month, and financed by a sportsman whose only mission was to hunt game animals in the North, no press campaign heralded our project, no government aid had been asked, nor had large contributions been sought from private individuals to purchase luxuries for a Pullman jaunt of a large party Poleward. For, although I secretly cherished the ambition, there was no definite plan to essay the North Pole. At the Holland House in New York, a compact was made between John R. Bradley and myself to launch an Arctic expedition. Because of my experience, Mr. Bradley delegated to me the outfitting of the expedition, and had turned over to me money enough to pay the costs of the hunting trip. A Gloucester fishing schooner had been purchased by me and was refitted, covered and strengthened for ice navigation. To save fuel space and to gain the advantage of a steamer, I had a Lozier gasoline motor installed. There had been put on board everything of possible use and comfort in the boreal wild. As it is always possible that a summer cruising ship is likely to be lost or delayed a year, common prudence dictated a preparation for the worst emergencies. So far as the needs of my own personal expedition were concerned, I had with me on the yacht plenty of hard hickory wood for the making of sledges, instruments, clothing and other apparatus gathered with much economy during my former years of exploration, and about one thousand pounds of pemmican. These supplies, necessary to offset the danger of shipwreck and detention by ice, were also all that would be required for a Polar trip. When, later, I finally decided on a Polar campaign, extra ship supplies, contributed from the boat, were stored at Annoatok. There, also, my supply of pemmican was amplified by the stores of walrus meat and fat prepared during the long winter by myself, Rudolph Francke and the Eskimos. As the yacht slowly soared toward the ocean, and night descended over the fishing village with its home lights glimmering cheerfully as the stars one by one flecked the firmament with dots of fire, I felt that at last I had embarked upon my destiny. Whether I should be able to follow my heart's desire I did not know; I did not dare hazard a guess. But I was leaving my country, now on the eve of celebrating its freedom, behind me; I had elected to live in a world of ice and cold, of hunger and death, which lay before me--thousands of miles to the North. Day by day passed monotonously; we only occasionally saw writhing curves of land to the west of us; about us was the illimitable sea. That I had started on a journey which might result in my starting for the Pole, that my final chance had come, vaguely thrilled me. Yet the full purport of my hope seemed beyond me. On the journey to Sydney my mind was full. I thought of the early days of my childhood, of the strange ambition which grew upon me, of my struggles, and the chance which favored me in the present expedition. In the early days of my childhood, of which I now had only indistinct glimmerings, I remembered a restless surge in my little bosom, a yearning for something that was vague and undefined. This was, I suppose, that nebulous desire which sometimes manifests itself in early youth and later is asserted in strivings toward some splendid, sometimes spectacular aim. My boyhood was not happy. As a tiny child I was discontented, and from the earliest days of consciousness I felt the burden of two things which accompanied me through later life--an innate and abnormal desire for exploration, then the manifestation of my yearning, and the constant struggle to make ends meet, that sting of poverty, which, while it tantalizes one with its horrid grind, sometimes drives men by reason of the strength developed in overcoming its concomitant obstacles to some extraordinary accomplishment. As a very small boy, I remember being fascinated by the lure of a forbidden swimming pool. One day, when but little over five, I, impelled to test the depth, plunged to the center, where the water was above my head, and nearly lost my life. I shall never forget that struggle, and though I nearly gave out, in that short time I learned to swim. It seems to me now I have been swimming and struggling ever since. Abject poverty and hard work marked my school days. When quite a boy, after the death of my father, I came to New York. I sold fruit at one of the markets. I saved my money. I enjoyed no luxuries. These days vividly occur in my mind. Later I engaged in a dairy business in Brooklyn, and on the meager profits undertook to study medicine. At that time the ambition which beset me was undirected; it was only later that I found, almost by accident, what became its focusing point. I graduated from the University of New York in 1890. I felt (as what young man does not?) that I possessed unusual qualifications and exceptional ability. An office was fitted up, and my anxiety over the disappearing pennies was eased by the conviction that I had but to hang out my shingle and the place would be thronged with patients. Six months passed. There had been about three patients. I recall sitting alone one gloomy winter day. Opening a paper, I read that Peary was preparing his 1891 expedition to the Arctic. I cannot explain my sensations. It was as if a door to a prison cell had opened. I felt the first indomitable, commanding call of the Northland. To invade the Unknown, to assail the fastness of the white, frozen North--all that was latent in me, the impetus of that ambition born in childhood, perhaps before birth, and which had been stifled and starved, surged up tumultuously within me. I volunteered, and accompanied Peary, on this, the expedition of 1891-92, as surgeon. Whatever merit my work possessed has been cited by others. Unless one has been in the Arctic, I suppose it is impossible to understand its fascination--a fascination which makes men risk their lives and endure inconceivable hardships for, as I view it now, no profitable personal purpose of any kind. The spell was upon me then. It was upon me as I recalled those early days on the _Bradley_ going Northward. With a feeling of sadness I realize that the glamor is all gone now. On the Peary and all my subsequent expeditions I served without pay. On my return from that trip I managed to make ends meet by meager earnings from medicine. I was nearly always desperately hard pressed for money. I tried to organize several coöperative expeditions to the Arctic. These failed. I then tried to arouse interest in Antarctic exploration, but without success. Then came the opportunity to join the Belgian Antarctic Expedition, again without pay. On my return I dreamed of a plan to attain the South Pole, and for a long time worked on a contrivance for that end--an automobile arranged to travel over ice. Financial failure again confronted me. Disappointment only added to my ambition; it scourged me to a determination, a conviction that--I want you to remember this, to bear in mind the mental conviction which buoyed me--I must and should succeed. It is always this innate conviction which encourages men to exceptional feats, to tremendous failures or splendid, single-handed success. A summer in the Arctic followed my Antarctic trip, and I returned to invade the Alaskan wilds. I succeeded in scaling Mt. McKinley. After my Alaskan expeditions, the routine of my Brooklyn office work seemed like the confinement of prison. I fretted and chafed at the thought. Let me have a chance, and I would succeed. This thought always filled my mind. I convinced myself that in some way the attainment of one of the Poles--the effort on which I had spent sixteen years--would become possible. I had no money. My work in exploration had netted me nothing, and all my professional income was soon spent. Unless you have felt the goading, devilish grind of poverty hindering you, dogging you, you cannot know the mental fury into which I was lashed. I waited, and fortune favored me in that I met Mr. John R. Bradley. We planned the Arctic expedition on which I was now embarked. Mr. Bradley's interest in the trip was that of a great sportsman, eager to seek big game in the Arctic. My immediate purpose was to return again to the frozen North. The least the journey would give me was an opportunity to complete the study of the Eskimos which I had started in 1891. Mr. Bradley and I had talked, of course, of the Pole; but it was not an important incentive to the journey. Back in my brain, barely above the subconscious realm, was the feeling that this, however, might offer opportunity in the preparation for a final future determination. I, therefore, without any conscious purpose, and with my last penny, paid out of my purse for extra supplies for a personal expedition should I leave the ship.[1] Aboard the _Bradley_, going northward, my plans were not at all definite. Even had I known before leaving New York that I should try for the Pole, I should not have sought any geographical license from some vague and unknown authority. Though much has since been made by critics of our quiet departure, I always felt the quest of the Pole a personal ambition[2], a crazy hunger I had to satisfy. Fair weather followed us to Sydney, Cape Breton. From this point we sailed over the Gulf of St. Lawrence, then entered the Straits of Belle Isle at a lively speed. On a cold, cheerless day in the middle of July we arrived at Battle Harbor, a little town at the southeastern point of Labrador, where Mr. Bradley joined us. He had preceded us north, by rail and coasting vessels, after watching a part of the work of outfitting the schooner. On the morning of July 16 we left the rockbound coast of North America and steered straight for Greenland. In this region a dense and heavy fog almost always lies upon the sea. Then nothing is visible but slow-swaying gray masses, which veil all objects in a shroud of ghostly dreariness. Through the fog can be heard the sound of fisher-boat horns, often the very voices of the fishermen themselves, while their crafts are absolutely hidden from view. On this trip, however, from time to time, great fragments of fog slowly lifted, and we saw, emerging out of the gray mistiness, islands, bleak and black and weathertorn, and patches of ocean dotted with scores of Newfoundland boats, which invade this region to fish for cod. We entered the Arctic current, and breasting its stream, a fancy came that perhaps this current, flowing down from out of the mysterious unknown, came from the very Pole itself. Continuing, we entered Davis Straits, where we encountered headwinds that piled up the water in great waves. It was a good test of the sailing qualities of the _Bradley_, and well did the small craft respond. Long before the actual coast line of Greenland could be seen we had a first glimpse of the beauties that these northern regions can show. Like great sapphires, blue ice floated in a golden sea; towering masses of crystal rose gloriously, dazzling the eye and gladdening the heart with their superb beauty. The schooner sailed into this wonderful yellow sea, which soon became a broad and gleaming surface of molten silver. Although this striking beauty of the North, which it often is so chary of displaying, possesses a splendor of color equal to the gloriousness of tropical seas, it always impresses one with a steely hardness of quality suggestive of the steely hardness of the heart of the North. And it somehow seemed, curiously enough, as if all this wonderful glitter was a shimmering reflection from the ice-covered mountains of the Greenland interior, although the mountains themselves were still invisible. We swung from side to side, dodging icebergs. We steered cautiously around low-floating masses, watching to see that the keel was not caught by some treacherous jutting spur just beneath the water-line. Through this fairyland of light and color we sailed slowly into a region rich in animal life, a curious and striking sight. Seals floundered in the sunbeams or slumbered on masses of ice, for even in this Northland there is a strange commingling and contrast of heat and cold. Gulls and petrels darted and fluttered about us in every direction, porpoises were making swift and curving leaps, even a few whales added to the magic and apparent unreality of it all. At length the coast showed dimly upon the horizon, veiled in a glow of purple and gold. The wind freshened, the sails filled, and the speed of the schooner increased. We were gradually nearing Holsteinborg, and the course was set a point more in towards shore. The land was thrown into bold relief by the brilliancy of lights and shadows, and in the remarkably clear air it seemed as if it could be reached in an hour. But this was an atmospheric deception, of the kind familiar to those who know the pure air of the Rocky Mountains, for, although the land seemed near, it was at least forty miles away. The general color of the land was a frosty blue, and there were deep valleys to be seen, gashes cut by the slow movement of centuries of glaciers, with rocky headlands leaping forward, bleak and cold. It appeared to be a land of sublime desolation. The course was set still another point nearer the coast; the wind continued fair and strong; and, with every possible stitch of canvas spread, the schooner went rapidly onward. We saw rocky islands, drenched by clouds of spray and battered by drifting masses of ice. There the eider duck builds its nest and spends the brief summer of the Arctic. We saw dismal cliffs, terra cotta and buff in color, in the crevasses of which millions of birds made their homes, and from which they rose, frightened, in dense clouds, giving vent to a great volume of clamorous hoarseness. Through our glasses we could see a surprising sight in such a land--little patches of vegetation, seal brown or even emerald green. Yet, so slight were these patches of green that one could not but wonder what freak of imagination led the piratical Eric the Red, one thousand years ago, to give to this coast a name so suggestive of luxuriant forests and shrubs and general lushness of growth as "Greenland." Never, surely, was there a greater misnomer, unless one chooses to regard the old-time Eric as a practical joker. Between the tall headlands there were fiords cutting far into the interior; arms of the sea, these, winding and twisting back for miles. Along these quiet land-locked waters the Eskimos love to hunt and fish, just as their forefathers have done for centuries. Shaggy looking fellows are these Eskimos, clothed in the skins of animals, relieved by dashes of color of Danish fabric, most of them still using spears, and thus, to outward appearance, in the arts of life almost like those that Eric saw. Although this rugged coast, with its low-lying islands, its icebergs and floating icefields, its bleak headlands, its picturesque scenes of animal life, is a continuous delight, it presents the worst possible dangers to navigation, not only from reefs and under-water ice, but because there are no lighthouses to mark permanent danger spots and because signs of impending storm are ever on the horizon. While navigating the coast, our officers spent sleepless nights of anxiety; but the shortening of the nights and lengthening of the days, the daily night brightening resulting from the northerly movement, combined with an occasional flash of the aurora, gradually relieved the tension of the situation. By the time the island of Disco rose splendidly out of the northern blue, the Arctic Circle had been crossed, and a sort of celestial light-house brightened the path of the schooner. Remaining on deck until after midnight, we were rewarded by a sight of the sun magnified to many times its normal size, glowing above the rim of the frosty sea. A light wind blew gently from the coast, the sea ran in swells of gold, and the sky was streaked with topaz and crimson. Bathed in an indescribable glow, the towering sides of the greatest icebergs showed a medley of ever-changing, iridescent colors. The jutting pinnacles of others seemed like oriental minarets of alabaster fretted with old gold. Here and there, as though flung by an invisible hand from the zenith, straggled long cloud ribbons of flossy crimson and silver. Gradually, imperially, the sun rose higher and flushed sky and sea with deeper orange, more burning crimson, and the bergs into vivid ruby, chalcedony and chrysophase walls. This suddenly-changing, kaleidoscopic whirl of color was rendered more effective because, in its midst, the cliffs of Disco rose frowningly, a great patch of blackness in artistic contrast. A pearly vapor now began to creep over the horizon, and gradually spread over the waters, imparting a gentle and restful tone of blue. This gradually darkened into irregular shadows; the brilliant color glories faded away. Finally we retired to sleep with a feeling that sailing Poleward was merely a joyous pleasure journey over wonderful and magic waters. This, the first glorious vision of the midnight sun, glowed in my dreams--the augury of success in that for which my heart yearned. The glow never faded, and the weird lure unconsciously began to weave its spell. Next morning, when we went on deck, the schooner was racing eastward through heavy seas. The terraced cliffs of Disco, relieved by freshly fallen snow, were but a few miles off. The cry of gulls and guillemots echoed from rock to rock. Everything was divested of the glory of the day before. The sun was slowly rising among mouse-colored clouds. The bergs were of an ugly blue, and the sea ran in gloomy lines of ebony. Although the sea was high, there was little wind, but we felt that a storm was gathering and sought to hasten to shelter in Godhaven--a name which speaks eloquently of the dangers of this coast and the precious value of such a harbor. As we entered the narrow channel, which turns among low, polished rocks and opens into the harbor, two Eskimos in kayaks came out to act as pilots. Taking them aboard, we soon found a snug anchorage, secure from wind and sea. The launch was lowered, and in it we left the schooner for a visit to the Governor. Coming up to a little pier, we were cordially greeted by Governor Fenker, who escorted us to his home, where his wife, a cultivated young Danish woman, offered us sincere hospitality. The little town itself was keenly alive. All the inhabitants, and all the dogs as well, were jumping about on the rocks, eagerly gazing at our schooner. The houses of the Governor and the Inspector were the most important of the town. They were built of wood imported from Denmark, and were covered with tarred paper. Though quite moderate in size, the houses seemed too large and out of place in their setting of ice-polished rocks. Beyond them were twenty Eskimo huts, nearly square in shape, constructed of wood and stone, the cracks of which were filled tightly with moss. We deferred our visit to the native huts, and invited Governor Fenker and his wife to dine aboard the schooner. The surprise of the evening for these two guests was the playing of our phonograph, the tunes of which brought tears of homesickness to the eyes of the Governor's gentle wife. Anywhere on the coast of Greenland, the coming of a ship is always one of the prime events of the season. So uneventful is life in these out-of-the-way places that such an arrival is the greatest possible social enlivener. The instant that the approach of our schooner had been noted, the Eskimo girls--queer little maids in queer little trousers--decided upon having a dance, and word was brought us that everyone was invited to take part. The sailors eagerly responded, and tumbled ashore as soon as they were permitted, leaving merely enough for a watch on board ship. Then, to the sound of savage music, the dance was continued until long after midnight. A curious kind of midnight dance it was, with the sun brightly shining in a night unveiled of glitter and color glory. The sailors certainly found pleasure in whirling about, their arms encircling fat and clumsy waists. They did admit, however, when back on board the schooner, that the smell of the furs within which the maidens had spent the past winter was less agreeable than the savor of fish. The name of this scattered settlement of huts, Godhaven, comes, clearly enough, from its offering fortunate refuge from storms; that the place is also known as Lively is not in the least to be wondered at, if one has watched a midnight dance of the little population and their visitors. Before hauling in anchor in the harbor of Godhaven, we made some necessary repairs to the yacht and filled our tanks with water. With a free wind speeding onward to the west of Disco, we passed the narrow strait known as the Vaigat early the following morning. As I stood on deck and viewed the passing of icebergs, glittering in the limpid, silvery light of morning like monstrous diamonds, there began to grow within me a feeling--that throbbed in pulsation with the onward movement of the boat--that every minute, every mile, meant a nearing to that mysterious center, on the attaining of which I had set my heart, and which, even now, seemed unlikely, improbable. Yet the thought gave me a thrill. Before noon we reached the mouth of Umanak Fiord, into the delightful waters of which we were tempted to enter. The lure of the farther North decided us against this, and soon the striking Svarten Huk (Black Hook), a great rock cliff, loomed upon the horizon. Beyond it, gradually appeared a long chain of those islands among which lies Upernavik, where the last traces of civilized or semi-civilized life are found. The wind increased in force but the horizon remained remarkably clear. Over a bounding sea we sped rapidly along to the west, into the labyrinth of islands that are sprinkled along the southern shore of Melville Bay.[3] Beyond, we were to come into the true boreal wilderness of ice, where there were only a few savage aborigines, its sole inhabitants. On the following day, with reduced sail and the help of the auxiliary engine, we pushed far up into Melville Bay, where we ran into fields of pack-ice. Here we decided to hunt for game. With this purpose it was necessary to keep close to land. Here also came our first realistic experience with the great forces of the North. The pack-ice floated close around us, young ice cemented the broken masses together, and for several days we were thus closely imprisoned in frozen seas. These days of enforced delay were days of great pleasure, for the bears and seals on the ice afforded considerable sport. The constant danger of our position, however, required a close watch for the safety of the schooner. The Devil's Thumb, a high rock shaped like a dark thumb pointing at the sky, loomed darkly and beckoningly before us. A biting wind descended from the interior. The ice groaned; the eiderducks, guillemots and gulls uttered shrill and disturbing cries, seemingly sensing the coming of a storm. For three days we were held in the grip of the relentless pack; then the glimmer of the land ice changed to an ugly gray, the pack around us began to crack threateningly, and the sky darkened to the southward. The wind ominously died away. The air thickened rapidly. A general feeling of anxiety came over us, although my familiarity with storms in the North made it possible for me to explain that heavy seas are seldom felt within the zone of a large ice-pack, for the reason that the icebergs, the flat ice masses, and even the small floating fragments, ordinarily hold down the swells. Even when the pack begins to break, the lanes of water between the fragments thicken under the lower temperature like an oiled surface, and offer an easy sea. Furthermore, a really severe wind would be sure to release the schooner, and it would then be possible to trust it to its staunch qualities in free water. Hardly had we finished dinner when we heard the sound of a brisk wind rushing through the rigging. Hurrying to the deck, we saw coils of what looked like smoky vapor rising in the south as if belched from some great volcano. The gloom on the horizon was rapidly growing deeper. The sound of the wind changed to a threatening, sinister hiss. In the piercing steel-gray light we saw the ice heave awesomely, like moving hills, above the blackening water. The bergs swayed and rocked, and the massed ice gave forth strange, troublous sounds. Suddenly a channel began to open through the ice in front of us. The trisail was quickly set, the other sails being left tightly furled, and with the engine helping to push us in the desired direction, we drew deep breaths of relief as we moved out into the free water to the westward. We felt a sense of safety now, although, clear of the ice, the sea rose about us with a sickening suddenness. Black as night, the water seemed far more dangerous because the waves were everywhere dashing angrily against walls of ice. Already strong, the wind veered slightly and increased to a fierce, persistent gale. Like rubber balls, the bergs bounded and rolled in the sea. The sound of the storm was now a thunder suggestive of constantly exploding cannons. But, fortunately, we were snug aboard, and, keeping the westerly course, soon escaped the dangers of ensnaring ice. We were still in a heavy storm, and had we not had full confidence in the ship, built as she was to withstand the storms of the Grand Banks, we should still have felt anxiety, for the schooner rolled and pitched and the masts dipped from side to side until they almost touched the water. Icy water swept the deck. A rain began to fall, and quickly sheathed the masts and ropes in ice. Snow followed, giving a surface as of sandpaper to the slippery, icy decks. The temperature was not low, but the cutting wind pierced one to the very marrow. Our men were drenched with spray and heavily coated with ice. Although suffering severely, the sailors maintained their courage and appeared even abnormally happy. Gradually we progressed into the open sea. In the course of four hours the storm began to abate, and, under a double-reefed foresail, at last we gleefully rode out the finish of the storm in safety. THE DRIVING SPUR OF THE POLAR QUEST ON THE FRIGID PATHWAY OF THREE CENTURIES OF HEROIC MARTYRS--MEETING THE STRANGE PEOPLE OF THE FARTHEST NORTH--THE LIFE OF THE STONE AGE--ON THE CHASE WITH THE ESKIMOS--MANEE AND SPARTAN ESKIMO COURAGE III STRANGE TRAITS OF NORTHERNMOST MAN I have often wondered of late about the dazzling white, eerie glamor with which the Northland weaves its spell about the heart of a man. I know of nothing on earth so strange, so wonderful, withal so sad. Pursuing our course through Melville Bay, I felt the fatal magic of it enthralling my very soul. For hours I stood on deck alone, the midnight sun, like some monstrous perpetual light to some implacable frozen-hearted deity, burning blindingly upon the horizon and setting the sea aflame. The golden colors suffused my mind, and I swam in a sea of molten glitter. I was consumed for hours by but one yearning--a yearning that filled and intoxicated me--to go on, and on, and ever onward, where no man had ever been. Perhaps it is the human desire to excel others, to prove, because of the innate egotism of the human unit, that one possesses qualities of brain and muscle which no other possesses, that has crazed men to perform this, the most difficult physical test in the world. The lure of the thing is unexplainable. During those dizzy hours on deck I thought of those who had preceded me; of heroic men who for three centuries had braved suffering, cold and famine, who had sacrificed the comforts of civilization, their families and friends, who had given their own lives in the pursuit of this mysterious, yea, fruitless quest. I remembered reading the thrilling tales of those who returned--tales which had flushed me with excitement and inspired me with the same mad ambition. I thought of the noble, indefatigable efforts of these men, of the heart-sickening failures, in which I too had shared. And I felt the indomitable, swift surge of their awful, goading determination within me--to subdue the forces of nature, to cover as Icarus did the air those icy spaces, to reach the silver-shining vacantness which men called the North Pole. As we cut the shimmering waters, I felt, as it were, the wierd, unseen presence of those who had died there--died horribly--men whose bodies had withered, with slow suffering, in frigid blasts and famine, who possibly had prolonged their suffering by feeding upon their own doomed companions--and of others who had perished swiftly in the sudden yawning of the leprous white mouth of the hungry frozen sea. It is said by some that souls live only after death by the energy of great emotions, great loves, or great ambitions generated throughout life. It seemed to me, in those hours of intoxication, that I could feel the implacable, unsatisfied desire of these disembodied things, who had vibrated with one aim and still yearned in the spirit for what now they were physically unable to attain. It seemed that my brain was fired with the intensity of all these dead men's ambition, that my heart in sympathy beat more turbulently with the throb of their dead hearts; I felt growing within me, irresistibly, what I did not dare, for fear it might not be possible, to confide to Bradley--a determination, even in the face of peril, to essay the Pole! From this time onward, and until I turned my back upon the fruitless silver-shining place of desolation at the apex of the world, I felt the intoxication, the intangible lure of the thing exhilarating, buoying me gladsomely, beating in my heart with a singing rhythm. I recall it now with marveling, and am filled with the pathos of it. Yet, despite all that I have suffered since because of it, I regret not those enraptured hours of perpetual glitter of midnight suns. One morning we reached the northern shore of Melville Bay, and the bold cliffs of Cape York were dimly outlined through a gray mist. Strong southern winds had carried such great masses of ice against the coast that it was impossible to make a near approach, and as a strong wind continued, there was such a heavy sea along the bobbing line of outer ice as to make it quite impossible to land and thence proceed toward the shore. We were desirous of meeting the natives of Cape York, but these ice conditions forced us to proceed without touching here, and so we set our course for the next of the northernmost villages, at North Star Bay. By noon the mist had vanished, and we saw clearly the steep slopes and warm color of crimson cliffs rising precipitously out of the water. The coast line is about two thousand feet high, evidently the remains of an old tableland which extends a considerable distance northward. Here and there were short glaciers which had worn the cliffs away in their ceaseless effort to reach the sea. The air was full of countless gulls, guillemots, little auks and eider-ducks. As the eye followed the long and lofty line of crimson cliffs, there came into sight a towering, conical rock, a well-known guidepost for the navigator. Continuing, we caught sight of the long ice wall of Petowik Glacier, and behind this, extending far to the eastward, the scintillating, white expanse of the overland-ice which blankets the interior of all Greenland. The small and widely scattered villages of the Eskimos of this region are hemmed in by the ice walls of Melville Bay on the southward, the stupendous cliffs of Humboldt Glacier on the north, an arm of the sea to the westward, and the hopelessly desolate Greenland interior toward the east. There is really no reason why many Eskimos should not live here, for there is abundant food in both sea and air, and even considerable game on land. Blue and white foxes are everywhere to be seen. There is the seal, the walrus, the narwhal, and the white whale. There is the white bear, monarch of the Polar wilds, who roams in every direction over his kingdom. The principal reason why the population remains so small lies in the hazardous conditions of life. Children are highly prized, and a marriageable woman or girl who has one or more of them is much more valuable as a match than one who is childless. The coast line here is paradoxically curious, for although the coast exceeds but barely more than two hundred miles of latitude it presents in reality a sea line of about four thousand miles when the great indentations of Wolstenholm Sound, Inglefield Gulf, and other bays, sounds and fiords are measured. We sailed cautiously now about Cape Atholl, which we were to circle; a fog lay upon the waters, almost entirely hiding the innumerable icebergs, and making it difficult to pick our course among the dangerous rocks in this vicinity. Rounding Cape Atholl, we sailed into Wolstenholm Sound and turned our prow toward the Eskimo village on North Star Bay. North Star Bay is guarded by a promontory expressively named Table Mountain, "Oomanaq." As we neared this headland, many natives came out in kayaks to meet us. Inasmuch as I knew most of them personally, I felt a singular thrill of pleasure in seeing them. Years before, I learned their simple-hearted faithfulness. Knud Rasmussen, a Danish writer, living as a native among the Eskimos, apparently for the sake of getting local color, was in one of the canoes and came aboard the ship. As it was necessary to make slight repairs to the schooner, we here had to follow the primitive method of docking by preliminary beaching her. This was done at high tide when the propeller, which had been bent--the principal damage to the ship--was straightened. At the same time we gave the yacht a general looking-over, and righted a universal joint whose loosening had disabled the engine. Meanwhile the launch kept busy scurrying to and fro, our quest being occasionally rewarded with eider-ducks or other game. Late at night, a visit was made to the village of Oomanooi. It could hardly be called a village, for it consisted merely of seven triangular sealskin tents, conveniently placed on picturesque rocks. Gathered about these in large numbers, were men, women and children, shivering in the midnight chill. These were odd-looking specimens of humanity. In height, the men averaged but five feet, two inches, and the women four feet, ten. All had broad, fat faces, heavy bodies and well-rounded limbs. Their skin was slightly bronzed; both men and women had coal-black hair and brown eyes. Their noses were short, and their hands and feet short, but thick. A genial woman was found at every tent opening, ready to receive visitors in due form. We entered and had a short chat with each family. Subjects of conversation were necessarily limited, but after all, they were about the same as they would have been in a civilized region. We conversed as to whether or not all of us had been well, of deaths, marriages and births. Then we talked of the luck of the chase, which meant prosperity or need of food. Even had it been a civilized community, there would have been little questioning regarding national or international affairs, because, in such case, everyone reads the papers. Here there was no comment on such subjects simply because nobody cares anything about them or has any papers to read. That a prominent Eskimo named My-ah had disposed of a few surplus wives to gain the means whereby to acquire a few more dogs, was probably the most important single item of information conveyed. I was also informed that at the present time there happened to be only one other man with two wives. Marriage, among these folk, is a rather free and easy institution. It is, indeed, not much more than a temporary tie of possession. Men exchange partners with each other much in the manner that men in other countries swap horses. And yet, the position of women is not so humble as this custom might seem to indicate, for they themselves are permitted, not infrequently, to choose new partners. These exceedingly primitive ideas work out surprisingly well in practice in these isolated regions, for such exchanges, when made, are seemingly to the advantage and satisfaction of all parties; no regrets are expressed, and the feuds of divorce courts, of alimony proceedings, of damages for alienation of affection, which prevail in so-called civilization, are unknown. It is certainly a curious thing that these simple but intelligent people are able to control their own destinies with a comfortable degree of success, although they are without laws or literature and without any fixed custom to regulate the matrimonial bond. It would seem as if there ought to be a large population, for there is an average of about three fat, clever children for each family, the youngest as a rule picturesquely resting in a pocket on the mother's back. But the hardships of life in this region are such that accidents and deaths keep down the population. Each tent has a raised platform, upon which all sleep. The edge of this makes a seat, and on each side are placed stone lamps in which blubber is burned, with moss as a wick. Over this is a drying rack, also a few sticks, but there is no other furniture. Their dress of furs gives the Eskimos a look of savage fierceness which their kindly faces and easy temperament do not warrant. On board the yacht were busy days of barter. Furs and ivory were gathered in heaps in exchange for guns, knives and needles. Every seaman, from cabin boy to captain, suddenly got rich in the gamble of trade for prized blue-fox skins and narwhal tusks. The Eskimos were equally elated with their part of the bargain. For a beautiful fox skin, of less use to a native than a dog pelt, he could secure a pocket knife that would serve him half a lifetime! A woman exchanged her fur pants, worth a hundred dollars, for a red pocket handkerchief with which she would decorate her head or her igloo for years to come. Another gave her bearskin mits for a few needles, and she conveyed the idea that she had the long end of the trade! A fat youth with a fatuous smile displayed with glee two bright tin cups, one for himself and one for his prospective bride. He was positively happy in having obtained nine cents' worth of tin for only an ivory tusk worth ninety dollars! With the coming of the midnight tide we lifted the schooner to an even keel from the makeshift dry-dock on the beach. She was then towed out into the bay by the launch and two dories, and anchored. Our first walrus adventures began in Wolstenholm Sound during the beautiful nightless days of mid-August. The local environment was fascinating. The schooner was anchored in North Star Bay, a lake of glitter in which wild men in skin canoes darted after seals and eider-ducks. On grassy shores were sealskin tents, about which fur-clad women and children vied with wolf-dogs for favorite positions to see the queer doings of white men. A remarkable landmark made the place conspicuous. A great table-topped rock rose suddenly out of a low foreland to an altitude of about six hundred feet. About this giant cliff, gulls, guillemots and ravens talked and winged uproariously. The rock bore the native name of Oomanaq. With the unique Eskimo manner of name-coining, the village was called Oomanooi. Wolstenholm Sound is a large land-locked body of water, with arms reaching to the narrow gorges of the overland sea of ice, from which icebergs tumble ceaslessly. The sparkling water reflected the surroundings in many shades of blue and brown, relieved by strong contrasts of white and black. On the western sky line were the chiseled walls of Acponie and other islands, and beyond a steel-gray mist in which was wrapped the frozen sea of the Polar gateway. Fleets of icebergs moved to and fro, dragging tails of drift bejeweled with blue crystal. Far out--ten miles from our outlook--there was a meeting of the currents. Here, small pieces of sea-ice slowly circled in an eddy, and upon them were herds of walruses. We did not see them, but their shrill voices rang through the icy air like a wireless message. This was a call to action which Mr. Bradley could not resist, and preparations were begun for the combat. The motor boat--the most important factor in the chase--had been especially built for just such an encounter. Covered with a folding whale-back top entirely painted white to resemble ice, we had hoped to hunt walrus under suitable Arctic cover. Taking a white dory in tow, two Eskimo harpooners were invited to follow. The natives in kayaks soon discovered to their surprise that their best speed was not equal to ours--for the first time they were beaten in their own element. For ages the Eskimos had rested secure in the belief that the kayak was the fastest thing afloat. They had been beaten by big ships, of course, but these had spiritual wings and did not count in the race of man's craft. This little launch, however, with its rapid-fire gas explosions, made their eyes bulge to a wondering, wide-open, seal-like curiosity. They begged to be taken aboard to watch the loading of the engines; they thought we fed it with cartridges. After a delightful run of an hour, a pan of ice was sighted with black hummocks on it. "_Ahwek! Ahwek!_" the Eskimos shouted. A similar sound floated over the oily waters from many walrus throats. The walruses were about three miles to the southwest. At a slower speed we advanced two miles more. In the meantime Mr. Bradley cleared the deck for action. The direction of the hunting tactics was now turned over to My-ah. The mate was at the wheel. I pushed the levers of the gasoline kicker. Our line of attack was ordered at right angles to the wind. As we neared the game, the engines were stopped. Looking through glasses, the sight of the gregarious herd made our hearts quicken. They were all males of tremendous size, with glistening tusks with which they horned one another in efforts for favorable positions. Some were asleep, others basked in the sun with heads turning lazily from side to side. Now and then, they uttered sleepy, low grunts. They were quivering in a gluttonous slumber, while the organs piled up their bank account of fat to pay the costs of the gamble of the coming winter night. With muffled paddles the launch was now silently propelled forward, while the kayaks stealthily advanced to deliver the harpoons. The Eskimo reason for this mode of procedure is based on a careful study of the walrus' habits. Its nose in sleep is always pointed windwards. Its ears are at all times sensitive to noises from every direction, while the eyes during wakeful moments sweep the horizon. But its horizon is very narrow. Only the nose and the ear sense the distant alarm. We advanced very slowly and cautiously, and that only when all heads were down. Our boat slowly got within three hundred yards of the herd. Preparing their implements to strike, the Eskimos had advanced to within fifty feet. The moment was tense. Of a sudden, a tumultuous floundering sound smote the air. The sleeping creatures awoke, and with a start leaped into the sea. Turning their kayaks, the Eskimos paddled a wild retreat and sought the security of the launch. The sport of that herd was lost to us. Although they darted about under water in a threatening manner, they only rose to the surface at a safe distance. Scanning the surroundings with our glasses, about two miles to the south another group was sighted. This time Bradley, as the chief nimrod, assumed direction. The kayaks and the Eskimos were placed in the dory. Tactics were reversed. Instead of creeping up slowly, a sudden rush was planned. No heed was taken of noise or wind. The carburetor was opened, the spark lever of the magneto was advanced to its limit, and we shot through the waters like a torpedo boat. As we neared the herd, the dory, with its Eskimos, was freed from the launch. The Eskimos were given no instructions, and they wisely chose to keep out of the battle. As we got to within two hundred yards, the canvas top of the launch fell and a heavy gun bombardment began. The walruses had not had time to wake; the suddenness of the onslaught completely dazed them. One after another dropped his ponderous head with a sudden jerk as a prize to the marksmen, while the launch, at reduced speed, encircled the walrus-encumbered pan. Few escaped. There were heads and meat and skins enough to satisfy all wants for a long time to follow. But the game was too easy--the advantage of an up-to-date sportsman had been carried to its highest degree of perfection. It was otherwise, however, in the walrus battles that followed later--battles on the success of which depended the possibility of my being able to assail the northern ice desert, in an effort to reach the Polar goal. Oomanooi was but one of six villages among which the tribe had divided its two hundred and fifty people for the current season. To study these interesting folk, to continue the traffic and barter, and to enjoy for a short time the rare sport of sailing and hunting in this wild region, we decided to visit as many of the villages as possible. In the morning the anchor was raised and we set sail in a light wind headed for more northern villages. It was a gray day, with a quiet sea. The speed of the yacht was not fast enough to be exciting, so Mr. Bradley suggested lowering the launch for a crack at ducks, or a chase at walrus or a drive at anything that happened to cut the waters. His harpoon gun was taken, as it was hoped that a whale might come our way, but the gun proved unsatisfactory and did not contribute much to our sport. In the fleet launch we were able to run all around the schooner as she slowly sailed over Wolstenholm Sound. Ducks were secured in abundance. Seals were given chase, but they were able to escape us. Nearing Saunders Island, a herd of walruses was seen on a pan of drift ice far ahead. The magneto was pushed, the carburetor opened, and out we rushed after the shouting beasts. Two, with splendid tusks, were obtained, and two tons of meat and blubber were turned over to our Eskimo allies. The days of hunting proved quite strenuous, and in the evening we were glad to seek the comfort of our cosy cabin, after dining on eider-ducks and other game delicacies. A few Eskimos had asked permission to accompany us to a point farther north. Among them was a widow, to whom, for herself and her children, we had offered a large bed, with straw in it, between decks, but which, savage as she was, she had refused, saying she preferred the open air on deck. There she arranged a den among the anchor chains, under a shelter of seal skins. In tears, she told us the story of her life, a story which offered a peep into the tragedy and at the same time the essential comedy of Eskimo existence. It came in response to a question from me as to how the world had used her, for I had known her years before. At my simple question, she buried her face in her hands and for a time could only mutter rapidly and unintelligibly to her two little boys. Then, between sobs, she told me her story. Ma-nee--such was her name--was a descendant of the Eskimos of the American side. A foreign belle, and, although thin, fair to look upon, as Eskimo beauty goes, her hand was sought early by the ardent youths of the tribe, who, truth to tell, look upon utility as more desirable than beauty in a wife. The heart of Ma-nee throbbed to the pleadings of one Ik-wa, a youth lithe and brave, with brawn and sinews as resilient as rubber and strong as steel, handsome, dark, with flashing eyes, yet with a heart as cruel as the relentless wind and cold sea of the North. Ma-nee married Ik-wa and bore to him several children. These, which meant wealth of the most valuable kind (children even exceeding in value dogs, tusks and skins), meant the attainment of Ik-wa's selfish purpose. Ma-nee was fair, but her hands were not adroit with the needle, nor was she fair in the plump fashion desirable in wives. Ik-wa met Ah-tah, a good seamstress, capable of much toil, not beautiful, but round and plump. Whereupon, Ik-wa took Ah-tah to wife, and leading Ma-nee to the door of their igloo, ordered her to leave. Cruel as can be these natives, they also possess a persistence and a tenderness that manifest themselves in strange, dramatic ways. Ma-nee, disconsolate but brave, departed. There being at the time a scarcity of marriageable women in the village, Ma-nee was soon wooed by another, an aged Eskimo, whose muscles had begun to wither, whose eyes no longer flashed as did Ik-wa's, but whose heart was kind. To him Ma-nee bore two children, those which she had with her on deck. To them, unfortunately, descended the heritage of their father's frailities; one--now eight--being the only deaf and dumb Eskimo in all the land; the other, the younger, aged three, a weakling with a pinched and pallid face and thin, gaunt arms. Ma-nee's husband was not a good hunter, for age and cold had sapped his vigor. Their home was peaceful if not prosperous; the two loved one another, and, because of their defects, Ma-nee grew to love her little ones unwontedly. Just before the beginning of the long winter night, the old father, anxious to provide food and deer skins for the coming months of continuous darkness, ventured alone in search of game among the mountains of the interior. Day after day, while the gloom descended, Ma-nee, dry eyed waited. The aged father never came back. Returning hunters finally brought news that he had perished alone, from a gun accident, in the icy wilderness, and they had found him, his frozen, mummied face peeping anxiously from the mantle of snow. Ma-nee wept broken-heartedly. Ma-nee gazed into the faces of the two children with a wild, tragic wistfulness. By the stern and inviolable law of the Eskimos, Ma-nee knew her two beloved ones were condemned to die. In this land, where food is at a premium, and where every helpless and dependent life means a sensible drain upon the tribe's resources, they have evolved that Spartan law which results in the survival of only the fittest. The one child, because of its insufficient senses, the other because it was still on its mother's back and under three at the time its father died, and with no father to support them, were doomed. Kind-hearted as the Eskimos naturally are, they can at times, in the working out of that code which means continued existence, be terribly brutal. Their fierce struggle with the elements for very existence has developed in them an elemental fierceness. From probable experience in long-past losses of life from contagion, they instinctively destroy every igloo in which a native dies, or, at times, to save the igloo, they heartlessly seize the dying, and dragging him through the low door, cast him, ere breath has ceased, into the life-stilling outer world. This inviolable custom of ages Ma-nee, with a Spartan courage, determined to break. During the long night which had just passed, friends had been kind to Ma-nee, but now that she was defying Eskimo usage, she could expect no assistance. Brutal as he had been to her, hopeless as seemed such prospects, Ma-nee thought of the cruel Ik-wa and determined to go to him, with the two defective children of her second husband, beg him to accept them as his own and to take her, as a secondary wife, a servant--a position of humiliation and hard labor. In this determination, which can be appreciated only by those who know how implacable and heartless the natives can be, Ma-nee was showing one of their marvellous traits, that indomitable courage, persistence and dogged hopefulness which, in my two later companions, E-tuk-i-shook and Ah-we-lah, enabled them, with me, to reach the Pole. I admired the spirit of Ma-nee, and promised to help her, although the mission of reuniting the two seemed dubious. Ma-nee was not going to Ik-wa entirely empty-handed, however, for she possessed some positive wealth in the shape of several dogs, and three bundles of skins and sticks which comprised her household furniture. We soon reached the village where Ma-nee was to be put ashore. Very humbly, the heroic mother and her two frail children went to Ik-wa's tent. Ik-wa was absent hunting, and his wife, who had supplanted Ma-nee, a fat, unsociable creature, appeared. Weeping, Ma-nee told of her plight and begged for shelter. The woman stolidly listened; then, without a word, turned her back on the forlorn mother and entered her tent. For the unintentional part we had played she gave us exceedingly cold, frowning looks which were quite expressive. Ma-nee now went to the other villagers. They listened to her plans, and their primitive faces lighted with sympathy. I soon saw them serving a pot of steaming oil meat in her honor--a feast in which we were urgently invited to partake, but which we, fortunately, found some good excuse for avoiding. Although she had violated a custom of the tribe, these people, both stern-hearted and tender, recognized the greatness of a mother-love which had braved an unwritten law of ages, and they took her in. Several months later, on a return to the village, I saw Ik-wa himself. Although he did not thank me for the unwitting part I had played in their reunion, he had taken Ma-nee back, and near his own house was a new igloo in which the mother lived with her children. Resuming our journey, a snow squall soon frosted the deck of the yacht, and to escape the icy air we retired early to our berths. During the night the speed of the yacht increased, and when we appeared on deck again, at four o'clock in the morning, the rays of the August sun seemed actually warm. We passed the ice-battered and storm-swept cliffs of Cape Parry and entered Whale Sound. On a sea of gold, strewn with ice islands of ultramarine and alabaster, whales spouted and walrus shouted. Large flocks of little auks rushed rapidly by. The wind was light, but the engine took us along at a pace just fast enough to allow us to enjoy the superb surroundings. In the afternoon we were well into Inglefield Gulf, and near Itiblu. There was a strong head wind, and enough ice about to make us cautious in our prospect. We aimed here to secure Eskimo guides and with them seek caribou in Olrik's Bay. While the schooner was tacking for a favorable berth in the drift off Kanga, the launch was lowered, and we sought to interview the Eskimos of Itiblu. The ride was a wet one, for a short, choppy sea poured icy spray over us and tumbled us about. There were only one woman, a few children, and about a score of dogs at the place. The woman was a remarkably fast talker, long out of practice. She told us that her husband and the other men were absent on a caribou hunt, and then, with a remarkably rapid articulation and without a single question from us, plunged incessantly on through all the news of the tribe for a year. After gasping for breath like a smothered seal, she then began with news of previous years and a history of forgotten ages. We started back for the launch, and she invited herself to the pleasure of our company to the beach. We had gone only a few steps before it occurred to her that she was in need of something. Would we not get her a few boxes of matches in exchange for a narwhal tusk? We should be delighted, and a handful of sweets went with the bargain. Her boy brought down two ivory tusks, each eight feet in length, the two being worth one hundred and fifty dollars. Had we a knife to spare? Yes; and a tin spoon was also given, just to show that we were liberal. The yacht was headed northward, across Inglefield Gulf. With a fair wind, we cut tumbling seas of ebony with a racing dash. Though the wind was strong, the air was remarkably clear. The great chiselled cliffs of Cape Auckland rose in terraced grandeur under the midnight sun. The distance was twelve miles, and it was twelve miles of submerged rocks and shallow water. It was necessary to give Karnah a wide berth. There were bergs enough about to hold the water down, though an occasional sea rose with a sickening thump. At Karnah we went ashore. There was not a man in town, all being absent on a distant hunting campaign. But, though there were no men, the place was far from being deserted, for five women, fifteen children and forty-five dogs came out to meet us. Here we saw five sealskin tents pitched among the bowlders of a glacial stream. An immense quantity of narwhal meat was lying on the rocks and stones to dry. Skins were stretched on the grass, and a general air of thrift was evidenced about the place. Bundles of seal-skins, packages of pelts and much ivory were brought out to trade and establish friendly intercourse. We gave the natives sugar, tobacco and ammunition in quantities to suit their own estimate of value. Would we not place ourselves at ease and stay for a day or two, as their husbands would soon return? We were forced to decline their hospitality, for without the harbor there was too much wind to keep the schooner waiting. Eskimos have no salutation except a greeting smile or a parting look of regret. We got both at the same time as we stepped into the launch and shouted good-bye. The captain was told to proceed to Cape Robertson. The wind eased, and a descending fog soon blotted out part of the landscape, horizon and sky. It hung like a gray pall a thousand feet above us, leaving the air below this bright and startlingly clear. TO THE LIMITS OF NAVIGATION EXCITING HUNTS FOR GAME WITH THE ESKIMOS--ARRIVAL AT ETAH--SPEEDY TRIP TO ANNOATOK, THE WINDY PLACE, WHERE SUPPLIES ARE FOUND IN ABUNDANCE--EVERYTHING AUSPICIOUS FOR DASH TO THE POLE--DETERMINATION TO ESSAY THE EFFORT--BRADLEY INFORMED--DEBARK FOR THE POLE--THE YACHT RETURNS IV ALONE WITH OUR DESTINY, SEVEN HUNDRED MILES FROM THE POLE We awoke off Cape Robertson early on August 13, and went ashore before breakfast. The picturesque coast here rises suddenly to an altitude of about two thousand feet, and is crowned with a gleaming, silver ice cap. Large bays, blue glacial walls and prominent headlands give a pleasing variety. It is much like the coast of all Greenland. On its southern exposure the eroded Huronian rocks provide shelter for millions of little auks. They dart incessantly from cliff to sea in a chattering cloud of wings. Rather rich and grassy verdure offers an oasis for the Arctic hare, while the blue fox finds life easy here, for he can fill his winter den with the fat feathered creatures which teem by millions. The Eskimos profit by the combination, and pitch their camp at the foot of the cliffs, for the chase on sea is nearly as good here as in other places, while land creatures literally tumble into the larder. As we approached the shore, ten men, nine women, thirty-one children and one hundred and six dogs came out to meet us. I count the children and dogs for they are equally important in Eskimo economy. The latter are by far the most important to the average Caucasian in the Arctic. Only small game had fallen to the Eskimos' lot, and they were eager to venture out with us after big game. Mr. Bradley gathered a suitable retinue of native guides, and we were not long in arranging a compact. Free passage, the good graces of the cook, and a knife each were to be their pay. A caribou hunt was not sufficiently novel to merit a return to Olrik's Bay, where intelligent hunting is always rewarded, but it was hoped we might get a hunt at Kookaan, near the head of Robertson Bay.[4] Although hunting in the bay was not successful from a practical standpoint, it afforded exciting pleasure in perilous waters. Even during these hours of sport, my mind was busy with tentative plans for a Polar journey. Whenever I aimed my gun at a snorting walrus, or at some white-winged Arctic bird, I felt a thrill in the thought that upon the skill of my arms, of my aim, and upon that of the natives we were later to join, would depend the getting of food sufficient to enable me to embark upon my dream. Everything I did now began to have some bearing upon this glorious, intoxicating prospect; it colored my life, day and night. I realized how easily I might fail even should conditions be favorable enough to warrant the journey; for this reason, because of the unwelcome doubt which at times chilled my enthusiasm, I did not yet confide to Bradley my growing ambition. Returning to the settlement, we paid our hunting guides, made presents to the women and children, and set sail for Etah. An offshore breeze filled the big wings of the canvas. As borne on the back of some great white bird, we soared northward into a limpid molten sea. From below came the music of our phonograph, curiously shouting its tunes, classic and popular, in that grim, golden region of glory and death. It is curious how ambition sets the brain on fire, and quickens the heart throbs. As we sped over the magical waters, the wild golden air electric about me, I believe I felt an ecstasy of desire such as mystics achieved from fasting and prayer. It was the surge of an ambition which began to grow mightily within me, which I felt no obstacle could withstand, and which, later, I believe carried me forward with its wings of faith when my body well nigh refused to move. We passed Cape Alexander and entered Smith Sound. We sped by storm-chiselled cliffs, whereupon the hand of nature had written a history, unintelligible to humans, as with a pen of iron. The sun was low. Great bergs loomed up in the radiant distance, and reflecting silver-shimmering halos, seemed to me as the silver-winged ghosts of those who died in this region and who were borne alone on the wind and air. Nature seemed to sing with exultation. Approaching a highland of emerald green and seal brown, I heard the wild shouting of hawks from the summit, and from below the shrill chattering of millions of auks with baby families. And nearer, from the life enraptured waters, the minor note of softly cooing ducks and mating guillemots. From the interior land of ice, rising above the low booming of a sapphire glacier moving majestically to the sea, rang the bark of foxes, the shrill notes of the ptarmigan, and from an invisible farther distance the raucous wolf howl of Eskimo dogs. Before us, at times, would come a burst of spouting spray, and a whale would rise to the surface of the sea. Nearby, on a floating island of ice, mother walrus would soothingly murmur to her babies. From invisible places came the paternal voices of the oogzook, and as we went forward, seals, white whales and unicorns appeared, speaking perhaps the sign language of the animal deaf and dumb in the blue submarine. Occasionally, there was an explosion, when thunder as from a hundred cannons echoed from cliff to cliff. A berg was shattered to ruins. Following this would rise the frightened voices of every animal above water. Now and then, from ultramarine grottoes issued weird, echoing sounds, and almost continually rising to ringing peals and shuddering into silence, reiterant, incessant, came nature's bugle-calls--calls of the wind, of sundering glaciers, of sudden rushes of ice rivers, of exploding gases and of disintegrating bergs. With those sounds pealing in our ears clarion-like, we entered the "Gates of Hades," the Polar gateway, bound for the harbor where the last fringe of the world's humanity straggles finally up on the globe. As we entered Foulke Fiord, half a gale came from the sea. We steered for the settlement of Etah. A tiny settlement it was, for it was composed of precisely four tents, which for this season, had been pitched beside a small stream, just inside of the first projecting point on the north shore. Inside this point there was sheltered water for the Eskimo's kayaks, and it also made a good harbor for the schooner. It is possible in favorable seasons to push through Smith Sound, over Kane Basin, into Kennedy Channel, but the experiment is always at the risk of the vessel. So, as there was no special reasons for us to hazard life in making this attempt, we decided to prepare the schooner here for the return voyage. These preparations would occupy several days. We determined to spend as much of this time as possible in sport, since much game abounded in this region. Before we landed we watched the Eskimos harpoon a white whale. There were no unexplored spots in this immediate vicinity, as both Doctor Kane and Doctor Hayes, in the middle of the last century, had been thoroughly over the ground. The little auks kept us busy for a day after our arrival, while hares, tumbling like snowballs over wind-polished, Archæan rocks, gave another day of gun recreation. Far beyond, along the inland ice, were caribou, but we preferred to confine our hunting to the seashore. The bay waters were alive with eider-ducks and guillemots, while, just outside, walruses dared us to venture in open contest on the wind-swept water. After satisfying our desire for the hunt, we prepared to start for Annoatok, twenty-five miles to the northward. This is the northernmost settlement of the globe, a place beyond which even the hardy Eskimos attempt nothing but brief hunting excursions, and where, curiously, money is useless because it has no value. We decided to go in the motor boat, so the tanks were filled with gasoline and suitable food and camp equipment were loaded. On the morning of August 24, we started for Annoatok. It was a beautiful day. The sun glowed in a sky of Italian blue. A light air crossed the sea, which glowed dully, like ground glass. Passing inside of Littleton Island, we searched for relics along Lifeboat Cove. There the _Polaris_ was stranded in a sinking condition in 1872, with fourteen men on board. The desolate cliffs of Cape Hatherton were a midsummer blaze of color and light that contrasted strongly with the cold blue of the many towering bergs. As we went swiftly past the series of wind-swept headlands, the sea and air became alive with seals, walruses and birds. We did little shooting as we were eagerly bent on reaching Annoatok. As we passed the sharp rocks of Cairn Point, we saw a cluster of nine tents on a small bay under Cape Inglefield. "Look, look! There is Annoatok!" cried Tung-we, our native guide. Looking farther, we saw that the entire channel beyond was blocked with a jam of ice. Fortunately we were able to take our boat as far as we desired. A perpendicular cliff served as a pier to which to fasten it. Here it could rise and fall with the tide, and in little danger from drifting ice. Ordinarily, Annoatok is a town of only a single family or perhaps two, but we found it unusually large and populous, for the best hunters had gathered here for the winter bear hunt. Their summer game catch had been very lucky. Immense quantities of meat were strewn along the shore, under mounds of stone. More than a hundred dogs, the standard by which Eskimo prosperity is measured, yelped a greeting, and twelve long-haired, wild men came out to meet us as friends. It came strongly to me that this was the spot to make the base for a Polar dash. Here were Eskimo helpers, strong, hefty natives from whom I could select the best to accompany me; here, by a fortunate chance, were the best dog teams; here were plenty of furs for clothing; and here was unlimited food. These supplies, combined with supplies on the schooner, would give all that was needed for the campaign. Nothing could have been more ideal. For the past several days, having realized the abundance of game and the auspicious weather, I had thought more definitely of making a dash for the Pole. With all conditions in my favor, might I not, by one powerful effort, achieve the thing that had haunted me for years? My former failures dogged me. If I did not try now, it was a question if an opportunity should ever again come to me. Now every condition was auspicious for the effort. I confess the task seemed audacious almost to the verge of impossibility. But, with all these advantages so fortunately placed in my hands, it took on a new and almost weird fascination. My many years of schooling in both Polar zones and in mountaineering would now be put to their highest test. Yes, I would try, I told myself; I believed I should succeed. I informed Mr. Bradley of my determination. He was not over-optimistic about success, but he shook my hand and wished me luck. From his yacht he volunteered food, fuel, and other supplies, for local camp use and trading, for which I have been thankful. "Annoatok" means "a windy place." There is really nothing there to be called a harbor; but we now planned to bring the schooner to this point and unload her on the rocky shore, a task not unattended with danger. However, the base had to be made somewhere hereabout, as Etah itself is still more windy than Annoatok. Moreover, at Etah the landing is more difficult, and it was not nearly so convenient for my purpose as a base. Besides, there were gathered at Annoatok, as I have described, with needed food and furs in abundance, the best Eskimos[5] in all Greenland, from whom, by reason of the rewards from civilization which I could give them, such as knives, guns, ammunition, old iron, needles and matches, I could select a party more efficient, because of their persistence, tough fibre, courage and familiarity with Arctic traveling, than any party of white men could be. The possible combination of liberal supplies and valiant natives left absolutely nothing to be desired to insure success, so far as preliminaries were concerned. It was only necessary that good health, endurable weather and workable ice should follow. The expenditure of a million dollars could not have placed an expedition at a better advantage. The opportunity was too good to be lost. We therefore returned to Etah to prepare for the quest. At Etah, practically everything that was to be landed at Annoatok was placed on deck, so that the dangerous stop beside the rocks of Annoatok could be made a brief one. The ship was prepared for the contingency of a storm. Late in the evening of August 26, the entire population of Etah was taken aboard, the anchor was tripped, and soon the _Bradley's_ bow put out on the waters of Smith Sound for Annoatok. The night was cold and clear, brightened by the charm of color. The sun had just begun to dip under the northern horizon, which marks the end of the summer double days of splendor and begins the period of storms leading into the long night. Early in the morning we were off Annoatok. The launch and all the dories were lowered and filled. Eskimo boats were pressed into service and loaded. The boats were towed ashore. Only a few reached Annoatok itself, for the wind increased and a troublesome sea made haste a matter of great importance. Things were pitched ashore anywhere on the rocks where a landing could be found for the boats. The splendid efficiency of the launch proved equal to the emergency, and in the course of about thirteen hours all was safely put on shore in spite of dangerous winds and forbidding seas. That the goods were spread along the shore for a distance of several miles did not much matter, for the Eskimos willingly and promptly carried them to the required points. Now the time had come for the return of the schooner to the United States. Unsafe to remain longer at Annoatok at this advanced stage of the season, it was also imperative that it go right on with barely a halt at any other place. The departure meant a complete severance between the civilized world and myself. But I do not believe, looking back upon it, that the situation seemed as awesome as might be supposed. Other explorers had been left alone in the Northland, and I had been through the experience before. The party, so far as civilized men were concerned, was to be an unusually small one. That, however, was not from lack of volunteers, for when I had announced my determination many of the crew had volunteered to accompany me. Captain Bartlett himself wished to go along, but generously said that if it seemed necessary for him to go back with the schooner, he would need only a cook and engineer, leaving the other men with me. I wanted only one white companion, however, for I knew that no group of white men could possibly match the Eskimos in their own element. I had the willing help of all the natives, too, at my disposal. More than that was not required. I made an agreement with them for their assistance throughout the winter in getting ready, and then for as many as I wanted to start with me toward the uttermost North. For my white companion I selected Rudolph Francke, now one of the Arctic enthusiasts on the yacht. He had shipped for the experience of an Arctic trip. He was a cultivated young German with a good scientific schooling. He was strong, goodnatured, and his heart was in the prospective work. These were the qualities which made him a very useful man as my sole companion. Early on the morning of September 3, I bade farewell to Mr. Bradley, and not long afterward the yacht moved slowly southward and faded gradually into the distant southern horizon. I was left alone with my destiny, seven hundred miles from the Pole. BEGINNING PREPARATIONS FOR THE POLAR DASH THE ARCTIC SOLITUDE--RETROSPECTION AND INTROSPECTION--THE DETERMINATION TO ACHIEVE--PLANNING OUT THE DETAILS OF THE CAMPAIGN--AN ENTIRE TRIBE BUSILY AT WORK V THE POLE, THE ROUTE, AND THE INCENTIVE When the yacht disappeared I felt a poignant pang at my heart. After it had faded, I stood gazing blankly at the sky, and I felt the lure of the old world. The yacht was going home--to the land of my family and friends. I was now alone, and, with the exception of Francke, there was no white man among this tribe of wild people with whom to converse during the long Arctic night that was approaching. I knew I should not be lonely, for there was a tremendous lot of work to do, although I had unstinted assistance. In every detail, the entire six months of labor including the catching of animals, the drying of meat, the making of such clothes and sledges as would be necessary, and the testing of them, would have to be managed by myself. Turning from the rocky highland where I stood, a wild thrill stirred my heart. The hour of my opportunity had come. After years of unavailing hopes and depressing defeats my final chance was presented! In the determination to succeed, every drop of blood in my body, every fibre of me responded. Why did I desire so ardently to reach the North Pole? What did I hope to gain? What, if successful, did I expect to reap as the result of my dreams? These questions since have been asked by many. I have searched the chambers of my memory and have tried to resolve replies to myself. The attaining of the North Pole meant at the time simply the accomplishing of a splendid, unprecedented feat--a feat of brain and muscle in which I should, if successful, signally surpass other men. In this I was not any more inordinately vain or seekful of glory than one who seeks pre-eminence in baseball, running tournaments, or any other form of athletics or sport. At the time, any applause which the world might give, should I succeed, did not concern me; I knew that this might come, but it did not enter into my speculations. For years I had felt the lure of the silver glamor of the North, and I can explain this no more than the reason why a poet is driven to express himself in verse, or why one child preternaturally develops amazing proficiency in mathematics and another in music. Certain desires are born or unconsciously developed in us. I, with others before me, found my life ambition in the conquest of the Pole. To reach it would mean, I knew, an exultation which nothing else in life could give. This imaginary spot held for me the revealing of no great scientific secrets. I never regarded the feat as of any great scientific value. The real victory would lie, not in reaching the goal itself, but in overcoming the obstacles which exist in the way of it. In the battle with these I knew there would be excitement, danger, necessary expedients to tax the brain and heroic feats to tax the muscles, the ever constant incentive which the subduing of one difficulty after another excites. During the first day at Annoatok, after the yacht left, I thought of the world toward which it was going, of the continents to the south of me, of the cities with their teeming millions, and of the men with their multitudinous, conflicting ambitions. I could see, in my mind, the gigantic globe of my world swinging in cloud-swept emerald spaces, and far in the remote, vast, white regions in the north of it, far from the haunts of men, thousands of miles from its populous cities, beyond the raging of its blue-green seas, myself, alone, a wee, small atom on its vast surface, striving to reach its hitherto unattained goal. I felt, as I thought of my anticipation and lonely quest, a sense of the terrible overwhelming hugeness of the earth, and the poignant loneliness any soul must feel when it embarks upon some splendid solitary destiny. Beyond and above me I visioned the unimaginable, blinding white regions of ice and cold, about which, like a golden-crowned sentinel, with face of flame, the circling midnight sun kept guard. Upon this desolate, awe-inspiring stage--unchanged since the days of its designing--I saw myself attempting to win in the most spectacular and difficult marathon for the testing of human strength, courage and perseverance, of body and brain, which God has offered to man. I could see myself, in my fancy pictures, invading those roaring regions, struggling over icy lands in the dismal twilight of the Arctic morning, and venturing, with a few companions, upon the lifeless, wind-swept Polar sea. A black mite, I saw myself slowly piercing those white and terrible spaces, braving terrific storms, assailing green, adamantine barriers of ice, crossing the swift-flowing, black rivers of those ice fields, and stoutly persisting until, successful, I stood alone, a victor, upon the world's pinnacle! This thought gave me wild joy. That I, one white man, might alone succeed in this quest gave me an impetus which only single-handed effort and the prospect of single-handed success can give. There was pleasure in the thought that, in this effort, I was indebted to no one; no one had expended money for me or my trip; no white men were to risk their lives with me. Whether it resulted in success or defeat, I alone should exult or I alone should suffer. I was the mascot of no clique of friends, nor the pawn of scientists who might find a suppositious and mythical glory in the reflected light of another's achievement. The quest was personal; the pleasure of success must be personal. Yet, I want you to understand this thing was no casual jaunt with me. All my life hinged about it, my hopes were bent upon it; the doing of it was part of me. My plans of action were not haphazard and hair-brained. Logically and clearly, I mapped out a campaign. It was based upon experience in known conditions, experience gathered after years of discouragement and failure. At Annoatok we erected a house of packing boxes.[6] The building of the house, which was to be both storehouse and workshop, was a simple matter. The walls were made of the packing boxes, especially selected of uniform size for this purpose. [Illustration: ON THE CHASE FOR BEAR THE BOX-HOUSE AT ANNOATOK AND ITS WINTER ENVIRONMENT] [Illustration: MAN'S PREY OF THE ARCTIC SEA--WALRUS ASLEEP] Enclosing a space thirteen by sixteen feet, the cases were quickly piled up. The walls were held together by strips of wood, the joints sealed with pasted paper, with the addition of a few long boards. A really good roof was made by using the covers of the boxes as shingles. A blanket of turf over this confined the heat and permitted, at the same time, healthful circulation of air. We slept under our own roof at the end of the first day. Our new house had the great advantage of containing within it all our possessions within easy reach at all times. When anything was needed in the way of supplies, all we had to do was to open a box in the wall. The house completed, we immediately began the work of building sledges, and the equally important work, at which a large proportion of the Eskimos were at once set, of making up furs into clothing. According to my plans, each one of us embarking in the Polar journey would have to carry two suits of fur clothing. In the Arctic regions, especially when men are marching to the limit of their strength every day, the bodily heat puts the clothing into such condition that the only safe way, if health is to be preserved, is to change suits frequently, while the perspiration-soaked furs are laid out to dry. The Eskimos had also to prepare for winter. Tents of sealskin are inhabitable only in the summer time. For the coming period of darkness and bitter cold, they made igloos of stone and snow. Meanwhile, they were not in the least averse to agreeable relaxation. I had with me a good supply of tea, and was in the habit of drinking a cup of it with Francke about four o'clock every afternoon. Observing this, the Eskimos at once began to present themselves at the tea hour. Fortunately, tea was one of the supplies of which I had brought a good deal for the sake of pleasing the natives, and it was not long before I had a very large and gossipy afternoon tea party every day, in this northernmost human settlement of the globe. I planned to superintend every detail of progress, as far as it concerned our journey. I could watch the men, too, and see which ones promised to be the best to accompany me. And, what was a most important point, I could also perfect my final plans for the advance right at my final base. I aimed to reach the top of the globe in the angle between Alaska and Greenland, a promising route through a new and lonesome region which had not been tried, abandoning what has come to be called the "American Route." I should strike westward and then northward, working new trails. With Annoatok as a base of operations, I planned to carry sufficient supplies over Schley Land and along the west coast of the game lands, trusting that the game along this region would furnish sufficient supplies en route to the shores of the Polar sea. This journey to land's end would also afford a test of every article of equipment needed in the field work, and would enable us to choose finally from a selected number of Eskimos those most able to endure the rigors of the unlimited journey which lay before us. I sent out a few hunters along the intended line to seek for haunts of game, but I was not surprised that their searching in the dark was practically unsuccessful, and it merely meant that I must depend upon my previous knowledge of conditions. I knew from the general reports of the natives, and from the explorations of Sverdrup, that the beginning of the intended route offered abundant game, and the indications were that further food would likewise be found as we advanced. The readiness with which the Eskimos declared themselves ready to trust to the food supply of the unknown region was highly encouraging. To start from my base with men and dogs in superb condition, with their bodies nourished with wholesome fresh meat instead of the nauseating laboratory stuff too often given to men in the North, was of vital importance; and if the men and dogs could afterwards be supported in great measure by the game of the region through which we were to pass, it would be of an importance more vital still. If my information was well founded and my general conjectures correct, I should have advantages which had not been possessed by any other leader of a Polar expedition. The new route seemed to promise, also, immunity from the highly disturbing effects of certain North Greenland currents. In all, the chances seemed not unfavorable. With busy people hard at work about me, I knew that the months of the long night would pass rapidly by. There was much to do, and with the earliest dawn of the morning of the next year we must be ready to start for the Pole. THE CURTAIN OF NIGHT DROPS TRIBE OF TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY NATIVES BUSILY BEGIN PREPARATIONS FOR THE POLAR DASH--EXCITING HUNTS FOR THE UNICORN AND OTHER GAME FROM ANNOATOK TO CAPE YORK--EVERY ANIMAL CAUGHT BEARING UPON THE SUCCESS OF THE VENTURE--THE GREY-GREEN GLOOM OF TWILIGHT IN WHICH THE ESKIMO WOMEN COMMUNICATE WITH THE SOULS OF THE DEAD VI THE SUNSET OF 1907 Winter, long-lasting, dark and dismal, approached. To me it was to be a season of feverish labor in which every hand at work and every hour employed counted in the problem of success. While the hands of the entire tribe would be busy, and while I should direct and help in the making of sleds, catching of game, preparing of meat, I knew that my mind would find continual excitement in dreams of my quest, in anticipating and solving its difficulties, in feeling the bounding pulse of the dash over the ice of the Polar sea, with dogs joyously barking, whips cracking the air, and the reappearing sun paving our pathway with liquid gold. In the labor of the long winter which I began to map out I knew I should find ceaseless zest, for the pursuit of every narwhal, every walrus, every fox I should regard with abated suspense, each one bearing upon my chances; in the employment of every pair of hands I should hang with an eager interest, the expediency and excellence of the work making for success or failure. From this time onward everything of my life, every native, every occurrence began to have some bearing upon the dominating task to which I had set myself. With the advance of winter, storms of frightful ferocity began to arise. Inasmuch as we had stored meat and blubber in large quantities about our camp, it was not necessary at these times to venture out to dig up supplies from great depths of snow drift. During these periods hands were employed busily inside the igloos. Although a large quantity of animals and furs had been gathered by the hunters before our arrival, we now unexpectedly discovered that the supply was inadequate. According to my plans, a large party of picked natives would accompany me to land's end and somewhat beyond on the Polar sea when I started for my dash in the coming spring. As spring is the best hunting season, it was therefore imperative to secure sufficient advance provisions for the families of these men in addition to preparing requisites for my expedition. So the early days of the winter would have to be busily occupied by the men in a ceaseless hunt for game, and later, even when the darkness had fully fallen, the moonlight days and nights would thus have to be utilized also. In the Polar cycle of the seasons there are peculiar conditions which apply to circumstances and movements. As the word, seasons, is ordinarily understood, there are but two, a winter season and a summer season--a winter season of nine months and a summer of three months. But, for more convenient division of the yearly periods, it is best to retain the usual cycle of four seasons. Eskimos call the winter "ookiah," which also means year, and the summer "onsah." Days are "sleeps." The months are moons, and the periods are named in accord with the movements of various creatures of the chase. In early September at Annoatok the sun dips considerably under the northern horizon. There is no night. At sunset and at sunrise storm clouds hide the bursts of color which are the glory of twilight, and the electric afterglow is generally lost in a dull gray. The gloom of the coming winter night now thickens. The splendor of the summer day has gone. A day of six months and a night of six months is often ascribed to the Polar regions as a whole, but this is only true of a very small area about the Pole. As we come south, the sun slips under the horizon for an ever-increasing part of each twenty-four hours. Preceding and following the night, as we come from the Pole, there is a period of day and night which lengthens with the descent of latitude. It is this period which enables us to retain the names of the usual seasons--summer for the double days, fall for the period of the setting sun. This season begins when the sun first dips under the ice at midnight for a few moments. These moments increase rapidly, yet one hardly appreciates that the sun is departing until day and night are of equal length, for the night remains light, though not cheerful. Then the day rapidly shortens and darkens, and the sun sinks until at last there is but a mere glimmer of the glory of day. Winter is limited to the long night, and spring applies to the days of the rising sun, a period corresponding to the autumn days of the setting sun. At Annoatok the midnight sun is first seen on April 23. It dips in the sea on August 19. It thus encircles the horizon, giving summer and continuous day for one hundred and eighteen days. It sets at midday on October 24, and is absent a period of prolonged night corresponding to the day, and it rises on February 19. The Arctic air, with its low temperature and its charge of frosted humidity, so distorts the sun's rays that when low it is frequently lifted one or two diameters; therefore, the exact day or hour for sunrise or sunset does not correspond to mathematical calculations. Then follow days of spring. In the fall, when the harmonizing influence of the sun is withdrawn, there begins a battle of the elements which continues until stilled by the hopeless frost of early night. At this time, although field work was painful, the needs of our venture forced us to persistent action in the chase of walrus, seal, narwhal and white whale. We thus harvested food and fuel. Before winter ice spread over the sea, ptarmigan, hare and reindeer were sought on land to supply the table during the long night with delicacies, while bear and fox pleased the palates of the Eskimos, and their pelts clothed all. Many long journeys were undertaken to secure an important supply of grass to pad boots and mittens and also to secure moss, which serves as wick for the Eskimo lamp. During the months of September and October, along the entire Greenland coast, the Eskimos were engaged in a feverish quest for reserve supplies. Shortly after my arrival, word had been carried from village to village that I was at Annoatok, and, intending to make a dash for the "Big Nail," desired the help of the entire tribe. Intense and spontaneous activity followed. Knowing the demands of the North, and of such work as I planned, the natives, without specific instructions from me and with only a brief outline of the planned Polar campaign which was sent from village to village, immediately got busy gathering the needed things. They knew better than I where to go for certain game, and where certain desirable things were obtainable. This relieved me of a great responsibility. Each local group of natives was to perform some important duty, suited to its available resources, in gathering the tremendous amount of material required for our trip. Each village had its peculiar game advantages. In some places foxes and hares, the skins of which were necessary for coats and stockings, were abundant, and the Eskimos must not only gather the greatest number possible, but prepare the skins and make them into properly fitting garments. In other places reindeer were plentiful. The skin of these was needed for sleeping bags, while the sinew was required for thread. In still other places seal was the luck of the chase; its skin was one of our most important needs. Of it boots were made, and an immense amount of line and lashings prepared. Thus, in one way or another, every man and woman and most of the children of this tribe of two hundred and fifty people were kept busy in the service of the expedition. The work was well done, and with much better knowledge of the fitness of things than could have been possessed by any possible gathering of alien white men. The quest of the walrus and the narwhal came in our own immediate plan of adventure, although the narwhal, called by whale fishers the unicorn, does not often come under the eye of the white man. It afforded for a brief spell good results in sport and useful material. Its blubber is the pride of every housekeeper, for it gives a long, hot flame to the lamp, with no smoke to spot the igloo finery. The skin is regarded as quite a delicacy. Cut into squares, it looks and tastes like scallops, with only a slight aroma of train oil. The meat dries easily, and is thus prized as an appetizer or as a lunch to be eaten en route in sled or kayak. In this shape it was an extremely useful thing for us, for it took the place of pemmican on our less urgent journeys. Narwhals played in schools, far off shore, and usually along the edges of some large ice field, their long ivory tusks rising under spouts of breath and spray. Whenever this glad sight was noted, every kayak about camp was manned, and the skin canoes went flittering like birds over the water. Some of the Eskimos climbed to the ice fields and delivered their harpoons from a secure footing. Others hid behind floating fragments of heavy ice and made a sudden rush as the animals passed. Still others came up in the rear, for the narwhal cannot easily see backward, and does not often turn to watch its enemies, its speed being so fast that it can easily keep ahead of them. In these exciting hunts I participated with eager delight, and by proxy mentally engaged in every encounter. For, in this sea game, existed food supplies which, instead of entirely confining myself to pemmican, I planned also to use on my Polar journey. As the skin boats, like bugs, sped over the water, I felt the movement of them surge in my brain; with the upraising of each swift-darting native's arm I felt, as it were, my heart stop with bated suspense. With every failure I experienced a throb of dismay. With the hauling in of each slimy beast I felt, as it were, nearer my goal. Narwhal hunting, in itself, and without the added spur of personal interest, which I had, is brimful of thrilling sport. The harpoon is always delivered at close range. Whenever the dragging float marks the end of the line in tow of the frightened creature, the line of skin canoes follows. Timid by nature and fearing to rise for breath, the narwhal plunges along until nearly strangled. When he does come up, there are likely to be several Eskimos near with drawn lances, which inflict deep gashes. Again the narwhal plunges deep down, with but one breath, and hurries along as best it can. But its speed slackens and a line of crimson marks its hidden path. Loss of blood and want of air do not give it a chance to fight. Again it comes up with a spout. Again the lances are hurled. The battle continues for several hours, with many exciting adventures, but in the end the narwhal always succumbs, offering a prize of several thousands of pounds of meat and blubber. Victory as a rule is not gained until the hunters are far from home, and also far from the shore line. But the Eskimo is a courageous hunter and an intelligent seaman. To the huge carcass frail kayaks are hitched in a long line. Towing is slow, wind and sea combining to make the task difficult and dangerous. One sees nothing of the narwhal and very little of the kayak, for dashing seas wash over the little craft, but the double-bladed paddles see-saw with the regularity of a pendulum. Homecoming takes many hours and demands a prodigious amount of hard work, but there is energy to spare, for a wealth of meat and fat is the culmination of all Eskimo ambition. Seven of these ponderous animals were brought in during five days, making a heap of more than forty thousand pounds of food and fuel. The sight of this tremulous, blubbering mass filled my heart with joy. Our success was not too soon, for now the narwhals suddenly disappeared, and we saw no more of them. About this time three white whales were also obtained at Etah by a similar method of hunting. With the advent of actual winter, storms swept over the land and sea with such fury that it was no longer safe to venture out on the water in kayaks. After the catching of several walruses from boats, sea hunting now was confined to the quest of seal through young ice. As such hunting would soon be limited to only a few open spaces near prominent headlands, an industrious pursuit was feverishly engaged in at every village from Annoatok to Cape York, and hour by hour, day by day, until the hunt of necessity changed from sea to land, the husky natives engaged in seal catching. As yet we had no caribou meat, and the little auks, which had been gathered in nets during the summer, with the eider-duck bagged later, soon disappeared as a steady diet. We must now procure such available land game as hare, ptarmigan and reindeer, for we had not yet learned to eat with a relish the fishy, liver-like substance which is characteristic of all marine mammals. Guns and ammunition were now distributed, and when the winds were easy enough to allow one to venture out, every Eskimo sought the neighboring hills. Francke also took his exercise with a gun on his shoulder. The combined efforts resulted in a long line of ptarmigan, two reindeer and sixteen hares. As snow covered the upper slopes, the game was forced down near the sea, where we could still hope to hunt in the feeble light of the early part of the night. With a larder fairly stocked and good prospects for other tasty meats, we were spared the anxiety of a winter without supplies. Francke was an ideal chef in the preparation of this game to good effect, for he had a delightful way of making our primitive provisions quite appetizing. In the middle of October fox skins were prime, and then new steel traps were distributed and set near the many caches. By this time all the Eskimos had abandoned their sealskin tents and were snugly settled in their winter igloos. The ground was covered with snow, and the sea was almost entirely frozen. Everybody was busy preparing for the coming cold and night. The temperature was about 20° below zero. Severe storms were becoming less frequent, and the air, though colder, was less humid and less disagreeable. An ice-foot was formed by the tides along shore, and over this the winter sledging was begun by short excursions to bait the fox traps and gather the foxes. Our life now resolved itself into a systematic routine of work, which was practically followed throughout the succeeding long winter night. About the box-house in which Francke and I lived were igloos housing eight to twelve families. The tribe of two hundred and fifty was distributed in a range of villages along the coast, an average of four families constituting a community. Early each morning Koo-loo-ting-wah would bang at my door, enter, and I would drowsily awaken while he freshened the fire. Rising, we would prepare hot coffee and partake of breakfast with biscuits. By seven o'clock--according to our standard of time--five or six of the natives would arrive, and, after a liberal libation of coffee, begin work. I taught them to help me in the making of my hickory sleds. Some I taught to use modern carpentering instruments, which I had with me. Another group was schooled in bending the resilient but tough hickory. This was done by wrapping old cloths about the wood and steeping it in hot water. Others engaged, as the days went by, in making dog harness, articles of winter clothing, and drying meat. Not an hour was lost during the day. At noon we paused for a bite of frozen meat and hot tea. Then we fell to work again without respite until five or six o'clock. Meanwhile, beginning in the early morning of our steadily darkening days, other male members of the tribe pursued game. Others again followed a routine of scouring of the villages and collecting all the furs and game which had been caught. The women of the tribe, in almost every dimly lighted igloo, were no less industrious. To them fell the task of assisting in drying the fur skins, preparing dried meat and making our clothing. Throughout the entire days they sat in their snow and stone houses, masses of ill-smelling furs before them, cutting the skins and sewing them into serviceable garments. This work I often watched, passing from igloo to igloo, with an interest that verged on anxiety; for upon the strength, thickness and durability of these depended my life, and that of the companions I should choose, on the frigid days which would inevitably come on my journey Poleward. But these broad-faced, patient women did their work well. Their skill is quite remarkable. They took my measurements, for instance, by roughly sizing up my old garments and by measuring me by sight. Garments were made to fit snugly after the preliminary making by cutting out or inserting patches of fur. Needles among the natives are indeed precious. So valuable are they that if a point or eye is broken, with infinite skill and patience the broken end is heated and flattened, and by means of a bow drill a new eye is bored. A new point is with equal skill shaped on local stones. With marvelous patience they make their own thread by drying and stripping caribou or narwhale sinews. Were it not for their extraordinary eyesight, such work, under such conditions, would be impossible. But in the dark the natives can espy things invisible to white men. This owl-sight enables them to hunt, if necessary, in almost pitch darkness, and to perform tedious feats of hand skill which, in such dim light, an alien would bungle. I noticed, with much curiosity, that when the natives inspected any photograph or object which I gave them they always held it upside down. All objects, as is well known, are reflected in the retina thus, and it is our familiarity with the size and comparative relations of things which enables the brain to visualize an object or scene at its proper angle. This strange, instinctive act of the natives might form an interesting chapter in optics. Meanwhile, busy and interested in the beginning of our various pursuits, the great crust which was to hold down the sea for so many months, closed and thickened. During the last days of brief sunshine the weather cleared, and at noon on October 24 everybody sought the open for a last glimpse of the dying day. There was a charm of color and glitter, but no one seemed quite happy as the sun sank under the southern ice, for it was not to rise again for one hundred and eighteen days. Just prior to the falling of darkness, with that instinctive and forced hilarity with which aboriginal beings seek to ward off an impending calamity, the Eskimos engaged in their annual sporting event. It is a curious sight, indeed, to behold a number of excited, laughing Eskimos gathering about two champion dogs which are to fight. Although the zest of betting is unknown, the natives regard dog fights with much the same eager excitement as a certain type of sporting man does a cock encounter. Sometimes the dogs do not fight fairly, a number of the animals bunching together and attacking a single dog. Dogs selected for the fight are, of course, the best of the teams. A dog which maintains his fighting supremacy becomes a king dog, and when beaten becomes a first lieutenant to the king. After the forced enthusiasm of this brief period of excitement, the Eskimos begin to succumb to the inevitable melancholia of nature, when the sun, the source of natural life, disappears and darkness descends. A gloom descends heavily upon their spirits. A subtle sadness tinctures their life, and they are possessed by an impulse to weep. At this season, hour by hour, the darkness thickens; the cold increases and chills their igloos; the wind, exultant while the sun shines, now whines and sobs dolorously--there is something gruesome, uncanny, supernatural, in its siren sorrow. Outside, the snow falls, the sea closes. Its clamant beat of waves is silenced. Sea animals mostly disappear; land animals are rare. Their source of physical supply vanished, the Eskimos unconsciously feel the grim hand of want, of starvation, which means death, upon them. The psychology of this period of depression partly lies, undoubtedly, in this instinctive dread of death from lack of food and the natural depression of unrelieved gloom. Moreover, there is a grief, born of the native superstition that, when the sea freezes, the souls of all who have perished in the waters are imprisoned during the long night. Too fierce is the struggle of these people with the elemental forces to permit them, like many other aboriginal peoples to be obsessed greatly with superstitions. Although their religion is a very primitive and native one, it is usually only at the inception of night that they feel the appalling nearness of a world that is supernatural. As the last rim of the sun sank over the southern ice, the natives entered upon a formal period of melancholy, during which the bereavements of each family, and the discomforts and disasters of the year, were memoralized. I shall never forget that long, sad evening, which lasted many normal days. The sun had descended. A sepulchral, gray-green curtain of gloom hung over the chilled earth. In the dim semi-darkness could be vaguely seen the outlines of the igloos, of the heaving curvatures of snow-covered land, and the blacker, snake-like twistings of open lanes of water, where the sea had not yet frozen. Sitting in my box-house, I was startled suddenly by a sound that made my flesh for the instant creep. I walked to the door and threw it open. Over the bluish, snow-covered land, formed by the indentures and hollows, stretched dark-purplish shapes--Titan shadows, sepulchral and ominous, some with shrouded heads, others with spectral arms threateningly upraised. Nebulous and gruesome shreds of blue-fog like wraiths shifted over the sea. Out of the sombre, heavy air began to issue a sound as of many women sobbing. From the indistinct distance came moaning, crooning voices. Sometimes hysterical wails of anguish rent the air, and now and then frantic choruses shrieked some heart-aching despair. My impression was that I was in a land of the sorrowful dead, some mid-strata of the spirit world, where, in this gray-green twilight, formless things in the distance moved to and fro. There is, I believe, in the heart of every man, an instinctive respect for sorrow. With muffled steps, I left the igloo and paced the dreariness of ice, treading slowly, lest, in the darkness, I slip into some unseen crevasse of the open sea. A strange and eerie sight confronted me. Along the seashore, bending over the lapping black water, or standing here and there by inky, open leads in the severed ice, many Eskimo women were gathered. Some stood in groups of two or three. Bowed and disconsolate, her arms about them, with almost every hundred steps, I saw a weeping mother and her children. Standing rigid and stark, motionless graven images of despair, or frantically writhing to and fro, others stood far apart in desolate places, alone. The dull, opaque air was tinged with a strange phosphorescent green, suggestive of a place of dead things; and now, like the flutterings of huge death-lamps, along the horizon, where the sun had sunk, gashes of crimson here and there fitfully glowed blood-red in the pall-like sky. To the left, as I walked along, I recognized Tung-wingwah, with a child on her back and a bag of moss in her hand. She stood behind a cheerless rock, with her face toward the faint red flushes of the sun. She stood motionless. Big tears rolled from her eyes, but not a sound was uttered. To my low queries she made no response. I invited her to the camp to have a cup of tea, thinking to change her sad thoughts and loosen her tongue. But still her eyes did not leave that last distant line of open water. From another, I later learned that in the previous April her daughter of five, while playing on the ice-foot, slipped and was lost in the sea. The mother now mourned because the ice would bury her little one's soul. A little farther along was Al-leek-ah, a woman of middle age, with two young children by her side. She was hysterical in her grief, now laughing with a weird giggle, now crying and groaning as if in great pain, and again dancing with emotions of madness. I learned her story from a chatter that ran through all her anguish. Towanah, her first husband, had been drawn under the ice, by the harpoon line, twenty years ago. And though she had been married three times since, she was trying to keep alive the memory of her first love. I went on, marveling at a primitive fidelity so long enduring. Still farther along towards the steep slopes of the main coast, I saw Ahwynet, all alone in the gloomy shadow of great cliffs. Her story was told in chants and moans. Her husband and all her children had been swept by an avalanche into the stormy seas. There was a kind of wild poetry in the song of her bereavement. Tears came to my eyes. The rush of the avalanche, the hiss of the wind, the pounding of the seas, were all indicated. And then, in heart-breaking tones, came "blood of her blood, flesh of her flesh, under the frozen waters," and other sentiments which I could not catch in the undertone of sobs. Cold shivers began to run up my spine, and I turned to retreat to camp. Here was a scene that perhaps a Dante might adequately write about. I cannot. I felt that I, an alien, was intruding into the realm of some strange and mystic sorrow. I felt the sombre thrill of a borderland world not human. These women were communicating with the souls of their dead. To those who had perished in the sea they were telling, ere the gates of ice closed above them, all the news of the past year--things of interest and personal, and even of years before, as far back as they could remember. Almost every family each year loses someone in the sea; almost every family was represented by these weeping women, overburdened with their own naive sorrow, and who yet strangely sought to cheer the souls of the disconsolate and desolate dead. Meanwhile, while the women were weeping and giving their parting messages to the dead, the male members of the tribe, in chants and dramatic dances, were celebrating, in the igloos, the important events of the past year. Inside, the igloos were dimly lighted with stone blubber lamps. These, during the entire winter, furnish light and heat. The lamp consists of a crescent-shaped stone with a concavity, in which there is animal oil and a line of crushed moss as a wick. Lighted early in the season, for an entire winter, these lamps cast a faint, perpetual, flickering light. Shadows dance grotesquely about on the rounded walls. An oily stench pervades the unventilated enclosure. In this weird, yellow-blackish radiance the men engage in their fantastic dances. Moving the central parts of their bodies to and fro, they utter weird sing-song chants. They recite, in jerky, curious singing, the history of the big events of the year; of successful chases; of notable storms; of everything that means much in their simple lives. As they dance, their voices rise to a high pitch of excitement. Their eyes flash like smoldering coals. Their arms move frantically. Some begin to sob uncontrollably. A hysteria of laughter seizes others. Finally the dance ends; exhausted, they pass into a brief lethargy, from which they revive, their melancholia departed. The women return from the shores of the sea; they wipe their tears, and, with native spontaneity, forget their depression and smile again. While I was interested in the curious spectacles presented, the sunset of 1907 to me was inspiration for the final work in directing the completion of the outfit with which to begin the conquest of the Pole at sunrise of 1908. Fortunately, I was not handicapped by the company of the usual novices taken on Polar expeditions. There were only two of us white men, and white men, at the best, must be regarded as amateurs compared with the expert efficiency of Eskimos in their own environment. Our food supply contained only the prime factors of primitive nourishment. Special foods and laboratory concoctions and canned delicacies did not fill an important space in our larder. Nor had we balloons, automobiles, motor sleds or other freak devices. We did, however, I have said, have what was of utmost importance, an abundance of the best hickory and metal for the making of the sleds upon which our destinies were vitally to depend. FIRST WEEK OF THE LONG NIGHT HUNTING IN THE ARCTIC TWILIGHT--PURSUING BEAR, CARIBOU AND SMALLER GAME IN SEMI-GLOOM VII THE GLORY OF THE AURORA The sun had dropped below the horizon. The gloom continued steadily to thicken. Each twenty-four hours, at the approximate approach of what was the noon hour when the sun had been above the horizon, the sky to the south of us glowed with marvelous, subdued sunset hues. By this time our work had gone ahead by progressive stages. Furs, to protect us from the cold of the uttermost North on my prospective trip, had been prepared and were being made into clothing; meat and fat, for food and fuel, were being dried and stored in numerous caches about Annoatok; several of the sledges and part of the equipment were ready. We still had need of large quantities of supplies, and, while some of the natives were busy with their routine work, we planned that as many others as possible should use the twilight days pursuing bear, caribou, fox, hare and other game far beyond the usual Eskimo haunts. Before the dawn of the sun's afterglow, on the morning of October 26, seven sledges with sixty dogs were on the ice-foot near our camp, ready to start for hunting grounds near Humboldt Glacier, a distance of one hundred miles northward.[7] While the teamsters waited for the final password the dogs chafed fiercely. I could barely see the outlines of my companions in the gloom, and it was difficult, in the irregular snow and tide-lifted ice descending to sea level, to find footing. The word to start was given. My companions took up the cry. "_Huk! Huk! Huk!_" (Go! Go!) they shouted. The dogs responded in leaps and howls. "_Howah! Howah!_" (Right! Right!) "_Egh! Egh!_" (Stop! Stop!) "_Aureti!_" (Behave!) came echoingly along the line of teams. Finally the wild dash slackened, the dogs regulated their paces to an easy trot, and we swept steadily along the frozen highway of the tide-made shelf of the ice-foot. The sledges dodged stones and ice-blocks, edged along dangerous precipices, in the depths of which I heard the swish of water, and glided miraculously over crevices and along deep gorges. Jumping about the sledges, guiding, pushing, or retarding their speed, cracking their whips in the air, the natives, with that art which only aborigines seem to have, picked the way and controlled the dogs, but a few generations removed from their wolf progenitors, with amazing dexterity. A low wind blew down the slopes and froze our breath in lines of frost about our heads. The temperature was 35° below zero. To the left of us was Kane Basin, recalling its history of human strife northward. It was filled with serried ranges of crushed ice, a berg here and there, all in the light of the kindling sky, aglow with purple and blue. To the far west I saw the dim outline of Ellesmere, my promised land, over which I hoped to force a new route to the Pole; upon its snowy highlands was poured a soft creamy light from encouraging skies. To the right was the rugged coast of Greenland, its huge, ice-chiselled cliffs leaping portentously forward in the gloom. Thrilling with the race, we made a run of twenty miles and reached Rensselaer Harbor, where Dr. Kane had spent his long nights of misfortune. We pitched camp at the ice-foot at the head of the bay. Although we found traces of hare and fox, it was too dark to venture on the chase. The temperature had fallen to -40°, the wind pierced with a sharp sting. For my shelter I erected a new tent which I had invented, and the efficiency of which I desired to test. Taking the sledge frame work as a platform, a folding top of strong canvas was fastened, and spread between two bars of hickory from each end. The entrance was in front. Inside was a space eight feet long and three and one-half feet wide, with a round whaleback top. Inside this a supplementary wall was constructed of light blankets, offering an air space of an inch between the outer wall as a non-conductor to confine the little heat generated within. As there was ample room for only two persons, Koo-loo-ting-wah, my leading man, was invited to share the tent. The natives had not provided themselves with shelter of any kind. They had counted on either building an igloo or seeking the shelter of the snows, as do the creatures of the wilds. Inside my tent I prepared a meal on the little German stove, burning the vapor of alcohol. The meal consisted of a pail of hot corn meal, fried bacon and a liberal all-round supply of steaming tea. To accomplish this, which included melting the snow, heating the water, and cooking everything separately, required about two hours. As I considered eating outside with any degree of comfort impossible, my companions were invited to crowd inside the tent. The vapor of their breath and that of the cooking soon condensed into snow, and a miniature snowstorm covered everything within. After this was swept out, the Eskimos were invited to enter again. All partook of the meal ravenously, and then emerged to reconnoiter the surroundings. Tracks of ptarmigan, hare and foxes were found, and as we moved about with seeking, owl eyes, ravens shouted notes of welcome. We then retired to rest. As there was no snow about that was sufficiently hard to cut blocks with which to erect snow houses, the natives placed themselves in semi-reclining positions on their sledges and slept in their traveling clothes. After a few hours they awoke and partook of chopped frozen meat and blubber; two hours later, they made a fire in a tin can, with moss and blubber as fuel, and over this prepared a pot of parboiled meat. A crescent-shaped wall of snow was built to break the wind; in the shelter of this they sat, grinning delightedly, and eating savagely, with much smacking of the lips, the steaming broth and walrus meat. All this I studied with intense interest. I desired on this trip not only to test my tent, but to learn more of the native arts of the Eskimo, knowing that I, on my Polar trip, must, if I would be successful, adapt myself to just such methods of living. This was my first winter experience of camping out in the night season for this year, and, with only a diet of meal and bacon, I was miserably cold. I was now testing also for the first time the new winter clothing with which I and all my companions were dressed. Our shirts were made of bird skins. Over these were coats of blue fox or caribou skins; our trousers were of bear, our boots of seal, and our stockings of hare skins. This was the usual native winter costume, but under it I had added a suit of underwear. Retiring again for rest, I left instructions to be called for an early start. It seemed that I had hardly settled comfortably in my sleeping bag when the call for action came. We hastily partook of tea and biscuits, harnessed our teams and started through the dark. The Eskimos, having eaten their fill of fat and frozen meat, to which I must yet accustom myself, were thoroughly comfortable. I was miserably cold. By running behind my sledge I produced sufficient bodily heat after awhile to feel comfortable. My face suffered severely from the cutting slant of the winds. We passed the perpendicular walls of Cape Seiper at dawn. We ran along the long, straight coast into Bancroft Bay during the six hours of twilight. The journey was continued to Dallas Bay by a forced march of fifty miles before we halted. The scene displayed the rare glory of twilight charms as it had the day before, but the snow was deeper, the temperature lower. The wind steadily increased and veered northward. We made several efforts to cross the bay ice, but cracked ice, huge uplifted blocks and deep snows compelled a retreat to the ice-foot. The ice-foot along Smith Sound is a superb highway, where otherwise sledge travel would be quite impossible along the coast. Along Dallas Bay we found a great deal of grass-covered land in undulating valleys and on low hills, which offered grazing for caribou and hare. The preceding glimmer of the new moon, which was to rise a few days hence, offered sufficient light to search for game. We now fed our dogs for the first time since leaving Annoatok. After a liberal drink of snow water, we started to seek our luck in the chase. In the course of an hour my companions returned with four hares which, when dressed, weighed about forty-eight pounds. Two of these were cached. The others were eaten later. Before dawn of the day-long twilight the wind increased to a full gale. The sky to the north, smoky all night, now blackened as with soot. The wind came with a howl that brought to mind the despairing cries of the dying explorers whose bleached bones were strewn along the shore. The gloomy outline of the coast remained visible for awhile; but soon the air thickened and came weighted with snow that piled up in huge drifts. The Eskimos took a few of their favorite dogs and sought shelter to the lee of the tent, where drift covered their blankets with snow. Breathing holes were kept open over their faces. Buried in snow drifts, they were imprisoned for twenty-eight hours. But this tent sled sheltered Koo-loo-ting-wah and myself. When the rush of the storm had abated we began digging our way out. In this effort we dug up men and dogs like potatoes from a patch. The northern sky had paled, the south was brightening. The pack was lined with long lines beyond each hummock; the snow was covered with a strong crust. But the ice-foot was a hopeless line of drifts which made travel over it quite impossible. The work of pounding snow from the dogs and freeing the sledges brought to our faces beads of perspiration which rolled off and froze in lines of ice on our furs. We were none the worse as a result of the storm, and although hungry as wolves, time was too precious to stop for a full meal. We now pushed out of the bay, on to the sea ice. At this point the dogs scented a bear and soon crossed its track. Rested and hungry, they were in condition for a desperate chase. Their sharp noses pointed keenly into the huge bear foot-prints, their little ears quivered, while, with howls, they started onward in a mad rush. Neither our voices nor the whips made an impression on their wild speed. We crossed banks and ridges of snow and swirled about slopes of ice, gripping sledges violently. Now we were thrown to one side, again to the other, dragging resistlessly beside the sleds. Rising, we gripped the rear upstanders with fierce determination. Just how we escaped broken limbs, and our sledges utter destruction, is a mystery to me. After a run of an hour we sighted the bear. The animal had evidently sighted us, for he was galloping for the open water toward the northwest. We cut the fleetest dogs loose from each team. Freed, they rushed over the snow like race-horses. But the bear had an advantage. As the first dog nipped his haunches he plunged into the black waters. We advanced and waited for him to rise. But this bruin had sense enough to emerge on the opposite shore, where he shook off the freezing waters vigorously, and then sat down as if to have a laugh at us. I knew that to plunge into the waters would have been fatal to dog or man and equally fatal to a boat, as ice, in the intense cold, would form about it so rapidly that it could not be propelled. The dogs sat down and howled a chorus of sad disappointment. For miles about, the men sought fruitlessly for a way to cross. Outwitted, we returned to continue our journey Northward. Advance Bay and its islands were in sight. Among these, we aimed to place our central camp. The light was fading fast, and a cold wind came from Humboldt Glacier, which at this time was located by a slight darkening of the sky. Many grounded icebergs were about, and the sea ice was much crossed. The hummocks and the snow were not as troublesome as farther south. Two ravens followed us, their shrill cries echoing from berg to berg. The Eskimos inferred from their presence that bears were near, but we saw no tracks. The cries of the ravens were nearly as provoking to the dogs as the bear tracks, and we moved along rapidly to Brook's Island. This was rather high, with a plateau and sharp cliffs. Bonsall Island near by was rounded by glacial action. Between them we found a place to camp somewhat sheltered from the wind. While eating our ration of corn meal and bacon, howls of the dogs rose to a fierce crescendo. I supposed they were saluting the coming of the moon, as is their custom, but the howls changed to tones of increasing excitement. We went out to inquire, but saw nothing. It was so dark that I could not see the dogs twenty feet away, and the cold wind made breathing difficult. "_Nan nook_" (Bear), the Eskimos said in an undertone. I looked around for some position of defense. But the dense night-blackness rendered this hopeless, so we took our position behind the tent, rifles in hand. The bear, of an inquisitive turn of mind, deliberately advanced upon us. "_Taokoo! taokoo! igloo dia oo-ah-tonie!_" (Look! look! beyond the iceberg!) said the Eskimos. Neither the iceberg nor the bear was visible. After a cold and exciting wait, the bear turned and hid behind another iceberg. We separated a few of the best bear dogs from each other. Bounding off, they disappeared quietly in the darkness. The other dogs were fastened to the sledges, and away we started. I sat on To-ti-o's sledge, as he had the largest team. We jumped crevasses, and occasionally dipped in open water. The track of the bear wound about huge bergs which looked in the darkness like nebulous shadows. The dogs, of themselves, followed the invisible line of tracks. Soon the wolfish dogs ahead began to shout the chorus of their battle. We left the track in an air-line course for the dark mystery out of which the noise came. To-ti-o took the lead. As we neared the noise, all but two dogs of his sledge were cut loose. The sledge overturned, I under it. As Koo-loo-ting-wah came along, he freed all his dogs. I passed him my new take-down Winchester. Hurrying after To-ti-o, he had advanced only a few steps when To-ti-o fired. Koo-loo-ting-wah, noting an effort of the bear to rise, fired the new rifle. A flash of fire lit the darkness. Koo-loo-ting-wah rushed to me, asking for the folding lantern. The smokeless powder had broken the new gun. To-ti-o had no more cartridges. The bear, however, was quiet. We advanced, lances in hand. The dogs danced wildly about the bear, but he managed to throw out his feet with sufficient force to keep the canine fangs disengaged. The other Eskimos now came, with rushing dogs in advance. To-ti-o dashed forward and delivered the lance under the bear's shoulder. The bear was his. He thereby not only gained the prize for the expedition, but, by the addition of the bear to his game list, completed his retinue of accomplishments whereby he could claim the full privileges of manhood. Among other things, it gave him the right to marry. He had already secured a bride of twelve, but, without this bear conquest, the match would not have been permanent. He danced with the romantic joy of a young lover. We drove the dogs off from the victim with lashes, and fell to and skinned and dressed the carcass. A taste was given to each dog. The balance was placed on the sledges. Soon we were to camp, waiting for the sled loads of bear meat. [Illustration: THE HELPERS--NORTHERNMOST MAN AND HIS WIFE] [Illustration: A MECCA OF MUSK OX ALONG EUREKA SOUND A NATIVE HELPER AH-WE-LAH'S PROSPECTIVE WIFE] On the day following we started to hunt caribou. The sky was beautifully clear; the glacial wind was lost as we left the ice. The party scattered among numerous old bergs of the glacier. Koo-loo-ting-wah accompanied me. We aimed to rise to a small tableland from which I might make a study of the surroundings. We had not gone inland more than a mile when we saw numerous fresh caribou tracks. Following these, we moved along a steep slope to the tableland above at an altitude of about one thousand feet. We peeped over the crest. Below us were two reindeer digging under the snow for food. The light was good, and they were in gun range. An Eskimo, however, gets very near his game before he chances a shot, so, winding about under the crest of a cliff or a snow-covered shelf of rocks, we got to their range and fired. The creatures fell. They were nearly white, young, and possessed long fur and thick skins, which we needed badly for sleeping bags. With pocket knives, the natives skinned the animals and divided the meat in three packs while I examined the surroundings. Part of the face of Humboldt Glacier, which extends sixty miles north, was clearly visible in cliffs of a dark blue color. The interior ice ran in waves like the surface of stormy seas, perfectly free of snow, with many crevasses. An odd purplish-blue light upon it was reflected to the skies, resembling to some extent a water sky. The snow of the sea ice below was of a delicate lilac. Otherwise, sky and land were flooded with the usual dominant purple of the Arctic twilight. This glacier, the largest in Arctic America, had at one time extended very much farther south. All the islands, including Brook's, had at one time been under its grinding influence. As a picture it was a charming study in purple and blue, but the temperature was too low and the light too nearly spent to venture a further investigation. The Eskimos fixed for me an extremely light pack. This was comfortably placed on my back, with a bundle of thongs over the forehead. The natives took their huge bundles, and, together, we started for camp. At every rest we cut off slices of caribou tallow. I was surprised to find that I had acquired a taste for a new delicacy. At camp we found the natives, all in good humor, awaiting us beside heaps of meat and skins. All had been successful in securing from one to two animals each in regions nearer by. In a further search they had failed to find promising tracks, so we proposed to return on the morrow, hoping to meet bears en route. With the stupor of the gluttony of reindeer meat and the fatigue of the long chase, we slept late. Awaking, we partook each of a cup of tea, and packed and loaded the meat. Drawing heavy loads, the dogs gladly leaped forward. The twilight flush already suffused the sky with incandescence. Against the southeastern sky, glowing with rose, the great glaciers of Humboldt loomed in walls of violet, while the sea displayed many shades of rose and lilac, according to the direction of the light on the slope of the drifts. Knowing that their noses pointed to a land of walrus, the dogs kept up a lively pace. Not a breath of air was stirring. The temperature was -42°. Aiming to make Annoatok in two marches, we ran behind the sledges to save dog energy as much as possible. The cold enforced vigorous exercise. But, weighted down by furs, the comfort of the sledges was often sought to escape the tortures of perspiration. The source of light slowly shifted along shadowed mountains under the frozen sea. Our path glowed with electric, multi-colored splendor. By degrees, the rose-colored sky assumed the hue of old gold, the violet embroideries of clouds changed to purple. The gold, in running bands, darkened; the purple thickened. Soon new celestial torches lighted the changing sheen of the snows. Into the dome of heaven swam stars of burning intensity, each of which rivalled the sun in a miniature way. In this new illumination the twilight fires lost flame and color. Cold white incandescence electrically suffused the frigid sky. I strode onward, in that white, blazing air, the joy and beauty of it enthralling my soul. I felt as though I were walking in a world of heatless fire, a half supernatural realm such as that wherein reigned the gods of ancient peoples. I felt as an old Norseman must have felt when the glory of Valhalla burst upon him. For a long time I was unconscious of the fatigue which was growing upon me. Finally, overcome by the long forced march, I sank on my sled. The Eskimos, chanting songs, loomed ahead, their forms magnified in the unearthly light. Slowly a subtle change appeared along the horizon. Silent and impressed, I watched the changing scenes and evolving lights as if all were some divine and awe-inspiring stage arranged by God for some heroic drama of man. New and warm with shimmering veils of color, attended by four radiant satellites, the golden face of the moon rose majestically over the sparkling pinnacles of the Greenland glaciers. Below, the lovely planet-deflected images formed rainbow curves like rubied necklaces about her invisible neck. As the moon ascended in a spiral course the rose hues paled, the white light from the stars softened to a rich, creamy glow. We continued our course, the Eskimos singing, the dogs occasionally barking. Hours passed. Then we all suddenly became silent. The last, the supreme, glory of the North flamed over earth and frozen sea. The divine fingers of the aurora,[8] that unseen and intangible thing of flame, who comes from her mysterious throne to smile upon a benighted world, began to touch the sky with glittering, quivering lines of glowing silver. With skeins of running, liquid fire she wove over the sky a shimmering panorama of blazing beauty. Forms of fire, indistinct and unhuman, took shape and vanished. From horizon to zenith, cascades of milk-colored fire ascended and fell, as must the magical fountains of heaven. In the glory of this other-world light I felt the insignificance of self, a human unit; and, withal I became more intensely conscious than ever of the transfiguring influence of the sublime ideal to which I had set myself. I exulted in the thrill of an indomitable determination, that determination of human beings to essay great things--that human purpose which, throughout history, has resulted in the great deeds, the great art, of the world, and which lifts men above themselves. Spiritually intoxicated, I rode onward. The aurora faded. But its glow remained in my soul. We arrived at camp late on November 1. [Illustration] THE MOONLIGHT QUEST OF THE WALRUS DESPERATE AND DANGEROUS HUNTING, IN ORDER TO SECURE ADEQUATE SUPPLIES FOR THE POLAR DASH--A THRILLING AND ADVENTUROUS RACE IS MADE OVER FROZEN SEAS AND ICY MOUNTAINS TO THE WALRUS GROUNDS--TERRIFIC EXPLOSION OF THE ICE ON WHICH THE PARTY HUNTS--SUCCESS IN SECURING OVER SEVEN SLED-LOADS OF BLUBBER MAKES THE POLE SEEM NEARER--AN ARCTIC TRAGEDY VIII FIVE HUNDRED MILES THROUGH NIGHT AND STORM The early days of November were devoted to routine work about Annoatok. Meat was gathered and dried in strips by Francke; a full force of men were put to the work of devising equipment; the women were making clothing and dressing skins; and then a traveling party was organized to go south to gather an additional harvest of meat and skins and furs. For this purpose we planned to take advantage of the November moon. Thus, in the first week of the month, we were ready for a five-hundred-mile run to the southern villages and to the night-hunting grounds for walrus. A crack of whips explosively cut the taut, cold air. The raucous, weird and hungry howl of the wolf-dogs replied: "_Ah-u-oo, Ah-u-oo, Ah-u-oo!_" rolled over the ice; "_Huk-huk!_" the Eskimos shouted. There was a sudden tightening of the traces of our seven sledges; fifty lithe, strong bodies leaped forward; and, holding the upstanders, the rear upright framework of the native sledges, I and my six companions were off. In a few moments the igloos of the village, with lights shining through windows where animal membranes served as glass, had sped by us. The cheering of the natives behind was soon lost in the grind of our sledges on the irregular ice and the joyous, unrestrained barking of the leaping, tearing, restless dog-teams. To the south of us, a misty orange flush suffused the dun-colored sky. The sun, which we had not seen for an entire month, now late in November far below the horizon, sent to us the dim radiance of a far-away smile. After its setting it had, about noon time of each day, set the sky faintly aglow, this radiance decreasing until it was lost in the brightness of the midday moon. Rising above the horizon, a suspended lamp of frosty, pearl-colored glass, the moon for ten days of twenty-four hours, each month, encircled about us, now lost behind ice-sheeted mountains, again subdued under colored films of frost clouds, but always relieving the night of its gloom, and permitting, when the wind was not too turbulent, outside activity. A wonderful animal is the sea-horse, or whale-horse, as the Icelanders and Dutch (from whom we have borrowed "walrus") call it. In the summer its life is easy and its time is spent in almost perpetual sunny dreams, but in winter it would be difficult to conceive of a harder existence than its own. Finding food in shallow Polar seas, it comes to permanent open water, or to the crevasses of an active pack for breath. With but a few minutes' rest on a storm-swept surface, it explores, without other relief for weeks, the double-night darkness of unknown depths under the frozen sea. At last, when no longer able to move its huge web feet, it rises on the ice or seeks ice-locked waters for a needed rest. In winter, the thump of its ponderous head keeps the young ice from closing its breathing place. If on ice, its thick skin, its blanket of blubber, and an automatic shiver, keep its blood from hardening. This is man's opportunity to secure meat and fuel, but the quest involves a task to which no unaided paleface is equal. The night hunt of the walrus is Eskimo sport, but it is nevertheless sport of a most engaging and exciting order. So that I might not be compelled to start on my dash stintedly equipped, we now prepared for such an adventure by moonlight. Before this time there had not been sufficient atmospheric stability and ice continuity to promise comparative safety. My heart exulted as I heard the crack of the whips in the electric air and felt the earth rush giddily under my feet as I leaped behind the speeding teams. The fever of the quest was in my veins; its very danger lent an indescribable thrill, for success now meant more to me than perhaps hunting had ever meant to any man. Not long after we started, darkness descended. The moon slowly passed behind an impenetrable curtain of inky clouds; the orange glow of the sun faded; and we were surrounded on every side by a blackness so thick that it was almost palpable. As I now recall that mad race I marvel how we escaped smashing sledges, breaking our limbs, crushing our heads. We tumbled and jumped in a frantic race over the broken, irregular pack-ice from Annoatok to Cape Alexander, a distance of thirty miles as the raven moves, but more than forty miles as we follow the sledge trail. Here the ice became thin; we felt cold mist rising from open water; and now and then, in an occasional breaking of the darkness, we could discern vast sheets or snaky leads of open sea ahead of us. To reach the southern waters where the walrus were to be found, we now had to seek an overland route, which would take us over the frozen Greenland mountains and lead us through the murky clouds, a route of twisting detours, gashed glaciers, upturned barriers of rock and ice, swept by blinding winds, unmarked by any trail, and which writhed painfully beyond us for forty-seven miles. Arriving at the limit of traversable sea-ice, we now paused before sloping cliffs of glacial land-ice which we had to climb. Picture to yourself a vast glacier rising precipitously, like a gigantic wall, thousands of feet above you, and creeping tortuously up its glassy, purple face, if such that surface could be called, formed by the piling of one glacial formation upon the other in the descent through the valleys, a twisting, retreating road of jagged ice strata, of earth and stone, blocked here and there by apparently impassable impediments, pausing at almost unscalable, frozen cliffs, and at times no wider than a few yards. Imagine yourself pausing, as we suddenly did, and viewing the perilous ascent, the only way open to us, revealed in the passing glimmer of the pale, circling moon, despair, fear and hope tugging at your heart. Whipped across the sky by the lashing winds, the torn clouds, passing the face of the moon, cast magnified and grotesquely gesticulating shadows on the glistening face of the icy Gibraltar before us. Some of these misty shapes seemed to threaten, others shook their rag-like arms, beckoning forward. Upon the face of the towering, perpendicular ice-wall, great hummocks like the gnarled black limbs of a huge tree twisted upwards. I realized that the frightful ascent must be made. The goal of my single aim suddenly robbed the climb of its terrors. I dropped my whip. Six other whips cracked through the air. Koo-loo-ting-wah said, "_Kah-Kah!_" (Come, come!) But Sotia said, "_Iodaria-Iodaria!_" (Impossible, impossible!) The dogs emitted shrill howls. Holding the rear upstanders of the sledges, we helped to push them forward. Before us, the fifty dogs climbed like cats through narrow apertures of the ice, or took long leaps over the serried battlements that barred our way. We stumbled after, sometimes we fell. Again we had to lift the sledges after the dogs. From the top of the glacier a furious wind brushed us backwards. We felt the steaming breath of the laboring dogs in our faces. My heart thumped painfully. Now and then the moon disappeared; we followed the unfailing instinct of the animals. I realized that a misstep might plunge me to a horrible death in the ice abysm below. With a howl of joy from drivers, the dogs finally leaped to the naked surface of the wind-swept glacier. Panting in indescribable relief, we followed. But the worst part of the journey lay before us. The sable clouds, like the curtain of some cyclopean stage, seemed suddenly drawn aside as if by an invisible hand. Upon the illimitable stretch of ice rising before us like the slopes of a glass mountain, the full rays of the moon poured liquid silver. Only in dreams had such a scene as this been revealed to me--in dreams of the enchanted North--which did not now equal reality. The spectacle filled me with both awed delight and a sense of terror. Beyond the fan-shaped teams of dogs the eyes ran over fields of night-blackened blue, gashed and broken by bottomless canyons which twisted like purple serpents in every direction. Vast expanses of smooth surface, polished by the constant winds, reflected the glow of the moon and gleamed like isles of silver in a motionless, deep, sapphire sea; but all was covered with the air of night. In the moonlight, the jagged irregular contours of the broken ice became touched with a burning gilt. A constant effect like running quicksilver played about us as the moon sailed around the heavens. Above us the ice pinnacles were lost in the clouds, huge billowy masses that were blown in the wind troublously, like the heavy black tresses of some Titan woman. I thrilled with the beauty of the magical spectacle, yet, when I viewed the perilous pathway, I felt the grip of terror again at my heart. I was aroused from my brief reverie by the familiar "_Huk-huk! Ah-gah! Ah-gah!_" of the Eskimos, and placing our hands upon the sledges, we leaped forward into the purple-gashed sea, with its blinding sheets of silver. I seemed carried through a world such as the old Norsemen sang of in the sagas. Of a sudden, as though extinguished, the moonlight faded, huge shadows leaped onto the ice before us, frenziedly waved their arms and melted into the pitch-black darkness which descended. I had read imaginative tales of wanderings in the nether region of the dead, but only now did I have a faint glimmering of the terror (with its certain, exultant intoxication) which lost souls must feel when they wander in a darkness beset with invisible horrors. Over the ice, cut with innumerable chasms and neck-breaking irregularities, we rushed in the dark. The wind moaned down from the despairing cloud-enfolded heights above; it tore through the bottomless gullies on every side with a hungry roar. Beads of perspiration rolled down my face and froze into icicles on my chin and furs. The temperature was 48° below zero. Occasionally we stopped a moment to gasp for breath. I could hear the panting of my companions, the labor of the dogs. A few seconds' inaction was followed by convulsive shivering; the pain of stopping was more excruciating than that of climbing. In the darkness, the calls of the invisible Eskimos to the dogs seemed like the weird appeals of disembodied things. I felt each moment the imminent danger of a frightful death; yet the dogs with their marvelous intuition, twisting this way and that, and sometimes retreating, sensed the open leads ahead and rushed forward safely. At times I felt the yawning depth of ice canyons immediately by my side--that a step might plunge me into the depths. Desperately I held on to the sledges, and was dragged along. Such an experience might well turn the hair of the most expert Alpinist white in one night; yet I did not have time to dwell fully upon the dangers, and I was carried over a trip more perilous than, later, proved the actual journey on sea-ice to the Pole. Occasionally the moon peered forth from its clouds and brightened the gloom. In its light the ice fields swam dizzily by us, as a landscape seen from the window of a train; the open gashed gullies writhed like snakes, pinnacles dancing like silver spears. By alternate running and riding we managed to keep from freezing and sweating. We finally reached an altitude of inland ice exceeding two thousand feet. Silver fog crept under our feet. We were traveling now in a world of clouds. We paced twelve miles at a rapid speed. In the light of the moon-burned clouds which rolled about our heads, I could see the forms of my companions only indistinctly. The dogs ahead were veiled in the argent, tremulous mists; the ice sped under me; I was no longer conscious of an earthly footing; I might have been soaring in space. We began to descend. Suddenly the dogs started in leaps to fly through the air. Our sleds were jerked into clouds of cutting snow. We jabbed our feet into the drift to check the mad speed. On each side we saw a huge mountain, seemingly thousands of feet above us, but ahead was nothing but the void of empty space. Soon the sledges shot beyond the dogs. We threw ourselves off to check the momentum. With dog intelligence and savage strength judiciously expended, we reached the sea level by flying flights over dangerous slopes, and, like cats, we landed on nimble feet in Sontag Bay. A bivouac was arranged under a dome of snow-blocks, and exhausted by the mad journey, a sleep of twenty-four hours was indulged in. Now, for a time, our task was easier. A course was set along the land, southward. Each of the native settlements was visited. The season's gossip was exchanged. Presents went into each household, and a return of furs and useful products filled our sledges. Thus the time was occupied in profitable visits during the feeble light of the November moon. With the December moon we returned northward to Ser-wah-ding-wah. Then our struggle began anew for the walrus grounds. The Polar drift, forcing through Smith Sound, left an open space of water about ten miles south of Cape Alexander. This disturbed area was our destination. It was marked by a dark cloud, a "water-sky"--against the pearly glow of the southern heavens. The ice surface was smooth. We did not encounter the crushed heaps of ice of the northern route, but there were frequent crevasses which, though cemented with new ice, gave us considerable anxiety, for I realized that if a northwesterly storm should suddenly strike the pack we might be carried helplessly adrift. The urgency of our mission to secure dog food, however, left no alternative. It was better to brave death now, I thought, than to perish from scant supplies on the Polar trip. We had not gone far before the ever-keen canine noses detected bear tracks on the ice. These we shot over the pack surface in true battle spirit. As the bears were evidently bound for the same hunting grounds, this course was accepted as good enough for us. Although the trail was laid in a circuitous route, it avoided the most difficult pressure angles. We traveled until late in the day. The moon was low, and the dark purple hue of the night blackened the snows. Of a sudden we paused. From a distance came a low call of walrus bulls. The bass, nasal bellow was muffled by the low temperature, and did not thump the ear drums with the force of the cry in sunny summer. My six companions shouted with glee, and became almost hysterical with excitement. The dogs, hearing the call, howled and jumped to jerk the sledges. We dropped our whips, and they responded with all their brute force in one bound. It was difficult to hold to the sledges as we shot over the blackening snows. The ice-fields became smaller as we advanced; dangerous thin ice intervened; but the owl-eyes of the Eskimos knew just where to find safe ice. The sounds increased as we approached. We descended from the snow-covered ice to thin, black ice and for a time I felt as if we were flying over the open surface of the deep. With a low call, the dogs were stopped. They were detached from the sledges and tied to holes drilled with a knife in ice boulders. Pushing the sledges upon which rested the harpoon, the lance, the gun and knives, each one of us advanced at some distance from his neighbor. Soon, lines of mist told of dangerous breaks, and the ice was carefully tested with the spiked shaft before venturing farther. I was behind Koo-loo-ting-wah's sledge. While he was creeping up to the water's edge, there came the rush of a spouting breath so near that we seemed to feel the crystal spray. I took his place and pushed the sledge along. Taking the harpoon, with stealthy strides Koo-loo-ting-wah moved to the water's edge and waited for the next spout. We heard other spouts in various directions, and in the dark water, slightly lighted by the declining moon, we saw other dark spots of spray. Suddenly a burst of steam startled me. It was near the ice where Koo-loo-ting-wah lay. I was about to shout, but the Eskimo turned, held up his hand and whispered "_Ouit-ou._" (Wait.) Then, very slowly, he lowered his body, spread out his form on the ice, and startlingly imitated the walrus call. His voice preternaturally bellowed through the night. Out of the inky water, a walrus lifted its head. I saw its long, white, spiral, ivory tusk and two phosphorescent eyes. Koo-loo-ting-wah did not stir. I shivered with cold and impatience. Why did he not strike? Our prey seemed within our hands. I uttered an exclamation of vexed disappointment when, with a splash, the head disappeared, leaving on the water a line of algae fire. For several minutes I stood gazing seaward. Far away on the black ocean, to my amazement, I saw lights appearing like distant lighthouse signals, or the mast lanterns on passing ships. They flashed and suddenly faded, these strange will-o'-the wisps of the Arctic sea. In a moment I realized that the lights were caused by distant icebergs crashing against one another. On the bergs as on the surface of the sea, as it happened now, were coatings of a teeming germ life, the same which causes phosphorescence in the trail of an ocean ship. The effect was indescribably weird. Suddenly I jumped backward, appalled by a noise that reverberated shudderingly under the ice on which I stood. The ice shook as if with an earthquake. I hastily retreated, but Koo-loo-ting-wah, lying by the water's edge, never stirred. A dead man could not have been less responsive. While I was wondering as to the cause of the upheaval, the ice, within a few feet of Koo-loo-ting-wah, was suddenly torn asunder as if by a submarine explosion. Koo-loo-ting-wah leaped into the air and descended apparently toward the distending space of turbulent open water. I saw him raise his arm and deliver a harpoon with amazing dexterity; at the same instant I had seen also the white tusk and phosphorescent eyes of a walrus appear for a moment in the black water and then sink. The harpoon had gone home; the line was run out; a spiked lance shaft was driven into the ice through a loop in the end of the line, and the line was thus fastened. We knew the wounded beast would have to rise for air. With rifle and lance ready, we waited, intending, each time a spout of water arose, to drive holes into the tough armor of skin until the beast's vitals were tapped. By feeling the line, I could sense the struggles of the wild creature below in the depths of the sea. Then the line would slacken, a spout of steam would rise from the water, Koo-loo-ting-wah would drive a spear, I a shot from my gun. The air would become oppressive with the creature's frightful bellowing. Then would come an interval of silence. For about two hours we kept up the battle. Then the line slackened, Koo-loo-ting-wah called the others, and together we drew the huge carcass, steaming with blood, to the surface of the ice. Smelling the odorous wet blood, the dogs exultantly howled. Falling upon the animal, the natives, trained in the art, with sharp knives had soon dressed the thick meat and blubber from the bones and lashed the weltering mass on a sledge. This done, with quick despatch, they separated, dashed along the edge of the ice, casting harpoons whenever the small geysers appeared on the water. We were in excellent luck. One walrus after another was dragged lumberingly on the ice, and in the course of several hours the seven sledges were heavily loaded with the precious supplies which would now enable me, liberally equipped, to start Poleward. We gave our dogs a light meal, and started landward, leaving great piles of walrus meat behind us on the ice. Although we were tired on reaching land, we began to build several snow-houses in which to sleep. Not far away was an Eskimo village. Summoning the natives to help us bring in the spoils of the hunt which had been left on the ice, we first indulged in a gluttonous feast of uncooked meat, in which the dogs ravenously joined. The meat tasted like train-oil. The work of bringing in the meat and blubber and caching it for subsequent gathering was hardly finished when, from the ominous, glacial-covered highlands, a winter blast suddenly began to come with terrific and increasing fury. Blinding gusts of snow whipped the frozen earth. The wind shrieked fiendishly. Above its roar, not three hours after our last trip on the ice, a resounding, crashing noise rose above the storm. Braving the blasts, I went outside the igloo. Through the darkness I could see white curvatures of piling sea-ice. I could hear the rush and crashing of huge floes and glaciers being carried seaward. Had we waited another day, had we been out on the ice seeking walrus just twenty-four hours after our successful hunt, we should have been carried away in the sudden roaring gale, and hopelessly perished in the wind-swept deep. During the night, or hours usually allotted to rest, the noise continued unabated. I failed to sleep. Now and then, a crashing noise shivered through the storm. An igloo from the nearby settlement was swept into the sea. During the gale many of the natives who had retired with their clothes hung out to dry, awoke to find that the wind had robbed them of their valuable winter furs. Some time along in the course of the night, I heard outside excited Eskimos shouting. There was terror in the voices. Arising and dressing hastily, I rushed into the teeth of the storm. Not far away were a number of natives rushing along the land some twenty feet beneath which the sea lapped the land-ice with furious tongues. They had cast lines into the sea and were shouting, it seemed, to someone who was struggling in the hopeless, frigid tumult of water. I soon learned of the dreadful catastrophe. Ky-un-a, an old and cautious native, awakened by the storm a brief while before, after dressing himself, ventured outside his stone house to secure articles which he had left there. As was learned later, he had just tied his sledge to a rock when a gust of wind resistlessly rushed seaward, lifted the aged man from his feet, and dropped him into the sea. Through the storm, his dreadful cries attracted his companions. Some who were now tugging at the lines, were barely covered with fur rugs which they had thrown about them, and their limbs were partly bare. Now and then, a blinding gust of wind, filled with freezing snow crystals, almost lifted us from our feet. The sea lapped its tongues sickeningly below us. Finally a limp body, ice-sheeted, dripping with water, yet clinging with its mummied frozen hands to the line, was hauled up on the ice. Ky-un-a, unconscious, was carried to his house about five hundred feet away. There, after wrapping him in furs, in a brave effort to save his life, the natives cut open his fur garments. The fur, frozen solid by the frigid blasts in the brief period which had elapsed since his being lifted from the water, took with it, in parting from his body, long patches of skin, leaving the quivering raw flesh exposed as though by a burn. For three days the aged man lay dying, suffering excruciating tortures, the victim of merely a common accident, which at any time may happen to anyone of these Spartan people. I shall never forget the harrowing moans of the suffering man piercing the storm. Perhaps it had been merciful to let him perish in the sea. Ky-un-a's old home was some forty miles distant. To it, that he might die there, he desired to go. On the fourth day after the accident, he was placed in a litter, covered with warm furs, and borne over the smooth icefields. I shall never forget that dismal and solemn procession. A benign calm prevailed over land and sea. The orange glow of a luxurious moon set the ice coldly aflame. Long shadows, like spectral mourners, robed in purple, loomed before the tiny procession. Now and then, as they dwindled in the distance, I saw them, like black dots, crossing areas of polished ice which glowed like mirror lakes of silver. From the distance, softly shuddered the decreasing moans of the dying man; then there was silence. I marvelled again upon the lure of this eerily, weirdly beautiful land, where, always imminent, death can be so terrible. [Illustration] MIDNIGHT AND MID-WINTER THE EQUIPMENT AND ITS PROBLEMS--NEW ART IN THE MAKING OF SLEDGES COMBINING LIGHTNESS--PROGRESS OF THE PREPARATIONS--CHRISTMAS, WITH ITS GLAD TIDINGS AND AUGURIES FOR SUCCESS IN QUEST OF THE POLE IX THE COMING OF THE ESKIMO STORK In planning for the Polar dash I appreciated fully the vital importance of sledges. These, I realized, must possess, to an ultimate degree, the combined strength of steel with the lightness and elasticity of the strongest wood. The sledge must neither be flimsy nor bulky; nor should it be heavy or rigid. After a careful study of the art of sledge-traveling from the earliest time to the present day, after years of sledging and sledge observation in Greenland, the Antarctic and Alaska, I came to the conclusion that success was dependent, not upon any one type of sledge, but upon local fitness. All natives of the frigid wilds have devised sledges, traveling and camp equipment to fit their local needs. The collective lessons of ages are to be read in this development of primitive sledge traveling. If these wild people had been provided with the best material from which to work out their hard problems of life, then it is probable that their methods could not be improved. But neither the Indian nor the Eskimo was ever in possession of either the tools or the raw material to fit their inventive genius for making the best equipment. Therefore, I had studied first the accumulated results of the sledge of primitive man and from this tried to construct a sledge with its accessories in which were included the advantages of up-to-date mechanics with the use of the most durable material which a search of the entire globe had afforded me.[9] The McClintock sledges, made of bent wood with wide runners, had been adopted by nearly all explorers, under different names and with considerable modifications, for fifty years. This sledge is still the best type for deep soft snow conditions, for which it was originally intended. But such snow is not often found on the ice of the Polar sea. The native sledge which Peary copied, although well adapted to local use along the ice-foot and the land-adhering pack, is not the best sledge for a trans-boreal run. This is because it is too heavy and too easily broken, and breakable in such a way that it cannot be quickly repaired. For the Arctic pack, a sledge must be of a moderate length, with considerable width. Narrow runners offer less friction and generally give sufficient bearing surface. The other qualities vital to quick movement and durability are lightness, elasticity and interchangeability of parts. All of these conditions I planned to meet in a new pattern of sledge which should combine the durability of the Eskimo sledges and the lightness of the Yukon sledge of Alaska. The making of a suitable sledge caused me a good deal of concern. Before leaving New York I had taken the precaution of selecting an abundance of the best hickory wood in approximately correct sizes for sledge construction. Suitable tools had also been provided. Now, as the long winter with its months of darkness curtailed the time of outside movement, the box-house was refitted as a workshop. From eight to ten men were at the benches, eight hours each day, shaping and bending runners, fitting and lashing interchangeable cross bars and posts, and riveting the iron shoes. Thus the sledge parts were manufactured to possess the same facilities to fit not only all other sledges, but also other parts of the same sledge. If, therefore, part of a sledge should be broken, other parts of a discarded sledge could offer repair sections easily. The general construction of this new sledge is easily understood from the various photographs presented. All joints were made elastic by seal-thong lashings. The sledges were twelve feet long and thirty inches wide; the runners had a width of an inch and an eighth. Each part and each completed sledge was thoroughly tested before it was finally loaded for the long run. For dog harness, the Greenland Eskimo pattern was adopted. But canine habits are such that when rations are reduced to minimum limits the leather strips disappear as food. To obviate this disaster, the shoulder straps were made of folds of strong canvas, while the traces were cut from cotton log line. A boat is an important adjunct to every sledge expedition which hopes to venture far from its base of operations. It is a matter of necessity, even when following a coast line, as was shown by the mishap of Mylius Erickson, for if he had had a boat he would himself have returned to tell the story of the Danish Expedition to East Greenland. Need for a boat comes with the changing conditions of the advancing season. Things must be carried for several months for a chance use in the last stages of the return. But since food supplies are necessarily limited, delay is fatal, and therefore, when open water prevents advance, a boat is so vitally necessary as to become a life preserver. Foolish indeed is the explorer who pays slight attention to this important problem. The transportation of a boat, however, offers many serious difficulties. Nansen introduced the kayak, and most explorers since have followed his example. The Eskimo canoe serves the purpose very well, but to carry it for three months without hopeless destruction requires so tremendous an amount of energy as to make the task practically impossible. Sectional boats, aluminum boats, skin floats and other devices had been tried, but to all there is the same fatal objection on a Polar trip, of impossible transportation. But it seems odd that the ordinary folding canvas boat has not been pressed into this service. We found such a canoe boat to fit the situation exactly, and selected a twelve-foot Eureka-shaped boat with wooden frame. The slats, spreaders and floor-pieces were utilized as parts of sledges. The canvas cover served as a floor cloth for our sleeping bags. Thus the boat did useful service for a hundred days and never seemed needlessly cumbersome. When the craft was finally spread for use as a boat, in it we carried the sledge, in it we sought game for food, and in it or under it we camped. Without it we could never have returned. Even more vital than the choice of sledges, more vital than anything else, I knew, in such a trip as I proposed, is the care of the stomach. From the published accounts of Arctic traveling it is impossible to learn a fitting ration, and I hasten to add that I well realized that our own experience may not solve the problem for future expeditions. The gastronomic need differs with every man. It differs with every expedition, and it is radically different with every nation. Thus, when De Gerlache, with good intentions, forced Norwegian food into French stomachs, he learned that there is a nationality in gastronomics. Nor is it safe to listen to scientific advice, for the stomach is arbitrary, and stands as autocrat over every human sense and passion and will not easily yield to dictates. In this respect, as in others, I was helped very much by the natives. The Eskimo is ever hungry, but his taste is normal. Things of doubtful value in nutrition form no part in his dietary. Animal food, consisting of meat and fat, is entirely satisfactory as a steady diet without other adjuncts. His food requires neither salt nor sugar, nor is cooking a matter of necessity. Quantity is important, but quality applies only to the relative proportion of fat. With this key to gastronomics, pemmican was selected as the staple food, and it would also serve equally well for the dogs. We had an ample supply of pemmican, which was made of pounded dried beef, sprinkled with a few raisins and some currants, and slightly sweetened with sugar. This mixture was cemented together with heated beef tallow and run into tin cans containing six pounds each. This combination was invented by the American Indian, and the supply for this expedition was made by Armour of Chicago after a formula furnished by Captain Evelyn B. Baldwin. Pemmican had been used before as part of the long list of foodstuffs for Arctic expeditions, but with us there was the important difference that it was to be almost entirely the whole bill of fare when away from game haunts. The palate surprises in our store were few. By the time Christmas approached I had reason indeed for rejoicing. Although this happy season meant little to me as a holiday of gift-giving and feasting, it came with auguries for success in the thing my heart most dearly desired, and compared to which earth had nothing more alluring to give. Our equipment was now about complete. In the box house were tiers of new sledges, rows of boxes and piles of bags filled with clothing, canned supplies, dried meat, and sets of strong dog harness. The food, fuel and camp equipment for the Polar dash were ready. Everything had been thoroughly tested and put aside for a final examination. Elated by our success, and filled with gratitude to the faithful natives, I declared a week of holidays, with rejoicing and feasting. Feasting was at this time especially desirable, for we had now to fatten up for the anticipated race. Christmas day in the Arctic does not dawn with the glow which children in waking early to seek their bedecked tree, view outside their windows in more southern lands. Both Christmas day and Christmas night are black. Only the stars keep their endless watch in the cold skies. Standing outside my igloo on the happy night, I gazed at the Pole Star, the guardian of the goal I sought, and I remembered with a thrill the story of that mysterious star the Wise Men had followed, of the wonders to which it led them, and I felt an awed reverence for the Power that set these unfaltering beacons above the earth and had written in their golden traces, with a burning pen, veiled and unrevealed destinies which men for ages have tried to learn. I retired to sleep with thoughts of home. I thought of my children, and the bated expectancy with which they were now going to bed, of their hopefulness of the morrow, and the unbounded joy they would have in gifts to which I could not contribute. I think tears that night wet my pillow of furs. But I would give them, if I did not fail, the gift of a father's achievement, of which, with a glow, I felt they should be proud. The next morning the natives arrived at the box house early. It had been cleared of seamstresses and workmen the day before, and put in comparatively spick and span order. I had told the natives they were to feed to repletion during the week of holiday, an injunction to the keeping of which they did not need much urging. Early Christmas morning, men and women began working overtime on the two festive meals which were to begin that day and continue daily. About this time, the most important duty of our working force had been to uncover caches and dig up piles of frozen meat and blubber. Of this, which possesses the flavor and odor of Limburger cheese, and also the advantage, if such it be, of intoxicating them, the natives are particularly fond. While a woman held a native torch of moss dipped in oils and pierced with a stick, the men, by means of iron bars and picks, dug up boulders of meat just as coal is forced from mines. A weird spectacle was this, the soft light of the blubber lamp dancing on the spotless snows, the soot-covered faces of the natives grinning while they worked. The blubber was taken close to their igloos and placed on raised platforms of snow, so as to be out of reach of the dogs. Of this meat and blubber, which was served raw, partially thawed, cooked and also frozen, the natives partook during most of their waking hours. They enjoyed it, indeed, as much as turkey was being relished in my far-away home. Moreover they had, what was an important delicacy, native ice cream. This would not, of course, please the palate of those accustomed to the American delicacy, but to the Eskimo maiden it possesses all the lure of creams, sherberts or ice cream sodas. With us, sugar in the process of digestion turns into fat, and fat into body fuel. The Eskimo, having no sugar, yearns for fat, and it comes with the taste of sweets. The making of native ice cream is quite a task. I watched the process of making it Christmas day with amused interest. The native women must have a mixture of oils from the seal, walrus and narwhal. Walrus and seal blubber is frozen, cut into strips, and pounded with great force so as to break the fat cells. This mass is now placed in a stone pot and heated to the temperature of the igloo, when the oil slowly separates from the fibrous pork-like mass. Now, tallow from the suet of the reindeer or musk ox is secured, cut into blocks and given by the good housewife to her daughters, who sit in the igloo industriously chewing it until the fat cells are crushed. This masticated mass is placed in a long stone pot over the oil flame, and the tallow reduced from it is run into the fishy oil of the walrus or seal previously prepared. This forms the body of native ice cream. For flavoring, the housewife has now a variety from which to select. This usually consists of bits of cooked meat, moss flowers and grass. Anticipating the absence of moss and grass in the winter, the natives, during the hunting season, take from the stomachs of reindeer and musk oxen which are shot, masses of partly digested grass which is preserved for winter use. This, which has been frozen, is now chipped in fragments, thawed, and, with bits of cooked meats, is added to the mixed fats. It all forms a paste the color of pistache, with occasional spots like crushed fruit. The mixture is lowered to the floor of the igloo, which, in winter, is always below the freezing point, and into it is stirred snow water. The churned composite gradually brightens and freezes as it is beaten. When completed, it looks very much like ice cream, but it has the flavor of cod liver oil, with a similar odor. Nevertheless, it has nutritive qualities vastly superior to our ice cream, and stomach pains rarely follow an engorgement. With much glee, the natives finished their Christmas repast with this so-called delicacy. For myself a tremendous feast was prepared, consisting of food left by the yacht and the choicest meat from the caches. My menu consisted of green turtle soup, dried vegetables, caviar on toast, olives, Alaskan salmon, crystallized potatoes, reindeer steak, buttered rice, French peas, apricots, raisins, corn bread, Huntley and Palmer biscuits, cheese and coffee. As I sat eating, I thought with much humor of the curious combinations of caviar and reindeer steak, of the absurd contradiction in eating green turtle soup beyond the Arctic circle. I ate heartily, with more gusto than I ever partook of delicious food in the Waldorf Astoria in my far-away home city. After dinner I took a long stroll on snow shoes. As I looked at the star-lamps swung in heaven, I thought of Broadway, with its purple-pale strings of lights, and its laughing merry-makers on this festive evening. I did not, I confess, feel lonely. I seemed to be getting something so much more wholesome, so much more genuine from the vast expanse of snow and the unhidden heavens which, in New York, are seldom seen. Returning to the box-house, I ended Christmas evening with Edgar Allen Poe and Shakespeare as companions. The box-house in which I lived was amply comfortable. It did not possess the luxury of a civilized house, but in the Arctic it was palatial. The interior fittings had changed somewhat from time to time, but now things were arranged in a permanent setting. The little stove was close to the door. The floor measured sixteen feet in length and twelve feet in width. On one side the empty boxes of the wall made a pantry, on the other side were cabinets of tools, and unfinished sledge and camp material. With a step we rose to the next floor. On each side was a bunk resting on a bench. The bench was used as a bed, a work bench and seat. The long rear bench was utilized as a sewing table for the seamstresses and also for additional seating capacity. In the center was a table arranged around a post which supported the roof. Sliding shelves from the bunks formed table seats. A yacht lamp fixed to the post furnished ample light. There was no other furniture. All of our needs were conveniently placed in the open boxes of the wall. The closet room therefore was unlimited. In the boxes near the floor, in which things froze hard, the perishable supplies were kept. In the next tier there was alternate freezing and thawing. Here we stored lashings and skins that had to be kept moist. The tiers above, usually warm and dry under the roof, were used for various purposes. There, fresh meat in strips, dried crisp in three days. Taking advantage of this, we had made twelve hundred pounds of dog pemmican from walrus meat. In the gable we placed furs and instruments. [Illustration: THE CAPTURE OF A BEAR ROUNDING UP A HERD OF MUSK OXEN] [Illustration: SVARTEVOEG--CAMPING FIVE HUNDRED MILES FROM THE POLE] The temperature changed remarkably as the thermometer was lifted. On the floor in the lower boxes, it fell as low as -20°. Under the bunks on the floor, it was usually -10°. The middle floor space was above the freezing point. At the level of the bunk the temperature was +48°. At the head, standing, +70°, and under the roof, -105°. We contrived to keep perfectly comfortable. Our feet and legs were always dressed for low temperature, while the other portions of our body were lightly clad. There was not the usual accumulation of moisture except in the lower boxes, where it reinforced the foundation of the structure and did no harm. From the hygienic standpoint, with the material at hand, we could not have improved the arrangement. The ventilation was by small openings, mostly along the corners, which thus drew heat to remote angles. The value of the long stove pipe was made evident by the interior accumulation of ice. If we did not remove the ice every three or four days the draft was closed by atmospheric humidity condensed from the draft drawn through the fire. From within, the pipe was also a splendid supplementary heater, as it led by a circuitous route about the vestibule before the open air was reached, thus keeping the workshop somewhat warm. Two Eskimo lamps gave the added heat and light for the sledge builders. From Christmas Day until New Year's there were daily feasts for the natives. I luxuriated in a long rest, spending my time taking walks and reading. I got a sort of pleasure by proxy in watching the delight of these primal people in real food, food which, although to us horribly unpalatable, never gives indigestion. This period was one of real Christmas rejoicing in many snow homes, and the spirit, although these people had never heard of the Christ child, was more truly in keeping with this holiday than it often is in lands where, in ostentatious celebration, the real meaning is lost. Wandering from igloo to igloo, to extend greetings and thanks for their faithful work, I was often touched by the sounds of thin, plaintive voices in the darkness. Each time a pang touched my heart, and I remembered the time when I first heard my own baby girl's wee voice. The little ones had begun to arrive. The Eskimo stork, at igloo after igloo, was leaving its Christmas gift. For some time before Christmas, Cla-you, easily our best seamstress, had not come for her assignment of sewing. To her had been given the delicate task of making hare skin stockings; but she had lost interest in needle-work and complained of not feeling well. E-ve-lue (Mrs. Sinue) was completing her task. Ac-po-di-soa (the big bird), Cla-you's husband, whom we called Bismark, had also deserted the bench where he had been making sledges. For his absence there was no explanation, for neither he nor his wife had ever shirked duties before. To solve the mystery I went to his igloo during Christmas week. There I first got news from the stork world. The boreal stork comes at a special season of the year, usually a few weeks after midnight when there is little else to interest the people. This season comes nine months after the days of budding passions in April, the first Arctic month of the year when all the world is happy. In the little underground home, the anticipated days of the stork visit were made interesting by a long line of preparations. A prospective mother is busy as a bee in a charming effort to make everything new for the coming little one. All things about must be absolutely new if possible. Even a new house must be built. This places the work of preparation quite as much on the father as on the mother. There is in all this a splendid lesson in primitive hygiene. To examine, first, the general home environment; there is a little girl four years old still taking nature's substitute for the bottle. She looks about for a meaning of all the changes about the home, but does not understand. You enter the new house on hands and knees through an entrance twelve or fifteen feet long, crowding upwards into an ever-open door just large enough to pass the shoulders. You rise into a dungeon oblong in shape. The rear two-thirds of this is raised about fifteen inches and paved with flat-rock. Upon this the furs are spread for a bed. The forward edge forms a seat. The space ahead of this is large enough for three people to stand at once. On each side there is a semi-circular bulge. In these are placed the crescent-shaped stone dishes, in which moss serves as a wick to burn blubber. Over this blubber flame, there is a long stone pot in which snow is melted for water and meats are occasionally cooked. Over this there is a drying rack for boots and furs. There is no other furniture. This house represents the home of the Eskimo family at its best. Do what she will, the best housewife cannot free it of oil and soot. It is not, indeed, a fit place for the immaculate stork to come. For months, the finest furs have been gathered to prepare a new suit for the mother. Slowly one article of apparel after another has been completed and put aside. The boots, called _kamik_, are of sealskin, bleached to a spotless cream color. They reach halfway up the thigh. The inner boot, called _atesha_, of soft caribou fur, is of the same length; along its upper edge there is a decorative run of white bear fur. The silky fur pads protect the tender skin of limb and foot, for no stockings are used. Above these, there are dainty little pants of white and blue fox, to protect the body to a point under the hips, and for protection above that there is a shirt of birdskins or _aht-tee_. This is the most delicate of all garments. Hundreds of little auk skins are gathered, chewed and prepared, and as the night comes the garment is built blouse-shaped, with hood attached. It fits loosely. There are no buttons or openings. For the little one, the hood is enlarged and extended down the back, as the pocket for its future abode. The coat of fine blue fox skins, or _amoyt_, is of the same shape, but fits loosely over all. The word _amoyt_, or _amoyt docsoa_, in its application, also covers the entire range of the art and function of pregnancy. This is regarded as an institution of the first order, second only to the art of the chase. All being ready for the mother, for the baby only a hood is provided, while bird-skins and grass are provided to take the place of absorbent cotton. For the first year, the child has absolutely no other wrap or cover but its little hood. The Eskimo loves children. If the stork does not come in due time, he is likely to change his life partner. For this reason he looks forward to the Christmas season with eager anticipation. Seeking the wilds far and near for needed furs, in bitter winds and driving snows, he endures all kinds of hardships during the night of months for the sake of the expected child. Brave, good little man of iron, he fears nothing. From a near-by bank of hard snow he cuts blocks for a new igloo. In darkness and wind he transports them to a point near the house. When enough have been gathered, he walls a dome like a bee-hive. The interior arrangement is like the winter underground home. The light is put into it. By this he can see the open cracks between snow blocks. These are filled in to keep wind and snow out. When all is completed, he cuts a door and enters. The bed of snow is flattened. Then he seeks for miles about for suitable grass to cover the cheerless ice floor. To get this grass, he must dig under fields of hardened snow. Even then he is not always rewarded with success. The sledge, loaded with frozen grass, is brought to the little snow dome. The grass is carefully laid on the bed of leveled snow. Over it new reindeer skins are spread. Now the new house of snow blocks in which the stork is to come is ready. As the stork's coming is announced the mother's tears give the signal. She goes to the new snowhouse alone. The father is frightened and looks serious. But she must tear herself away. With her new garments, she enters the dark chamber of the snowhouse, strikes a fire, lights the lamp. The spotless walls of snow are cheerful. The new things about give womanly pride. But life is hard for her. A soul-stirring battle follows in that den of ice. There is a little cry. But there is no doctor, no nurse, no one, not a kindly hand to help. A piece of glass is used as a surgical knife. Then all is over. There is no soap, no water. The methods of a mother cat are this mother's. Then, in the cold, cheerless chamber of ice, she fondly examines the little one. Its eyes are blue, but they turn brown at once when opened. Its hair is coal black, its skin is golden. It is turned over and over in the search for marks or blemishes. The mother's eyes run down along the tiny spine. At its end there is a blue shield-shaped blot like a tattoo mark. This is the Eskimo guarantee of a well-bred child. If it is there, the mother is happy, if not, there are doubts of the child's future, and of the purity of the parents. Now the father and the grandmother come. All rejoice. If misfortune at the time of birth befalls a mother, as is not infrequent, the snow mound becomes her grave; it is not opened for a long time. After a long sleep, into which the mother falls after her first joy, she awakes, turns over, drinks some ice-water, eats a little half-cooked meat, and then, shaking the frozen breath from the covers, she wraps herself and her babe snugly in furs. Again she sleeps, perhaps twenty-four hours, seemingly in perfect comfort, while the life-stilling winter winds drive over the feeble wall of snow which shelters her from the chilly death outside. One day during Christmas week there was a knock at our door. The proud Ac-po-di-soa walked in, followed by his smiling wife, with the sleeping stork gift on her back. The child had been born less than five days before. We walked over and admired the little one. It suddenly opened its brown eyes, screwed up its little blubber nose, and wrinkled its chin for a cry. The mother grabbed her, plunged out of the door, pulled the undressed infant out, and in the wind and cold served the little one's want. New Year's Day came starlit and cold. The year had dawned in which I was to essay the task to which I had set myself, the year which would mean success or failure to me. The past year had been gracious and bountiful, so, in celebration, Francke prepared a feast of which we both ate to gluttonous repletion. This consisted of ox-tail soup, creamed boneless cod, pickles, scrambled duck eggs with chipped smoked beef, roast eider-duck, fresh biscuits, crystallized potatoes, creamed onions, Bayo beans and bacon, Malaga grapes, (canned), peach-pie, blanc-mange, raisin cake, Nabisco biscuits and steaming chocolate. The day was spent in making calls among the Eskimos. In the evening several families were given a feast which was followed by songs and dances. This hilarity was protracted to the early hours of morning and ended in an epidemic of night hysteria. When thus afflicted the victims dance and sing and fall into a trance, the combination of symptoms resembling insanity. In taking account of our stock we found that our baking powder was about exhausted. This was sad news, for a breakfast of fresh biscuits, butter and coffee was one of the few delights that remained for me in life. We had bicarbonate of soda, but no cream of tartar. I wondered whether we could not substitute for cream of tartar some other substance. Curious experiments followed. The juice of sauerkraut was tried with good results. But the flavor, as a steady breakfast food, was not desirable. Francke had fermented raisins with which to make wine. As a wine it was a failure, but as a fruit acid it enabled us to make soda biscuits with a new and delicate flavor. Milk, we found, would also ferment. From the unsweetened condensed milk, biscuits were made that would please the palate of any epicure. My breakfast pleasure therefore was still assured for many days to come. EN ROUTE FOR THE POLE THE CAMPAIGN OPENS--LAST WEEKS OF THE POLAR NIGHT--ADVANCE PARTIES SENT OUT--AWAITING THE DAWN X THE START WITH SUNRISE OF 1908 Two weeks of final tests and re-examination of clothing, sledges and general equipment followed the New Year's festivities. On January 14 there was almost an hour of feeble twilight at midday. The moon offered light enough to travel. Now we were finally ready to fire the first guns of the Polar battle. Scouts were outside, waiting for the signal to proceed. They were going, not only to examine the ice field for the main advance, but to offer succor to a shipwrecked crew, which the natives believed was at Cape Sabine. The smoke of a ship had been seen late in the fall, and much wood from a wrecked ship had been found. The pack was, therefore, loaded with expedition supplies, with instructions to offer help to anyone in want that might be found. I had just finished a note to be left at Cape Sabine, telling of our headquarters, our caches and our willingness to give assistance. This was handed to Koo-loo-ting-wah, standing before his restless dogs, whip in hand, as were his three companions, who volunteered as scouts. They jumped on the sledges, and soon the dogs were rushing toward the Polar pack of Smith Sound. It was a beautiful day. A fold of the curtain of night had been lifted for a brief spell. A strong mixed light, without shadows, rested on the snow. It changed in quality and color with the changing mystery of the aurora. One might call it blue, or purple, or violet, or no color at all, according to the color perception of the observer. In the south the heavens glowed with the heralds of the advancing sun. The light was exaggerated by the blink of the ice over which the light was sent, for the brightness of the heavens was out of proportion to its illuminating effect upon the surface snows. In the north, the half-spent moon dispelled the usual blackness Poleward, while the zenith was lighted with stars of the first and second magnitude. The temperature was -41° F. The weather was perfectly calm--all that could be expected for the important event of opening the campaign. In the course of a few hours the cheerful light faded, the snows darkened to earthy fields, and out of the north came a smoky tempest. The snow soon piled up in tremendous drifts, making it difficult to leave the house without climbing new hills. The dogs tied about were buried in snow. Only the light passing through the membrane of intestines, which was spread over the ports to make windows for the native houses, relieved the fierce blackness. The run to Cape Sabine, under fine conditions, was about forty miles, and could be made in one day, but Smith Sound seldom offers a fair chance. Insufficient light, impossible winds or ice make the crossing hazardous at best. The Eskimos cross every year, but they are out so much after bears that they have a good knowledge of the ice before they start to reach the other shores. Coming from the north, with a low temperature and blowing snow, the wind would not only stop our scouts, but force the ice south, leaving open spaces of water. A resulting disruption of the pack might greatly delay our start with heavy sledges. Furthermore, there was real danger at hand for the advance. If the party had been composed of white men there surely would have been a calamity. But the Eskimo approaches the ventures of the wild with splendid endurance. Moreover, he has a weather intelligence which seldom finds him unprepared. At midnight of the second night the party returned. They were none the worse for the storm. The main intent of their mission had failed. The storm had forced them into snow embankments, and before it was quite spent a bear began to nose about their shelter places. The dogs were so buried with drift that they were not on watch until the bear had destroyed much of their food. Then their mad voices aroused the Eskimos. As they dug out of their shelter, the bear took a big walrus leg and walked off, man-like, holding the meat in his forepaws. In their haste to free the dogs, they cut their harness to pieces, for snow and ice cemented the creatures. Oo-tah ran out in the excitement to head off the bear--not to make an attack, but simply to stop his progress. The bear dropped the meat and grabbed Oo-tah by the seat of his trousers. The dogs, fortunately, came along in time to save Oo-tah's life, but he had received a severe leg wound, which required immediate surgical attention. The bear was captured, and with loads of bear meat and the wounded scout the party returned as quickly as possible. In the retreat it was noticed that the ice was very much broken. In the wreck of an Arctic storm there is always a subsequent profit for someone. The snow becomes crusted and hardened, making sledge travel easy. The breaking of the ice, which was a great hindrance to our advance, offered open water for walrus and bear hunting. At this time we went to Serwahdingwah for the last chase. Some of the Eskimos took their families, so Annoatok became depopulated for a while. But on our return, visitors came in numbers too numerous for our comfort. Dogs and skins, bargained for earlier in the season, were now delivered. Each corps of excursionists required some attention, for they had done noble work for the expedition. We gave them dinners and allowed them to sit about our stove with picture-books in hand. Another storm came, with still more violent force, a week later. This caused us much anxiety, for we counted on our people being scattered on the ice along the shores of Cape Alexander. In a storm this would probably be swept from the land and carried seaward. There was nothing that could be done except wait for news. Messengers of trouble were not long in reaching headquarters after the storm. None of the men were on the ice, but a hurricane from the land had wrecked the camps. Our men suffered little, but many of the natives in neighboring villages were left without clothing or sleeping furs. In the rush of the storm the ice left the land, and the snowhouses were swept into the sea. Men and women, without clothing, barely escaped with their lives. Two of our new sledges, some dogs, and three suits of winter furs were lost. A rescue party with furs had to be sent to the destitute people. Fortunately, our people were well supplied with bed-furs, out of which new suits were made. Sledge loads of our furs were also coming north, and instructions were sent to use these for the urgent needs of the sufferers. Other things were sent from Annoatok, with returning excursionists, and in the course of a week the damage was replaced. But the loss was all on the expedition, and deprived many of the men in their northern journey of suitable sleeping-furs. Walruses were obtained after the storm, and the natives now had no fear of a famine of meat or fat. By the end of January most of the natives had returned, and new preparations were made for a second effort to cross the Sound. Francke asked to join the party, and prepared for his first camp outing. Four sledges were loaded with two hundred pounds each of expedition advance supplies. Four good drivers volunteered to move the sledges to the American side. The light had gradually brightened, and the storms passed off and left a keen, cold air, which was as clear as crystal. But at best the light was still feeble, and could be used for only about four hours of each twenty-four. If, however, the sky remained clear, the moon and stars would furnish enough illumination for a full day's travel. There was a little flush of color in the southern skies, and the snows were a pale purple as the sledges groaned in their rush over the frosty surface. The second party started off as auspiciously as the first, and news of its luck was eagerly awaited. They reached Cape Sabine after a long run of twenty hours, making a considerable detour to the north. The ice offered good traveling, but the cold was bitter, the temperature being -52° F., with light, extremely humid and piercing winds. Along the land and within the bays the snow was found to be deep, and a bitter wind came from the west. Two of the party could not be persuaded to go farther, but Francke, with two companions, pushed on for another day along the shore to Cape Veile. Beyond, the snow was too deep to proceed. The supplies were cached in a snowhouse, while those at Cape Sabine were left in the old camp. The party returned at the end of four days with their object accomplished. Nothing was seen of the rumored shipwrecked crew. The next party, of eight sledges, led by Es-se-you, Kud-la, and Me-tek, started on February 5. The object was to carry advance supplies to the head of Flagler Bay, and hunt musk ox to feed the sledge teams as they moved overland. We were to meet this party at an appointed place in the bay. The light was still too uncertain to risk the fortunes of the entire force. With a hundred dogs, a delay of a day would be an expensive loss, for if fed upon the carefully guarded food of the advance stores, a rapid reduction in supplies would follow, which could not be replaced, even if abundant game were secured later. It was, therefore, desirable to await the rising sun. We made our last arrangements, fastened our last packs, and waited impatiently for the sunrise, here at this northernmost outpost of human life, just seven hundred miles from the Pole. And this was the problem that now insistently and definitely confronted us after the months of planning and preparation: Seven hundred miles of advance, almost a thousand miles as our route was planned; one thousand miles of return; two thousand miles in all; allowing for detours (for the line to be followed could not be precisely straight), more than two thousand miles of struggling travel across icy and unknown and uninhabitable wastes of moving ice. On the morning of February 19, 1908, I started on my trip to the North Pole. Early, as the first real day of the year dawned, eleven sledges were brought to the door of our box-house and lashed with supplies for the boreal dash. There were four thousand pounds of supplies for use on the Polar sea, and two thousands pounds of walrus skin and fat for use before securing the fresh game we anticipated. The eleven sledges were to be driven by Francke, nine Eskimos, and myself. They were drawn by one hundred and three dogs, each in prime condition. The dogs had been abundantly fed with walrus skin and meat for several weeks, and would now be fed only every second day on fresh supplies. My heart was high. I was about to start on the quest which had inspired me for many years! The natives were naturally excited. The dogs caught the contagious enthusiasm, and barked joyously. At eight o'clock in the morning our whips snapped, the spans of dog teams leaped forward, and we were off. My Polar quest had begun! Most of the tribe had seemed willing to go with me, and to take all their dogs, but the men and the dogs finally selected were the pick of the lot. All were in superb physical condition, this matter of condition being something that I had carefully looked out for during the winter months. I regard this as having been highly advantageous to me, that I have always been able to win the friendship and confidence of the Eskimos; for thus I found them extremely ready to follow my advice and instructions, and to do in general anything I desired. That I could speak Eskimo fairly well--well enough to hold ordinary conversations--was also a strong asset in my favor. When we started, a few stars were seen between thin clouds, but the light was good. A soft wind came from the south; the temperature was -36° F. The Greenland ice-cap was outlined; a belt of orange in the south heralded the rising sun. The snow still retained the purple of twilight. The ice was covered with about three inches of soft snow over a hard crust, which made speed difficult. Before noon the sky was gray, but the light remained good enough for traveling until 4 P. M. A course was made about northwest, because a more direct line was still impractical. A water sky to the west and south denoted open water. At 3 P. M. we ran into bear tracks, and the sledges bounced along as if empty. The tracks were making a good course for us, so the dogs were encouraged. By four o'clock the feeble light made it dangerous to proceed. Two hunters still followed the bear tracks, while the others built three snowhouses for camp. Nothing was seen of the bears. The dogs were tied to holes cut in the ice, and we crept into our snow-mounds, tired, hungry and sleepy. The night was extremely uncomfortable--the first nights from camp always are. The next day brought a still air with a temperature of -42° F., and brilliant light at eight o'clock. We had made twenty miles through the air-line distance from Annoatok, and Cape Sabine was but thirty miles away. We had been forced so far north that we still had thirty miles before us to the Cape. The dogs, however, were in better trim, and we had no doubt about reaching the off-shores for the next camp. We followed the edge of ice which had been made in a wide open space in December. Here the traveling was fairly level, but above was a hopeless jungle of mountains and ridges of ice. We made about three miles an hour, and were able to ride occasionally. At noon of February 20th we stopped, and coffee was served from our ever-hot coffee box. A can had been placed in a box, and so protected by reindeer skins that the heat was retained for twelve hours during the worst weather. This proved a great luxury. While we sat regaling ourselves, a great ball of fire rose along the icy horizon. Our hearts were glad. The weather was bitterly cold; the temperature was 51° F.: but the sun had risen; the long night was at end. There was little else to mark the glory of sunrise. The light was no brighter than it had been for two hours. The sky remained a purple blue, with a slight grayness in the south, darkening toward the horizon. The snows were purple, with just a few dashes of red in the road before us. This unpretentious burst of the sun opened our spirits to new delights. Even the dogs sat in graceful rows and sounded a chorus of welcome to the coming of the day. Although Cape Sabine, on February 20, was in sight, we still headed for Bache Peninsula. Impossible ice and open water pushed us farther and farther north. It was three o'clock before the Cape was seen over the dogs' tails. Soon after four the light failed, the land colored to purple and gold toward the rim of the horizon, and we were left to guess the direction of our course. But Eskimos are somewhat better than Yankees at guessing, for we got into no troubles until 9 P. M., when we tried to scale the rafted ice against Cape Sabine. With only the camp equipment and dog food, the dogs crept up and down in the black hills of ice, while we followed like mountain-sheep. Here had been the camp of the ill-fated Greely expedition. It recurred to me that it was a curious whim of fate that this ill-starred camp of famine and death, in earlier days, should have marked the very outset of our modern effort to reach the Pole. But later we were to learn that under similar conditions a modern expedition can meet the same fate as that of the Lady Franklin Bay Expedition. We turned about, took the advance supplies, and picked a course through Rice Strait, to avoid the rough ice northward. Here the surface was good, but a light wind, with a temperature of -52° F., came with great bitterness. The dogs refused to face the wind, and required someone to lead the way. The men buried their faces in the fur mittens, leaned on the upstanders, and ran along. Passing Cape Rutherford on February 22, we followed the coast. Here the wind came from the right, caught the tip of the nose, burning with a bleaching effect, which, in camp later, turned black. At Cape Veile the cache igloo was sighted, and there camp was pitched. In the morning the minimum thermometer registered -58° F. We were evidently passing from the storms and open water of Smith Sound, from warm, moist air to a still, dry climate, with very low temperature. The day opened beautifully with a glow of rose to the south, which colored the snows in warm tones. At noon the sun showed half of its face over the cliffs as we crossed the bay and sought better ice along Bache Peninsula. That night we camped near the Weyprecht Islands. The day, although bright, proved severe, for most of the natives had frostbites about the face. Along Bache Peninsula we saw hares staring at us. Four were secured for our evening meal. In the very low temperature of -64° F. the hunters suffered from injuries like burns, due to the blistering cold metal of their guns. Dog food had also to be prepared. In efforts to divide the walrus skin, two hatchets were broken. The Eskimo dog is a tough creature, but he cannot be expected to eat food which breaks an axe. Petroleum and alcohol were used liberally, and during the night the skin was sufficiently softened by the heat to be cut with the hatchets. This skin seems to be good food for the dogs. It is about one inch thick, and contains little water, the skin fibre being a kind of condensed nutriment, small quantities of which satisfy the dogs. It digests slowly, and therefore has lasting qualities. The lamps, burning at full force, made the igloos comfortable. The temperature fell to -68° F. It was the first satisfying sleep of the journey for me. The economy of the blue fire stoves is beyond conception. Burning but three pounds of oil all night, the almost liquid air was reduced to a normal temperature of freezing point. Francke used alcohol stoves, with a double consumption of fuel. The natives, in their three igloos, used the copper lamp, shaped after the stone devices, but they did no cooking. In the morning of the 23d we heard sounds to the south, which at first we thought to be walrus. But after a time the noise was interpreted as that of the dogs of the advance party. They were camped a few miles beyond, and came to our igloos at breakfast. One musk ox and eleven hares had been secured. The valley had been thoroughly hunted, but no other game was sighted. The ground was nearly bare, and made sledge travel impossible. They were bound for Annoatok at once. This was sad news for us. We had counted on game with which to feed the dog train en route to the Polar sea. If animals were not secured, our project would fail at the very start, and this route would be impossible. To push overland rapidly to the west coast was our only chance, but the report of insufficient snow seemed to forbid this. Something, however, must be tried. We could not give up without a stronger fight. The strong probability of our failing to find musk ox, and extending the expedition for another year, over another route, made it necessary to send Francke back to headquarters to guard our supplies. There was no objection to the return of most of the other party, but we took their best dogs and sledges, with some exchange of drivers. With this change in the arrangements, and the advance supplies from Cape Sabine and Cape Viele, each sledge now carried eight hundred pounds. Beyond, in Flagler Bay, the ice luckily became smooth and almost free of snow. An increased number of dogs, with good traveling, enabled us to make satisfactory progress, despite the steadily falling temperature. The head of Flagler Bay was reached late at night, after an exhausting march of twenty-five miles. A hard wind, with a temperature of -60° F., had almost paralyzed the dogs, and the men were kept alive only by running with the dogs. Comfortable houses were built and preparations made for a day of rest. On the morrow we aimed to explore the land for an auspicious route. Many new frostbites were again noted in camp. One of the dogs died of the cold. The party was by no means discouraged, however. We were as enthusiastic as soldiers on the eve of a longed-for battle. The reduced numbers of the return party gave us extra rations to use in times of need, and the land did not seem as hopeless as pictured by the returning natives. A cache was made here of needful things for use on the return. Other things, which we had found useless, were also left here. EXPLORING A NEW PASS OVER ACPOHON FROM THE ATLANTIC WATERS AT FLAGLER BAY TO THE PACIFIC WATERS AT BAY FIORD--THE MECCA OF THE MUSK OX--BATTLES WITH THE BOVINE MONSTERS OF THE ARCTIC--SUNRISE AND THE GLORY OF SUNSET XI BREAKING A TRAIL BEYOND THE HAUNTS OF MAN Early in the morning of February 25 the dogs were spanned to sledges with heavy loads, and we pushed into the valley of mystery ahead. Our purpose was to cross the inland ice and descend into Cannon Bay. The spread of the rush of glacial waters in summer had dug out a wide central plain, now imperfectly covered with ice and snow. Over this we lined a trail. On each side of us were gradual slopes rising to cliffs, above which I noted the blue wall of the overland sea of ice, at an altitude of about two thousand feet. Nowhere did this offer a safe slope for an ascent. We now explored the picturesque valley, for I knew that our only hope was to push overland to Bay Fiord. The easy slopes were enlivened with darting, downy hares. Some sat motionless, with their long ears erect, while they drank the first golden air of sunrise and watched the coming of new life. Others danced about in frisky play. As we pushed along, the ascent of the slope was gradual. The necessity for crossing from side to side to find ice or snow lengthened our journey. Only the partially bare earth gave us trouble. The temperature was -62° F., but there was no wind. The upper slopes glittered with bright sunshine. Winding with a stream, we advanced twenty miles. Beyond there was the same general topography. The valley looked like a pass. Clouds of a different kind were seen through the gorges. At various places we noted old musk ox paths. I knew that where game trails are well marked on mountains one is certain to find a good crossing. This rule is equally good in the Arctic as elsewhere. At any rate, there was no alternative. The tortures of the top had to be risked. Pushing onward, we found no fresh signs of musk ox. A few bear tracks were seen, and a white fox followed us to camp. We shot sixteen hares, and for the evening meal unlimited quantities of savory hare meat made an appetizing broth. On the day following, everything was advanced to this point. A prolonged search for musk ox was made, with negative results. On the morning of the 27th, full loads were taken on our sledges. With slow progress we advanced on the rising bed of the stream, the valley moved, and the river ice was found in one channel, making better travel. Hare and fox tracks increased in number. The side slopes were grassy, and mostly swept bare of snow by strong winter winds. Sand dunes and gravel lines were also piled up, while huge drifts of pressed snow indicated a dangerous atmospheric agitation. Here, I knew, were excellent feeding grounds for musk ox and caribou. But a careful scrutiny gave no results for a long time. To us the musk ox was now of vital importance. The shorter way, over Schley Land and northward through Nansen Sound, was possible only if game in abundance was secured en route. If the product of the chase gave us no reward, then our Polar venture was doomed at the outset. One day, with a temperature of -100° below the freezing point, and with a light but sharp Arctic wind driving needles of frost to the very bone, we searched the rising slopes of ice-capped lands in the hope of spotting life. For three days the dogs had not been fed. They sniffed the air, searched the horizon, and ranged the wilds with all the eagerness of their wolf progenitors. The hare and the fox were aroused from their winter's sleep, but such game was not what we now desired. Only meat and fat in heaps could satisfy the wants of over a hundred empty stomachs. After a hard pull, ascending miniature, ice-covered hills, winding about big, polished boulders, we entered a wider section of the narrow gorge-like valley. Here the silurian rocks had broken down, and by the influence of glacier streams and glaciers, now receding, a good deal of rolling, grass-covered land spread from cliff to cliff. Strong winter gales had bared the ground. We sat down to rest. The dogs did likewise. All searched the new lands with eager eyes. The dog noses pointed to a series of steep slopes to the north. They were scenting something, but were too tired to display the usual animation of the chase. Soon we detected three dark, moving objects on a snowy sun-flushed hill, under a huge cliff, about a thousand feet above us. _"Ah-ming-mah!"_ shouted E-tuk-i-shook. The dogs jumped; the men grasped glasses; in a second the sledge train was in disorder. Fifty dogs were hitched to three sledges. Rushing up three different gulches, the sledges, with tumbling human forms as freight, advanced to battle. The musk oxen, with heads pointed to the attacking forces, quietly awaited the onrush. Within an hour three huge, fat carcasses were down in the river bed. A temporary camp was made, and before the meat froze most of it had passed palates tantalized by many days of gastronomic want. Continuing our course, we crossed the divide in a storm. Beyond, in a canyon, the wind was more uncomfortable than in the open. Something must be done. We could not long breathe that maddening air, weighted by frost and thickened by snows. The snow-bank gave no shelter whatever, and a rush of snow came over, which quickly buried the investigators. But it was our only hope. "Dig a hole," said Koo-loo-ting-wah. Now, to try to dig a hole without a shovel, and with snow coming more rapidly than any power of man could remove, seemed a waste of needed vital force. But I had faith in the intelligence of my savage companions, and ordered all hands to work. They gathered at one corner of the bank, and began to talk and shout, while I allowed myself to be buried in a pocket of the cliffs to keep my tender skin from turning to ice. Every few minutes someone came along to see if I was safe. The igloo was progressing. Two men were now inside. In the course of another hour they reported four men inside; in another hour seven men were inside, and the others were piling up the blocks, cut with knives from the interior. A kind of vestibule was made to allow the wind to shoot over the entrance. Inside, the men were sweating. Soon afterward I was told that the igloo was completed. I lost no time in seeking its shelter. A square hole had been cut, large enough for the entire party if packed like sardines. Our fur clothing was removed, and beaten with sticks and stones. The lamps sang cheerily of steaming musk ox steaks. The dogs were brought into the canyon. A more comfortable night was impossible. We were fifty feet under the snow. The noise of the driving storm was lost. The blinding drift about the entrance was effectually shut out by a block of snow as a door. Two holes afforded ventilation, and the tremendous difference between the exterior and the interior air assured a circulation. When we emerged in the morning the sky was clear. A light wind came from the west, with a temperature of -78° F. Two dogs had frozen during the storm. All were buried in the edge of a drift that was piled fifteen feet. An exploration of the canyon showed other falls and boulders impossible for sledge travel. A trail was picked over the hills to the side. The day was severe. How we escaped broken legs and smashed sleds was miraculous. But somehow, in our plunges down the avalanches, we always landed in a soft bed of snow. We advanced about ten miles, and made a descent of five hundred feet, first camping upon a glacial lake. The temperature now was -79° F., and although there were about nine hours of good light, including twilight, we had continued our efforts too long, and were forced to build igloos by moonlight. Glad were we, indeed, when the candle was placed in the dome of snow, to show the last cracks to be stuffed. In the searchlight of the frigid dawn I noticed that our advance was blocked by a large glacier, which tumbled barriers of ice boulders into the only available line for a path. A way would have to be cut into this barrier of icebergs for about a mile. This required the full energy of all the men for the day. I took advantage of the halt to explore the country through which we were forcing a pass. The valley was cut by ancient glaciers and more modern creeks along the meeting line of two distinct geological formations. To the north were silurian and cambro-silurian rocks; to the south were great archæan cliffs. With the camera, the field-glass, and other instruments in the sack, I climbed into a gorge and rose to the level of the mountains of the northern slopes. The ground was here absolutely destitute of vegetation, and only old musk ox trails indicated living creatures. The snow had all been swept into the ditches of the lowlands. Climbing over frost-sharpened stones, I found footing difficult. The average height of the mountains proved to be nineteen hundred feet. To the northeast there was land extending a few miles further, with a gradual rising slope. Beyond was the blue edge of the inland ice. To the northwest, the land continued in rolling hills, beyond which no land-ice was seen. The cliffs to the south were of about the same height, but they were fitted to the crest with an ice-cap. The overflow of perpetual snows descended into the gorges, making five overhanging glaciers. The first was at the divide, furnishing in summer the waters which started the vigorous stream to the Atlantic slopes. It was a huge stream of ice, about a mile wide, and it is marked by giant cliffs, separated by wide gaps, indicating the roughness of the surface over which it pushes its frozen height. To the stream to which it gives birth, flowing eastward from the divide, I will give the name of Schley River, in honor of Rear-Admiral Schley. The stream starting westward from the divide, through picturesque rocks, tumbles in icy falls into a huge canyon, down to the Pacific waters at Bay Fiord. To this I will give, in honor of General A. W. Greely, the name Greely River. The second and third glaciers were overhanging masses about a half-mile wide, which gave volume in summer time to Greely River. The fourth was a powerful glacier, with a discharging face of blue three miles long, closing up a valley and damming up a lake about four miles long and one mile wide. The lake was beyond the most precipitous of the descending slopes. The upper cliffs of the walled valley to Flagler Bay were still visible, while to the west was seen a line of mountains and cliffs which marked the head of Bay Fiord, under which was seen the ice covering the first water of the Pacific upon which our future fortunes would be told. To this sea level there was an easy descent of four hundred feet on the river ice and snowdrifts, making, with good luck, a day's run of twenty miles. Returning, at camp I was informed that not only had a trail been cut, but many of the sledges had been advanced to the good ice beyond. Two of the sledges, however, had been badly broken, and must be mended at dawn before starting. The day was beautiful. For the first time I felt the heat of the sun. It came through the thick fur of my shoulders with the tenderness of a warm human hand. The mere thought of the genial sunbeams brought a glow of healthful warmth, but at the same time the thermometer was very low, -78½° F. One's sense of cold, under normal conditions, is a correct instrument in its bearing upon animal functions, but as an instrument of physics it makes an unreliable thermometer. If I had been asked to guess the temperature of the day I should have placed it at -25° F. The night air had just a smart of bitterness. The igloo failed to become warm, so we fed our internal fires liberally with warming courses, coming in easy stages. We partook of superheated coffee, thickened with sugar, and biscuits, and later took butter chopped in squares, which was eaten as cheese with musk ox meat chopped by our axes into splinters. Delicious hare loins and hams, cooked in pea soup, served as dessert. The amount of sugar and fat which we now consumed was quite remarkable. Fortunately, during the journey to the edge of the Polar sea, there was no urgent limit to transportation, and we were well supplied with the luxury of sugar and civilized foods, most of which later were to be abandoned. In this very low temperature I found considerable difficulty in jotting down the brief notes of our day's doings. The paper was so cold that the pencil barely left a mark. A few moments had to be spent warming each page and pencil before beginning to write. With the same operation, the fingers were also sufficiently warmed to hold the pencil. All had to be done by the light and heat of a candle. To economize fuel, the fires later were extinguished before retiring to sleep. In the morning we were buried in the frost falling from our own breath. It was difficult to work at dawn with fur-covered hands; but the Eskimo can do much with his glove-fitting mitten. The broken sledges were soon repaired. After tumbling over irregular ice along the face of the glacier, the river offered a splendid highway over which the dogs galloped with remarkable speed. We rode until cold compelled exercise. The stream descended among picturesque hills, but the most careful scrutiny found no sign of life except the ever-present musk ox trails of seasons gone by. As we neared the sea line, near the mouth of the river, we began to see a few fresh tracks of hare and musk ox. Passing out on the south of Bay Fiord, we noted bear and wolf tracks. Then the eyes of the hunter and the dog rolled with eager anticipation. The sun flushed the skies in flaming colors as it was about to sink behind a run of high peaks. The western sky burned with gold, the ice flashed with crimson inlets, but the heat was very feeble. The temperature was -72° F. We had already gone twenty-five miles, and were looking forward to a point about ten miles beyond as the next camping place, when all my companions, seemingly at once, espied a herd of musk ox on the sky line of a whale-backed mountain to the north. The distance was about three miles, but the eagle eyes of the natives detected the black spots. We searched the gorge with our glasses. Suddenly one of the Eskimos cried out in a joyous tone: "_Ah-ming-ma! Ah-ming-ma!_" I could detect only some dark specks on the snow, which looked like a hundred others that I knew to be rocks. I levelled my glasses on the whale-backed mountain at which the Eskimo was staring, and, sure enough, there were three musk oxen on a steep snow slope. They seemed to be digging up the winter snow fields to get "scrub" willows. They were not only three miles away, but at an altitude of perhaps a thousand feet above us. The cumbersome loads were quickly pitched from three sledges. Rifles and knives were securely fastened. In a few moments the long lashes snapped, and away we rushed, with two men on each of the sledges and with double teams of twenty dogs. The dogs galloped at a pace which made the sledges bound like rubber balls over irregularities of rocks, slippery ice, and hard-crusted snow, and our hold tightened on the hickory in the effort to keep our places. It disturbed the dogs not at all whether they were on rock or snow, or whether the sledge rested on runners or turned spirally; but it made considerable difference to us, and we lost much energy in the constant efforts to avoid somersaults. We did not dare release our grip for a moment, for to do so would have meant painful bumping and torn clothes, as well as being left behind in the chase. It took but a brief time to cover the three miles. We made our final advance by three separate ravines, and for a time the musk oxen were out of sight. When we again saw them they had not taken the alarm, nor did they until we were ready to attack them from three separate points. All but five dogs from each sledge were now freed from harness. They darted toward the oxen with fierce speed. The oxen tried to escape through a ravine, but it was too late. The dogs were on every side of them, and all the oxen could do was to grunt fiercely and jump into a bunch, with tails together and heads directed at the enemy. There were seven musk oxen in all, and they tried to keep the dogs scattered at a safe distance. The dogs would rush up to within a few feet, showing their teeth and uttering wolfish sounds, and every now and then an ox would rush out from its circle, with head down, in an effort to strike the dogs; but the dogs were always too quick to be caught by the savage thrust, and each time the ox, in its retreat, would feel canine fangs closing on its haunches. After a few such efforts, the bulls, with lowered horns, merely held to the position, while the dogs, not daring actually to attack under such circumstances, sat in a circle and sent up blood-chilling howls. Meanwhile, the Eskimos and myself were hurrying up. The strife was soon over. I snapped my camera at an old bull which at that moment broke through the dogs and, followed by a group of them, was driven madly over a cliff in a plunge of five thousand feet. The other oxen were soon killed by the hunters. [Illustration: "THE IGLOO BUILT, WE PREPARE FOR OUR DAILY CAMP"] [Illustration: CAMPING TO EAT AND TAKE OBSERVATIONS ON AGAIN!] The sun settled under mountains of ice, and the purple twilight rapidly thickened. It was very cold. The breath of each man came like jets of steam from a kettle. The temperature was now -81° F. No time could be lost in dressing the game. But the Eskimos were equal to the task, and showed such skill as only Indians possess. While this was being done by my companions, I strolled about to note the ear-marks of the home of the musk ox. The mountain was in line of the sweep of the winds, and was bared of snows. Here were grass, mosses, and creeping willows in abundance, descending into the gullies. I found fossil-stumps of large trees and bits of lignite coal. The land in pre-glacial times had evidently supported a vigorous vegetation; but now the general aspect offered a scene of frosty hopelessness. Still, in this desolation of snowy wastes, nature had supplied creatures with food in their hard pressure of life. Fox and wolf tracks were everywhere, while on every little eminence sat an Arctic hare, evincing ear-upraised surprise at our appearance. With the glasses I noted on neighboring hills three other herds of musk ox. This I did not tell the hunters, for they would not have rested until all were secured. Living in a land of cold and hunger, the Eskimo is insatiable for game. We had as much meat as we could possibly use for the next few days, and it was much easier to fill up, and secure more when we needed it, than now to carry almost impossible loads. In a remarkably short time the skins were removed and the meat was boned and cut in small strips in such a way that the axe would break it when frozen. Neatly wrapped in skins, the loads did not seem large. Selecting a few choice bits for later use, the balance was separated and allowed to cool. I looked at the enormous quantity of meat, and wondered how it could be transported to camp, but no such thought troubled the Eskimos. Piece after piece went down the canine throats with a gulp. No energy was wasted in mastication. With a drop of the jaws and a twist of the neck, the task of eating was finished and the stomach began to spread. The dogs had not yet reached their limit when the snow was cleared of its weight of dressed meat and a canine wrangle began for the possession of the cleaned bones. With but little meat on the sledges, we began the descent, but the spirit of the upward rush was lost. The dogs, too full to run, simply rolled down the slopes, and we pushed the sledges ourselves. The ox that had made the death plunge was picked up and taken as reserve meat. It was midnight before camp was pitched. The moon burned with a cheerful glow. The air was filled with liquid frost, but there was no wind and consequently no suffering from cold. Two comfortable snowhouses were built, and in them our feasts rivalled the canine indulgence. Thus was experienced the greatest joy of savage life in boreal wilds--the hunt of the musk ox, with the advantage of the complex cunning gathered by forgotten ages. The balance of the meat left after our feast was buried, with the protecting skins, in the snow. On opening the meat on the following morning, it was still warm, although the minimum thermometer registered -80° F. for the night. A few minutes before midday, on our next march, the sledge train halted. We sat on the packs, and, with eyes turned southward, waited. Even an Eskimo has an eye for color and a soul for beauty. To us there appeared a play of suppressed light and bleached color tints, as though in harmony with bars of music, which inspired my companions to shouts of joy. Slowly and majestically the golden orb lifted. The dogs responded in low, far-reaching calls. The Eskimos greeted the day god with savage chants. The sun, a flushed crimson ball, edged along the wintry outline of the mountains' purplish snowy glitter. The pack was suddenly screened by a moving sheet of ever-changing color, wherein every possible continuation of purple and gold merged with rainbow hues. Soon the dyes changed to blue, and eventually the sky was fired by flames of red. Then, slowly, the great blazing globe sank into seas of fire-flushed ice. The snowy mountains about glowed with warm cheer. The ice cooled again to purple, and again to blue, and then a winter blackness closed the eye to color and the soul to joy. IN GAME TRAILS TO LAND'S END SVERDRUP'S NEW WONDERLAND--FEASTING ON GAME EN ROUTE TO SVARTEVOEG--FIRST SHADOW OBSERVATIONS--FIGHTS WITH WOLVES AND BEARS--THE JOYS OF ZERO'S LOWEST--THRESHOLD OF THE UNKNOWN XII SHORES OF THE CIRCUMPOLAR SEA March 2 was bright and clear and still. The ice was smooth, with just snow enough to prevent the dogs cutting their feet. The heavy sledges bounded along easily, but the dogs were too full of meat to step a lively pace. The temperature was -79° F. We found it comfortable to walk along behind the upstanders of the sledges. Some fresh bear tracks were crossed. These denoted that bears had advanced along the coast on an exploring tour, much as we aimed to do. Scenting these tracks, the dogs forgot their distended stomachs, and braced into the harness with full pulling force. We were still able to keep pace by running. Hard exercise brought no perspiration. After passing the last land point, we noted four herds of musk oxen. The natives were eager to embark for the chase. I tried to dissuade them, but, had we not crossed the bear trail, no word of mine would have kept them from another chase of the musk ox. Long after sunset, as we were about to camp, a bear was sighted advancing on us behind a line of hummocks. The light was already feeble. It was the work of but a minute to throw our things on the ice and start the teams on the scent of the bear. But this bear was thin and hungry. He gave us a lively chase. His advance was checked, however, as our rush began, and he spread his huge paws into a step which outdistanced our dogs. The chase was continued on the ice for about three miles. Then bruin, with sublime intelligence, took to the land and the steep slopes, leading us over hilly, bare ground, rocks, and soft snows. He gained the top of the tall cliffs while we were still groping in the darkness among the rocks at the base, a thousand feet below. The sledges were now left, and the dogs freed. They flew up a gully in which the bear tracks guided an easy path. In a short time their satisfying howls told of the bear's captivity. He had taken a position on a table-rock, which was difficult for the dogs to climb. At an easy distance from this rock were steep slopes of snow. One after another, the dogs came tumbling down these slopes. With but a slight cuff of his paw, the bear could toss the attacking dogs over dizzy heights. His position was impregnable to the dogs, but, thus perched, he was a splendid mark for E-tuk-i-shook. That doughty huntsman raised his gun, and, following a shot, the bear rolled down the same slopes on which he had hurled the dogs. To his carcass a span of strong dogs were soon hitched, and it was hauled down to the sea level. Quickly dressed and distributed, the bear was only a teasing mouthful to the ever-hungry dogs. It was nearly midnight before we returned to our sledge packs. The work of building the houses was rendered difficult by the failing moon and the very low temperature. The lowest temperature of the season, -83°, was reached this night. The sun rose in the morning of March 3 with warm colors, painting the crystal world surrounding us with gorgeous tints of rose and old gold. It was odd that in the glare of this enrapturing glory we should note the coldest day of the year. With the returning sun in the Arctic comes the most frigid season. The light is strongly purple, and one is tempted to ascribe to the genial rays a heating influence which is as yet absent, owing to their slant. The night-darkened surfaces prevent the new sunbeams from disseminating any considerable heat, and the steadily falling temperature indicates that the crust of the earth, as a result of its long desertion by the sun in winter, is still unchecked in its cooling. Because of the persistence of terrestrial radiation, we have the coldest weather of the year with the ascending sun. It is a fortunate provision of nature that these icy days of the ascending sun are usually accompanied by a breathless stillness. When wind and storms come, the temperature quickly rises. It is doubtful if any form of life could withstand a storm at -80° F. A quiet charm comes with this eye-opening period. The spirits rise with indescribable gladness, and, although the mercury is frozen, the body, when properly dressed, is perfectly comfortable. The soft light of purple and gold, or of lilac and rose, on the snowy slopes, dispels the chronic gloom of the long night, while the tonic of a brightening air of frost returns the flush to the pale cheeks. The stillness adds a charm, with which the imagination plays. It is not the music of silence, nor the gold solitude of summer, nor the deathlike stillness of the winter blackness. It is the stillness of zero's lowest, which has a beauty of its own. The ice pinnacles are lined with hoar frost, on which there is a play of rainbow colors. The tread of one's feet is muffled by feathery beds of snow. The mountains, raised by the new glow of light or outlined by colored shadows, stand against the brightened heavens in sculptured magnificence. The bear admires his shadow, the fox peeps from behind his bushy tail, devising a new cult, for his art of night will soon be a thing of the past. The hare sits, with forelegs bent reverently, as if offering prayers of gratitude. The musk ox stands in the brightest sun, with his beautiful coat of black and blue, and absorbs the first heaven-given sun bath, and man soars high in dreams of happiness. Shadows always attract the eye of primitive people and children. In a world such as the one we were invading, with little to rest the eye from perpetual glitter, they were to become doubly interesting. When we first began observing our shadows, on March 3, I did not dream that a thing so simple could rise to the dignity of a proof of the Polar conquest. But, since then, I have come to the conclusion that, if a proof of this much-discussed problem is at all possible, it is in the corroborative evidence of just such little things as shadows. Accordingly, I have examined every note and impression bearing on natural phenomena en route. To us, in our daily marches from Bay Fiord, the shadow became a thing of considerable interest and importance. The Eskimo soul is something apart from the body. The native believes it follows in the shadow. For this reason, stormy, sunless days are gloomy times to the natives, for the presence of the soul is then not in evidence. The night has the same effect, although the moon often throws a clear-cut shadow. The native believes the soul at times wanders from the body. When it does this, the many rival spirits, which in their system of beliefs tenant the body, get into all sorts of trouble. Every person, and every animal, has not only a soul which guards its destiny, but every part of the body has an individual spirit--the arm, the leg, the nose, the eye, the ear, and every other conceivable part of the anatomy, with a peculiar individuality, throbs with a separate life. The separate, wandering soul in the shadow is the guiding influence. Furthermore, there is no such conception as an absolutely inanimate thing. The land, the sea, the air, ice, and snow, have great individual spirits that ever engage in battle with each other. Even mountains, valleys, rocks, icebergs, wood, iron, fire--all have spirits. All of this gives them a keen interest in shadows in an otherwise desert of gloom and death. Their entire religious creed would require a long time to work out. Even that part of it which is represented by the shadow is quite beyond me. As I observed in our following marches toward Svartevoeg, their keen eyes detect in shadows incidents and messages of life, histories that would fill volumes. The shadow is long or short, clear-cut or vague, dark or light, blue or purple, violet or black. Each phase of it has a special significance. It presages luck or ill-luck on the chase, sickness and death in the future, the presence or unrest of the souls of parted friends. Even the souls of the living sometimes get mixed. Then there is love or intrigue. All the passions of wild life can be read from the shadows. The most pathetic shadows had been the vague, ghastly streaks of black that followed the body about a week before sunset in October. At that time all the Arctic world is sad, and tears come easily. The shadow does not quickly come back with the returning sun. Continuous storms so screen the sunbeams that only a vague, diffused light reaches the long night-blackened snows. When the joy of seeing the first shadows exploded among my companions I did not know just what intoxication infected the camp. With full stomachs of newly acquired musk ox loins, we had slept. Suddenly the sun burst through a maze of burning clouds and made our snow palace glow with electric darts. The temperature was very low. Only half-dressed, the men rushed out, dancing with joy. Their shadows were long, sharp-cut, and of a deep, purple blue. They danced with them. This brought them back to the normal life of Eskimo hilarity. Then followed the pleasures of the thrill of the sunny days of crystal air and blinding sparkle during never-to-be forgotten days of the enervating chill of zero's lowest at -83° F. In the northward progress, for a long time the shadows did not perceptibly shorten or brighten to my eyes. The natives, however, on our subsequent marches, got from these shadows a never-ending variety of topics to talk about. They foretold storms, located game, and read the story of respective home entanglements of the Adamless Eden which we had left far away on the Greenland shore. Our bear adventures took us on an advance trail over which progress was easy. Beyond, the snow increased rapidly in depth with every mile. Snowshoes were lashed to our feet for the first mile. We halted in our march at noon, attacked suddenly by five wolves. The rifles were prepared for defense. No shots were to be fired, however, unless active battle was commenced. The creatures at close range were slightly cream-colored, with a little gray along their backs, but at a greater distance they seemed white. They came from the mountains, with a chilling, hungry howl that brought shivers. The dogs were interested, but made no offer to give chase. The wolves passed the advancing sledges at a distance, and gathered about the rear sledge, which was separated from the train. The driver turned his team to help in the fight. As the sledges neared, the teams were stopped, the wolves sat down and delivered a maddening chorus of chagrin. The dogs were restless, but only wiggled their tails. The men stood still, with rifles pointed. The chorus ended. The battle was declared off. Seeing that they were outnumbered, the howling creatures turned and dashed up the snowy slopes, from which they had come, with a storming rush. The train was lined up, and through the deep snow we plowed westward. In two difficult marches we reached Eureka Sound. Wolves continued on our trail nearly every day along the west coast of Acpohon, and also along North Devon. In the extreme North, the wolf, like the fox, is pure white, with black points to the ears, and spots over the eyes. In the regions farther south his fur is slightly gray. In size, he is slightly larger than the Eskimo dog, his body longer and thinner, and he travels with his tail down. Like the bear, he is a ceaseless wanderer during all seasons of the year. In winter, wolves gather in groups of six or eight, and attack musk ox, or anything in their line of march. But in summer they travel in pairs, and become scavengers. The wolf is alert in estimating the number of his combatants and their fighting qualities. Men and dogs in numbers he never approaches within gunshot, contenting himself by howling piercingly from mountains at a long distance. When a single sledge was separated from the others, he would approach to an uncomfortable range. Bear tracks were also numerous. We were, however, too tired to give chase. Close to a cape where we paused, on Eureka Sound, to cut snow-blocks for igloos attached to the sledges, E-tuk-i-shook noted two bears wandering over the lands not far away. Watching for a few moments with the glasses, we noted that they were stalking a sleeping musk ox. Now we did not care particularly for the bears, but the musk ox was regarded as our own game, and we were not willing to divide it knowingly. The packs were pitched into the snow, and the dogs rushed through deep snow, over hummocks and rocks, to the creeping bears. As the bears turned, the rear attack seemed to offer sport, and they rose to meet us. But as one team after the other bounced over the nearest hills, their heads turned and they rushed up the steep slopes. We now saw twenty musk oxen asleep in scattered groups. These interested us more than the bears. The dogs were seemingly of the same mind, for they required no urging to change the noses from the bears to the musk oxen. As we wound around the hill upon which they rested, all at once arose, shook off the snow, rubbed their horns on their knees, and then formed a huge star. In a short time the entire herd was ours. The meat was dressed, wrapped in skins, the dogs lightly fed, and the carcasses hauled to camp. Then we completed our igloos. Bears and wolves wandered about camp all night, but with one hundred dogs, whose eyes were on the swelled larder, there was no danger from wild brutes. Early in the morning of March 4 we were awakened by a furious noise from the dogs. Koo-loo-ting-wah peeked out and saw a bear in the act of taking a choice strip of tenderloin from the meat. With a deft cut of the knife, a falling block of snow made a window, and through it the rifle was leveled at the animal. He was big, fat, and gave us just the blubber required for our lamps. A holiday was declared. It would take time to stuff the dogs with twenty musk oxen and a bear. Furthermore, our clothing needed attention. Boots, mittens, and stockings had to be dried and mended. Some of our garments were torn in places, permitting winds to enter. Much of the dog harness required fixing. The Eskimos' sledges had been slightly broken. Later, the same day, another herd of twenty musk oxen were seen. Now even the Eskimo's savage thirst for blood was satisfied. The pot was kept boiling, and the igloos rang with chants of primitive joys. On March 7 we began a straight run to the Polar sea, a distance of one hundred and seventy miles. The weather was superb and the ice again free of heavy snow. In six marches we reached Schei Island, which we found to be a peninsula. We halted here and a feast day was declared. Twenty-seven musk oxen and twenty-four hares were secured in one after-dinner hunt. This meat guaranteed a food supply to the shores of the Polar sea. A weight was lifted from my load of cares, for I had doubted the existence of game far enough north to count on fresh meat to the sea. The temperature was still low (-50° F.), but the nights were brightening, and the days offered twelve hours of good light. Our outlook was hopeful indeed. In the Polar campaign, the bear was unconsciously our best friend, and also consciously our worst enemy. There were times when we admired him, although he was never exactly friendly to us. There were other times when we regarded him with a savage wrath. Only beyond the range of life in the utmost North were we free from his attacks. In other places he nosed our trail with curious persistence. He had attacked the first party that was sent out to explore a route, under cover of night and storms. One man was wounded, another lost the tail of his coat and a part of his anatomy. In our march of glory through the musk ox land, the bear came as a rival, and disputed not only our right to the chase, but also our right to the product from our own catch. But we had guns and dogs, and the bears fell easily. We were jealous of the quest of the musk ox. It seemed properly to belong to the domain of man's game. We were equal at the time to the task, and did not require the bear's help. The bears were good at figures, and quickly realized ours was a superior fighting force. So they joined the ranks in order that they might share in the division of the spoils. The bear's goodly mission was always regarded with suspicion. We could easily spare the bones of our game, which he delighted to pick. We were perfectly able to protect our booty with one hundred dogs, whose dinners depended on open eyes. But the bear did not always understand our tactics. We afterwards learned that we did not always understand his, for he drove many prizes into our arms. But man is a short-sighted critic--he sees only his side of the game. In the northern march a much more friendly spirit was developed. We differed on many points of ethics with bruin, and our fights, successful or otherwise, were too numerous and disagreeable to relate fully. Only one of these battles will be recorded here, to save the reputation of man as a superior fighting animal. We had made a long march of about forty miles. Already the dull purple of twilight was resting heavily on darkening snows. The temperature was -81°. There was no wind. The air was semi-liquid with suspended crystals. When standing still we were perfectly comfortable, although jets of steam from our nostrils arranged frost crescents about our faces. We had been advancing towards a group of musk oxen for more than an hour. We were now in the habit of living from catch to catch, filling up on meat at the end of each successful hunt, and waiting for pot-luck for the next meal. The sledges were too heavily loaded to carry additional weight. Furthermore, the temperature was too low to split up frozen meat. Indeed, most of our axes had been broken in trying to divide meat as dog food. It was plainly an economy of axes and fuel to fill up on warm meat as the skin was removed, and wait for the next plunder. We had been two days without setting eyes on an appetizing meal of steaming meat. Not a living speck had crossed our horizon; and, therefore, when we noted the little cloud of steam rise from a side hill, and guessed that under it were herds of musk ox, our palates moistened with anticipatory joys. A camping place was sought. Two domes of snow were erected as a shelter. Through the glasses we counted twenty-one musk oxen. Some were digging up snow to find willows; others were sleeping. All were unsuspecting. After the experience we had in this kind of hunting, we confidently counted the game as ours. A holiday was declared for the morrow, to dispose of the surplus. Nourishment in prospect, one hundred dogs started with a jump, under the lashes of ten Eskimos. Our sledges began shooting the boreal shoots. After rushing over minor hills, the dog noses sank into bear tracks. A little farther along, we realized we had rivals. Two bears were far ahead, approaching the musk oxen. The dogs scented their rivals. The increased bounding of the sledges made looping-the-loop seem tame. But we were too late; the bears ran into the bunch of animals, and spoiled our game with no advantage to themselves. Giving a half-hearted chase, they rose to a bank of snow, deliberately sat down, and turned to a position to give us the laugh. The absence of musk ox did not slacken the pace of the dogs. The bears were quick to see the force of our intent. They scattered and climbed. A bear is an expert Alpinist; he requires no ice axe and no lantern. The moon came out, and the snow slopes began to glare with an electric incandescence. In this pearly light, the white bear seemed black, and was easily located. One bear slipped into a ravine and was lost. All attention was now given to the other, which was ascending an icy ridge to a commanding precipice. We cut the dogs from the sledges. They soared up the white slope as if they had wings. The bear gained the crest in time to cuff away each rising antagonist. The dogs tumbled over each other, down several hundred feet into a soft snow-padded gully. Other dogs continued to rise on the ridge to keep the bear guessing. The dogs in the pit discovered a new route, and made a combined rear attack. Bruin was surprised, and turned to face his enemies. Backing from a sudden assault, he stepped over a precipice, and tumbled in a heap into the dog-strewn pit. The battle was now on in full force. Finding four feet more useful than one mouth, the bear turned on his back and sent his paws out with telling effect. The dogs, although not giving up the battle, scattered, for the swing of the creature's feet did not suit their battle methods. Sitting on curled tails, they filled the air with murderous howls and raised clouds of frozen breath in the flying snow. We were on the scene at a safe distance, each with a tight grip on his gun, expecting the bear to make a sudden plunge. But he was not given a choice of movement, and we could not shoot into the darting pit of dogs without injuring them. At this moment Ah-we-lah, youngest of the party, advanced. Leaving his gun, he descended through the dog ranks into the pit, with the spiked harpoon shaft. The bear threw back its head to meet him. A score of dogs grabbed the bear's feet. Ah-we-lah raised his arm. A sudden savage thrust sank the blunt steel into the bear's chest. Cracking whips, we scattered the guarding dogs. The prize was quickly divided. On our advance to the Polar sea, I found that there is considerable art in building snowhouses. The casual observer is likely to conclude that it is an easy problem to pile up snow-blocks, dome-shaped, but to do this properly, so that the igloo will withstand wind, requires adept work. From the lessons of my companions in this art I now became more alert to learn, knowing the necessity of protection on our Polar dash. The first problem is to find proper snow. One has often to seek for banks where the snow is just hard enough. If it is too hard, it cannot be easily cut with knives. If it is too soft, the blocks will crush, and cause the house to cave in. Long knives are the best instruments--one of fifteen inches and another about ten. From sixty to seventy-five blocks, fifteen by twenty-four inches, are required to make a house ten feet by ten. The blocks are cut according to the snow, but fifteen by twenty-four by eight inches is the best size. The lower tiers of blocks are set in slight notches in the snow, to prevent the blocks from slipping out. A slight tilt begins from the first tiers; the next tier tilts still more, and so the next. The blocks are set so that the upper blocks cover the breaks in the lower tier. The fitting is done mostly with the blocks in position, the knife being passed between the blocks to and fro, with a pressure on the blocks with the other hand. The hardest task is to make the blocks stick without holding in the upper tiers. This is done by deft cuts with the knife and a slight thump of the blocks. The dome is the most difficult part to build. In doing this all blocks are leveled and carefully set to arch the roof. When the structure is completed, a candle is lit and the cracks are stuffed by cutting the edges off the nearest blocks, and pressing the broken snow into the cracks with the mittens. After this process, the interior arrangement is worked out. The foot space is first cut out in blocks. If the snow is on a slope, as it often happens, these blocks are raised and the upper slopes are cut down to a level plane. The foot space is a very important matter, first for the comfort of sitting, and also to let off the carbonic acid gas, which quickly settles in these temperatures and extinguishes the fires. It, of course, has also an important bearing on human breathing. Inhalation of very cold air at this time forced an unconscious expenditure of very much energy. The extent of this tax can be gauged only by the enormous difference between the temperature of the body and that of the air. One day it was -72° F. The difference was, therefore, 170°. It is hard to conceive of normal breathing under such difficulties; but when properly clothed and fed, no great discomfort or ill-effects are noted. The membranes of the air passages are, however, overflushed with blood. The chest circulation is forced to its limits, and the heart beats are increased and strengthened. The organs of circulation and respiration, which do ninety per cent. of the work of the body, are taxed with a new burden that must be counted in estimating one's day's task. This loss of power in breathing extreme frost is certain to reduce working time and bodily force. The land whose coast we were following to the shores of the Polar sea is part of the American hemisphere, and one of the largest islands of the world, spreading 30° longitude and rising 7° of latitude. What is its name? The question must remained unanswered, for it not only has no general name, but numerous sections are written with names and outlines that differ to a large extent with the caprice of the explorers who have been there. The south is called Lincoln Land; above it, Ellesmere Land. Then comes Schley Land, Grinnell Land, Arthur Land, and Grant Land, with other lands of later christening by Sverdrup and others. No human beings inhabit the island. No nation assumes the responsibility of claiming or protecting it. The Eskimo calls the entire country Acpohon, or "the Land of Guillemots," which are found in great abundance along the southeast point. I have, therefore, to avoid conflictions, affixed the name of Acpohon as the general designation. We had now advanced beyond the range of all primitive life. No human voice broke the frigid silence. The Eskimos had wandered into the opening of the musk ox pass. Sverdrup had mapped the channels of the west coast. But here was no trace of modern or aboriginal residence. There is no good reason why men should not have followed the musk oxen here, but the nearest Eskimos on the American side are those on Lancaster Sound. I found an inspiration in being thus alone at the world's end. The barren rocks, the wastes of snow-fields, the mountains stripped of earlier ice-sheets, and every phase of the landscape, assured a new interest. There was a note of absolute abandon on the part of nature. If our own resources failed, or if a calamity overtook us, there would be no trace to mark icy graves forever hidden from surviving loved ones. My Eskimo comrades were enthusiastic explorers. The game trails gave a touch of animation to their steps, which meant much to the progress of the expedition. We not only saw musk oxen in large herds, but tracks of bears and wolves were everywhere in line with our course. On the sea-ice we noted many seal blow-holes. Already the natives talked of coming here on the following year to cast their lot in the new wilds. The picturesque headland of Schie we found to be a huge triassic rock of the same general formation as that indicated along Eureka Sound. Its west offered a series of grassy slopes bared by persistent winds, upon which animal life found easy access to the winter-cured grass. A narrow neck of land connected what seemed like an island with the main land. Here caches of fur and fuel were left for the return. In passing Snag's Fiord the formation changed. Here, for several marches, game was scarce. The temperature rose as we neared the Polar sea. The snow became much deeper but it was hardened by stronger winds and increased humidity. High glacier-abandoned valleys with gradual slopes to the water's edge, gave the Heiberg shores on Nansen Sound a different type of landscape from that of the opposite shores. Here and there we found pieces of lignite coal, and as we neared Svartevoeg the carboniferous formation became more evident. Camping in the lowlands just south of Svartevoeg Cliffs we secured seven musk oxen and eighty-five hares. Here were immense fields of grass and moss bared by persistent winter gales. By a huge indentation here, through which we saw the sea-level ice of the west, the shores seemed to indicate that the point of Heiberg is an island, but of this we were not absolutely sure. To us it was a great surprise that here, on the shores of the Polar sea, we found a garden spot of plant luxuriance and animal delight. For this assured, in addition to the caches left en route, a sure food supply for the return from our mission to the North. THE TRANS-BOREAL DASH BEGINS BY FORCED EFFORTS AND THE USE OF AXES SPEED IS MADE OVER THE LAND--ADHERING PACK ICE OF POLAR SEA--THE MOST DIFFICULT TRAVEL OF THE PROPOSED JOURNEY SUCCESSFULLY ACCOMPLISHED--REGRETFUL PARTING WITH THE ESKIMOS XIII FIVE HUNDRED MILES FROM THE POLE Svartevoeg is a great cliff, the northernmost point of Heiberg Land, which leaps precipitously into the Polar sea. Its negroid face of black scarred rocks frowns like the carven stone countenance of some hideously mutilated and enraged Titan savage. It expresses, more than a human face could, the unendurable sufferings of this region of frigid horrors. It is five hundred and twenty miles from the North Pole. From this point I planned to make my dash in as straight a route as might be possible. Starting from our camp at Annoatok late in February, when the curtain of night was just beginning to lift, when the chill of the long winter was felt at its worst, we had forced progress through deep snows, over land and frozen seas, braving the most furious storms of the season and traveling despite baffling darkness, and had covered in less than a month about four hundred miles--nearly half the distance between our winter camp and the Pole. Arriving at land's end my heart had cause for gratification. We had weathered the worst storms of the year. The long bitter night had now been lost. The days lengthened and invaded with glitter the decreasing nights. The sun glowed more radiantly daily, rose higher and higher to a continued afterglow in cheery blues, and sank for periods briefer and briefer in seas of running color. Our hopes, like those of all mankind, had risen with the soul-lifting sun. We had made our progress mainly at the expense of the land which we explored, for the game en route had furnished food and clothing. The supplies we had brought with us from Annoatok were practically untouched. We had stepped in overfed skins, were fired by a resolution which was recharged by a strength bred of feeding upon abundant raw and wholesome meat. Eating to repletion on unlimited game, our bodies were kept in excellent trim by the exigencies of constant and difficult traveling. As a man's mental force is the result of yesteryears' upbuilding, so his strength of to-day is the result of last week's eating. With the surge of ambition which had been formulating for twenty years, and my body in best physical shape for the supreme test, the Pole now seemed almost near. As the great cliffs of Svartevoeg rose before us my heart leaped. I felt that the first rung in the ladder of success had been climbed, and as I stood under the black cliffs of this earth's northernmost land I felt that I looked through the eyes of long experience. Having reached the end of Nansen Sound, with Svartevoeg on my left, and the tall, scowling cliffs of Lands-Lokk on my right, I viewed for the first time the rough and heavy ice of the untracked Polar sea, over which, knowing the conditions of the sea ice, I anticipated the most difficult part of our journey lay. Imagine before you fields of crushed ice, glimmering in the rising sunlight with shooting fires of sapphire and green; fields which have been slowly forced downward by strong currents from the north, and pounded and piled in jagged mountainous heaps for miles about the land. Beyond this difficult ice, as I knew, lay more even fields, over which traveling, saving the delays of storms and open leads, would be comparatively easy. To encompass this rough prospect was the next step in reaching my goal. I felt that no time must be lost. At this point I was now to embark upon the Polar sea; the race for my life's ambition was to begin here; but first I had finally to resolve on the details of my campaign. I decided to reduce my party to the smallest possible number consistent with the execution of the problem in hand. In addition, for greater certainty of action over the unknown regions beyond, I now definitely resolved to simplify the entire equipment. An extra sled was left at the cache at this point to insure a good vehicle for our return in case the two sleds which we were to take should be badly broken en route. I decided to take only two men on the last dash. I had carefully watched and studied every one of my party, and had already selected E-tuk-i-shook and Ah-we-lah, two young Eskimos, each about twenty years old, as best fitted to be my sole companions in the long run of destiny. Twenty-six of the best dogs were picked, and upon two sleds were to be loaded all our needs for a trip estimated to last eighty days. To have increased this party would not have enabled us to carry supplies for a greater number of days. The sleds might have been loaded more heavily, but I knew this would reduce the important progress of the first days. With the character of ice which we had before us, advance stations were impossible. A large expedition and a heavy equipment would have been imprudent. We must win or lose in a prolonged effort at high pressure. Therefore, absolute control and ease of adaptability to a changing environment was imperative. From past experience I knew it was impossible to control adequately the complex human temperament of white men in the Polar wilderness. But I felt certain the two Eskimo boys could be trusted to follow to the limit of my own endurance. So our sleds were burdened only with absolute necessaries. Because of the importance of a light and efficient equipment, much care had to be taken to reduce every ounce of weight. The sleds were made of hickory, the lightest wood consistent with great endurance, and every needless fibre was gouged out. The iron shoes were ground thin, and up to the present had stood the test of half the Polar battle. Eliminating everything not actually needed, but selecting adequate food, I made the final preparations. The camp equipment selected included the following articles: One blow fire lamp (jeuel), three aluminum pails, three aluminum cups, three aluminum teaspoons, one tablespoon, three tin plates, six pocket knives, two butcher knives (ten inches), one saw knife (thirteen inches), one long knife (fifteen inches), one rifle (Sharp's), one rifle (Winchester .22), one hundred and ten cartridges, one hatchet, one Alpine axe, extra line and lashings, and three personal bags. The sled equipment consisted of two sleds weighing fifty-two pounds each; one twelve-foot folding canvas boat, the wood of which formed part of a sled; one silk tent, two canvas sled covers, two reindeer skin sleeping bags, floor furs, extra wood for sled repairs, screws, nails and rivets. My instruments were as follows: One field glass; one pocket compass; one liquid compass; one aluminum surveying compass, with azimuth attachment; one French surveyor's sextant, with radius 7½, divided on silver to 10´, reading by Vernier to 10´´ (among the extra attachments were a terrestrial and an astronomical telescope, and an extra night telescope mounted in aluminum, and also double refracting prisms, thermometers, etc.--the instrument was made by Hurleman of France and bought of Keuffel & Esser); one glass artificial horizon; three Howard pocket chronometers; one Tiffany watch; one pedometer; map-making material and instruments; three thermometers; one aneroid barometer; one camera and films; notebook and pencils. The personal bags contained four extra pairs of kamiks, with fur stockings, a woolen shirt, three pairs of sealskin mittens, two pairs of fur mittens, a piece of blanket, a sealskin coat (netsha), extra fox tails and dog harness, a repair kit for mending clothing, and much other necessary material. On the march we wore snow goggles, blue fox coats (kapitahs) and birdskin shirts (Ah-tea), bearskin pants (Nan-nooka), sealskin boots (Kam-ik), hare-skin stockings (Ah-tee-shah), and a band of fox tails under the knee and about the waist. The food supply, as will be seen by the following list, was mostly pemmican: Eight hundred and five pounds of beef pemmican, one hundred and thirty pounds of walrus pemmican, fifty pounds of musk ox tenderloin, twenty-five pounds of musk ox tallow, two pounds of tea, one pound of coffee, twenty-five pounds of sugar, forty pounds of condensed milk, sixty pounds of milk biscuit, ten pounds of pea soup powdered and compressed, fifty pounds of surprises, forty pounds petroleum, two pounds of wood alcohol, three pounds of candles and one pound of matches. We planned our future food supply with pemmican as practically the sole food; the other things were to be mere palate satisfiers. For the eighty days the supply was to be distributed as follows: For three men: Pemmican, one pound per day for eighty days, two hundred and forty pounds. For six dogs: Pemmican, one pound per day for eighty days, four hundred and eighty pounds. This necessitated a total of seven hundred and twenty pounds of pemmican. Of the twenty-six dogs, we had at first figured on taking sixteen over the entire trip to the Pole and back to our caches on land, but in this last calculation only six were to be taken. Twenty, the least useful, were to be used one after the other, as food on the march, as soon as reduced loads and better ice permitted. This, we counted, would give one thousand pounds of fresh meat over and above our pemmican supply. We carried about two hundred pounds of pemmican above the expected consumption, and in the final working out the dogs were used for traction purposes longer than we anticipated. But, with a cautious saving, the problem was solved somewhat more economically than any figuring before the start indicated. Every possible article of equipment was made to do double service; not an ounce of dead weight was carried which could be dispensed with. After making several trips about Svartevoeg, arranging caches for the return, studying the ice and land, I decided to make the final start on the Polar sea on March 18, 1908. The time had come to part with most of our faithful Eskimo companions. Taking their hands in my manner of parting, I thanked them as well as I could for their faithful service to me. "_Tigishi ah yaung-uluk!_" (The big nail!), they replied, wishing me luck. Then, in a half gale blowing from the northwest and charged with snow, they turned their backs upon me and started upon the return track. They carried little but ammunition, because we had learned that plenty of game was to be provided along the return courses. Even after they were out of sight in the drifting snowstorm their voices came cheerily back to me. The faithful savages had followed me until told that I could use them no longer; and it was not only for their simple pay of knives and guns, but because of a real desire to be helpful. Their parting enforced a pang of loneliness.[10] With a snow-charged blast in our faces it was impossible for us to start immediately after the Eskimos returned. Withdrawing to the snow igloo, we entered our bags and slept a few hours longer. At noon the horizon cleared. The wind veered to the southwest and came with an endurable force. Doubly rationed the night before, the dogs were not to be fed again for two days. The time had come to start. We quickly loaded our sleds. Hitching the dogs, we let the whips fall, and with bounds they leaped around deep ice grooves in the great paleocrystic floes. Our journey was begun. Swept of snow by the force of the preceding storm, the rough ice crisply cracked under the swift speed of our sleds. Even on this uneven surface the dogs made such speed that I kept ahead of them only with difficulty. Their barking pealed about us and re-echoed from the black cliffs behind. Dashing about transparent ultramarine gorges, and about the base of miniature mountains of ice, we soon came into a region of undulating icy hills. The hard irregularity of the ice at times endangered our sleds. We climbed over ridges like walls. We jumped dangerous crevasses, keeping slightly west by north; the land soon sank in the rear of us. Drifting clouds and wind-driven snows soon screened the tops of black mountains. Looking behind, I saw only a swirling, moving scene of dull white and nebulous gray. On every side ice hummocks heaved their backs and writhed by. Behind me followed four snugly loaded sleds, drawn by forty-four selected dogs, under the lash of four expert Eskimo drivers. The dogs pranced; the joyous cries of the natives rose and fell. My heart leaped; my soul sang. I felt my blood throb with each gallop of the leaping dog teams. The sound of their feet pattering on the snow, the sight of their shaggy bodies tossing forward, gave me joy. For every foot of ice covered, every minute of constant action, drew me nearer, ever nearer, to my goal. Our first run was auspicious; it seemed to augur success. By the time we paused to rest we had covered twenty-six miles. We pitched camp on a floeberg of unusual height; about us were many big hummocks, and to the lee of these banks of hardened snow. Away from land it is always more difficult to find snow suitable for cutting building blocks. There, however, was an abundance. We busily built, in the course of an hour, a comfortable snow igloo. Into it we crept, grateful for shelter from the piercing wind. The dogs curled up and went to sleep without a call, as if they knew that there would be no food until to-morrow. My wild companions covered their faces with their long hair and sank quietly into slumber. For me sleep was impossible. The whole problem of our campaign had again to be carefully studied, and final plans made, not only to reach our ultimate destination, but for the two returning Eskimos and for the security of the things left at Annoatok, and also to re-examine the caches left en route for our return. These must be protected as well as possible against the bears and wolves. Already I had begun to think of our return to land. It was difficult at this time even to approximate any probable course. Much would depend upon conditions to be encountered in the northward route. Although we had left caches of supplies with the object of returning along Nansen Sound, into Cannon Fiord and over Arthur Land, I entertained grave doubts of our ability to return this way. I knew that if the ice should drift strongly to the east we might not be given the choice of working out our own return. For, in such an event, we should perhaps be carried helplessly to Greenland, and should have to seek a return either along the east or the west coast. This drift, in my opinion, would not necessarily mean dangerous hardships, for the musk oxen would keep us alive to the west, and to the east it seemed possible to reach Shannon Island, where the Baldwin-Zeigler expeditions had abandoned a large cache of supplies. It appeared not improbable, also, that a large land extension might offer a safe return much further west. I fell asleep while pondering over these things. By morning the air was clear of frost crystals. It was intensely cold, not only because of a temperature of 56° below zero, Fahrenheit, but a humid chill which pierced to the very bones. A light breeze came from the west. The sun glowed in a freezing field of blue. Hitching our dogs, we started. For several hours we seemed to soar over the white spaces. Then the ice changed in character, the expansive, thick fields of glacier-like ice giving way to floes of moderate size and thickness. These were separated by zones of troublesome crushed ice thrown into high-pressure lines, which offered serious barriers. Chopping the pathway with an ice axe, we managed to make fair progress. We covered twenty-one miles of our second run on the Polar sea. I expected, at the beginning of this final effort, to send back by this time the two extra men, Koo-loo-ting-wah and In-u-gi-to, who had remained to help us over the rough pack-ice. But progress had not been as good as I had expected; so, although we could hardly spare any food to feed their dogs, the two volunteered to push along for another day without dog food. Taking advantage of big, strong teams and the fire of early enthusiasm, we aimed to force long distances through the extremely difficult ice jammed here against the distant land. The great weight of the supplies intended for the final two sleds were now distributed over four sleds. With axe and compass in hand, I led the way. With prodigious effort I chopped openings through barriers after barriers of ice. Sled after sled was passed over the tumbling series of obstacles by my companions while I advanced to open a way through the next. With increasing difficulties in some troublesome ice, we camped after making only sixteen miles. Although weary, we built a small snowhouse. I prepared over my stove a pot of steaming musk ox loins and broth and a double brew of tea. After partaking of this our two helpers prepared to return. To have taken them farther would have necessitated a serious drain on our supplies and an increased danger for their lives in a longer return to land. By these men I sent back instructions to Rudolph Francke to remain in charge of my supplies at Annoatok until June 5th, 1908, and then, if we should not have returned by that date, to place Koo-loo-ting-wah in charge and go home either by a whaler or some Danish ship. I knew that, should we get in trouble, he could offer no relief to help us, and that his waiting an indefinite time alone would be a needless hardship. [Illustration: DASHING FORWARD EN ROUTE TO THE POLE] [Illustration: DEPARTURE OF SUPPORTING PARTY A BREATHING SPELL POLEWARD!] The way before Koo-loo-ting-wah and In-u-gi-to, who had so cheerfully remained to the last possible moment that they could be of help, was not an entirely pleasant one. Their friends were by now well on their journey toward Annoatok, and they had to start after them with sleds empty of provisions and dogs hungry for food. They hoped to get back to land and off the ice of the Polar sea in one long day's travel of twenty-four hours. Even this would leave their fourth day without food for their dogs. In case of storms or moving of the ice, other days of famine might easily fall to their lot. However, they faced possible dangers cheerfully rather than ask me to give them anything from the stores that were to support their two companions, myself and our dogs on our way onward to the Pole and back. I was deeply touched by this superlative devotion. They assured me too (in which they were right) that they had an abundance of possible food in the eighteen dogs they took with them. If necessary, they could sacrifice a few at any time for the benefit of the others, as must often be done in the Northland. There were no formalities in our parting on the desolate ice. Yet, as the three of us who were left alone gazed after our departing companions, we felt a poignant pang in our hearts. About us was a cheerless waste of crushed wind-and-water-driven ice. A sharp wind stung our faces. The sun was obscured by clouds which piled heavily and darkly about the horizon. The cold and brilliant jeweled effects of the frozen sea were lost in a dismal hue of dull white and sombre gray. On the horizon, Svartevoeg, toward which the returning Eskimos were bound, was but a black speck. To the north, where our goal lay, our way was untrodden, unknown. The thought came to me that perhaps we should never see our departing friends. With it came a pang of tenderness for the loved ones I had left behind me. Although our progress so far had been successful, and half the distance was made, dangers unknown and undreamed of existed in the way before us. My Eskimos already showed anxiety--an anxiety which every aboriginal involuntarily feels when land disappears on the horizon. Never venturing themselves far onto the Polar sea, when they lose sight of land a panic overcomes them. Before leaving us one of the departing Eskimos had pointed out a low-lying cloud to the north of us. "Noona" (land), he said, nodding to the others. The thought occurred to me that, on our trip, I could take advantage of the mirages and low clouds on the horizon and encourage a belief in a constant nearness to land, thus maintaining their courage and cheer.[11] Regrets and fears were not long-lasting, however, for the exigencies of our problem were sufficiently imperative and absorbing. To the overcoming of these we had now to devote our entire attention and strain every fibre. We had now advanced, by persistent high-pressure efforts, over the worst possible ice conditions, somewhat more than sixty miles. Of the 9° between land's end and the Pole, we had covered one; and we had done this without using the pound of food per day allotted each of us out of the eighty days' supply transported. [Illustration: POLAR BEAR] OVER THE POLAR SEA TO THE BIG LEAD WITH TWO ESKIMO COMPANIONS, THE RACE POLEWARD CONTINUES OVER ROUGH AND DIFFICULT ICE--THE LAST LAND FADES BEHIND--MIRAGES LEAP INTO BEING AND WEAVE A MYSTIC SPELL--A SWIRLING SCENE OF MOVING ICE AND FANTASTIC EFFECTS--STANDING ON A HILL OF ICE, A BLACK, WRITHING, SNAKY CUT APPEARS IN THE ICE BEYOND--THE BIG LEAD--A NIGHT OF ANXIETY--FIVE HUNDRED MILES ALREADY COVERED--FOUR HUNDRED TO THE POLE XIV TO EIGHTY-THIRD PARALLEL Our party, thus reduced to three, went onward. Although the isolation was more oppressive, there were the advantages of the greater comfort, safety, speed and convenience that came from having only a small band. The large number of men in a big expedition always increases responsibilities and difficulties. In the early part of a Polar venture this disadvantage is eliminated by the facilities to augment supplies by the game en route and by ultimate advantages of the law of the survival of the fittest. But after the last supporting sleds return, the men are bound to each other for protection and can no longer separate. A disabled or unfitted dog can be fed to his companions, but an injured or weak man cannot be eaten nor left alone to die. An exploring venture is only as strong as its weakest member, and increased numbers, like increased links in a chain, reduce efficiency. Moreover, personal idiosyncrasies and inconveniences always shorten a day's march. And, above all, a numerous party quickly divides into cliques, which are always opposed to each other, to the leader, and invariably to the best interests of the problem in hand. With but two savage companions, to whom this arduous task was but a part of an accustomed life of frost, I did not face many of the natural personal barriers which contributed to the failure of former Arctic expeditions. In my judgment, when you double a Polar party its chances for success are reduced one-half; when you divide it, strength and security are multiplied. We had been traveling about two and one-half miles per hour. By making due allowances for detours and halts at pressure lines, the number of hours traveled gave us a fair estimate of the day's distance. Against this the pedometer offered a check, and the compass gave the course. Thus, over blank charts, our course was marked. By this kind of dead reckoning our position on March 20 was: Latitude, 82° 23´; Longitude, 95° 14´. A study of our location seemed to indicate that we had passed beyond the zone of ice crushed by the influence of land pressure. Behind were great hummocks and small ice; ahead was a cheerful expanse of larger, clearer fields, offering a promising highway. Our destination was now about four hundred and sixty miles beyond. Our life, with its pack environment, assumed another aspect. Previously we permitted ourselves some luxuries. A pound of coal oil and a good deal of musk ox tallow were burned each day to heat the igloo and to cook abundant food. Extra meals were served when occasion called for them, and for each man there had been all the food and drink he desired. If the stockings or the mittens were wet there was fire enough to dry them out. All of this had now to be changed. Hereafter there was to be a short daily allowance of food and fuel--one pound of pemmican a day for the dogs, about the same for the men, with just a taste of other things. Fortunately, we were well provided with fresh meat for the early part of the race by the lucky run through game lands. Because of the need of fuel economy we now cut our pemmican with an axe. Later it split the axe. At first no great hardship followed our changed routine. We filled up sufficiently on two cold meals daily and also depended on superfluous bodily tissue. It was no longer possible to jump on the sled for an occasional breathing spell, as we had done along the land. Such a journey as now confronted us is a long-continued, hard, difficult, sordid, body-exhausting thing. Each day some problem presents some peculiar condition of the ice or state of the weather. The effort, for instance, to form some shield from intense cold gives added interest to the game. That one thing after another is being met, with always the anticipation of next day's struggle, adds a thrill to the conquest, spurs one to greater and ever greater feats, and really constitutes the actual victory of such a quest. With overloaded sleds the drivers must now push and pull at them to aid the dogs. My task was to search the troubled ice for easy routes, cutting away here and there with the ice-axe to permit the passing of the sleds. Finally stripping for the race, man and dog must walk along together through storms and frost for the elusive goal. Success or failure must depend mostly upon our ability to transport nourishment and to keep up the muscular strength for a prolonged period. As we awoke on the morning of March 21 and peered out of the eye-port of the igloo, the sun edged along the northeast. A warm orange glow suffused the ice and gladdened our hearts. The temperature was 63° below zero, Fahrenheit; the barometer was steady and high. There was almost no wind. Not a cloud lined the dome of pale purple blue, but a smoky streak along the west shortened our horizon in that direction and marked a lead of open water. Our breakfast consisted of two cups of tea, a watch-sized biscuit, a chip of frozen meat and a boulder of pemmican. Creeping out of our bags, our shivering legs were pushed through bearskin cylinders which served as trousers. We worked our feet into frozen boots and then climbed into fur coats. Next we kicked the front out of the snowhouse and danced about to stimulate heart action. Quickly the camp furnishings were tossed on the sleds and securely lashed. We gathered the dog traces into the drag lines, vigorously snapped the long whips, and the willing creatures bent to the shoulder straps. The sleds groaned. The unyielding snows gave a metallic ring. The train moved with a cheerful pace. "_Am-my noona terronga dosangwah_" (Perhaps land will be out of sight today), we said to one another.[12] But the words did not come with serious intent. In truth, each in his own way felt keenly that we were leaving a world of life and possible comfort for one of torment and suffering. Axel Heiberg Land, to the south, was already only a dull blue haze, while Grant Land, on the eastward, was making fantastic figures of its peaks and ice walls. The ice ran in waves of undulating blue, shimmering with streams of gold, before us. Behind, the last vestiges of jagged land rose and fell like marionettes dancing a wild farewell. Our heart-pulls were backward, our mental kicks were forward. Until now this strange white world had been one of grim reality. As though some unseen magician had waved his wand, it was suddenly transformed into a land of magic. Leaping into existence, as though from realms beyond the horizon, huge mirages wove a web of marvelous delusional pictures about the horizon. Peaks of snow were transformed into volcanoes, belching smoke; out of the pearly mist rose marvelous cities with fairy-like castles; in the color-shot clouds waved golden and rose and crimson pennants from pinnacles and domes of mosaic-colored splendor. Huge creatures, misshapen and grotesque, writhed along the horizon and performed amusing antics. Beginning now, and rarely absent, these spectral denizens of the North accompanied us during the entire journey; and later, when, fagged of brain and sapped of bodily strength, I felt my mind swimming in a sea of half-consciousness, they filled me almost with horror, impressing me as the monsters one sees in a nightmare. At every breathing spell in the mad pace our heads now turned to land. Every look was rewarded by a new prospect. From belching volcanoes to smoking cities of modern bustle, the mirages gave a succession of striking scenes which filled me with awed and marveling delight. A more desolate line of coast could not be imagined. Along its edge ran low wind-swept and wind-polished mountains. These were separated by valleys filled with great depths of snow and glacial ice. Looking northward, the sky line was clear of the familiar pinnacles of icebergs. In the immediate vicinity many small bergs were seen; some of these were grounded, and the pack thus anchored was thrown in huge uplifts of pressure lines and hummocks. The sea, as is thereby determined, is very shallow for a long distance from land. This interior accumulation of snow moves slowly to the sea, where it forms a low ice wall, a glacier of the Malaspina type. Its appearance is more like that of heavy sea ice; hence the name of the paleocrystic ice, fragments from this glacier, floebergs, which, seen in Lincoln Sea and resembling old floes, were supposed to be the product of the ancient upbuilding of the ice of the North Polar Sea. Snapping our whips and urging the dogs, we traveled until late in the afternoon, mirages constantly appearing and melting about us. Now the land suddenly settled downward as if by an earthquake. The pearly glitter, which had raised and magnified it, darkened. A purple fabric fell over the horizon and merged imperceptibly into the lighter purple blue of the upper skies. We saw the land, however, at successive periods for several days. This happened whenever the atmosphere was in the right condition to elevate the terrestrial contour lines by refracting sun rays. Every condition favored us on this march. The wind was not strong and struck us at an angle, permitting us to guard our noses by pushing a mitten under our hoods or by raising a fur-clad hand. We had not been long in the field, however, when the wind, that ever-present dragon guardian of the unseen northern monarch's demesne, began to suck strength from our bodies. Shortly before Grant Land entirely faded the monster fawned on us with gentle breathing. The snow was hard, and the ice, in fairly large fields separated by pressure lines, offered little resistance. On March 21, at the end of a forced effort of fourteen hours, the register indicated a progress of twenty-nine miles. Too weary to build an igloo, we threw ourselves thoughtlessly upon the sleds for a short rest, and fell asleep. I was awakened from my fitful slumber by a feeling of compression, as if stifling arms hideously gripped me. It was the wind. I breathed with difficulty. I struggled to my feet, and about me hissed and wailed the dismal sound. It was a sharp warning to us that to sleep without the shelter of an igloo would probably mean death. On the heavy floe upon which we rested were several large hummocks. To the lee of one of these we found suitable snow for a shelter. Lines of snowy vapor were rushing over the pack. The wind came with rapidly increasing force. We erected the house, however, before we suffered severely from the blast. We crept into it out of the storm and nested in warm furs. The wind blew fiercely throughout the night. By the next morning, March 22, the storm had eased to a steady, light breeze. The temperature was 59° below zero. We emerged from our igloo at noon. Although the cheerless gray veil had been swept from the frigid dome of the sky, to the north appeared a low black line over a pearly cloud which gave us much uneasiness. This was a narrow belt of "water-sky," which indicated open water or very thin ice at no great distance. The upper surface of Grant Land was now a mere thin pen line on the edge of the horizon. But a play of land clouds above it attracted the eyes to the last known rocks of solid earth. We now felt keenly the piercing cold of the Polar sea. The temperature gradually rose to 46° F. below zero, in the afternoon, but there was a deadly chill in the long shadows which increased with the swing of the lowering sun. A life-sapping draught, which sealed the eyes and bleached the nose, still hissed over the frozen sea. We had hoped that this would soften with the midday sun. Instead, it came with a more cutting sharpness. In the teeth of the wind we persistently pursued a course slightly west of north. The wind was slightly north of west. It struck us at a painful angle and brought tears. Our moistened lashes quickly froze together as we winked, and when we rubbed them and drew apart the lids the icicles broke the tender skin. Our breath froze on our faces. Often we had to pause, uncover our hands and apply the warm palms to the face before it was possible to see. Every minute thus lost filled me with impatience and dismay. Minutes of traveling were as precious as bits of gold to a hoarding miser. In the course of a brief time our noses became tipped with a white skin and also required nursing. My entire face was now surrounded with ice, but there was no help for it. If we were to succeed the face must be bared to the cut of the elements. So we must suffer. We continued, urging the dogs and struggling with the wind just as a drowning man fights for life in a storm at sea. About six o'clock, as the sun crossed the west, we reached a line of high-pressure ridges. Beyond these the ice was cut into smaller floes and thrown together into ugly irregularities. According to my surmises, an active pack and troubled seas could not be far away. The water-sky widened, but became less sharply defined. We laboriously picked a way among hummocks and pressure lines which seemed impossible from a distance. Our dogs panted with the strain; my limbs ached. In a few hours we arrived at the summit of an unusual uplift of ice blocks. Looking ahead, my heart pained as if in the grip of an iron hand. My hopes sank within me. Twisting snake-like between the white field, and separating the packs, was a tremendous cut several miles wide, which seemed at the time to bar all further progress. It was the Big Lead, that great river separating the land-adhering ice from the vast grinding fields of the central pack beyond, at which many heroic men before me had stopped. I felt the dismay and heartsickness of all of them within me now. The wind, blowing with a vengeful wickedness, laughed sardonically in my ears. Of course we had our folding canvas boat on the sleds. But in this temperature of 48° below zero I knew no craft could be lowered into water without fatal results. All of the ice about was firmly cemented together, and over it we made our way toward the edge of the water line. Passing through pressure lines, over smaller and more troublesome fields, we reached the shores of the Big Lead. We had, by two encouraging marches, covered fifty miles. The first hundred miles of our journey on the Polar pack had been covered. The Pole was four hundred miles beyond! Camp was pitched on a secure old ice field. Cutting through huge ice cliffs, the dark crack seemed like a long river winding between palisades of blue crystal. A thin sheet of ice had already spread over the mysterious deep. On its ebony mirrored surface a profusion of fantastic frost crystals arranged themselves in bunches resembling white and saffron-colored flowers. Through the apertures of this young ice dark vapors rose like steam through a screen of porous fabrics and fell in feathers of snow along the sparkling shores. After partaking of a boulder of pemmican, E-tuk-i-shook went east and I west to examine the lead of water for a safe crossing. There were several narrow places, while here and there floes which had been adrift in the lead were now fixed by young ice. Ah-we-lah remained behind to make our snowhouse comfortable. For a long time this huge separation in the pack had been a mystery to me. At first sight there seemed to be no good reason for its existence. Peary had found a similar break north of Robeson Channel. It was likely that what we saw was an extension of the same, following at a distance the general trend of the northernmost land extension. This is precisely what one finds on a smaller scale when two ice packs come together. Here the pack of the central polar sea meets the land-adhering ice. The movement of the land pack is intermittent and usually along the coast. The shallows, grounded ice and projecting points interfere with a steady drift. The movement of the central pack is quite constant, in almost every direction, the tides, currents and winds each giving momentum to the floating mass. The lead is thus the breaking line between the two bodies of ice. It widens as the pack separates, and narrows or widens with an easterly or westerly drift, according to the pressure of the central pack. Early in the season, when the pack is crevassed and not elastic, it is probably wide; later, as the entire sea of ice becomes active, it may disappear or shift to a line nearer the land. In low temperature new ice forms rapidly. This offers an obstruction to the drift of the old ice. As the heavy central pack is pressed against the unyielding land pack the small ice is ground to splinters, and even heavy floes are crushed. This reduced mass of small ice is pasted and cemented along the shores of the Big Lead, leaving a broad band of troublesome surface as a serious barrier to sled travel. It seems quite probable that this lead, or a condition similar to it, extends entirely around the Polar sea as a buffer between the land and the middle pack. In exploring the shore line, a partially bridged place was found about a mile from camp, but the young ice was too elastic for a safe track. The temperature, however, fell rapidly with the setting sun, and the wind was just strong enough to sweep off the heated vapors. I knew better atmospheric condition could not be afforded quickly to thicken the young ice. Returning to camp that night, we surprised our stomachs by a little frozen musk ox tenderloin and tallow, the greatest delicacy in our possession. Then we retired. Ice was our pillow. Ice was our bed. A dome of snow above us held off the descending liquid air of frost. Outside the wind moaned. Shudderingly, the deep howl of the dogs rolled over the ice. Lying on the sheeted deep, beneath my ears I heard the noise of the moving, grinding, crashing pack. It sounded terrifyingly like a distant thunder of guns. I could not sleep. Sick anxiety filled me. Could we cross the dreadful river on the morrow? Would the ice freeze? Or might the black space not hopelessly widen during the night? I lay awake, shivering with cold. I felt within me the blank loneliness of the thousands of desolate miles about me. One hundred miles of the unknown had been covered; five hundred miles of the journey from our winter camp were behind us. Beyond, to the goal, lay four hundred unknown miles. Nothing dearly desired of man ever seemed so far away. [Illustration: ESKIMO TORCH] CROSSING MOVING SEAS OF ICE CROSSING THE LEAD--THE THIN ICE HEAVES LIKE A SHEET OF RUBBER--CREEPING FORWARD CAUTIOUSLY, THE TWO DANGEROUS MILES ARE COVERED--BOUNDING PROGRESS MADE OVER IMPROVING ICE--THE FIRST HURRICANE--DOGS BURIED AND FROZEN INTO MASSES IN DRIFTS OF SNOW--THE ICE PARTS THROUGH THE IGLOO--WAKING TO FIND ONE'S SELF FALLING INTO THE COLD SEA. XV THE FIRST STEPS OVER THE GRINDING CENTRAL PACK Ill at ease and shivering, we rose from our crystal berths on March 23 and peeped out of a pole-punched porthole. A feeble glow of mystic color came from everywhere at once. Outside, toward a sky of dull purple, columns of steam-like vapor rose from open ice water, resembling vapors from huge boiling cauldrons. We sank with chattering teeth to our cheerless beds and quivered with the ghostly unreality of this great vibrating unknown. Long before the suppressed incandescent night changed to the prism sparkle of day we were out seeking a way over the miles of insecure young ice separating us from the central pack. On our snowshoes, with an easy tread, spread feet and with long life lines tied to each other, we ventured to the opposite shores of that dangerous spread of young ice. Beyond, the central pack glittered in moving lines and color, like quicksilver shot with rainbow hues. The Big Lead was mottled and tawny colored, like the skin of a great constrictor. As we stood and looked over its broad expanse to the solid floes, two miles off, there came premonitions to me of impending danger. Would the ice bear us? If it broke, and the life line was not quickly jerked, our fate would almost certainly be sure death. Sontag, the astronomer of Dr. Hay's Expedition, thus lost his life. Many others have in like manner gone to the bottomless deep. On two occasions during the previous winter I had thus gone through, but the life line had saved me. What would be our fate here? But, whatever the luck, we must cross. I knew delay was fatal, for at any time a very light wind or a change in the drift might break the new ice and delay us long enough to set the doom of failure upon our entire venture. Every precaution was taken to safeguard our lives. The most important problem was to distribute the weight so that all of it would not be brought to bear on a small area. We separated our dog teams from the sleds, holding to long lines which were fastened about our bodies and also to the sleds. The sleds were hitched to each other by another long line. With bated breath and my heart thumping, I advanced at the end of a long line which was attached to the first sled, and picked my way through the crushed and difficult ice along shore. With the life-saving line fastened to each one of us, we were insured against possible dangers as well as forethought could provide. Running from sled to sled, from dog to dog, and man to man, it would afford a pulling chance for life should anyone break through the ice. It seemed unlikely that the ice along the entire chain would break at once, but its cracking under the step of one of us seemed probable. I knew, as I gently placed my foot upon the thin yellowish surface, that at any moment I might sink into an icy grave. Yet a spirit of bravado thrilled my heart. I felt the grip of danger, and also that thrill of exultation which accompanies its terror. Gently testing the ice before me with the end of my axe, with spread legs, on snowshoes, with long, sliding steps, I slowly advanced. A dangerous cracking sound pealed in every direction under my feet. The Eskimos followed. With every tread the thin sheet ice perceptibly sank under me, and waved, in small billows, like a sheet of rubber. Stealthily, as though we were trying to filch some victory, we crept forward. We rocked on the heaving ice as a boat on waves of water. Now and then we stepped upon sheets of thicker ice, and hastily went forward with secure footing. None of us spoke during the dangerous crossing. I heard distinctly the panting of the dogs and the patter of their feet. We covered the two miles safely, yet our snail-like progress seemed to cover many anxious years. I cannot describe the exultation which filled me when the crossing was accomplished. It seemed as though my goal itself were stretching toward me. I experienced a sense of unbounded victory. I could have cheered with joy. Intoxicated with it, I and my companions leaped forward, new cheer quickening our steps. The dangers to come seemed less formidable now, and as we journeyed onward it was the mastering of these, as did our accomplishment in crossing the Big Lead, which gave us a daily incentive to continue our way and ever to apply brain and muscle to the subduing of even greater difficulties with zest. It was in doing this that the real thrill, the real victory--the only thrill and victory, indeed--of reaching the North Pole lay. The attaining of this mythical spot did not then, and does not now, seem in itself to mean anything; I did not then, and do not now, consider it the treasure-house of any great scientific secrets. The only thing to be gained from reaching the Pole, the triumph of it, the lesson in the accomplishment, is that man, by brain power and muscle energy, can subdue the most terrific forces of a blind nature if he is determined enough, courageous enough, and undauntedly persistent despite failure. On my journey northward I felt the ever constant presence of those who had died in trying to reach the goal before me. There were times when I felt a startling nearness to them--a sense like that one has of the proximity of living beings in an adjoining room. I felt the goad of their hopes within me; I felt the steps of their dead feet whenever my feet touched the ice. I felt their unfailing determination revive me when I was tempted to turn back in the days of inhuman suffering that were to come. I felt that I, the last man to essay this goal, must for them justify humanity; that I must crown three centuries of human effort with success. With the perilous Big Lead behind us, a bounding course was set to reach the eighty-fifth parallel on the ninety-seventh meridian. What little movement was noted on the ice had been easterly. To allow for this drift we aimed to keep a line slightly west of the Pole. We bounded northward joyously. Under our speeding feet the ice reverberated and rumbled with the echo of far-away splitting and crashing. The sun sank into a haze like mother-of-pearl. Our pathway glowed with purple and orange. We paused only when the pale purple blue of night darkened the pack. Starting forward in the afternoon of March 24, we crossed many small floes with low-pressure lines separated by narrow belts of new ice. Our speed increased. At times we could hardly keep pace with our dogs. The temperature rose to forty-one below zero. The western sky cleared slightly. Along the horizon remained misty appearances resembling land. This low-lying fog continued during our entire second hundred miles over the Polar basin. Under it we daily expected to see new land. But Nature did not satisfy our curiosity for a long time. Both Ah-we-lah and E-tuk-i-shook were sure of a constant nearness to land. Because of the native panic out of its reassuring sight, I encouraged this belief, as I did concerning every other possible sign of land further northward. I knew that only by encouraging a delusion of nearness to land could I urge them ever farther in the face of the hardships that must inevitably come. An altitude of the sun at noon on March 24 gave our position as latitude 83° 31´. The longitude was estimated at 96° 27´. The land clouds of Grant Land were still visible. The low bank of mist in the west occasionally brightened. For a while I believed this to be an indication of Crocker Land. Until midday I took observations and endeavored to study the appearances of land. Our dogs sniffed the air as if scenting game. After a diligent search, one seal blow-hole was located, and later we saw an old bear track. No algæ or other small life was detected in the water between the ice crevices. At the Big Lead a few algæ had been gathered. But here the sea seemed sterile. Signs of seal and bear, however, were encouraging to us as possible future food supply. In returning, I calculated the season would be more advanced, and it was possible that life might move northward, thus permitting an extension of the time allowance of our rations. Although the heat of the sun was barely felt, its rays began to pierce our eyes with painful effects. Reflected from the spotless surface of the storm-driven snows, the bright light could not long be endured without some protection, even by the Eskimos. Now came the time to test a simple expedient that had occurred to me at Annoatok. Amber-colored goggles, darkened or smoked glasses and ordinary automobile goggles had all been tried with indifferent results. They failed for one reason or another, mostly because of an insufficient range of vision or because of a faulty construction that made it impossible to proceed more than a few minutes without removing the accumulated condensation within them. At Annoatok I had made amber-colored goggles from the glass of my photographic supplies. By adjusting them I soon found they were a priceless discovery. They entirely eliminated one of the greatest torments of Arctic travel. While effectually screening the active rays that would have injured the eye, these amber glasses at the same time possessed the inestimable advantage of not interfering with the range of vision. Relieved of the snow glare, the eye was better enabled to see distant objects than through field glasses. It is frequently extremely difficult to detect icy surface irregularities on cloudy days. The amber glass dispelled this trouble perfectly, enabling the eye to search carefully every nook and crevice through the vague incandescence which blinds the observer in hazy weather. The glasses did not reduce the _quantity_ of light, as do smoked glasses, but the _quality_; the actinic rays, which do the greatest harm, were eliminated. We were not only relieved of the pain and fatigue of eye strain, but the color imparted a touch of cheer and warmth to our chilled blue horizon. The usual snow goggles add to the ugly gray-blue of the frozen seas, which alone sends frosty waves through the nervous fibers. So thoroughly delighted were we with these goggles that later we wore them even in igloos while asleep, with the double object of screening the strong light which passes through the eyelids and of keeping the forehead warm. On our march in the early part of the afternoon of the 24th the weather proved good. The ice, though newly crevassed, improved as we advanced. The late start spread our day's work close to the chill of midnight. When we started the wind blew kindly. With glad hearts we forged forward without delays. On the ice I heard the soft patter of swift dog feet and the dashing, cutting progress of the sleds. As a scene viewed from a carousel, the field of ice swept around me in our dizzy, twisting progress. We swept resistlessly onward for twenty-three miles. As we had taken a zigzag course to follow smooth ice, I therefore recorded only eighteen miles to our credit. The night was beautiful. The sun sank into a purple haze. Soon, in the magic of the atmosphere, appeared three suns of prismatic colors. These settled slowly into the frozen sea and disappeared behind that persistent haze of obscuring mist which always rests over the pack when the sun is low. During the night a narrow band of orange was flung like a ribbon across the northern skies. The pack surface glowed with varying shades of violet, lilac and pale purplish blue. Many such splendid sights are to be constantly seen in the Arctic. Although I reveled in it now, the time was soon to come when weariness and hunger numbed my faculties into a dreary torpor in which the splendor was not seen. Signs appeared of a gale from the west before we were quite ready to camp. Little sooty clouds with ragged edges suddenly began to cover the sky, scurrying at an alarming pace. Beyond us a huge smoky volume of cloud blackened the pearly glitter. Suitable camping ice was sought. In the course of an hour we built an igloo. We made the structure stronger than usual on account of the threatening storm. We constructed double tiers of snow blocks to the windward. A little water was thrown over the top to cement the blocks. We fastened the dogs to the lee of hummocks. The sleds were securely lashed and fastened to the ice. We expected a hurricane, and had not to wait to taste its fury. Before we were at rest in our bags the wind lashed the snows with a force inconceivable. With rushing drift, the air thickened. Dogs and sleds in a few minutes were buried under banks of snow and great drifts encircled the igloo. The cemented blocks of our dome withstood the sweep of the blast well. Yet, now and then, small holes were burrowed through the snow wall by the sharp wind. Drift entered and covered us. I lay awake for hours. I felt the terrible oppression of that raging, life-sucking vampire force sweeping over the desolate world. Disembodied things--the souls of those, perhaps, who had perished here--seemed frenziedly calling me in the wind. I felt under me the surge of the sweeping, awful sea. I felt the desolation of this stormy world within my shuddering soul; but, withal, I throbbed with a determination to assert the supremacy of living man over these blind, insensate forces; to prove that the living brain and palpitating muscle of a finite though conscious creature could vanquish a hostile Nature which creates to kill. I burned to justify those who had died here; to fulfill by proxy their hopes; to set their calling souls at rest. The storm waked in me an angry, challenging determination. Early in the morning of the 25th the storm ceased as suddenly as it had come. A stillness followed which was appalling. It seemed as if the storm had heard my thoughts and paused to contemplate some more dreadful onslaught. The dogs began to howl desperately, as if attacked by a bear. We rushed out of our igloo, seeking guns. There was no approaching creature. It was, however, a signal of serious distress that we had heard. The dogs were in acute misery. The storm-driven snows had buried and bound them in unyielding ice. They had partly uncovered themselves. United by trace and harness, they were imprisoned in frozen masses. Few of them could even rise and stretch. They were in severe torment. We hurriedly freed their traces and beat the cemented snows from their furs with sticks. Released, they leaped about gladly, their cries, curling tails and pointed noses telling of gratitude. While we danced about, stretching our limbs and rubbing our hands to get up circulation, the sun rose over the northern blue, flushing the newly driven snows with warm tones. The temperature during the storm had risen to only 26° below, but soon the thermometer sank rapidly below 40°. The west was still smoky and the weather did not seem quite settled. As it was still too early to start, we again slipped into the bags and sought quiet slumber. As yet the dreadful insomnia which was to rob me of rest on my journey had not come, and I slept with the blissful soundness of a child. I must have been asleep several hours, when, of a sudden, I opened my eyes. Terror gripped my heart. Loud explosive noises reverberated under my head. It seemed as though bombs were torn asunder in the depths of the cold sea beneath me. I lay still, wondering if I were dreaming. The sounds echoingly died away. Looking about the igloo, I detected nothing unusual. I saw Ah-we-lah and E-tuk-i-shook staring at me with wide-open frightened eyes. I arose and peeped through the eye port. The fields of ice without reflected the warm light of the rising sun in running waves of tawny color. The ice was undisturbed. An unearthly quiet prevailed. Concluding that the ice was merely cracking under the sudden change of temperature, in quite the usual harmless manner, I turned over again, reassuring my companions, and promptly fell asleep. Out of the blankness of sleep I suddenly wakened again. Half-dazed, I heard beneath me a series of echoing, thundering noises. I felt the ice floor on which I lay quivering. I experienced the sudden giddiness one feels on a tossing ship at sea. In the flash of a second I saw Ah-we-lah leap to his feet. In the same dizzy instant I saw the dome of the snowhouse open above me; I caught a vision of the gold-streaked sky. My instinct at the moment was to leap. I think I tried to rise, when suddenly everything seemed lifted from under me; I experienced the suffocating sense of falling, and next, with a spasm of indescribable horror, felt about my body a terrific tightening pressure like that of a chilled and closing shell of steel, driving the life and breath from me. In an instant it was clear what had happened. A crevasse had suddenly opened through our igloo, directly under the spot whereon I slept; and I, a helpless creature in a sleeping bag, with tumbling snow blocks and ice and snow crashing about and crushing me, with the temperature 48° below zero, was floundering in the opening sea! LAND DISCOVERED FIGHTING PROGRESS THROUGH CUTTING COLD AND TERRIFIC STORMS--LIFE BECOMES A MONOTONOUS ROUTINE OF HARDSHIP--THE POLE INSPIRES WITH ITS RESISTLESS LURE--NEW LAND DISCOVERED BEYOND THE EIGHTY-FOURTH PARALLEL--MORE THAN TWO HUNDRED MILES FROM SVARTEVOEG--THE FIRST SIX HUNDRED MILES COVERED XVI THREE HUNDRED MILES TO THE APEX OF THE WORLD I think I was about to swoon when I felt hands beneath my armpits and heard laughter in my ears. With an adroitness such as only these natives possess, my two companions were dragging me from the water. And while I lay panting on the ice, recovering from my fright, I saw them expeditiously rescue our possessions. It seemed that all this happened so quickly that I had really been in the water only a few moments. My two companions saw the humor of the episode and laughed heartily. Although I had been in the water only a brief time, a sheet of ice surrounded my sleeping bag. Fortunately, however, the reindeer skin was found to be quite dry when the ice was beaten off. The experience, while momentarily terrifying, was instructive, for it taught us the danger of spreading ice, especially in calms following storms. Gratitude filled my heart. I fully realized how narrow had been the escape of all of us. Had we slept a few seconds longer we should all have disappeared in the opening crevasse. The hungry Northland would again have claimed its human sacrifice. The ice about was much disturbed. Numerous black lines of water opened on every side; from these oozed jets of frosty, smoke-colored vapor. The difference between the temperature of the sea and that of the air was 76°. With this contrast, the open spots of ice-water appeared to be boiling. Anxious to move along, away from the troubled angle of ice, our usual breakfast was simplified. Melting some snow, we drank the icy liquid as an eye-opener, and began our ration of a half-pound boulder of pemmican. But with cold fingers, blue lips and no possible shelter, the stuff was unusually hard. To warm up, we prepared the sleds. Under our lashes the dogs jumped into harness with a bound. The pemmican, which we really found too hard to eat, had to be first broken into pieces with an axe. We ground it slowly with our molars as we trudged along. Our teeth chattered while the stomach was thus being fired with durable fuel. As we advanced the ice improved to some extent. With a little search safe crossings were found over new crevices. A strong westerly wind blew piercingly cold. Good progress was made, but we did not forget at any time that we were invading the forbidden domains of a new polar environment. Henceforth, one day was to be much like another. Beyond the eighty-third parallel life is devoid of any pleasure. The intense objective impressions of cold and hunger assailing the body rob even the mind of inspiration and exhilaration. Even the best day of sun and gentle wind offers no balm. One awakes realizing the wind has abated and sees the cheerless sun veering about the side of the ice shelter. One kicks the victim upon whom, that morning, duty has fixed the misfortune to be up first--for we tried to be equals in sharing the burdens of life. And upon him to whose lot falls this hardship there is a loss of two hours' repose. He chops ice, fills the kettles, lights the fire, and probably freezes his fingers in doing so. Then he wiggles back into his bag, warms his icy hands on the bare skin of his own stomach; or, if he is in a two-man bag, and the other fellow is awake, Arctic courtesy permits the icy hands on the stomach of his bedfellow. In due time the blood runs to the hand and he sets about tidying up the camp. First, the hood of his own bag. It is loaded with icicles and frost, the result of the freezing of his breath while asleep. He brushes off the ice and snow. The ice has settled in the kettles in the meantime. More ice must be chopped and put into the kettle. The chances are that he now breaks a commandment and steals what to us is a great luxury--a long drink of water to ease his parched throat. Because of the need of fuel economy, limit is placed on drinks. Then the fire needs attention; the flame is imperfect and the gas hole needs cleaning. He thoughtlessly grips the little bit of metal to the end of which the priming needle is attached. That metal is so cold that it burns, and he leaves a piece of his skin on it. Then the breakfast ration of pemmican must be divided. It is not frozen, for it contains no water. But it is hard. The stuff looks like granite. Heat would melt it--but there is no fuel to spare. The two slumberers are given a thump, and their eyes open to the stone-like pemmican. Between yawns the teeth are set to grind the pemmican. The water boils, the tea is tossed in it and the kettle is removed. We rise on elbows, still in the bags, to enjoy the one heavenly treat of our lives, the cup of tea which warms the hand and the stomach at once. Then we dress. It is remarkable how cold compels speed in dressing. The door of the snowhouse is now kicked out--all tumble about to warm up and stop chattering teeth. Breaking camp is a matter of but a minute, for things fall almost automatically into convenient packs. The sledges are loaded and lashed in a few minutes. Then the teams are gathered to the pulling lines, and off we go with a run. The pace for dog and man is two and a half miles an hour, over good ice or bad ice, hard snow or soft snow, or tumbling over neckbreaking irregularities. There is no stop for lunch, no riding, or rest, or anything else. It is drive--drive. At times it was impossible to perspire, and the toxin of fatigue, generating unearthly weariness, filled the brain with fag. When perspiration oozed from our pores, as we forced forward, step by step, it froze in the garments and the warmer portions of our bodies were ringed with snow. Daily, unremittingly, this was our agony. In starting before the end of the winter night, and camping on the open ice fields in the long northward march, we had first accustomed our eyes to frigid darkness and then to a perpetual glitter. This proved to be the coldest season of the year, and we ought to have been hardened to all kinds of Arctic torment. But man gains that advantage only when his pulse ceases to beat. Continuing the steady stride of forward marches, far from land, far from life, there was nothing to arouse a warming spirit. Along the land there had been calms and gales and an inspiring contrast, even in the dark days and nights, but here the frigid world was felt at its worst. The wind, which came persistently from the west--now strong, now feeble, but always sharp--inflicted a pain to which we never became accustomed. The worst torture inflicted by the wind and humid air of an Arctic pack came from a mask of ice about the face. It was absurdly picturesque but painful. Every bit of exhaled moisture condensed and froze either to the facial hair or to the line of fox tails about the hood. It made comical caricatures of us. Frequent turns in our course exposed both sides of the face to the wind and covered with icicles every hair offering a convenient nucleus. These lines of crystal made an amazing dash of light and color as we looked at each other. But they did not afford much amusement to the individual exhibiting them. Such hairs as had not been pulled from the lips and chin were first weighted, and then the wind carried the breath to the long hair with which we protected our heads, and left a mass of dangling frost. Accumulated moisture from the eyes coated the eyelashes and brows. The humidity escaping about the forehead left a crescent of snow above, while that escaping under the chin, combined with falling breath, formed there a semi-circle of ice. The most uncomfortable icicles, however, were those that formed on the coarse hair within the nostrils. To keep the face free, the Eskimos pull the facial hair out by the roots, the result of which is a rarity of mustaches and beards. Thus, with low temperature and persistent winds, life was one of constant torture on the march; but cooped in snowhouses, eating dried beef and tallow, and drinking hot tea, some animal comforts were occasionally to be gained in the icy camps. [Illustration: BRADLEY LAND DISCOVERED SUBMERGED ISLAND OF POLAR SEA GOING BEYOND THE BOUNDS OF LIFE] [Illustration: SWIFT PROGRESS OVER SMOOTH ICE BUILDING AN IGLOO A LIFELESS WORLD OF COLD AND ICE] We forced the dogs onward during two days of cheery bluster, with encouraging results. At times we ran before the teams, calling and urging the brutes to leaping progress. On the evening of March 26, with a pedometer and other methods of dead reckoning for position, we found ourselves at latitude 84° 24´, longitude 96° 53´. The western horizon remained persistently dark. A storm was gathering, and slowly moving eastward. Late in the evening we prepared for the anticipated blast. We built an igloo stronger than usual, hoping that the horizon would be cleared with a brisk wind by the morrow and afford us a day of rest. The long, steady marches, without time for recuperation, necessarily dampened our enthusiasm for a brief period of physical depression, which, however, was of short duration. Daily we had learned to appreciate more and more the joy of the sleeping bag. It was the only animal comfort which afforded a relief to our life of frigid hardship, and often with the thought of it we tried to force upon the weary body in the long marches a pleasing anticipation. In the evening, after blocks of snow walled a dome in which we could breathe quiet air, the blue-flame lamp sang notes of gastronomic delights. We first indulged in a heaven-given drink of ice-water to quench the intense thirst which comes after hours of exertion and perspiration. Then the process of undressing began, one at a time, for there was not room enough in the igloo for all to undress at once. The fur-stuffed boots were pulled off and the bearskin pants were stripped. Then half of the body was quickly pushed into the bag. A brick of pemmican was next taken out and the teeth were set to grind on this bone-like substance. Our appetites were always keen, but a half pound of cold withered beef and tallow changes a hungry man's thoughts effectually. The tea, an hour in making, was always welcome, and we rose on elbows to take it. Under the influence of the warm drink, the fur coat with its mask of ice was removed. Next the shirt, with its ring of ice about the waist, would come off, giving the last sense of shivering. Pushing the body farther into the bag, the hood was pulled over the face, and we were lost to the world of ice. The warm sense of mental and physical pleasure which follows is an interesting study. The movement of others, the sting of the air, the noise of torturing winds, the blinding rays of a heatless sun, the pains of driving snows and all the bitter elements are absent. One's mind, freed of anxiety and suffering, wanders to home and better times under these peculiar circumstances; there comes a pleasurable sensation in the touch of one's own warm skin, while the companionship of the arms and legs, freed from their cumbersome furs, makes a new discovery in the art of getting next to one's self. Early on March 27, a half gale was blowing, but at noon the wind ceased. The bright sun and rising temperature were too tempting to let us remain quiescent. Although the west was still dark with threatening clouds we hitched the dogs to the sleds. We braced ourselves. "Huk! Huk!" we called, and bounded away among the wind-swept hummocks. The crevices of the ice wound like writhing snakes as we raced on. We had not gone many miles before the first rush of the storm struck us. Throwing ourselves over the sleds, we waited the passing of the icy blast. No suitable snow with which to begin the erection of a shelter was near. A few miles northward, as we saw, was a promising area for a camp. This we hoped to reach after a few moments' rest. The squall soon spent its force. In the wind which followed good progress was made without suffering severely. The temperature was 41° below zero, Fahrenheit, and the barometer 29.05. Once in moving order, the drivers required very little encouragement to prolong the effort to a fair day's march despite the weather. As the sun settled in the western gloom the wind increased in fury and forced us to camp. Before the igloo was finished a steady, rasping wind brushed the hummocks and piled the snow in large dunes about us, like the sand of home shores. The snowhouse was not cemented as usual with water, as was our custom when weather permitted. The tone of the wind did not seem to indicate danger, and furthermore, there was no open sea water near. Because of the need of fuel economy we did not deem it prudent to use oil for fire to melt snow, excepting for water to quench thirst. Not particularly anxious about the outcome of the storm, and with senses blunted by overwork and benumbed with cold, we sought the comfort of the bags. Awakened in the course of a few hours by drifts of snow about our feet, I noted that the wind had burrowed holes at weak spots through the snow wall. We were bound, however, not to be cheated of a few hours' sleep, and with one eye open we turned over. I was awakened by falling snow blocks soon after. Forcing my head out of my ice-encased fur hood, I saw the sky, cloud-swept and grey. The dome of the igloo had been swept away. We were being quickly buried under a dangerous weight of snow. In some way I had tossed about sufficiently during sleep to keep on top of the accumulating drift, but my companions were nowhere to be seen. About me for miles the white spaces were vacant. With dread in my heart I uttered a loud call, but there came no response. A short frenzied search revealed a blowhole in the snow. In response to another call, as from some subterranean place came muffled Eskimo shouts. Tearing and burrowing at the fallen snow blocks I made violent efforts to free them, buried as they were in their bags. But to my dismay the soft snow settled on them tighter with each tussle. I was surprised, a few moments later, as I was working to keep their breathing place open, to feel them burrowing through the snow. They had entered their bags without undressing. Half clothed in shirt and pants, but with bare feet, they writhed and wriggled through the bags and up through the breathing hole. After a little digging their boots were uncovered, and then, with protected feet, the bag was freed and placed at the side of the igloo. Into it the boys crept, fully dressed, with the exception of coats. I rolled out beside them in my bag. We lay in the open sweep of furious wind, impotent to move, for twenty-nine hours. Only then the frigid blast eased enough to enable us to creep out into the open. The air came in hissing spouts, like jets of steam from an engine. Soon after noon of March 29 the air brightened. It became possible to breathe without being choked with floating crystals, and as the ice about our facial furs was broken, a little blue patch was detected in the west. We now freed the dogs of their snow entanglement and fed them. A shelter was made in which to melt snow and brew tea. We ate a double ration. Hitching the dogs we raced off. The monotonous fields of snow swept under us. Soon the sun burst through separating clouds and upraised icy spires before us. The wind died away. A crystal glory transfigured the storm-swept fields. We seemed traveling over fields of diamonds, scintillant as white fire, which shimmered dazzlingly about us. It is curious to observe an intense fiery glitter and glow, as in the North, which gives absolutely no impression of warmth. Fire here seems cold. With full stomachs, fair weather and a much needed rest, we moved with renewed inspiration. The dogs ran with tails erect, ears pricked. I and my companions ran behind with the joy of contestants in a race. Indeed, we felt refreshed as one does after a cold bath. Considerable time and distance, however, were lost in seeking a workable line of travel about obstructions and making detours. Camping at midnight, we had made only nine miles by a day's effort. The conditions under which this second hundred miles were forced, proved to be in every respect the most exciting of the run of five hundred miles over the Polar sea. The mere human satisfaction of overcoming difficulties was a daily incentive to surmount obstacles and meet baffling problems. The weather was unsettled. Sudden storms broke with spasmodic force, the barometer was unsteady and the temperature ranged from 20° below zero to 60° below zero. The ice showed signs of recent agitation. New leads and recent sheets of new ice combined with deep snow made travel difficult. Persistently onward, pausing at times, we would urge the dogs to the limit. One dog after another went into the stomachs of the hungry survivors. Camps were now swept by storms. The ice opened out under our bodies, shelter was often a mere hole in the snow bank. Each of us carried painful wounds, frost bites; and the ever chronic emptiness of half filled stomachs brought a gastric call for food, impossible to supply. Hard work and strong winds sent unquenched thirst tortures to burning throats, and the gloom of ever clouded skies sent despair to its lowest reaches. But there was no monotony; our tortures came from different angles, and from so many sources, that we were ever aroused to a fighting spirit. With a push at the sled or a pull at the line we helped the wind-teased dogs to face the nose cutting drift that swept the pack mile after mile. Day after day we plunged farther and farther along into the icy despair and stormy bluster. Throughout the entire advance northward I found there was some advantage in my Eskimo companions having some slight comprehension of the meaning of my aim. Doubtless through information and ideas that had sifted from explorers to Eskimos for many generations past, the aborigines had come to understand that there is a point at the top of the globe, which is somehow the very top of the world, and that at this summit there is something which white men have long been anxious to find--a something which the Eskimo describe as the "big nail." The feeling that they were setting out with me in the hope of being the first to find this "big nail"--for, of course, I had told them of the possibility--helped to keep up the interest and courage of my two companions during long days of hardship. Naturally enough, I could not expect their interest in the Pole itself to be great. Their promised reward for accompanying me, a gun and knife for each, maintained a lively interest in them. After a ceaseless warfare lasting seven days, on March 30 the eastern sky broke in lines of cheering blue. Whipped by low winds the clouds broke and scurried. Soon the western heavens, ever a blank mystery, cleared. Under it, to my surprise, lay a new land. I think I felt a thrill such as Columbus must have felt when the first green vision of America loomed before his eye. My promise to the good, trusty boys of nearness to land was unwittingly on my part made good, and the delight of eyes opened to the earth's northernmost rocks dispelled all the physical torture of the long run of storms. As well as I could see, the land seemed an interrupted coast extending parallel to the line of march for about fifty miles, far to the west. It was snow covered, ice-sheeted and desolate. But it was real land with all the sense of security solid earth can offer. To us that meant much, for we had been adrift in a moving sea of ice, at the mercy of tormenting winds. Now came, of course, the immediate impelling desire to set foot upon it, but to do so I knew would have side-tracked us from our direct journey to the Polar goal. In any case, delay was jeopardous, and, moreover, our food supply did not permit our taking time to inspect the new land.[13] This new land was never clearly seen. A low mist, seemingly from open water, hid the shore line. We saw the upper slopes only occasionally from our point of observation. There were two distinct land masses. The most southern cape of the southern mass bore west by south, but still further to the south there were vague indications of land. The most northern cape of the same mass bore west by north. Above it there was a distinct break for 15 or 20 miles, and beyond the northern mass extended above the eighty-fifth parallel to the northwest. The entire coast was at this time placed on our charts as having a shore line along the one hundred and second meridian, approximately parallel to our line of travel. At the time the indications suggested two distinct islands. Nevertheless, we saw so little of the land that we could not determine whether it consisted of islands or of a larger mainland. The lower coast resembled Heiberg Island, with mountains and high valleys. The upper coast I estimated as being about one thousand feet high, flat, and covered with a thin sheet ice. Over the land I write "Bradley Land" in honor of John R. Bradley, whose generous help had made possible the important first stage of the expedition. The discovery of this land gave an electric impetus of driving vigor at just the right moment to counterbalance the effect of the preceding week of storm and trouble. Although I gazed longingly and curiously at the land, to me the Pole was the pivot of ambition. My boys had not the same northward craze, but I told them to reach the land on our return might be possible. We never saw it again. This new land made a convenient mile-post, for from this time on the days were counted to and from it. A good noon sight fixed the point of observation to 84° 50´, longitude 95° 36´´. We had forced beyond the second hundred miles from Svartevoeg. Before us remained about three hundred more miles, to my alluring, mysterious goal. [Illustration: ARCTIC FOX] BEYOND THE RANGE OF LIFE WITH A NEW SPRING TO WEARY LEGS BRADLEY LAND IS LEFT BEHIND--FEELING THE ACHING VASTNESS OF THE WORLD BEFORE MAN WAS MADE--CURIOUS GRIMACES OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN--SUFFERINGS INCREASE--BY PERSISTENT AND LABORIOUS PROGRESS ANOTHER HUNDRED MILES IS COVERED XVII TWO HUNDRED MILES FROM THE POLE A curtain of mist was drawn over the new land in the afternoon of March 31, and, although we gazed westward longingly, we saw no more of it. Day after day we now pushed onward in desperate northward efforts. Strong winds and fractured, irregular ice, increased our difficulties. Although progress was slow for several days we managed to gain a fair march between storms during each twenty-four hours. During occasional spells of icy stillness mirages spread screens of fantasy out for our entertainment. Curious cliffs, odd-shaped mountains and inverted ice walls were displayed in attractive colors. Discoveries of new land seemed often made. But with a clearing horizon the deception was detected. The boys believed most of these signs to be indications of real land--a belief I persistently encouraged, because it relieved them of the panic of the terror of the unknown. On April 3, the barometer remained steady and the thermometer sank. The weather became settled and fairly clear, the horizon was freed of its smoky vapors, the pack assumed a more permanent aspect of glittering color. At noon there was now a dazzling light, while at night the sun kissed the frozen seas behind screens of mouse-colored cloud and haze. At the same moment the upper skies flushed with the glow of color of the coming double-days of joy. As we advanced north of Bradley Land the pack disturbance of land-divided and land-jammed ice disappeared. The fields became larger and less troublesome, the weather improved, the temperature ranged from 20° to 50° below zero, the barometer rose and remained steady, the day sky cleared with increasing color, but a low haze blotted out much of the night glory which attended the dip of the nocturnal sun. With dogs barking and rushing before speeding sleds, we made swift progress. But the steady drag and monotony of the never changing work and scene reduced interest in life. The blankness of the mental desert which moved about us as we ran along was appalling. Nothing changed materially. The horizon moved. Our footing was seemingly a solid stable ice crust, which was, however, constantly shifting eastward. All the world on which we traveled was in motion. We moved, but we took our landscape with us. At the end of the day's march we were often too tired to build snow houses, and in sheer exhaustion we bivouacked in the lee of hummocks. Here the overworked body called for sleep, but my mind refused to close the eyes. My boys had the advantage of sleep. I envied them. Anyone who has suffered from insomnia may be able in a small degree to gauge my condition when sleep became impossible. To reach the end of my journey became the haunting, ever-present goading thought of my wakeful existence. As I lay painfully trying to coax slumber, my mind worked like the wheels of a machine. Dizzily the journey behind repeated itself; I again crossed the Big Lead, again floundered in an ice-cold open sea. Dangers of all sorts took form to harass me. Instead of sleep, a delirium of anxiety and longing possessed me. Beyond the eighty-fourth parallel we had passed the bounds of visible life. Lying wakeful in that barren world, with my companions asleep, I felt what few men of cities, perhaps, ever feel--the tragic isolation of the human soul--a thing which, dwelt upon, must mean madness. I think I realized the aching vastness of the world after creation, before man was made. For many days we had not seen a suggestion of animated nature. There were no longer animal trails to indicate life; no breath spouts of seal escaped from the frosted bosom of the sea. Not even the microscopic life of the deep was longer detected under us. We were alone--alone in a lifeless world. We had come to this blank space of the earth by slow but progressive stages. Sailing from the bleak land of the fisher folk along the out-posts of civilization, the complex luxury of metropolitan life was lost. Beyond, in the half savage wilderness of Danish Greenland, we partook of a new life of primitive simplicity. Still farther along, in the Ultima Thule of the aborigines, we reverted to a prehistoric plane of living. Advancing beyond the haunts of men, we reached the noonday deadliness of a world without life. As we pushed beyond into the sterile wastes, with eager eyes we constantly searched the dusky plains of frost, but there was no speck of life to grace the purple run of death.[14] During these desolate marches, my legs working mechanically, my mind with anguish sought some object upon which to fasten itself. My eyes scrutinized the horizon. I saw, every day, every sleeping hour, hills of ice, vast plains of ice, now a deadly white, now a dull gray, now a misty purple, sometimes shot with gold or gleaming with lakes of ultramarine, moving towards and by me, an ever-changing yet ever-monotonous panorama which wearied me as does the shifting of unchanging scenery seen from a train window. As I paced the weary marches, I fortunately became unconscious of the painful movement of my legs. Although I walked I had a sensation of being lifted involuntarily onward. The sense of covering distance gave me a dull, pleasurable satisfaction. Only some catastrophe, some sudden and overwhelming obstacle would have aroused me to an intense mental emotion, to a passionate despair, to the anguish of possible defeat. I was now becoming the unconscious instrument of my ambition; almost without volition my body was being carried forward by a subconscious force which had fastened itself upon a distant goal. Sometimes the wagging of a dog's tail held my attention for long minutes; it afforded a curious play for my morbidly obsessed imagination. In an hour I would forget what I had been thinking. To-day I cannot remember the vague, fanciful illusions about curiously insignificant things which occupied my faculties in this dead world. The sun, however, did relieve the monotony, and created in the death-chilled world skies filled with elysian flowers and mirages of beauty undreamed of by Aladdin. My senses at the time, as I have said, were vaguely benumbed. While we traveled I heard the sound of the moving sledges. Their sharp steel runners cut the ice and divided the snow like a cleaving knife. I became used to the first shudder of the rasping sound. In the dead lulls between wind storms I would listen with curious attention to the soft patter of our dogs' feet. At times I could hear their tiny toe nails grasping at forward ice ridges in order to draw themselves forward, and, strangely--so were all my thoughts interwoven with my ambition--this clenching, crunching, gritty sound gave me a delighted sense of progress, a sense of ever covering distance and nearing, ever nearing the Pole. In this mid-Polar basin the ice does not readily separate. It is probably in motion at all times of the year. In this readjustment of fields following motion and expansion, open spaces of water appear. These, during most months, are quickly sheeted with new ice. In these troubled areas I had frequent opportunities to measure ice-thickness. From my observation I had come to the conclusion that ice does not freeze to a depth of more than twelve or fifteen feet during a single year. Occasionally we crossed fields fifty feet thick. These invariably showed signs of many years of surface upbuilding. It is very difficult to estimate the amount of submerged freezing after the first year's ice, but the very uniform thickness of Antarctic sea ice suggests that a limit is reached the second year, when the ice, with its cover of snow, is so thick that very little is added afterward from below. Increase in size after that is probably the result mostly of addition to the superstructure. Frequent falls of snow, combined with alternate melting and freezing in summer, and a process similar to the upbuilding of glacial ice, are mainly responsible for the growth in thickness of the ice on the Polar sea. The very heavy, undulating fields, which give character to the mid-Polar ice and escape along the east and west coasts of Greenland, are, therefore, mostly augmented from the surface. Continuing north, at no time was the horizon perfectly clear. But the weather was good enough to permit frequent nautical observations. Our course was lined on uninteresting blank sheets. There were elusive signs of land frequent enough to maintain an exploring enthusiasm, which helped me also in satisfying my companions. For thus they were encouraged to believe in a nearness to terrestrial solidity. At every breathing spell, when we got together for a little chat, Ah-we-lah's hand, with pointed finger, was directed to some spot on the horizon or some low-lying cloud, with the shout of "_Noona?_" (land), to which I always replied in the affirmative; but, for me, the field-glasses and later positions dispelled the illusion. Man, under pressure of circumstances, will adapt himself to most conditions of life. To me the other-world environment of the Polar-pack, far from continental fastness, was beginning to seem quite natural. We forced marches day after day. We traveled until dogs languished or legs failed. Ice hills rose and fell before us. Mirages grimaced at our dashing teams with wondering faces. Daily the incidents and our position were recorded, but our adventures were promptly forgotten in the mental bleach of the next day's effort. Night was now as bright as day. By habit, we emerged from our igloos later and later. On the 5th and 6th we waited until noon before starting, to get observations; but, as was so often the case, when the sun was watched, it slipped under clouds. This late start brought our stopping time close to midnight, and infused an interest in the midnight sun; but the persistent haze which clouded the horizon at night when the sun was low denied us a glimpse of the midnight luminary. The night of April 7 was made notable by the swing of the sun at midnight, above the usual obscuring mist, behind which it had, during previous days, sunk with its night dip of splendor. For a number of nights it made grim faces at us in its setting. A tantalizing mist, drawn as a curtain over the northern sea at midnight, had afforded curious advantages for celestial staging. We were unable to determine sharply the advent of the midnight sun, but the colored cloud and haze into which it nightly sank produced a spectacular play which interested us immensely. Sometimes the great luminary was drawn out into an egg-shaped elongation with horizontal lines of color drawn through it. I pictured it as some splendid fire-colored lantern flung from the window of Heaven. Again, it was pressed into a basin flaming with magical fires, burning behind a mystic curtain of opalescent frosts. Blue at other times, it appeared like a huge vase of luminous crystal, such as might be evoked by the weird genii of the Orient, from which it required very little imagination to see purple, violet, crimson and multi-colored flowers springing beauteously into the sky. These changes took place quickly, as by magic. Usually the last display was of distorted faces, some animal, some semi-human--huge, grotesque, and curiously twitching countenances of clouds and fire. At times they appallingly resembled the hideous teeth-gnashing deities of China, that, with gnarled arms upraised, holding daggers of flame and surrounded by smoke, were rising toward us from beyond the horizon. Sometimes in our northward progress these faces laughed, again they scowled ominously. What the actual configurations were I do not know; I suppose two men see nothing exactly alike in this topsy-turvy world. Rushing northward with forced haste, unreal beauties took form as if to lure us to pause. Clouds of steam rising from frozen seas like geysers assumed the aspects of huge fountains of iridescent fire. As the sun rose, lines of light like quicksilver quivered and writhed about the horizon, and in swirling, swimming circles closed and narrowed about us on the increasingly color-burned but death-chilled areas of ice over which we worked. Setting amid a dance of purple radiance, the sun, however, instead of inspiring us, filled us with a sick feeling of giddiness. What beauty there was in these spectacles was often lost upon our benumbed senses. Nowhere in the world, perhaps, are seen such spectacles of celestial glory. The play of light on clouds and ice produces the illusion of some supernatural realm. We had now followed the sun's northward advance--from its first peep, at midday, above the southern ice of the Polar gateway, to its sweep over the northern ice at midnight. From the end of the Polar night, late in February, to the first of the double days and the midnight suns, we had forced a trail through darkness and blood-hardening temperature, and over leg-breaking irregularities of an unknown world of ice, to a spot almost exactly two hundred miles from the Pole! To this point our destiny had been auspiciously protected. Ultimate success seemed within grasp. But we were not blind to the long line of desperate effort still required to push over the last distance. Now that we had the sun unmistakably at midnight, its new glory before us was an incentive to onward efforts. Previous to this the sun had been undoubtedly above the horizon, but, as is well known, when the sun is low and the atmospheric humidity is high, as it always is over the pack, a dense cloud of frost crystals rests on the ice and obscures the horizon. During the previous days the sun sank into this frosty haze and was lost for several hours. Observations on April 8[15] placed camp at latitude 86° 36´, longitude 94° 2´. Although we had made long marches and really great speed, we had advanced only ninety-six miles in the nine days. Much of our hard work had been lost in circuitous twists around troublesome pressure lines and high, irregular fields of very old ice. The drift ice was throwing us to the east with sufficient force to give us some anxiety, but with eyes closed to danger and hardships, double days of fatigue and double days of glitter quickly followed one another. Everything was now in our favor, but here we felt most of the accumulating effect of long torture, in a world where every element of Nature is hostile. Human endurance has distinct limits. Bodily abuse will long be counterbalanced by man's superb recuperative power, but sooner or later there comes a time when out-worn cells call a halt. We had lived for weeks on a steady diet of withered beef and tallow. There was no change, we had no hot meat, and never more to eat than was absolutely necessary to keep life within the body. We became indifferent to the aching vacant pain of the stomach. Every organ had been whipped to serve energy to the all important movement of our legs. The depletion of energy, the lassitude of overstrained limbs, manifested themselves. The Eskimos were lax in the swing of the whip and indifferent in urging on the dogs. The dogs displayed the same spirit by lowered tails, limp ears, and drooping noses, as their shoulders dragged the sleds farther, ever farther from the land of life. A light life-sapping wind came from the west. We battled against it. We swung our arms to fight it and maintain circulation, as a swimmer in water. Veering a little at times, it always struck the face at a piercing angle. It froze the tip of my nose so often that that feature felt like a foreign bump on my face. Our cheeks had in like manner been so often bleached in spots that the skin was covered with ugly scars. Our eyes were often sealed by frozen eyelashes. The tear sack made icicles. Every particle of breath froze as it left the nostrils, and coated the face in a mask of ice. The sun at times flamed the clouds, while the snow glowed in burning tones. In the presence of all this we suffered the chill of death. All Nature exulted in a wave of hysteria. Delusions took form about us--in mirages, in the clouds. We moved in a world of delusions. The heat of the sun was a sham, its light a torment. A very curious world this, I thought dumbly, as we pushed our sleds and lashed our lagging dogs. Our footing was solid; there was no motion. Our horizon was lined with all the topographic features of a solid land scene, with mountains, valleys and plains, rivers of open water; but under it all there was the heaving of a restless sea. Although nothing visibly moved, it was all in motion. Seemingly a solid crust of earth, it imperceptibly drifts in response to every wind. We moved with it, but ever took our landscape with us. Of the danger of this movement, of the possibility of its hopelessly carrying us away from our goal, and the possibility of ultimate starvation, I never lost consciousness. Although the distance may seem slight, now that we had gone so far, the last two hundred miles seemed hopelessly impossible. With aching, stiffened legs we started our continuing marches without enthusiasm, with little ambition. But marches we made--distance leaped at times under our swift running feet. It sometimes now seems that unknown and subtle forces of which we are not cognizant supported me. I could almost believe that there were unseen beings there, whose voices urged me in the wailing wind; who, in my success, themselves sought soul peace, and who, that I might obtain it, in some strange, mysterious way succored and buoyed me. OVER POLAR SEAS OF MYSTERY THE MADDENING TORTURES OF A WORLD WHERE ICE WATER SEEMS HOT, AND COLD KNIVES BURN ONE'S HANDS--ANGUISHED PROGRESS ON THE LAST STRETCH OF TWO HUNDRED MILES OVER ANCHORED LAND ICE--DAYS OF SUFFERING AND GLOOM--THE TIME OF DESPAIR--"IT IS WELL TO DIE," SAYS AH-WE-LAH; "BEYOND IS IMPOSSIBLE." XVIII ONE HUNDRED MILES FROM THE POLE We pushed onward. We cracked our whips to urge the tiring dogs. We forced to quick steps weary leg after weary leg. Mile after mile of ice rolled under our feet. The maddening influence of the shifting desert of frost became almost unendurable in the daily routine. Under the lash of duty interest was forced, while the merciless drive of extreme cold urged physical action. Our despair was mental and physical--the result of chronic overwork. Externally there was reason for rejoicing. The sky had cleared, the weather improved, a liquid charm of color poured over the strange other-world into which we advanced. Progress was good, but the soul refused to open its eyes to beauty or color. All was a lifeless waste. The mind, heretofore busy in directing arm and foot, to force a way through miniature mountains of uplifted floes, was now, because of better ice, relieved of that strain, but it refused to seek diversion. The normal run of hardship, although eased, now piled up the accumulated poison of overwork, and when I now think of the terrible strain I fail to see how a workable balance was maintained. As we passed the eighty-sixth parallel, the ice increased in breadth and thickness. Great hummocks and pressure lines became less frequent. A steady progress was gained with the most economical human drain possible. The temperature ranged between 36° and 40° below zero, Fahrenheit, with higher and lower midday and midnight extremes. Only spirit thermometers were useful, for the mercury was at this degree of frost either frozen or sluggish. Although the perpetual sun gave light and color to the cheerless waste we were not impressed with any appreciable sense of warmth. Indeed, the sunbeams by their contrast seemed to cause the frost of the air to pierce with a more painful sting. In marching over the golden glitter, snow scalded our faces, while our noses were bleached with frost. The sun rose into zones of fire and set in burning fields of ice, but, in pain, we breathed the chill of death. In camp a grip of the knife left painful burns from cold metal. To the frozen fingers ice cold water was hot. With wine-spirits the fire was lighted, while oil delighted the stomach. In our dreams Heaven was hot, the other place was cold. All Nature was false; we seemed to be nearing the chilled flame of a new Hades. We now changed our working hours from day to night, beginning usually at ten o'clock and ending at seven. The big marches and prolonged hours of travel with which fortune favored us earlier were no longer possible. Weather conditions were more important in determining a day's run than the hands of the chronometers. That I must steadily keep up my notes and the records of observations was a serious addition to my daily task. I never permitted myself to be careless in regard to this, for I never let myself forget the importance of such data in plotting an accurate course. I kept my records in small notebooks, writing very fine with a hard pencil on both sides of the paper. At the beginning of the journey I had usually set down the day's record by candle light, but later, when the sun was shining both day and night, I needed no light even inside the walls of the igloo, for the sunlight shone strongly enough through the walls of snow. Shining brilliantly at times, I utilized the opportunity it afforded, every few marches, to measure our shadows. The daily change marked our advance Poleward. When storms threatened, our start was delayed. In strong gales the march was shortened. But in one way or another we usually found a few hours in each turn of the dial during which a march could be forced between winds. It mattered little whether we traveled night or day--all hours and all days were alike to us--for we had no accustomed time to rest, no Sundays, no holidays, no landmarks, or mile-posts to pass. To advance and expend the energy accumulated during one sleep at the cost of one pound of pemmican was our sole aim in life. Day after day our legs were driven onward. Constantly new but similar panoramas rolled by us. Our observations on April 11, gave latitude 87° 20´, longitude 95° 19´. The pack disturbance of the new land was less and less noted as we progressed in the northward movement. The fields became heavier, larger and less crevassed. Fewer troublesome old floes and less crushed new ice were encountered. With the improved conditions, the fire of a racing spirit surged up for a brief spell. We had now passed the highest reaches of all our predecessors. The inspiration of the Farthest North for a brief time thrilled me. The time was at hand, however, to consider seriously the possible necessity of an early return. Nearly half of the food allowance had been used. In the long marches supplies had been more liberally consumed than anticipated. Now our dog teams were much reduced in numbers. Because of the cruel law of the survival of the fittest, the less useful dogs had gone into the stomachs of their stronger companions. With the lessening of the number of dogs had come at the same time a reduction of the weight of the sledge loads, through the eating of the food. Now, owing to food limitations and the advancing season, we could not prudently continue the onward march a fortnight longer. We had dragged ourselves three hundred miles over the Polar sea in twenty-four days. Including delays and detours, this gave an average of nearly thirteen miles daily on an airline in our course. There remained an unknown line of one hundred and sixty miles to the Pole. The same average advance would take us to the Pole in thirteen days. There were food and fuel enough to risk this adventure. With good luck the prize seemed within our grasp. But a prolonged storm, a deep snowfall, or an active ice-pack would mean failure. In new cracks I measured the thickness of the ice. I examined the water for life. The technical details for the making and breaking of ice were studied, and some attention was given to the altitude of uplifted and submerged irregularities. Atmospheric, surface water and ice temperatures were taken, the barometer was noted, the cloud formations, weather conditions and ice drifts were tabulated. There was a continuous routine of work, but like the effort of the foot in the daily drive, it became more or less automatic. Running along over seemingly endless fields of ice, the physical appearances now came under more careful scrutiny. I watched daily for possible signs of failing in the strength of any of us, because a serious disability would now mean a fatal termination. A disabled man could neither continue nor return. Each new examination gave me renewed confidence and was another reason to push human endurance to the limit of straining every fibre and cell. As a matter of long experience I find life in this extreme North is healthful so long as there is sufficient good food, so long as exertion is not overdone. A weakling would easily be killed, but a strong man is splendidly hardened and kept in perfect physical trim by sledging and tramping in this germless air. But, as I have said, sufficient food and not too much exertion are requisites to full safety, and in our case we were working to the limit, with rations running low. Still, the men responded superbly. Our tremendous exertion in forcing daily rushing marches, under occasional bursts of burning sunbeams, provoked intense thirst. Following the habit of the camel, we managed to take enough water before starting to keep sufficient liquid in the stomach and veins for the ensuing day's march. Yet it was painful to await the melting of ice at camping time. In two sittings, evening and morning, each of us took an average of three quarts of water daily. This included tea and also the luxury of occasional soup. Water was about us everywhere in heaps, but before the thirst could be quenched, several ounces of precious fuel, which had been sledged for hundreds of miles, must be used. And yet, this water, so expensive and so necessary to us, became the cause of our greatest discomfort. It escaped through pores of the skin, saturated the boots, formed a band of ice under the knee and a belt of frost about the waist, while the face was nearly always encased in a mask of icicles from the moist breath. We learned to take this torture philosophically. With our dogs bounding and tearing onward, from the eighty-seventh to the eighty-eighth parallel we passed for two days over old ice without pressure lines or hummocks. There was no discernible line of demarcation to indicate separate fields, and it was quite impossible to determine whether we were on land or sea ice. The barometer indicated no perceptible elevation, but the ice had the hard, wavering surface of glacial ice, with only superficial crevasses. The water obtained from this was not salty. All of the upper surface of old hummock and high ice of the Polar sea resolves into unsalted water. My nautical observations did not seem to indicate a drift, but nevertheless my combined tabulations do not warrant a positive assertion of either land or sea; I am inclined, however, to put this down as ice on low or submerged land. The ice presented an increasingly cheering prospect. A plain of purple and blue ran in easy undulations to the limits of vision without the usual barriers of uplifted blocks. Over it a direct air-line course was possible. Progress, however, was quite as difficult as over the irregular pack. The snow was crusted with large crystals. An increased friction reduced the sled speed, while the snow surface, too hard for snowshoes, was also too weak to give a secure footing to the unprotected boot. The loneliness, the monotony, the hardship of steady, unrelieved travel were keenly felt. Day after day we pushed along at a steady pace over plains of frost and through a mental desert. As the eye opened at the end of a period of shivering slumber, the fire was lighted little by little, the stomach was filled with liquids and solids, mostly cold--enough to last for the day, for there could be no halt or waste of fuel for midday feeding. We next got into harness, and, under the lash of duty, paced off the day's pull; we worked until standing became impossible. As a man in a dream I marched, set camp, ate and tried to rest. I took observations now without interest; under those conditions no man could take an interest in mathematics. Eating became a hardship, for the pemmican, tasteless and hard as metal, was cold. Our feet were numb--it seemed fortunate they no longer even ached. The arduous task of building a snowhouse meant physical hardship. In this the eyes, no longer able to wink, quickly closed. Soon the empty stomach complained. Then the gastric wants were half served. With teeth dropping to the spasm of cold and skins in an electric wave of shivers to force animal heat, the boys fell to unconscious slumbers, but my lids did not easily close. The anxiety to succeed, the eagerness to draw out our food supply and the task of infusing courage into my savage helpers kept the mind active while the underfed blood filled the legs with new power. There was no pleasurable mental recreation to relieve us; there was nothing to arouse the soul from its icy inclosure. To eat, to sleep, endlessly to press one foot ahead of the other--that was all we could do. We were like horses driven wearily in carts, but we had not their advantages of an agreeable climate and a comfortable stable at night. Daily our marches were much the same. Finishing our frigid meal, we hitched the dogs and lashed the sleds. In the daily routine of our onward struggle, there was an inhuman strain which neither words nor pictures could adequately describe. The maddening influence of the sameness of Polar glitter, combined as it was with bitter winds and extreme cold and overworked bodies, burned our eyes and set our teeth to a chronic chattering. To me there was always the inspiration of ultimate success. But for my young savage companions, it was a torment almost beyond endurance. They were, however, brave and faithful to the bitter end, seldom allowing hunger or weariness or selfish ambition or fierce passions seriously to interfere with the effort of the expedition. We suffered, but we covered distance. On the morning of April 13, the strain of agitating torment reached the breaking point. For days there had been a steady cutting wind from the west, which drove despair to its lowest reaches. The west again blackened, to renew its soul-despairing blast. The frost-burn of sky color changed to a depressing gray, streaked with black. The snow was screened with ugly vapors. The path was absolutely cheerless. All this was a dire premonition of storm and greater torture. No torment could be worse than that never-ceasing rush of icy air. It gripped us and sapped the life from us. Ah-we-lah bent over his sled and refused to move. I walked over and stood by his side. His dogs turned and looked inquiringly at us. E-tuk-i-shook came near and stood motionless, like a man in a trance, staring blankly at the southern skies. Large tears fell from Ah-we-lah's eyes and froze in the blue of his own shadow. Not a word was uttered. I knew that the dreaded time of utter despair had come. The dogs looked at us, patient and silent in their misery. Silently in the descending gloom we all looked over the tremendous dead-white waste to the southward. With a tear-streaked and withered face, Ah-we-lah slowly said, with a strangely shrilling wail, "_Unne-sinig-po--Oo-ah-tonie i-o-doria--Ooh-ah-tonie i-o-doria!_" ("It is well to die--Beyond is impossible--Beyond is impossible!") [Illustration: "TOO WEARY TO BUILD IGLOOS WE USED THE SILK TENT"] [Illustration: "ACROSS SEAS OF CRYSTAL GLORY TO THE BOREAL CENTRE"] [Illustration: MENDING NEAR THE POLE] TO THE POLE--THE LAST HUNDRED MILES OVER PLAINS OF GOLD AND SEAS OF PALPITATING COLOR THE DOG TEAMS, WITH NOSES DOWN, TAILS ERECT, DASH SPIRITEDLY LIKE CHARIOT HORSES--CHANTING LOVE SONGS THE ESKIMOS FOLLOW WITH SWINGING STEP--TIRED EYES OPEN TO NEW GLORY--STEP BY STEP, WITH THUMPING HEARTS THE EARTH'S APEX IS NEARED--AT LAST! THE GOAL IS REACHED! THE STARS AND STRIPES ARE FLUNG TO THE FRIGID BREEZES OF THE NORTH POLE! XIX BOREAL CENTER IS PIERCED I shall never forget that dismal hour. I shall never forget that desolate drab scene about us--those endless stretches of gray and dead-white ice, that drab dull sky, that thickening blackness in the west which entered into and made gray and black our souls, that ominous, eerie and dreadful wind, betokening a terrorizing Arctic storm. I shall never forget the mournful group before me, in itself an awful picture of despair, of man's ambition failing just as victory is within his grasp. Ah-we-lah, a thin, half-starved figure in worn furs, lay over his sled, limp, dispirited, broken. In my ears I can now hear his low sobbing words, I can see the tears on his yellow fissured face. I can see E-tuk-i-shook standing gaunt and grim, and as he gazed yearningly onward to the south, sighing pitifully, shudderingly for the home, the loved one, An-na-do-a, left behind, whom, I could tell, he did not expect to see again. It was a critical moment. Up to this time, during the second week of April, we had, by intense mental force, goaded our wearied legs onward to the limit of endurance. With a cutting wind in our faces, feeling with each step the cold more severely to the marrow of our bones, with our bodily energy and our bodily heat decreasing, we had traveled persistently, suffering intolerable pains with every breath. Despite increasing despair, I had cheered my companions as best I could; I had impressed upon them the constant nearing of my goal. I had encouraged in them the belief of nearness of land; each day I had gone on, fearing what had now come, the utter breaking of their spirits. "_Unne-sinikpo-ashuka._" (Yes, it is well to die.) "_Awonga-up-dow-epuksha!_" (Yesterday I, too, felt that way), I said to myself. The sudden extinction of consciousness, I thought, might be indeed a blessed relief. But as long as life persisted, as long as human endurance could be strained, I determined to continue. Desperate as was my condition, and suffering hellish tortures, the sight of the despair of my companions re-aroused me. Should we fail now, after our long endurance, now, when the goal was so near? The Pole was only one hundred miles beyond. The attainment seemed almost certain. "_Accou-ou-o-toni-ah-younguluk_" (Beyond to-morrow it will be better), I urged, trying to essay a smile. "_Igluctoo!_" (Cheer up!) Holding up one hand, with a reach Poleward, bending five fingers, one after the other, I tried to convey the idea that in five sleeps the "Big Nail" would be reached, and that then we would turn (pointing with my fingers) homeward. "_Noona-me-neulia-capa--ahmisua_" (For home, sweethearts and food in abundance), I said. "_Noona-terronga, neuliarongita, ootah--peterongito_" (Land is gone; loved ones are lost; signs of life have vanished). "_Tig-i-lay-waongacedla--nellu ikah-amisua_" (Return will I, the sky and weather I do not understand. It is very cold), said Ah-we-lah. "_Attuda-emongwah-ka_" (A little farther come), I pleaded. "_Attudu-mikisungwah_" (Only a little further). "_Sukinut-nellu_" (The sun I do not understand), said E-tuk-i-shook. This had been a daily complaint for some days--the approaching equality of the length of shadows for night and day puzzled them. The failing night dip of the sun left them without a guiding line to give direction. They were lost in a landless, spiritless world, in which the sky, the weather, the sun and all was a mystery. I knew my companions were brave. I was certain of their fidelity. Could their mental despair be alleviated, I felt convinced they could brace themselves for another effort. I spoke kindly to them; I told them what we had accomplished, that they were good and brave, that their parents and their sweethearts would be proud of them, and that as a matter of honor we must not now fail. "_Tigishu-conitu_," I said. (The Pole is near.) "_Sinipa tedliman dossa-ooahtonie tomongma ah youngulok tigilay toy hoy._" (At the end of five sleeps it is finished, beyond all is well, we return thereafter quickly.) "_Seko shudi iokpok. Sounah ha-ah!_" they replied. (On ice always is not good. The bones ache.) Then I said, "The ice is flat, the snow is good, the sky is clear, the Great Spirit is with us, the Pole is near!" Ah-we-lah dully nodded his head. I noticed, however, he wiped his eyes. "_Ka-bishuckto-emongwah_" (Come walk a little further), I went on. "_Accou ooahtoni-ahningahna-matluk-tigilay-Inut-noona._" (Beyond to-morrow within two moons we return to Eskimo lands.) "_K i s a h iglucto-tima-attahta-annona-neuliasing-wah_," said Ah-we-lah. (At last, then it is to laugh! There we will meet father and mother and little wives!) "_Ashuka-alningahna-matluk_," I returned. (Yes, in two moons there will be water and meat and all in plenty.) E-tuk-i-shook gazed at me intently. His eyes brightened. As I spoke my own spirits rose to the final effort, my lassitude gave way to a new enthusiasm. I felt the fire kindling for many years aglow within me. The goal was near; there remained but one step to the apex of my ambition. I spoke hurriedly. The two sat up and listened. Slowly they became inspired with my intoxication. Never did I speak so vehemently. E-tuk-i-shook gripped his whip. "_Ka, aga_" (Come, go!) he said. Ah-we-lah, determined but grim, braced his body and shouted to the dogs--"_Huk, Huk, Huk_," and then to us he said, "_Aga-Ka!_" (Go-come). With snapping whip we were off for that last hundred miles. The animals pricked their ears, re-curled their tails, and pulled at the traces. Shouting to keep up the forced enthusiasm, we bounded forward on the last lap. A sort of wild gratification filled my heart. I knew that only mental enthusiasm would now prevent the defeat which might yet come from our own bodies refusing to go farther. Brain must now drive muscle. Fortunately the sense of final victory imparted a supernormal mental stimulus. Gray ice hummocks sped by us. My feet were so tired that I seemed to walk on air. My body was so light from weakness that I suppose I should hardly have been surprised had I floated upward from the ice in a gust of wind. I felt the blood moving in my veins and stinging like needles in my joints as one does when suffering with neurasthenia. I swung my axe. The whip of my companions cut the air. The dogs leaped over the ice, with crunching progress they pulled themselves over hummocks much as cats climb trees. Distance continued to fade behind us. On April 14, my observations gave latitude, 88° 21´; longitude, 95° 52´. The wind came with a satanic cut from the west. There had been little drift. But with a feeling of chagrin I saw that the ice before us displayed signs of recent activity. It was more irregular, with open cracks here and there. These we had to avoid, but the sleds glided with less friction, and the weary dogs maintained a better speed. With set teeth and newly sharpened resolutions, we continued mile after mile of that last one hundred. More dogs had gone into the stomachs of their hungry companions, but there still remained a sufficient pull of well-tried brute force for each sled. Although their noisy vigor had been gradually lost in the long drag, they still broke the frigid silence with an occasional outburst of howls. Any fresh enthusiasm from the drivers was quickly responded to by canine activity. * * * * * We were in good trim to cover distance economically. Our sledges were light, our bodies were thin. We had lost, since leaving winter camp, judging from appearances, from twenty-five to forty pounds each. All our muscles had shriveled. The dogs retained strength that was amazing. Stripped for the last lap, one horizon after another was lifted. =From original field papers.--Observations of April 14, 1908.= Long. 95-52. Bar. 29.90 Falling. Temp. -44°. Clouds Cu. St. & Alt. St. 4. Wind 1-3. Mag. E. Noon 0....... = 22--02--05 96 === 4 0....... = 22--56--20 +-------- +----------- 60 | 384 2 | 44--58--25 +-------- +----------- 6-24 22--29--12 +2 +----------- 54 2 | 22--31--12 6½ +----------- ------- 11--15--36 27 --9 324 ----------- +------- 11-- 6--36 60 | 351 90 +------- ----------- 5--51 78--53--24 9--21--50 9--27--41 ----------- ----------- 9--27--41 88--21-- 5 Shadow 30½ ft. (of tent pole 6 ft. above snow.) In the forced effort which followed we frequently became overheated. The temperature was steady at 44° below zero, Fahrenheit. Perspiration came with ease, and with a certain amount of pleasure. Later followed a train of suffering for many days. The delight of the birdskin shirt gave place to the chill of a wet blanket. Our coats and trousers hardened to icy suits of armor. It became quite impossible to dress after a sleep without softening the stiffened furs with the heat of our bare skin. Mittens, boots and fur stockings became quite useless until dried out. Fortunately, at this time the rays of the sun were warm enough to dry the furs in about three days, if lashed to the sunny side of a sled as we marched along, and strangely enough, the furs dried out without apparent thawing. In these last days we felt more keenly the pangs of perspiration than in all our earlier adventures. We persistently used the amber-colored goggles. They afforded protection to the eyes, but in spite of every precaution, our distorted, frozen, burned and withered faces lined a map in relief, of the hardships endured en route. We were curious looking savages. The perpetual glitter of the snows induced a squint of our eyes which distorted our faces in a remarkable manner. The strong light reflected from the crystal surface threw the muscles about the eyes into a state of chronic contraction. The iris was reduced to a mere pin-hole. The strong winds and drifting snows necessitated the habit of peeping out of the corners of the eyes. Nature, in attempting to keep the ball from hardening, flushed it at all times with blood. To keep the seeing windows of the mind open required a constant exertion of will power. The effect was a set of expressions of hardship and wrinkles which might be called the boreal squint. This boreal squint is a part of the russet-bronze physiognomy which falls to the lot of every Arctic explorer. The early winds, with a piercing temperature, start a flush of scarlet, while frequent frostbites leave figures in black. Later the burning sun browns the skin; subsequently, strong winds sap the moisture, harden the skin and leave open fissures on the face. The human face takes upon itself the texture and configuration of the desolate, wind-driven world upon which it looks. Hard work and reduced nourishment contract the muscles, dispel the fat and leave the skin to shrivel in folds. The imprint of the goggles, the set expression of hard times, and the mental blank of the environment remove all spiritual animation. Our faces assumed the color and lines of old, withering, russet apples, and would easily pass for the mummied countenances of the prehistoric progenitors of man. In enforced efforts to spread out our stiffened legs over the last reaches, there was left no longer sufficient energy at camping times to erect snow shelters. Our silk tent was pressed into use. Although the temperature was still very low, the congenial rays pierced the silk fabric and rested softly on our eye lids closed in heavy slumber. In strong winds it was still necessary to erect a sheltering wall, whereby to shield the tent. As we progressed over the last one hundred mile-step, my mind was divested of its lethargy. Unconsciously I braced myself. My senses became more keen. With a careful scrutiny I now observed the phenomena of the strange world into which fortune had pressed us--first of all men. Step by step, I invaded a world untrodden and unknown. Dulled as I was by hardship, I thrilled with the sense of the explorer in new lands, with the thrill of discovery and conquest. "Then," as Keats says, "felt I like some watcher of the skies, when a new planet swims into his ken." In this land of ice I was master, I was sole invader. I strode forward with an undaunted glory in my soul. Signs of land, which I encouraged my companions to believe were real, were still seen every day, but I knew, of course, they were deceptive. It now seemed to me that something unusual must happen, that some line must cross our horizon to mark the important area into which we were passing. Through vapor-charged air of crystal, my eyes ran over plains moving in brilliant waves of running colors toward dancing horizons. Mirages turned things topsy-turvy. Inverted lands and queer objects ever rose and fell, shrouded in mystery. All of this was due to the atmospheric magic of the continued glory of midnight suns in throwing piercing beams of light through superimposed strata of air of varying temperature and density. Daily, by careful measurements, I found that our night shadows shortened and became more uniform during the passing hours of the day, as the shadow dial was marked. With a lucky series of astronomical observations our position was fixed for each stage of progress. Nearing the Pole, my imagination quickened. A restless, almost hysterical excitement came over all of us. My boys fancied they saw bears and seals. I had new lands under observation frequently, but with a change in the direction of light the horizon cleared. We became more and more eager to push further into the mystery. Climbing the long ladder of latitudes, there was always the feeling that each hour's work was bringing us nearer the Pole--the Pole which men had sought for three centuries, and which, fortune favoring, should be mine! Yet, I was often so physically tired that my mind was, when the momentary intoxications passed, in a sense, dulled. But the habit of seeing and of noting what I had seen, had been acquired. The habit, yes, of putting one foot in front of the other, mile after mile, through the wild dreariness of ice, the habit of observing, even though with aching, blurred eyes, and noting, methodically, however wearily, what the tired eyes had seen. From the eighty-eighth to the eighty-ninth parallel the ice lay in large fields, the surface was less irregular than formerly. In other respects it was about the same as below the eighty-seventh. I observed here also, an increasing extension of the range of vision. I seemed to scan longer distances, and the ice along the horizon had a less angular outline. The color of the sky and the ice changed to deeper purple-blues. I had no way of checking these impressions by other observations; the eagerness to find something unusual may have fired my imagination, but since the earth is flattened at the Pole, perhaps a widened horizon would naturally be detected there. At eight o'clock on the morning of April 19, we camped on a picturesque old field, with convenient hummocks, to the top of which we could easily rise for the frequent outlook which we now maintained. We pitched our tent, and silenced the dogs by blocks of pemmican. New enthusiasm was aroused by a liberal pot of pea-soup and a few chips of frozen meat. Then we bathed in life-giving sunbeams, screened from the piercing air by the strands of the silk-walled tent. The day was beautiful. Had our sense of appreciation not been blunted by accumulated fatigue we should have greatly enjoyed the play of light and color in the ever-changing scene of sparkle. But in our condition it was but an inducement to keep the eyes open and to prolong interest long enough to dispel the growing complaint of aching muscles. Ah-we-lah and E-tuk-i-shook were soon lost in profound sleep, the only comfort in their hard lives. I remained awake, as had been my habit for many preceding days, to get nautical observations. My longitude calculations lined us at 94° 3´. At noon the sun's altitude was carefully set on the sextant, and the latitude, quickly reduced, gave 89° 31´. The drift had carried us too far east, but our advance was encouraging. I put down the instrument, wrote the reckonings in my book. Then I gazed, with a sort of fascination, at the figures. My heart began to thump wildly. Slowly my brain whirled with exultation. I arose jubilant. We were only 29 miles from the North Pole! I suppose I created quite a commotion about the little camp. E-tuk-i-shook, aroused by the noise, awoke and rubbed his eyes. I told him that in two average marches we should reach the "_tigi-shu_"--the big nail. He sprang to his feet and shouted with joy. He kicked Ah-we-lah, none too gently, and told him the glad news. Together they went out to a hummock, and through glasses, sought for a mark to locate so important a place as the terrestrial axis! If but one sleep ahead, it must be visible! So they told me, and I laughed. The sensation of laughing was novel. At first I was quite startled. I had not laughed for many days. Their idea was amusing, but it was eminently sensible from their standpoint and knowledge. I tried to explain to them that the Pole is not visible to the eye, and that its position is located only by a repeated use of the various instruments. Although this was quite beyond their comprehension the explanation entirely satisfied their curiosity. They burst out in hurrahs of joy. For two hours they chanted, danced and shouted the passions of wild life. Their joy, however, was in the thought of a speedy turning back homeward, I surmised. This, however, was the first real sign of pleasure or rational emotion which they had shown for several weeks. For some time I had entertained the fear that we no longer possessed strength to return to land. This unbridled flow of vigor dispelled that idea. My heart throbbed with gladness. A font of new strength seemed to gush forth within me. Considering through what we had gone, I now marvel at the reserve forces latent in us, and I sometimes feel that I should write, not of human weakness, but a new gospel of human strength. With the Pole only twenty-nine miles distant, more sleep was quite impossible. We brewed an extra pot of tea, prepared a favorite broth of pemmican, dug up a surprise of fancy biscuits and filled up on good things to the limit of the allowance for our final feast days. The dogs, which had joined the chorus of gladness, were given an extra lump of pemmican. A few hours more were agreeably spent in the tent. Then we started out with new spirit for the uttermost goal of our world. Bounding joyously forward, with a stimulated mind, I reviewed the journey. Obstacle after obstacle had been overcome. Each battle won gave a spiritual thrill, and courage to scale the next barrier. Thus had been ever, and was still, in the unequal struggles between human and inanimate nature, an incentive to go onward, ever onward, up the stepping-stones to ultimate success. And now, after a life-denying struggle in a world where every element of Nature is against the life and progress of man, triumph came with steadily measured reaches of fifteen miles a day! We were excited to fever heat. Our feet were light on the run. Even the dogs caught the infectious enthusiasm. They rushed along at a pace which made it difficult for me to keep a sufficient advance to set a good course. The horizon was still eagerly searched for something to mark the approaching boreal center. But nothing unusual was seen. The same expanse of moving seas of ice, on which we had gazed for five hundred miles, swam about us as we drove onward. Looking through gladdened eyes, the scene assumed a new glory. Dull blue and purple expanses were transfigured into plains of gold, in which were lakes of sapphire and rivulets of ruby fire. Engirdling this world were purple mountains with gilded crests. It was one of the few days on the stormy pack when all Nature smiled with cheering lights. As the day advanced beyond midnight and the splendor of the summer night ran into a clearer continued day, the beams of gold on the surface snows assumed a more burning intensity. Shadows of hummocks and ice ridges became dyed with a deeper purple, and in the burning orange world loomed before us Titan shapes, regal and regally robed. From my position, a few hundred yards ahead of the sleds, with compass and axe in hand, as usual, I could not resist the temptation to turn frequently to see the movement of the dog train with its new fire. In this backward direction the color scheme was reversed. About the horizon the icy walls gleamed like beaten gold set with gem-spots of burning colors; the plains represented every shade of purple and blue, and over them, like vast angel wings outspread, shifted golden pinions. Through the sea of palpitating color, the dogs came, with spirited tread, noses down, tails erect and shoulders braced to the straps, like chariot horses. In the magnifying light they seemed many times their normal size. The young Eskimos, chanting songs of love, followed with easy, swinging steps. The long whip was swung with a brisk crack. Over all arose a cloud of frosted breath, which, like incense smoke, became silvered in the light, a certain signal of efficient motive power. With our destination reachable over smooth ice, in these brighter days of easier travel our long chilled blood was stirred to double action, our eyes opened to beauty and color, and a normal appreciation of the wonders of this new strange and wonderful world. As we lifted the midnight's sun to the plane of the midday sun, the shifting Polar desert became floored with a sparkling sheen of millions of diamonds, through which we fought a way to ulterior and greater glory. Our leg cramps eased and our languid feet lifted buoyantly from the steady drag as the soul arose to effervescence. Fields of rich purple, lined with running liquid gold, burning with flashes of iridescent colors, gave a sense of gladness long absent from our weary life. The ice was much better. We still forced a way over large fields, small pressure areas and narrow leads. But, when success is in sight, most troubles seem lighter. We were thin, with faces burned, withered, frozen and torn in fissures, with clothes ugly from overwear. Yet men never felt more proud than we did, as we militantly strode off the last steps to the world's very top! Camp was pitched early in the morning of April 20. The sun was northeast, the pack glowed in tones of lilac, the normal westerly air brushed our frosty faces. Our surprising burst on enthusiasm had been nursed to its limits. Under it a long march had been made over average ice, with the usual result of overpowering fatigue. Too tired and sleepy to wait for a cup of tea, we poured melted snow into our stomach and pounded the pemmican with an axe to ease the task of the jaws. Our eyes closed before the meal was finished, and the world was lost to us for eight hours. Waking, I took observations which gave latitude 89° 46´. Late at night, after another long rest, we hitched the dogs and loaded the sleds. When action began, the feeling came that no time must be lost. Feverish impatience seized me. Cracking our whips, we bounded ahead. The boys sang. The dogs howled. Midnight of April 21 had just passed. Over the sparkling snows the post-midnight sun glowed like at noon. I seemed to be walking in some splendid golden realms of dreamland. As we bounded onward the ice swam about me in circling rivers of gold. E-tuk-i-shook and Ah-we-lah, though thin and ragged, had the dignity of the heroes of a battle which had been fought through to success. We all were lifted to the paradise of winners as we stepped over the snows of a destiny for which we had risked life and willingly suffered the tortures of an icy hell. The ice under us, the goal for centuries of brave, heroic men, to reach which many had suffered terribly and terribly died, seemed almost sacred. Constantly and carefully I watched my instruments in recording this final reach. Nearer and nearer they recorded our approach. Step by step, my heart filled with a strange rapture of conquest. At last we step over colored fields of sparkle, climbing walls of purple and gold--finally, under skies of crystal blue, with flaming clouds of glory, we touch the mark! The soul awakens to a definite triumph; there is sunrise within us, and all the world of night-darkened trouble fades. We are at the top of the world! The flag is flung to the frigid breezes of the North Pole! [Illustration: ROUTE TO THE POLE AND RETURN A triangle of 30,000 square miles cut out of the mysterious unknown] AT THE NORTH POLE OBSERVATIONS AT THE POLE--METEOROLOGICAL AND ASTRONOMICAL PHENOMENA--SINGULAR STABILITY AND UNIFORMITY OF THE THERMOMETER AND BAROMETER--A SPOT WHERE ONE'S SHADOW IS THE SAME LENGTH EACH HOUR OF THE TWENTY-FOUR--EIGHT POLAR ALTITUDES OF THE SUN XX FULL AND FINAL PROOFS OF THE ATTAINMENT Looking about me, after the first satisfactory observation, I viewed the vacant expanse. The first realization of actual victory, of reaching my lifetime's goal, set my heart throbbing violently and my brain aglow. I felt the glory which the prophet feels in his vision, with which the poet thrills in his dream. About the frozen plains my imagination evoked aspects of grandeur. I saw silver and crystal palaces, such as were never built by man, with turrets flaunting "pinions glorious, golden." The shifting mirages seemed like the ghosts of dead armies, magnified and transfigured, huge and spectral, moving along the horizon and bearing the wind-tossed phantoms of golden blood-stained banners. The low beating of the wind assumed the throb of martial music. Bewildered, I realized all that I had suffered, all the pain of fasting, all the anguish of long weariness, and I felt that this was my reward. I had scaled the world, and I stood at the Pole! By a long and consecutive series of observations and mental tabulations of various sorts on our journey northward, continuing here, I knew, beyond peradventure of doubt, that I was at a spot which was as near as possible, by usual methods of determination, five hundred and twenty miles from Svartevoeg, a spot toward which men had striven for more than three centuries--a spot known as the North Pole, and where I stood first of white men. In my own achievement I felt, that dizzy moment, that all the heroic souls who had braved the rigors of the Arctic region found their own hopes' fulfilment. I had realized their dream. I had culminated with success the efforts of all the brave men who had failed before me. I had finally justified their sacrifices, their very death; I had proven to humanity humanity's supreme triumph over a hostile, death-dealing Nature. It seemed that the souls of these dead exulted with me, and that in some sub-strata of the air, in notes more subtle than the softest notes of music, they sang a pæan in the spirit with me. We had reached our destination. My relief was indescribable. The prize of an international marathon was ours. Pinning the Stars and Stripes to a tent-pole, I asserted the achievement in the name of the ninety millions of countrymen who swear fealty to that flag. And I felt a pride as I gazed at the white-and-crimson barred pinion, a pride which the claim of no second victor has ever taken from me. My mental intoxication did not interfere with the routine work which was now necessary. Having reached the goal, it was imperative that all scientific observations be made as carefully as possible, as quickly as possible. To the taking of these I set myself at once, while my companions began the routine work of unloading the sledges and building an igloo. [Illustration: CLIMBING THE LADDER OF LATITUDES] Our course when arriving at the Pole, as near as it was possible to determine, was on the ninety-seventh meridian. The day was April 21, 1908. It was local noon. The sun was 11° 55´´ above the magnetic northern horizon. My shadow, a dark purple-blue streak with ill-defined edges, measured twenty-six feet in length. The tent pole, marked as a measuring stick, was pushed into the snow, leaving six feet above the surface. This gave a shadow twenty-eight feet long. Several sextant observations gave a latitude a few seconds below 90°, which, because of unknown refraction and uncertain accuracy of time, was placed at 90°. (Other observations on the next day gave similar results, although we shifted camp four miles toward magnetic south.) A broken hand-axe was tied to the end of a life-line; this was lowered through a fresh break in the ice, and the angle which it made with the surface indicated a drift toward Greenland. The temperature, gauged by a spirit thermometer, was 37.7°, F. The mercury thermometer indicated -36°. The atmospheric pressure by the aneroid barometer was at 29.83. It was falling, and indicated a coming change in the weather. The wind was very light, and had veered from northeast to south, according to the compass card. The sky was almost clear, of a dark purple blue, with a pearly ice-blink or silver reflection extending east, and a smoky water-sky west, in darkened, ill-defined streaks, indicating continuous ice or land toward Bering Sea, and an active pack, with some open water, toward Spitzbergen. To the north and south were wine-colored gold-shot clouds, flung in long banners, with ragged-pointed ends along the horizon. The ice about was nearly the same as it had been continuously since leaving the eighty-eighth parallel. It was slightly more active, and showed, by news cracks and oversliding, young ice signs of recent disturbance. The field upon which we camped was about three miles long and two miles wide. Measured at a new crevasse, the ice was sixteen feet thick. The tallest hummock measured twenty-eight feet above water. The snow lay in fine feathery crystals, with no surface crust. About three inches below the soft snow was a sub-surface crust strong enough to carry the bodily weight. Below this were other successive crusts, and a porous snow in coarse crystals, with a total depth of about fifteen inches. Our igloo was built near one edge in the lee of an old hummock about fifteen feet high. Here a recent bank of drift snow offered just the right kind of material from which to cut building blocks. While a shelter was thus being walled, I moved about constantly to read my instruments and to study carefully the local environment. In a geographic sense we had now arrived at a point where all meridians meet. The longitude, therefore, was zero. Time was a negative problem. There being no longitude, there can be no time. The hour lines of Greenwich, of New York, of Peking, and of all the world here run together. Figuratively, if this position is the pin-point of the earth's axis, it is possible to have all meridians under one foot, and therefore it should be possible to step from midnight to midday, from the time of San Francisco to that of Paris, from one side of the globe to the other, as time is measured. [Illustration: WHERE ALL MERIDIANS MEET AND EVERY DIRECTION IS SOUTH The Pivotal Point on which the earth turns. *Magnetic Pole] Here there is but one day and but one night in each year, but the night of six months is relieved by about one hundred days of continuous twilight. Geographically, there was here but one direction. It was south on every line of the dial of longitude--north, east and west had vanished. We had reached a point where true direction became a paradox and a puzzle. It was south before us, south behind us, and south on every side. But the compass, pointing to the magnetic Pole along the ninety-seventh meridian, was as useful as ever. (To avoid statements easily misunderstood, all our directions about the Pole will be given as taken from the compass, and without reference to the geographer's anomaly of its being south in every direction.) =My first noon observations= gave the following result, which is copied from the original paper, as it was written at the Pole and reproduced photographically on another page. April 21, 1908: Long., 97-W.; Bar., 29-83; Temp., -37.7; Clouds Alt., St., 1; Wind, 1; Mag., S.; Iceblink E.; Water Sky W. Noon Alt. 0 23--33--25 --- +2 +-------------- 2 | 23--35--25 +-------------- 11--47--42 5 +15--56 --------------- 50 12-- 3--38 6½ --9 ----------- --------------- 25 11--54--38 300 90 +---------- --------------- 60 | 325 78-- 5--22 +---------- 11--54--23 5--25 --------------- 11--48--58 89--59--45 ---------- 11--54--23 Shadows 28 ft. (of 6 ft. pole). Taking advantage of our brief stay, the boys set up the ice-axe and drying sticks, and hung upon them their perspiration-wetted and frosted furs to dry. Hanging out wet clothes and an American flag at the North Pole seemed an amusing incongruity. The puzzled standpoint of my Eskimos was amusing. They tried hard to appreciate the advantages of finding this suppositious "_tigi shu_" (big nail), but actually here, they could not, even from a sense of deference to me and my judgment, entirely hide their feeling of disappointment. On the advance I had told them that an actual "big nail" would not be found--only the point where it ought to be. But I think they really hoped that if it had actually disappeared they should find that it had come back into place after all! In building our igloo the boys frequently looked about expectantly. Often they ceased cutting snow-blocks and rose to a hummock to search the horizon for something which, to their idea, must mark this important spot, for which we had struggled against hope and all the dictates of personal comforts. At each breathing spell their eager eyes picked some sky sign which to them meant land or water, or the play of some god of land or sea. The naive and sincere interest which the Eskimos on occasions feel in the mystery of the spirit-world gives them an imaginative appreciation of nature often in excess of that of the more material and skeptical Caucasian. Arriving at the mysterious place where, they felt, something should happen, their imagination now forced an expression of disappointment. In a high-keyed condition, all their superstitions recurred to them with startling reality. In one place the rising vapor proved to be the breath of the great submarine god--the "_Ko-Koyah_." In another place, a motionless little cloud marked the land in which dwelt the "_Turnah-huch-suak_," the great Land God, and the air spirits were represented by the different winds, with sex relations. Ah-we-lah and E-tuk-i-shook, with the astuteness of the aborigine, who reads Nature as a book, were sharp enough to note that the high air currents did not correspond to surface currents; for, although the wind was blowing homeward, and changed its force and direction, a few high clouds moved persistently in a different direction. This, to them, indicated a warfare among the air spirits. The ice and snow were also animated. To them the whole world presented a rivalry of conflicting spirits which offered never-ending topics of conversation. As the foot pressed the snow, its softness, its rebound, or its metallic ring indicated sentiments of friendliness or hostility. The ice, by its color, movement or noise, spoke the humor of its animation, or that of the supposed life of the restless sea beneath it. In interpreting these spirit signs, the two expressed considerable difference of opinion. Ah-we-lah saw dramatic situations and became almost hysterical with excitement; E-tuk-i-shook saw only a monotone of the normal play of life. Such was the trend of interest and conversation as the building of the igloos was completed. Contrary to our usual custom, the dogs had been allowed to rest in their traces attached to the sleds. Their usual malicious inquisitiveness exhausted, they were too tired to examine the sleds to steal food. But now, as the house was completed, holes were chipped with a knife in ice-shoulders, through which part of a trace was passed, and each team was thus securely fastened to a ring cut in ice-blocks. Then each dog was given a double ration of pemmican. Their pleasure was expressed by an extra twist of the friendly tails and an extra note of gladness from long-contracted stomachs. Finishing their meal, they curled up and warmed the snow, from which they took an occasional bite to furnish liquid for their gastric economy. Almost two days of rest followed, and this was the canine celebration of the Polar attainment. We withdrew to the inside of the dome of snow-blocks, pulled in a block to close the doors, spread out our bags as beds on the platform of leveled snow, pulled off boots and trousers, and slipped half-length into the bristling reindeer furs. We then discussed, with chummy congratulations, the success of our long drive to the world's end. While thus engaged, the little Juel stove piped the cheer of the pleasure of ice-water, soon to quench our chronic thirst. In the meantime, Ah-we-lah and E-tuk-i-shook pressed farther and farther into their bags, pulled over the hoods, and closed their eyes to an overpowering fatigue. But my lids did not easily close. I watched the fire. More ice went into the kettle. With the satisfaction of an ambition fulfilled, I peeped out occasionally through the pole-punched port, and noted the horizon glittering with gold and purple. Quivers of self-satisfying joy ran up my spine and relieved the frosty mental bleach of the long-delayed Polar anticipation. In due time we drank, with grateful satisfaction, large quantities of ice-water, which was more delicious than any wine. A pemmican soup, flavored with musk ox tenderloins, steaming with heat--a luxury seldom enjoyed in our camps--next went down with warming, satisfying gulps. This was followed by a few strips of frozen fresh meat, then by a block of pemmican. Later, a few squares of musk ox suet gave the taste of sweets to round up our meal. Last of all, three cups of tea spread the chronic stomach-folds, after which we reveled in the sense of fulness of the best meal of many weeks. With full stomachs and the satisfaction of a worthy task well performed, we rested. We had reached the zenith of man's Ultima Thule, which had been sought for more than three centuries. In comfortable berths of snow we tried to sleep, turning with the earth on its northern axis. But sleep for me was impossible. At six o'clock, or six hours after our arrival at local noon, I arose, went out of the igloo, and took a double set of observations. Returning, I did some figuring, lay down on my bag, and at ten o'clock, or four hours later, leaving Ah-we-lah to guard the camp and dogs, E-tuk-i-shook joined me to make a tent camp about four miles to the magnetic south. My object was to have a slightly different position for subsequent observations. Placing our tent, bags and camp equipment on a sled, we pushed it over the ice field, crossed a narrow lead sheeted with young ice, and moved on to another field which seemed to have much greater dimensions. We erected the tent not quite two hours later, in time for a midnight observation. These sextant readings of the sun's altitude were continued for the next twenty-four hours. In the idle times between observations, I went over to a new break between the field on which we were camped and that on which Ah-we-lah guarded the dogs. Here the newly-formed sheets of ice slid over each other as the great, ponderous fields stirred to and fro. A peculiar noise, like that of a crying child, arose. It came seemingly from everywhere, intermittently, in successive crying spells. Lying down, and putting my fur-cushioned ear to the edge of the old ice, I heard a distant thundering noise, the reverberations of the moving, grinding pack, which, by its wind-driven sweep, was drifting over the unseen seas of mystery. In an effort to locate the cry, I searched diligently along the lead. I came to a spot where two tiny pieces of ice served as a mouthpiece. About every fifteen seconds there were two or three sharp, successive cries. With the ice-axe I detached one. The cries stopped; but other cries were heard further along the line. The time for observations was at hand, and I returned to take up the sextant. Returning later to the lead, to watch the seas breathe, the cry seemed stilled. The thin ice-sheets were cemented together, and in an open space nearby I had an opportunity to study the making and breaking of the polar ice. That tiny film of ice which voiced the baby cries spreads the world's most irresistible power. In its making we have the nucleus for the origin of the polar pack, that great moving crust of the earth which crunches ships, grinds rocks, and sweeps mountains into the sea. Beginning as a mere microscopic crystal, successive crystals, by their affinity for each other, unite to make a disc. These discs, by the same law of cohesion, assemble and unite. Now the thin sheet, the first sea ice, is complete, and either rests to make the great field of ice, or spreads from floe to floe and from field to field, thus spreading, bridging and mending the great moving masses which cover the mid-polar basin. Another law of nature was solved by a similar insignificant incident. In spreading our things out to air and dry (for things will dry in wind and sun, even at a very low temperature), two pieces of canvas were thrown on a hummock. It was a white canvas sled-cover and a black strip of canvas, in which the boat fittings were wrapped. When these strips of canvas were lifted it was found that under the part of the black canvas, resting on a slope at right angles to the sun, the snow had melted and recongealed. Under the white canvas the snow had not changed. The temperature was -41°; we had felt no heat, but this black canvas had absorbed enough heat from a feeble sun to melt the snow beneath it. This little lesson in physics began to interest me, and on the return many similar experiments were made. As the long, tedious marches were made, I asked myself the questions: Why is snow white? Why is the sky blue? And why does black burn snow when white does not? Little by little, in the long drive of monotony, satisfactory answers came to these questions. Thus, in seeking abstract knowledge, the law of radiation was thoroughly examined. In doing this, there came to me slowly the solution of various problems of animal life, and eventually there was uncovered what to me proved a startling revelation in the incidents that led up to animal coloring in the Arctic. For here I found that the creatures' fur and feathers were colored in accord with their needs of absorbing external heat or of conserving internal heat. The facts here indicated will be presented later, when we deal with the snow-fitted creatures at close range. One of the impressions which I carried with me of this night march was that the sun seemed low--lower, indeed, than that of midday, which, in reality, was not true, for the observations placed it nine minutes higher. This was an indication of the force of habit. In the northward march we had noted a considerable relative difference in the height of the night sun and that of the day. Although this difference had vanished now, the mind at times refused to grasp the remarkable change.[16] At the Pole I was impressed by a peculiar uniformity in the temperature of the atmosphere throughout the twenty-four hours, and also by a strange monotone in color and light of sea and sky. I had begun to observe this as I approached the boreal center. The strange equability of light and color, of humidity and of air temperatures extended an area one hundred miles about the Pole. This was noted both on my coming and going over this district. Approaching the Pole, and as the night sun gradually lifted, an increasing equalization of the temperature of night and day followed. Three hundred miles from the Pole the thermometer at night had been from 10° to 20° lower than during the day. There the shivering chill of midnight made a strong contrast to the burning, heatless glitter of midday. At the Pole the thermometer did not rise or fall appreciably for certain fixed hours of the day or night, but remained almost uniform during the entire twenty-four hours. This, to a less notable extent, was true also of the barometer. Farther south there had been a difference in the day and night range of the barometer. Here, although the night winds continued more actively than those of the day, the barometer was less variable than at any time on my journey. At the Pole the tendency of change in force and direction of air currents, observed farther south, for morning and evening periods, was no longer noted. But when strong winds brushed the pack, a good deal of the Polar equalization gave place to a radical difference, giving a period for high and low temperatures; which period, however, did not correspond to the usual hours of day or night. The winds, therefore, seemed to carry to us the sub-Polar inequality of atmospheric variation in temperature and pressure. Many of the facts bearing upon this problem were not learned until later. Subsequently, I learned, also, that strong winds often disturb the Polar atmospheric sameness; but all is given here because of the striking impression which it made upon me at this time. In the region about the Pole I observed that, although there were remarkable and beauteous color blendings in the sky, the intense contrasts and the spectacular display of cloud effects, seen in more southern regions, were absent. A color suffusion is common throughout the entire Arctic zone. Light, pouring from the low-lying sun, is reflected from the ice in an indescribable blaze. From millions of ice slopes, with millions and millions of tiny reflecting surfaces, each one a mirror, some large, some smaller than specks of diamond dust, this light is sent back in different directions in burning waves to the sky. A liquid light seems forced back from the sky into every tiny crevice of this bejeweled wonderland. One color invariably predominates at a time. Sometimes the ice and air and sky are suffused with a hue of rose, again of orange, again of a light alloyed yellow, again blue; and, as we get farther north, more dominantly purple. Farther south, in our journey northward, we had viewed color effects in reality incomparably more beautiful than those in the regions about the Pole. The sun, farther south, in rising and setting, and with limitless changes of polarized and refracted light, passing through strata of atmosphere of varying depths of different density, produces kaleidoscopic changes of burning color. [Illustration: FIRST CAMP AT THE POLE, APRIL 21, 1908] [Illustration: AT THE POLE--"WE WERE THE ONLY PULSATING CREATURES IN A DEAD WORLD OF ICE"] At the Pole there were sunbursts, but because of the slight change in the sun's dip to the horizon, the prevailing light was invariably in shades running to purple. At first my imagination evoked a more glowing wonder than in reality existed; as the hours wore on, and as the wants of my body asserted themselves, I began to see the vacant spaces with a disillusionizing eye. The set of observations given here, taken every six hours, from noon on April 21 to midnight on April 22, 1908, fixed our position with reasonable certainty. These figures do not give the exact position for the normal spiral ascent of the sun, which is about fifty seconds for each hour, or five minutes for each six hours; but the uncertainties of error by refraction and ice-drift do not permit such accuracy of observations. These figures are submitted, therefore, not to establish the pin-point accuracy of our position, but to show that we had approximately reached a spot where the sun, throughout the twenty-four hours, circled the heavens in a line nearly parallel to the horizon. THE SUN'S TRUE CENTRAL ALTITUDE AT THE POLE. April 21 and 22, 1908. Seven successive observations, taken every six hours. Each observation is reduced for an instrumental error of +2´. For semi-diameter and also for refraction and parallax, -9´. The seven reductions are each calculated from two sextant readings, generally of an upper and lower limb. (TAKEN FROM MY FIELD NOTES.) April 21, 1908, 97th meridian local time--12 o'clock noon--11°--54´--40´´ 6 P. M. (same camp). 12--00--10 Moved camp 4 miles magnetic South 12 o'clock (midnight) 12-- 3--50 April 22nd, 6 A. M. 12-- 9--30 12 o'clock noon 12--14--20 6 P. M. 12--18--40 12 o'clock (midnight) 12--25--10 Temperature, -41. Barometer, 30.05. Shadow 27½ feet (of 6-foot pole). With the use of the sextant, the artificial horizon, pocket chronometers, and the usual instruments and methods of explorers, our observations were continued and our positions were fixed with the most painstakingly careful safeguards possible against inaccuracy. The value of all such observations as proof of a Polar success, however, is open to such interpretation as the future may determine. This applies, not only to me, but to anyone who bases any claim upon them. To me there were many seemingly insignificant facts noted in our northward progress which left the imprint of milestones. Our footprints marked a road ever onward into the unknown. Many of these almost unconscious reckonings took the form of playful impressions, and were not even at the time written down. In the first press reports of my achievement there was not space to go into minute details, nor did the presentation of the subject permit an elaboration on all the data gathered. But now, in the light of a better perspective, it seems important that every possible phase of the minutest detail be presented. For only by a careful consideration of every phase of every phenomena en route can a true verdict be obtained upon this widely discussed subject of Polar attainment. And now, right here, I want you to consider carefully with me one thing which made me feel sure that we had reached the Pole. This is the subject of shadows--our own shadows on the snow-covered ice. A seemingly unimportant phenomenon which had often been a topic of discussion, and so commonplace that I only rarely referred to it in my notebooks, our own shadows on the snow-cushioned ice had told of northward movement, and ultimately proved to my satisfaction that the Pole had been reached. In our northward progress--to explain my shadow observations from the beginning--for a long time after our start from Svartevoeg, our shadows did not perceptibly shorten or brighten, to my eyes. The natives, however, got from these shadows a never-ending variety of topics of conversation. They foretold storms, located game and read the story of home entanglements. Far from land, far from every sign of a cheering, solid earth, wandering with our shadows over the hopeless desolation of the moving seas of glitter, I, too, took a keen interest in the blue blots that represented our bodies. At noon, by comparison with later hours, they were sharp, short, of a dark, restful blue. At this time a thick atmosphere of crystals rested upon the ice pack, and when the sun sank the strongest purple rays could not penetrate the frosty haze. Long before the time for sunset, even on clear days, the sun was lost in low clouds of drifting needles. [Illustration: SHADOW-CIRCLES INDICATING THE APPROACH TO THE POLE Shadow-circle about 250 miles from the Pole. Circle from which extend radiating shadow-lines mark position of man. Shadow-circle when nearing the Pole, showing less difference in length during the changing hours. Shadow-circle at the Pole; standing on the same spot, at each hour, one's shadow is always apparently of the same length. Showing approximately the relative length of a man's shadow for each hour of the twenty-four-hour day.] After passing the eighty-eighth parallel there was a notable change in our shadows. The night shadow lengthened; the day shadow, by comparison, shortened. The boys saw in this something which they could not understand. The positive blue grew to a permanent purple, and the sharp outlines ran to vague, indeterminate edges. Now at the Pole there was no longer any difference in length, color or sharpness of outline between the shadow of the day or night. "What does it all mean?" they asked. The Eskimos looked with eager eyes at me to explain, but my vocabulary was not comprehensive enough to give them a really scientific explanation, and also my brain was too weary from the muscular poison of fatigue to frame words. The shadows of midnight and those of midday were the same. The sun made a circle about the heavens in which the eye detected no difference in its height above the ice, either night or day. Throughout the twenty-four hours there was no perceptible rise or set in the sun's seeming movement. Now, at noon, the shadow represented in its length the altitude of the sun--about twelve degrees. At six o'clock it was the same. At midnight it was the same. At six o'clock in the morning it was the same. A picture of the snowhouse and ourselves, taken at the same time and developed a year later, gives the same length of shadow. The compass pointed south. The night drop of the thermometer had vanished. Let us, for the sake of argument, grant that all our instrumental observations are wrong. Here is a condition of things in which I believed, and still believe, the eye, without instrumental assistance, places the sun at about the same height for every hour of the day and night. It is only on the earth's axis that such an observation is possible. [Illustration: At a latitude about New York, a man's shadow lengthens hour by hour as the sun descends toward the horizon at nightfall.] [Illustration: At the North Pole, a man's shadow is of equal length during the entire twenty-four hours, since the sun moves spirally around the heavens at about the same apparent height above the horizon throughout the twenty-four-hour day.] There was about us no land. No fixed point. Absolutely nothing upon which to rest the eye to give the sense of location or to judge distance. Here everything moves. The sea breathes, and lifts the crust of ice which the wind stirs. The pack ever drifts in response to the pull of the air and the drive of the water. Even the sun, the only fixed dot in this stirring, restless world, where all you see is, without your seeing it, moving like a ship at sea, seems to have a rapid movement in a gold-flushed circle not far above endless fields of purple crystal; but that movement is never higher, never lower--always in the same fixed path. The instruments detect a slight spiral ascent, day after day, but the eye detects no change. Although I had measured our shadows at times on the northward march, at the Pole these shadow notations were observed with the same care as the measured altitude of the sun by the sextant. A series was made on April 22, after E-tuk-i-shook and I had left Ah-we-lah in charge of our first camp at the Pole. We made a little circle for our feet in the snow. E-tuk-i-shook stood in the foot circle. At midnight the first line was cut in the snow to the end of his shadow, and then I struck a deep hole with the ice-axe. Every hour a similar line was drawn out from his foot. At the end of twenty-four hours, with the help of Ah-we-lah, a circle was circumscribed along the points, which marked the end of the shadow for each hour. The result is represented in the snow diagram on the next page. [Illustration: SHADOW DIAL AT THE POLE At the Pole, a man's shadow is about the same length for every hour of the double day. When a shadow line is drawn in the snow from a man's foot in a marked dial, the human shadows take the place of the hands of a clock and mark the time by compass bearing. The relative length of these shadows also give the latitude or a man's position north or south of the equator. When during two turns around the clock dial, the shadows are all of about equal length, the position of the earth's axis is positively reached--even if all other observations fail. This simple demonstration is an indisputable proof of being on the North Pole.] In the northward march we did not stay up all of bedtime to play with shadow circles. But, at this time, to E-tuk-i-shook the thing had a spiritual interest. To me it was a part of the act of proving that the Pole had been attained. For only about the Pole, I argued, could all shadows be of equal length. Because of this combination of keen interests, we managed to find an excuse, even during sleep hours, to draw a line on our shadow circle. Here, then, I felt, was an important observation placing me with fair accuracy at the Pole, and, unlike all other observations, it was not based on the impossible dreams of absolutely accurate time or sure corrections for refraction. [Illustration: HOW THE ALTITUDE OF THE SUN ABOVE THE HORIZON FIXES THE POSITION OF THE NORTH POLE OBSERVED ALTITUDES, APRIL 22, 1908 6 A. M. NOON 6 P. M. 12° 9´ 30´´ 12° 14´ 20´´ 12° 18´ 40´´ The exact altitude of the sun at noon of April 22, 1908, on the pole, was 12° 9´ 16´´, but owing to ice-drift--the impossibility of accurate time--and unknown error by refraction, no such pin-point accuracy can be recorded. At each hour the sun, circling about the horizon, cast a shadow of uniform length.] At the place where E-tuk-i-shook and I camped, four miles south of where I had left Ah-we-lah with the dogs, only two big ice hummocks were in sight. There were more spaces of open water than at our first camp. After a midnight observation--of April 22--we returned to camp. When the dogs saw us approaching in the distance they rose, and a chorus of howls rang over the regions of the Pole--regions where dogs had never howled before. All the scientific work being finished, we began hastily to make final preparations for departure. We had spent two days about the North Pole. After the first thrills of victory, the glamor wore away as we rested and worked. Although I tried to do so, I could get no sensation of novelty as we pitched our last belongings on the sleds. The intoxication of success had gone. I suppose intense emotions are invariably followed by reactions. Hungry, mentally and physically exhausted, a sense of the utter uselessness of this thing, of the empty reward of my endurance, followed my exhilaration. I had grasped my _ignus fatuus_. It is a misfortune for any man when his _ignus fatuus_ fails to elude him. During those last hours I asked myself why this place had so aroused an enthusiasm long-lasting through self-sacrificing years; why, for so many centuries, men had sought this elusive spot? What a futile thing, I thought, to die for! How tragically useless all those heroic efforts--efforts, in themselves, a travesty, an ironic satire, on much vainglorious human aspiration and endeavor! I thought of the enthusiasm of the people who read of the spectacular efforts of men to reach this vacant silver-shining goal of death. I thought, too, in that hour, of the many men of science who were devoting their lives to the study of germs, the making of toxins; to the saving of men from the grip of disease--men who often lost their own lives in their experiments; whose world and work existed in unpicturesque laboratories, and for whom the laudations of people never rise. It occurred to me--and I felt the bitterness of tears in my soul--that it is often the showy and futile deeds of men which men praise; and that, after all, the only work worth while, the only value of a human being's efforts, lie in deeds whereby humanity benefits. Such work as noble bands of women accomplish who go into the slums of great cities, who nurse the sick, who teach the ignorant, who engage in social service humbly, patiently, unexpectant of any reward! Such work as does the scientist who studies the depredations of malignant germs, who straightens the body of the crippled child, who precipitates a toxin which cleanses the blood of a frightful and loathsome disease! As my eye sought the silver and purple desert about me for some stable object upon which to fasten itself, I experienced an abject abandon, an intolerable loneliness. With my two companions I could not converse; in my thoughts and emotions they could not share. I was alone. I was victorious. But how desolate, how dreadful was this victory! About us was no life, no spot to relieve the monotony of frost. We were the only pulsating creatures in a dead world of ice. A wild eagerness to get back to land seized me. It seemed as though some new terror had arisen from the icy waters. Something huge, something baneful ... invisible ... yet whose terror-inspiring, burning eyes I felt ... the master genii of the goal, perhaps ... some vague, terrible, disembodied spirit force, condemned for some unimaginable sin to solitary prisonment here at the top of the world, and who wove its malignant, awful spell, and had lured men on for centuries to their destruction.... The desolation of the place was such that it was almost palpable; it was a thing I felt I must touch and see. My companions felt the heavy load of it upon them, and from the few words I overheard I knew they were eagerly picturing to themselves the simple joys of existence at Etah and Annoatok. I remember that to me came pictures of my Long Island home. All this arose, naturally enough, from the reaction following the strain of striving so long and so fiercely after the goal, combined with the sense of the great and actual peril of our situation. But what a cheerless spot this was, to have aroused the ambition of man for so many ages! There came forcibly, too, the thought that although the Pole was discovered, it was not essentially discovered, that it could be discovered, in the eyes of the world, unless we could return to civilization and tell what we had done. Should we be lost in these wastes or should we be frozen to death, or buried in the snow, or drowned in a crevasse, it would never be known that we had been here. It was, therefore, as vitally necessary to get back in touch with human life, with our report, as it had been to get to the Pole. Before leaving, I enclosed a note, written on the previous day, in a metallic tube. This I buried in the surface of the Polar snows. I knew, of course, that this would not remain long at the spot, as the ice was in the grip of a slow-drifting movement. I felt the possibility of this slow movement was more important than if it remained stationary; for, if ever found in the south, the destination of the tube would indicate the ice drift from the Pole. The following is an exact copy of the original note, which is reproduced photographically on another page: COPY OF NOTE IN TUBE. April 21--at the North Pole. Accompanied by the Eskimo boys Ah-we-lah and E-tuk-i-shuk I reached at noon to-day 90° N. a spot on the polar sea 520 miles north of Svartevoeg. We were 35 days en route. Hope to return to-morrow on a line slightly west of the northward track. New land was discovered along the 102 M. between 84 and 85. The ice proved fairly good, with few open leads, hard snow and little pressure trouble. We are in good health, and have food for forty days. This, with the meat of the dogs to be sacrificed, will keep us alive for fifty or sixty days. This note is deposited with a small American flag in a metallic tube on the drifting ice. Its return will be appreciated, to the International Bureau of Polar Research at the Royal Observatory, Uccle, Belgium. (Signed) FREDERICK A. COOK. [Illustration: POLAR ADVANCE OF THE NATIONAL STANDARDS Climax of four centuries of Arctic exploration--Stars and Stripes at the Pole.] THE RETURN--A BATTLE FOR LIFE AGAINST FAMINE AND FROST TURNED BACKS TO THE POLE AND TO THE SUN--THE DOGS, SEEMINGLY GLAD AND SEEMINGLY SENSIBLE THAT THEIR NOSES WERE POINTED HOMEWARD, BARKED SHRILLY--SUFFERING FROM INTENSE DEPRESSION--THE DANGERS OF MOVING ICE, OF STORMS AND SLOW STARVATION--THE THOUGHT OF FIVE HUNDRED AND TWENTY MILES TO LAND CAUSES DESPAIR XXI SOUTHWARD OVER THE MID-POLAR SEA With few glances backward, we continued the homeward run in haste, crossing many new crevasses and bound on a course along the one hundredth meridian. The eagerness to solve the mystery had served its purpose. The memory of the adventure for a time remained as a reminder of reckless daring. As we now moved along, there came more and more strongly the realization of the prospective difficulties of the return. Although the mercury was still frozen and the sun's perpetual flush was lost in a frigid blue, the time was at hand in lower latitudes for the ice to break and drift southward. With correct reasoning, all former expeditions had planned to return to land and a secure line of retreat by May 1. We could not hope to do this until early in June. It seemed probable, therefore, that the ice along the outskirts of the Polar sea would be much disrupted and that open water, small ice and rapid drifts would seriously interfere with our return to a sure footing on the shores of Fridtjof Nansen Sound. This and many other possible dangers had been carefully considered before, but the conquest of the Pole was not possible without such risks. We had started earlier than all other Polar expeditions and no time had been lost en route. If misfortune came to us, it could not be because of wasted energies or unnecessary delay. In the last days of the onward rush to success there had been neither time nor opportunity to ponder over future dangers, but now, facing the southern skies, under which lay home and all for which we lived, the back trail seemed indescribably long. In cold, sober thought, freed of the intoxication of Polar enthusiasm, the difficulties increasingly darkened in color. We clearly saw that the crucial stage of the campaign was not the taking of the Pole. The test of our fitness as boreal conquerors was to be measured by the outcome of a final battle for life against famine and frost. Figuring out the difficulties and possibilities of our return, I came to the conclusion that to endeavor to get back by our upward trail would not afford great advantage. Much time would be lost seeking the trail. The almost continuous low drift of snow during some part of nearly every day would obliterate our tracks and render the trail useless as a beaten track in making travel easier. The advantage of previously constructed snow houses as camps did not appeal to us. After one is accustomed to a new, clean, bright dome of snow every night, as we were, the return to such a camp is gloomy and depressing. The house is almost invariably left in such a shape that, for hygienic reasons alone, it should not be occupied. Furthermore, the influence of sun and storm absolutely destroys in a few days two out of three of all such shelter places. Moreover, we were now camping in our silk tent and did not require other shelter. At the season of the year in which we were traveling, the activity of the pack farther south made back-tracking impossible, because of irregular lateral drift of individual fields. And to me the most important reason was an eager desire to ascertain what might be discovered on a new trail farther west. It was this eagerness which led to our being carried adrift and held prisoners for a year. The first days, however, passed rapidly. The ice fields became smoother. On April 24 we crossed five crevasses. With fair weather and favorable ice, long marches were made. On the 24th we made sixteen miles, on the 25th fifteen miles, on the 26th, 27th and 28th, fourteen miles a day. The fire of the homing sentiment began to dispel our overbearing fatigue. The dogs sniffed the air. The Eskimos sang songs of the chase. To me also there came cheering thoughts of friends and loved ones to be greeted. I thought of delightful dinners, of soul-stirring music. For all of us, the good speed of the return chase brought a mental atmosphere of dreams of the pleasures of another world. For a time we were blinded to ultimate dangers, just as we had been in the northward dash. In our return along the one hundredth meridian, there were three important objects to be gained by a route somewhat west of the northward march. The increasing easterly drift would thus be counterbalanced. We hoped to get near enough to the new lands to explore a part of the coast. And a wider belt would be swept out of the unknown area. On April 30 the pedometer registered one hundred and twenty-one miles, and by our system of dead reckoning, which was usually correct, we should have been at latitude 87°, 59´, longitude 100°. The nautical observations gave latitude 88°, 1´, longitude 97°, 42´. We were drifting eastward, therefore, with increasing speed. To counterbalance our being moved by this drift, we turned and bounded southward in a more westerly course. The never-changing sameness of the daily routine was again felt. The novelty of success and the passion of the run for the goal were no longer operative. The scenes of shivering blue wearied the eye, and there was no inspiration in the moving sea of ice to gladden the heart. The thermometer rose and fell between 30 and 40° below zero, Fahrenheit, with a ceaseless wind. The first of May was at hand, bringing to mind the blossoms and smiles of a kindly world. But here all nature was narrowed to lines of ice. May 1 came with increasing color in the sunbursts, but without cheer. The splendor of terrestrial fire was a cheat. Over the horizon, mirages displayed celestial hysterics. The sun circled the skies in lines of glory, but its heat was a sham, its light a torment. The ice was heavy and smooth. On May 2, clouds obscured the sky, fog fell heavily over the ice, we struck our course with difficulty but made nineteen miles. On May 3 snow fell, but the end of the march brought clear skies, and, with them, the longing for my land of blossoming cherry and apple trees. With weary nerves, and with compass in hand, my lonely march ahead of the sledges continued day by day. Progress was satisfactory. We had passed the eighty-ninth and eighty-eighth parallels. The eighty-seventh and the eighty-sixth would soon be under foot, and the sight of the new lands should give encouragement. These hard-fought times were days long to be remembered. The lack of cerebral stimulation and nutrition left no cellular resource to aid the memory of those fateful hours of chill. The long strain of the march had established a brotherly sympathy amongst the trio of human strugglers. The dogs, though still possessing the savage ferocity of the wolf, had taken us into their community. We now moved among them without hearing a grunt of discord, and their sympathetic eyes followed until we were made comfortable on the cheerless snows. If they happened to be placed near enough, they edged up and encircled us, giving the benefit of their animal heat. To remind us of their presence, frost-covered noses were frequently pushed under the sleeping bag, and occasionally a cold snout touched our warm skin with a rude awakening. We loved the creatures, and admired their superb brute strength. Their superhuman adaptability was a frequent topic of conversation. With a pelt that was a guarantee against all weather condition, they threw themselves down to the sweep of winds, in open defiance of death-dealing storms. Eating but a pound of pemmican a day, and demanding neither water nor shelter, they willingly did a prodigious amount of work and then, as bed-fellows, daily offered their fur as shelter and their bones as head-rests to their two-footed companions. We had learned to appreciate the advantage of their beating breasts. The bond of animal fellowship had drawn tighter and tighter in a long run of successive adventures. And now there was a stronger reason than ever to appreciate power, for together we were seeking an escape from a world which was never intended for creatures with pulsating hearts. Much very heavy ice was crossed near the eighty-eighth parallel, but the endless unbroken fields of the northward trails were not again seen. Now the weather changed considerably. The light, cutting winds from the west increased in force, and the spasmodic squalls came at shorter intervals. The clear purples and blues of the skies gradually gave place to an ugly hue of gray. A rush of frosty needles came over the pack for several hours each day. The inducement to seek shelter in cemented walls of snow and to wait for better weather was very great. But such delay would mean certain starvation. Under fair conditions, there was barely food enough to reach land, and even short delays might seriously jeopardize our return. We could not, therefore, do otherwise than force ourselves against the wind and drift with all possible speed, paying no heed to unavoidable suffering. As there was no alternative, we tried to persuade ourselves that existing conditions might be worse than they were. The hard work of igloo building was now a thing of the past--only one had been built since leaving the Pole, and in this a precious day was lost, while the atmospheric fury changed the face of the endless expanse of desolation. The little silk tent protected us sufficiently from the icy airs. There were still 50° of frost, but, with hardened skins and insensible nerve filaments, the torture was not so keenly felt. Our steady diet of pemmican, tea and biscuits was not entirely satisfactory. We longed for enough to give a real filling sense, but the daily ration had to be slightly reduced rather than increased. The change in life from winter to summer, which should take place at about this time of the year, was, in our case, marked only by a change in shelter, from the snow house to the tent, and our beds were moved from the soft snow shelf of the igloo to the hard, wind-swept crust. In my watches to get a peep of the sun at just the right moment, I was kept awake during much of the resting period. For pastime, my eyes wandered from snorting dogs to snoring men. During one of these idle moments there came a solution of the utility of the dog's tail, a topic with which I had been at play for several days. It is quoted here at the risk of censure, because it is a typical phase of our lives which cannot be illustrated otherwise. Seeming trivialities were seized upon as food for thought. Why, I asked, has the dog a tail at all? The bear, the musk ox, the caribou and the hare, each in its own way, succeeds very well with but a dwarfed stub. Why does nature, in the dog, expend its best effort in growing the finest fur over a seemingly useless line of tail bones? The thing is distinctive, and one could hardly conceive of the creature without the accessory, but nature in the Arctic does not often waste energy to display beauties and temperament. This tail must have an important use; otherwise it would soon fall under the knife of frost and time. Yes! It was imported into the Arctic by the wolf progenitor of the dog from warmer lands, where its swing served a useful purpose in fly time. A nose made to breathe warm air requires some protection in the far north and the dog supplied the need with his tail. At the time when I made this discovery a cold wind, charged with cutting crystal, was brushing the pack. Each dog had his back arched to the wind and his face veiled with an effective curl of his tail. Thus each was comfortably shielded from icy torment by an appendage adapted to that very purpose. In the long tread over snowy wastes new lessons in human mechanism aroused attention. At first the effort to find a workable way over the troublesome pack surface had kept mind and body keyed to an exciting pitch, but slowly this had changed. By a kind of unconscious intuition, the eye now found easy routes, the lower leg mechanically traveled over yards and miles and degrees without even consulting the brain, while the leg trunk, in the effort to conserve energy, was left in repose at periods during miles of travel, thus saving much of the exertion of walking. The muscles, thus schooled to work automatically, left the mind free to work and play. The maddening monotone of our routine, together with the expenditure of every available strain of force, had left the head dizzy with emptiness. Something must be done to lift the soul out of the boreal bleach. The power of the mind over the horse-power of the body was here shown at its best. The flesh proved loyal to the gray matter only while mental entertainment was encouraged. Thus aching muscles were persuaded to do double duty without sending up a cry of tired feeling. The play of the mind with topics of its own choosing is an advantage worth seeking at all times. But, to us, it multiplied vital force and increased greatly the daily advance. Science, art and poetry were the heights to which the wings of thought soared. Beginning with the diversion of making curious speculations on subjects such as that of the use of the dog's tail and the Arctic law of animal coloring, the first period of this mental exercise closed with my staging a drama of the comedies and tragedies of the Eskimos. In the effort to frame sentiment in measured lines, a weird list of topics occupied my strained fancy. In more agreeable moods I always found pleasure in imagining a picture of the Polar sunrise, that budding period of life when all Nature awakens after its winter sleep. It was not difficult to start E-tuk-i-shook and Ah-we-lah on similar flights of fancy. A mere suggestion would keep up a flow of agreeable thought for several days. By such forced mental stimuli the centers of fatigue were deluded into insensibility. The eighty-seventh parallel was crossed, the eighty-sixth was neared, but there came a time when both mind and body wearied of the whole problem of forced resolution. On May 6 we were stopped at six in the morning by the approach of an unusual gale. The wind had been steady and strong all night, but we did not heed its threatening increase of force until too late. It came from the west, as usual, driving coarse snow with needle points. The ice about was old and hummocky, offering a difficult line of march, but some shelter. In the strongest blasts we threw ourselves over the sled behind hummocks and gathered new breath to force a few miles more. Finally, when no longer able to force the dogs through the blinding drift we sought the lee of an unlifted block of ice. Here suitable snow was found for a snow house. A few blocks were cut and set, but the wind swept them away as if they were chips. The tent was tried, but it could not be made to stand in the rush of the roaring tumult. In sheer despair we crept into the tent without erecting the pole. Creeping into bags, we then allowed the flapping silk to be buried by the drifting snow. Soon the noise and discomfort of the storm were lost and we enjoyed the comfort of an icy grave. An efficient breathing hole was kept open, and the wind was strong enough to sweep off the weight of a dangerous drift. A new lesson was thus learned in fighting the battle of life, and it was afterwards useful. Several days of icy despair now followed one another in rapid succession. The wind did not rise to the full force of a storm, but it was too strong and too cold to travel. The food supply was noticeably decreasing. The daily advance was less. With such weather, starvation seemed inevitable. Camp was moved nearly every day, but ambition sank to the lowest ebb. To the atmospheric unrest was added the instability of broken ice and the depressing mystery of an unknown position. For many days no observations had been possible. Our location could only be guessed at. Through driving storms, with the wind wailing in our ears and deafening us to the dismal howling of the hungry dogs, we pushed forward in a daily maddening struggle. The route before us was unknown. We were in the fateful clutch of a drifting sea of ice. I could not guess whither we were bound. At times I even lost hope of reaching land. Our bodies were tired. Our legs were numb. We were almost insensible to the mad craving hunger of our stomachs. We were living on a half ration of food, and daily becoming weaker.[17] Sometimes I paused, overcome by an almost overwhelming impulse to lie down and drift through sleep into death. At these times, fortunately, thoughts of home came thronging, with memories as tender as are the memories of singing spring-time birds in winter time. And, although the stimulating incentive of reaching the Pole on going north was gone, now, having accomplished the feat, there was always the thought that unless I got home no one should ever learn of that superhuman struggle, that final victory. Empty though it was, I had, as I had hoped, proved myself to myself; I had justified the three centuries of human effort: I had proven that finite human brain and palpitating muscle can be victorious over a cruel and death-dealing Nature. It was a testimony that it was my duty to give the world of struggling, striving men, and which, as a father, I hoped with pride to give to my little children. [Illustration: PTARMIGAN] BACK TO LIFE AND BACK TO LAND THE RETURN--DELUDED BY DRIFT AND FOG--CARRIED ASTRAY OVER AN UNSEEN DEEP--TRAVEL FOR TWENTY DAYS IN A WORLD OF MISTS, WITH THE TERROR OF DEATH--AWAKENED FROM SLEEP BY A HEAVENLY SONG--THE FIRST BIRD--FOLLOWING THE WINGED HARBINGER--WE REACH LAND--A BLEAK, BARREN ISLAND POSSESSING THE CHARM OF PARADISE--AFTER DAYS VERGING ON STARVATION, WE ENJOY A FEAST OF UNCOOKED GAME XXII SOUTHWARD INTO THE AMERICAN ARCHIPELAGO On May 24 the sky cleared long enough to permit me to take a set of observations. I found we were on the eighty-fourth parallel, near the ninety-seventh meridian. The new land I had noted on my northward journey was hidden by a low mist. The ice was much crevassed, and drifted eastward. Many open spaces of water were denoted in the west by patches of water sky. The pack was sufficiently active to give us considerable anxiety, although pressure lines and open water did not at the time seriously impede our progress. Scarcely enough food remained on the sledges to reach our caches unless we should average fifteen miles a day. On the return from the Pole to this point we had been able to make only twelve miles daily. Now our strength, even under fair conditions, did not seem to be equal to more than ten miles. The outlook was threatening, and even dangerous, but the sight of the cleared sky gave new courage to E-tuk-i-shook and Ah-we-lah. Our best course was to get to Fridtjof Nansen Sound as soon as possible. The new land westward was invisible, and offered no food prospects. An attempted exploration might cause a fatal delay. Still depending upon a steady easterly drift of the pack, a course was set somewhat west of Svartevoeg, the northern point of Axel Heiberg Land. In pressing onward, light variable winds and thick fogs prevailed. The ice changed rapidly to smaller fields as we advanced. The temperature rose to zero, and the air really began to be warm. Our chronic shivering disappeared. With light sledges and endurable weather, we made fair progress over the increasing pack irregularities. As we crossed the eighty-third parallel we found ourselves to the west of a large lead, extending slightly west of south. Immense quantities of broken and pulverized ice lined the shores to a width of several miles. The irregularities of this surface and the uncemented break offered difficulties over which no force of man or beast could move a sledge or boat. Compelled to follow the line of least resistance, a southerly course was set along the ice division. The wind now changed and came from the east, but there was no relief from the heavy banks of fog that surrounded us. The following days were days of desperation. The food for man and dog was reduced, and the difficulties of ice travel increased dishearteningly. We traveled twenty days, not knowing our position. A gray mystery enshrouded us. Terror followed in our wake. Beneath us the sea moved--whither it was carrying us I did not know. That we were ourselves journeying toward an illimitable, hopeless sea, where we should die of slow, lingering starvation, I knew was a dreadful probability. Every minute drew its pangs of despair and fear. The gray world of mist was silent. My companions gazed at me with faces shriveled, thinned and hardened as those of mummies. Their anguish was unspeakable. My own vocal powers seemed to have left me. Our dogs were still; with bowed heads, tails drooping, they pulled the sledges dispiritedly. We seemed like souls in torment, traveling in a world of the dead, condemned to some Dantesque torture that should never cease. After the mental torment of threatened starvation, which prevented, despite the awful languor of my tortured limbs, any sleep; after heart-breaking marches and bitter hunger and unquenched thirst, the baffling mist that had shut us from all knowledge at last cleared away one morning. Our hearts bounded. I felt such relief as a man buried alive must feel when, after struggling in the stifling darkness, his grave is suddenly opened. Land loomed to the west and south of us. Yet we found we had been hardly dealt with by fate. Since leaving the eighty-fourth parallel, without noticeable movement, we had been carried astray by the ocean drift. We had moved with the entire mass that covered the Polar waters. I took observations. They gave latitude 79° 32´, and longitude 101° 22´. At last I had discovered our whereabouts, and found that we were far from where we ought to be. But our situation was indeed nearly hopeless. The mere gaining a knowledge of where we actually were, however, fanned again the inextinguishable embers of hope. We were in Crown Prince Gustav Sea. To the east were the low mountains and high valleys of Axel Heiberg Land, along the farther side of which was our prearranged line of retreat, with liberal caches of good things and with big game everywhere. But we were effectually barred from all this. Between us and the land lay fifty miles of small crushed ice and impassable lines of open water. In hard-fought efforts to cross these we were repulsed many times. I knew that if by chance we should succeed in crossing, there would still remain an unknown course of eighty miles to the nearest cache, on the eastern coast of Axel Heiberg Land. We had no good reason to expect any kind of subsistence along the west coast of Axel Heiberg Land. We had been on three-fourths rations for three weeks, and there remained only half rations for another ten days. Entirely aside from the natural barriers in the way of returning eastward and northward, we were now utterly unequal to the task, for we had not the food to support us. The land to the south was nearer. Due south there was a wide gap which we took to be Hassel Sound. On each side there was a low ice-sheeted island, beyond the larger islands which Sverdrup had named Ellef Ringnes Land and Amund Ringnes Land. The ice southward was tolerably good and the drift was south-south-east. In the hope that some young seals might be seen we moved into Hassel Sound toward the eastern island. To satisfy our immediate pangs of hunger was our most important mission. The march on June 14 was easy, with a bright warm sun and a temperature but little under the freezing point. In a known position, on good ice, and with land rising before us, we were for a brief period happy and strong, even with empty stomachs. The horizon was eagerly sought for some color or form or movement to indicate life. We were far enough south to expect bears and seals, and expecting the usual luck of the hungry savage, we sought diligently. Our souls reached forth through our far-searching eyes. Our eyes pained with the intense fixity of gazing, yet no animate thing appeared. The world was vacant and dead. Our beating hearts, indeed, seemed to be the only palpitating things there. In the piercing rays of a high sun the tent was erected, and in it, after eating only four ounces of pemmican and drinking two cups of icy water, we sought rest. The dogs, after a similar ration, but without water, fell into an easy sleep. I regarded the poor creatures with tenderness and pity. For more than a fortnight they had not uttered a sound to disturb the frigid silence. When a sled dog is silent and refuses to fight with his neighbor, his spirit is very low. Finally I fell asleep. At about six o'clock we were awakened by a strange sound. Our surprised eyes turned from side to side. Not a word was uttered. Another sound came--a series of soft, silvery notes--the song of a creature that might have come from heaven. I listened with rapture. I believed I was dreaming. The enchanting song continued--I lay entranced. I could not believe this divine thing was of our real world until the pole of our tent gently quivered. Then, above us, I heard the flutter of wings. It was a bird--a snow bunting trilling its ethereal song--the first sound of life heard for many months. We were back to life! Tears of joy rolled down our emaciated faces. If I could tell you of the resurrection of the soul which came with that first bird note, and the new interest which it gave in our subsequent life, I should feel myself capable of something superhuman in powers of expression. With the song of that marvelous bird a choking sense of homesickness came to all of us. We spoke no word. The longing for home gripped our hearts. We were hungry, but no thought of killing this little feathered creature came to us. It seemed as divine as the bird that came of old to Noah in the ark. Taking a few of our last bread crumbs, we went out to give it food. The little chirping thing danced joyously on the crisp snows, evidently as glad to see us as we were to behold it. I watched it with fascination. At last we were back to life! We felt renewed vigor. And when the little bird finally rose into the air and flew homeward, our spirits rose, our eyes followed it, and, as though it were a token sent to us, we followed its winged course landward with eager, bounding hearts. We were now on immovable ice attached to the land. We directed our course uninterruptedly landward, for there was no thought of further rest or sleep after the visit of the bird had so uplifted our hearts. Our chances of getting meat would have been bettered by following close to the open water, but the ice there was such that no progress could be made. Furthermore, the temptation quickly to set foot on land was too great to resist. At the end of a hard march--the last few hours of which were through deep snows--we mounted the ice edge, and finally reached a little island--a bare spot of real land. When my foot touched it, my heart sank. We sat down, and the joy of the child in digging the sand of the seashore was ours. I wonder if ever such a bleak spot, in a desert of death, had so impressed men before as a perfect paradise. In this barren heap of sand and clay, we were at last free of the danger, the desolation, the sterility of that soul-withering environment of a monotonously moving world of ice and eternal frost. We fastened the dogs to a rock, and pitched the tent on earth-soiled snows. In my joy I did not forget that the Pole was ours, but, at that time, I was ready to offer freely to others the future pleasures of its crystal environment and all its glory. Our cup had been filled too often with its bitters and too seldom with its sweets for us to entertain further thirst for boreal conquest. And we also resolved to keep henceforth from the wastes of the terrible Polar sea. In the future the position of lands must govern our movements. For, along a line of rocks, although we might suffer from hunger, we should no longer be helpless chips on the ocean drift, and if no other life should be seen, at least occasional shrimps would gladden the heart. [Illustration: "WITH EAGER EYES WE SEARCHED THE DUSKY PLAINS OF CRYSTAL, BUT THERE WAS NO LAND, NO LIFE, TO RELIEVE THE PURPLE RUN OF DEATH"] [Illustration: RECORD LEFT IN BRASS TUBE AT NORTH POLE] We stepped about on the solid ground with a new sense of security. But the land about was low, barren, and shapeless. Its formation was triassic, similar to that of most of Heiberg land, but in our immediate surroundings, erosion by frost, the grind of ice sheets, and the power of winds, had leveled projecting rocks and cliffs. Part of its interior was blanketed with ice. Its shore line had neither the relief of a colored cliff nor a picturesque headland; there was not even a wall of ice; there were only dull, uninteresting slopes of sand and snow separating the frozen sea from the land-ice. The most careful scrutiny gave no indication of a living creature. The rocks were uncovered even with black lichens. A less inviting spot of earth could not be conceived, yet it aroused in us a deep sense of enthusiasm. A strip of tropical splendor could not have done more. The spring of man's passion is sprung by contrast, not by degrees of glory. In camp, the joy of coming back to earth was chilled by the agonizing call of the stomach. The effervescent happiness could not dispel the pangs of hunger. A disabled dog which had been unsuccessfully nursed for several days was sacrificed on the altar of hard luck, and the other dogs were thereupon given a liberal feed, in which we shared. To our palates the flesh of the dog was not distasteful, yet the dog had been our companion for many months, and at the same time that our conscienceless stomachs were calling for more hot, blood-wet meat, a shivering sense of guilt came over me. We had killed and were eating a living creature which had been faithful to us. We were hard-looking men at this time. Our fur garments were worn through at the elbows and at the knees. Ragged edges dangled in the winds. All the boot soles were mere films, like paper with many holes. Our stockings were in tatters. The bird-skin shirts had been fed to the dogs, and strips of our sleeping bags had day by day been added to the canine mess. It took all our spare time now to mend clothing. Dressed in rags, with ugly brown faces, seamed with many deep wind-fissures, we had reached, in our appearance, the extreme limit of degradation. At the Pole I had been thin, but now my skin was contracted over bones offering only angular eminences as a bodily outline. The Eskimos were as thin as myself. My face was as black as theirs. They had risen to higher mental levels, and I had descended to lower animal depths. The long strain, the hard experiences, had made us equals. We were, however, still in good health and were capable of considerable hard work. It was not alone the want of food which had shriveled our bodies, for greater pangs of hunger were reserved for a later run of misfortune. Up to this point persistent overwork had been the most potent factor. As we passed out of Hassel Sound, the ice drifted southward. Many new fractures were noted, and open spaces of water appeared. Here was seen the track of a rat--the first sign of a four-footed creature--and we stopped to examine the tiny marks with great interest. Next, some old bear tracks were detected. These simple things had an intense fascination for us, coming as we did out of a lifeless world; and, too, these signs showed that the possibilities of food were at hand, and the thought sharpened our senses into savage fierceness. We continued our course southward, as we followed, wolf-like, in the bear footprints. The sledges bounded over the icy irregularities as they had not done for months. Every crack in the ice was searched for seals, and with the glasses we mounted hummock after hummock to search the horizon for bears. We were not more than ten miles beyond land when Ah-we-lah located an auspicious spot to leeward. After a peep through the glasses he shouted. The dogs understood. They raised their ears, and jumped to the full length of their traces. We hurried eastward to deprive the bear of our scent, but we soon learned that he was as hungry as we were, for he made an air line for our changed position. We were hunting the bear--the bear was also hunting us. Getting behind a hummock, we awaited developments. Bruin persistently neared, rising on his haunches frequently so as the better to see E-tuk-i-shook, who had arranged himself like a seal as a decoy. When within a few hundred yards the dogs were freed. They had been waiting like entrenched soldiers for a chance to advance. In a few moments the gaunt creatures encircled the puzzled bear. Almost without a sound, they leaped at the great animal and sank their fangs into his hind legs. Ah-we-lah fired. The bear fell. Camp technique and the advantages of a fire were not considered--the meat was swallowed raw, with wolfish haste, and no cut of carefully roasted bullock ever tasted better. It was to such grim hunger that we had come. Then we slept, and after a long time our eyes reopened upon a world colored with new hope. The immediate threat of famine was removed, and a day was given over to filling up with food. Even after that, a liberal supply of fresh meat rested on the sledge for successive days of feasting. In the days which followed, other bears, intent on examining our larder, came near enough at times to enable us to keep up a liberal supply of fresh meat. With the assurance of a food supply, a course was set to enter Wellington Channel and push along to Lancaster Sound, where I hoped a Scottish whaler could be reached in July or August. In this way it seemed possible to reach home shores during the current year. If we should try to reach Annoatok I realized we should in all probability be compelled to winter at Cape Sabine. The ice to the eastward in Norwegian Bay offered difficulties like those of Crown Prince Gustav Sea, and altogether the easterly return to our base did not at this time seem encouraging. The air-line distance to Smith Sound and that to Lancaster Sound were about the same, with the tremendous advantage of a straight course--a direct drift--and fairly smooth ice to the southward. This conclusion to push forward for Lancaster Sound was reached on June 19. We were to the west of North Cornwall Island, but a persistent local fog gave only an occasional view of its icy upper slopes. The west was clear, and King Christian Land appeared as a low line of blue. About us the ice was small but free of pressure troubles. Bear tracks were frequently seen as we went along. The sea was bright. The air was delightfully warm, with the thermometer at 10° above zero. At every stop, the panting dogs tumbled and rolled playfully on the snows, and pushed their heated muzzles deep into the white chill. If given time they would quickly arrange a comfortable bed and stretch out, seemingly lifeless, for a refreshing slumber. At the awakening call of the lash, all were ready with a quick jump and a daring snarl, but the need of a tight trace removed their newly-acquired fighting propensity. They had gained strength and spirit with remarkable rapidity. Only two days before, they stumbled along with irregular step, slack traces, and lowered tails, but the fill of juicy bear's meat raised their bushy appendages to a coil of pride--an advantage which counted for several miles in a day's travel. The drift carried us into Penny Strait, midway between Bathurst Land and Grinnell Peninsula. The small islands along both shores tore up the ice and piled it in huge uplifts. There was a tremendous pressure as the floes were forced through narrow gorges. Only a middle course was possible for us, with but a few miles' travel to our credit for each day. But the southerly movement of the groaning ice was rapid. A persistent fog veiled the main coast on both sides, but off-lying islands were seen and recognized often enough to note the positions. At Dundas Island the drift was stopped, and we sought the shores of Grinnell Peninsula. Advancing eastward, close to land, the ice proved extremely difficult. The weather, however, was delightful. Between snowdrifts, purple and violet flowers rose over warm beds of newly invigorated mosses--the first flowers that we had seen for a long and weary time, and the sight of them, with their blossoms and color, deeply thrilled me. From misty heights came the howl of the white wolf. Everywhere were seen the traces of the fox and the lemming. The eider-duck and the ivory gull had entered our horizon. All nature smiled with the cheer of midsummer. Here was an inspiring fairyland for which our hearts had long yearned. In it there was music which the long stiffened tympanums were slow in catching. The land was an oasis of hardy verdure. The sea was a shifting scene of frost and blue glitter. With the soul freed from its icy fetters, the soft, sunny airs came in bounds of gladness. In dreamy stillness we sought the bosom of the frozen sea, and there heard the groan of the pack which told of home shores. Drops of water from melting snows put an end to thirst tortures. The blow of the whales and the seals promised a luxury of fire and fuel, while the low notes of the ducks prepared the palate for dessert. As we neared a little moss-covered island in drifting southward, we saw the interesting chick footprints of ptarmigan in the snow. The dogs pointed their ears and raised their noses, and we searched the clearing skies with eye and ear for the sudden swoop of the boreal chicken. I had developed a taste for this delicate fowl as desperate as that of the darky for chicken, and my conscience was sufficiently deadened by cold and hunger to break into a roost by night or day to steal anything that offered feathery delights for the palate. I was courting gastric desire, but the ptarmigan was engaged in another kind of courtship. Two singing capons were cooing notes of love to a shy chick, and they suddenly decided that there was not room for two, whereupon a battle ensued with a storm of wings and much darting of bills. In this excitement they got into an ice crevasse, where they might have become easy victims without the use of ammunition. But, with empty stomachs, there is also at times a heart-hunger, which pleases a higher sense and closes the eye to gastric wants. Later in the same day, we saw at a great distance what seemed like two men in motion. We hastened to meet them with social anticipations. Now they seemed tall--now mere dots on the horizon. I thought this due to their movement over ice irregularities. But boreal optics play havoc with the eye and the sense of perspective. As we rose suddenly on a hummock, where we had a clearer view, the objects rose on wings! They were ravens which had been enlarged and reduced by reflecting and refracting surfaces and a changing atmosphere, in much the same manner as a curved mirror makes a caricature of one's self. I laughed--bitterly. Dazed, bewildered, there was nevertheless for me a joy in seeing these living creatures, denizens of the land toward which we were directed. The bears no longer sought our camp, but the seals were conveniently scattered along our track. A kindly world had spread our waistbands to fairly normal dimensions. The palate began to exercise its discriminating force. Ducks and land animals were sought with greater eagerness. While in this mood, three white caribou were secured. They were beautiful creatures, and as pleasing to the palate as to the eye, but owing to the very rough ice it was quite impossible to carry more than a few days' supply. Usually we took only the choice parts of the game, but every eatable morsel of caribou that we could carry was packed on the sledges. With this wealth of food and fuel we moved along the shores of Wellington Channel to Pioneer Bay. We felt that we were steadily on our way homeward. There was no premonition of the keen disappointment that awaited us, of the inevitable imprisonment for the long Arctic winter and the days of starvation that were to come. [Illustration: PTARMIGAN CHICKS] OVERLAND TO JONES SOUND HOURS OF ICY TORTURE--A FRIGID SUMMER STORM IN THE BERG-DRIVEN ARCTIC SEA--A PERILOUS DASH THROUGH TWISTING LANES OF OPEN WATER IN A CANVAS CANOE--THE DRIVE OF HUNGER. XXIII ADRIFT ON AN ICEBERG As we neared Pioneer Bay, along the coast of North Devon, it became quite evident that farther advance by sledge was quite impossible. A persistent southerly wind had packed the channel with a jam of small ice, over which the effort of sledging was a hopeless task. The season was too far advanced to offer the advantage of an ice-foot on the shore line. There was no open water, nor any game to supply our larder. The caribou was mostly used. We began to feel the craving pain of short rations. Although the distance to Lancaster Sound was short, land travel was impossible, and, with no food, we could not await the drift of the ice. The uncertainty of game was serious, with nothing as a reserve to await the dubious coming of a ship. If game should appear, we might remain on the ice, accumulating in the meantime a supply of meat for travel by canvas boat later. This boat had been our hope in moving south, but thus far had not been of service. Forced to subsist mainly on birds, the ammunition rapidly diminished, and something had to be done at once to prevent famine. We might have returned to the game haunts of Grinnell Peninsula, but it seemed more prudent to cross the land to Jones Sound. Here, from Sverdrup's experience, we had reason to expect abundant game. By moving eastward there would be afforded the alternative of pushing northward if we failed to get to the whalers. The temperature now remained steadily near the freezing point, and with the first days of July the barometer became unsteady. On the 4th of July we began the climb of the highlands of North Devon, winding about Devonian cliffs toward the land of promise beyond. The morning was gray, as it had been for several days, but before noon black clouds swept the snowy heights and poured icy waters over us. We were saturated to the skin, and shivered in the chill of the high altitude. Soon afterwards a light breath-taking wind from the northwest froze our pasty furs into sheets of ice. Still later, a heavy fall of snow compelled us to camp. The snowstorm continued for two days, and held us in a snow-buried tent, with little food and no fuel. Although the storm occasioned a good deal of suffering, it also brought some advantages. The land had been imperfectly covered with snow, and we had been forced to drive from bank to bank, over bared ground, to find a workable course. But now all was well sheeted with crusted snow. Soon the gaunt, dun-colored cliffs of North Devon ended the monotony of interior snows, and beyond was seen the cheering blue of Jones Sound. Much open water extended along the north shore to beyond Musk Ox Fiord. The southern shores were walled with pack-ice for a hundred miles or more. In bright, cold weather we made a descent to Eidsbotn on July 7th. Here a diligent search for food failed. Daily the howl of wolves and the cry of birds came as a response to our calling stomachs. A scant supply of ducks was secured for the men with an expenditure of some of the last rifle ammunition, but no walruses, no seals, and no other big game were seen. To secure dog food seemed quite hopeless. We now had the saddest incident of a long run of trouble. Open water ran the range of vision, sledges were no longer possible, game was scarce, our ammunition was nearly exhausted. Our future fate had to be worked out in a canvas boat. What were we to do with the faithful dog survivors? In the little boat they could not go with us. We could not stay with them and live. We must part. Two had already left us to join their wolf progenitors. We gave the others the same liberty. One sledge was cut off and put into the canvas boat which we had carried to the Pole and back. Our sleeping-bags and old winter clothing were given as food to the dogs. All else was snugly packed in waterproof packages as well as possible, and placed in the boat. With sad eyes, we left the shore. The dogs howled like crying children; we still heard them when five miles off shore. Off Cape Vera there was open water, and beyond, as far eastward as we could see, its quivering surface offered a restful prospect. As we advanced, however, the weather proved treacherous, and the seas rose with sudden and disagreeable thumps. At times we camped on ice islands in the pack, but the pack-ice soon became too insecure, being composed of small pieces, and weakened in spots by the sun. Even a moderate gale would tear a pack apart, to be broken into smaller fragments by the water. Sometimes we made camp in the boat, with a box for a pillow and a piece of bear skin for a cover. With great anxiety we pulled to reach the land at Cape Sparbo before a storm entrapped us. To the north, the water was free of ice as far as the shores of Ellesmere Land, forty miles away. To avoid the glare of the midday sun, we chose to travel by night, but we were nearing the end of the season of Arctic double-days and midnight suns, when the winds come suddenly and often. Soon after midnight the wind from the Pacific came in short puffs, with periods of calm so sudden that we looked about each time for something to happen. At about the same time there came long swells from the northwest. We scented a storm, although at that time there were no other signs. The ice was examined for a possible line of retreat to the land, but, with pressure ridges, hummocks and breaks, I knew this was impossible. It was equally hopeless to camp on such treacherous ice. Berg ice had been passed the day before, but this was about as far behind as the land was ahead. So we pulled along desperately, while the swells shortened and rose. The atmosphere became thick and steel gray. The cliffs of Ellesmere Land faded, while lively clouds tumbled from the highlands to the sea. We were left no alternative but to seek the shelter of the disrupted pack, and press landward as best we could. We had hardly landed on the ice, and drawn our boat after us, when the wind struck us with such force that we could hardly stand against it. The ice immediately started in a westward direction, veering off from the land a little and leaving open leads. These leads, we now saw, were the only possible places of safety. For, in them, the waters were easy, and the wind was slightly shut off by the walls of pressure lines and hummocks. Furthermore, they offered slants now and then by which we could approach the land. The sledge was set under the boat and lashed. All our things were lashed to the wooden frame of the canoe to prevent the wind and the sea from carrying them away. We crossed several small floes and jumped the lines of water separating them, pulling sledge and canoe after us. The pressure lines offered severe barriers. To cross them we were compelled to separate the canoe from its sledge and remove the baggage. All of this required considerable time. A sense of hopelessness filled my heart. In the meantime, the wind veered to the east and came with a rush that left us helpless. We sought the lee of a hummock, and hoped the violence of the storm would soon spend itself, but there were no easy spells in this storm, nor did it show signs of early cessation. The ice about us moved rapidly westward and slowly seaward. It was no longer possible to press toward the land, for the leads of water were too wide and were lined with small whitecaps, while the tossing seas hurled mountains of ice and foaming water over the pack edge. The entire pack was rising and falling under faint swells, and gradually wearing to little fragments. The floe on which we stood was strong. I knew it would hold out longer than most of the ice about, but it was not high enough above water to give us a dry footing as the seas advanced. From a distance to the windward we noted a low iceberg slowly gaining on our floe. It was a welcome sight, for it alone could raise us high enough above the soul-despairing rush of the icy water. Its rich ultramarine blue promised ice of a sufficient strength to withstand the battling of the storm. Never were men on a sinking ship more anxious to reach a rock than we were to reach this blue stage of ice. It offered several little shelves, upon which we could rise out of the water upon the ice. We watched with anxious eyes as the berg revolved and forced the other ice aside. It aimed almost directly for us, and would probably cut our floe. We prepared for a quick leap upon the deck of our prospective craft. Bearing down upon us it touched a neighboring piece and pushed us away. We quickly pulled to the other pan, and then found, to our dismay, a wide band of mushy slush, as impossible to us for a footing as quicksand would have been. As the berg passed, however, it left a line of water behind it. We quickly threw boat and sledge into this, paddled after the berg, and, reaching it, leaped to its security. What a relief to be raised above the crumbling pack-ice and to watch from safety the thundering of the elements! The berg which we had boarded was square, with rounded corners. Its highest points were about twenty feet above water; the general level was about ten feet. The ice was about eighty feet thick, and its width was about a hundred feet. These dimensions assured stability, for if the thing had turned over, as bergs frequently do, we should be left to seek breath among the whales. It was an old remnant of a much larger berg which had stood the Arctic tempest for many years. This we figured out from the hard blue of the ice and its many caverns and pinnacles. We were, therefore, on a secure mass of crystal which was not likely to suffer severely from a single storm. Its upper configuration, however, though beautiful in its countless shades of blue, did not offer a comfortable berth. There were three pinnacles too slippery and too steep to climb, with a slope leading by a gradual incline on each side. Along these the seas had worn grooves leading to a central concavity filled with water. The only space which we could occupy was the crater-like rim around this lake. At this time we had to endure only the seething pitch of the sea and the cutting blast of the storm. The small ice about kept the seas from boarding. To prevent our being thrown about on the slippery surface, we cut holes into the pinnacles and spread lines about them, to which we clung. The boat was securely fastened in a similar way by cutting a makeshift for a ringbolt in the floor of ice. Then we pushed from side to side along the lines, to encourage our hearts and to force our circulation. Although the temperature was only at the freezing point, it was bitterly cold, and we were in a bad way to weather a storm. The sea had drenched us from head to foot. Only our shirts were dry. With hands tightly gripped to the line and to crevasses, we received the spray of the breaking icy seas while the berg ploughed the scattered pack and plunged seaward. The cold, though only at the freezing point, pierced our snow-pasted furs and brought shivers worse than that of zero's lowest. Thus the hours of physical torture and mental anguish passed, while the berg moved towards the gloomy black cliff of Hell Gate. Here the eastern sky bleached and the south blued, but the falling temperature froze our garments to coats of mail. We were still dressed in part of our winter garments. The coat was of sealskin, with hood attached; the shirt of camel's hair blanket, also with a hood; the trousers of bear fur; boots of seal, with hair removed, and stockings of hare fur. The mittens were of seal, and there were pads of grass for the palms and soles. Our garments, though not waterproof, shed water and excluded the winds, but there is a cold that comes with wet garments and strong winds that sets the teeth to chattering and the skin to quivering. As all was snug and secure on the berg, we began to take a greater interest in our wind and sea-propelled craft. Its exposed surface was swept by the winds, while its submarine surface was pushed by tides and undercurrents, giving it a complex movement at variance with the pack-ice. It ploughed up miles of sea-ice, crushing and throwing it aside. After several hours of this kind of navigation--which was easy for us, because the movement of the swell and the breaking of the sea did not inflict a hardship--the berg suddenly, without any apparent reason, took a course at right angles to the wind, and deliberately pushed out of the pack into the seething seas. This rapid shift from comfort to the wild agitation of the black waters made us gasp. The seas, with boulders of ice, rolled up over our crest and into the concavity of the berg, leaving no part safe. Seizing our axes, we cut many other anchor holes in the ice, doubly secured our life lines, and shifted with our boat to the edge of the berg turned to the wind. The hours of suspense and torment thus spent seemed as long as the winters of the Eskimo. The pack soon became a mere pearly glow against a dirty sky. We were rushing through a seething blackness, made more impressive by the pearl and blue of the berg and the white, ice-lined crests. What could we do to keep the springs of life from snapping in such a world of despair? Fortunately, we were kept too busy dodging the storm-driven missiles of water and ice to ponder much over our fate. Otherwise the mind could not have stood the infernal strain. Our bronze skins were adapted to cold and winds, but the torture of the cold, drenching water was new. For five months we had been battered by winds and cut by frosts, but water was secured only by melting ice with precious fuel which we had carried thousands of miles. If we could get enough of the costly liquid to wash our cold meals down, we had been satisfied. The luxury of a face wash or a bath, except by the wind-driven snows, was never indulged in. Now, in stress of danger, we were getting it from every direction. The torments of frost about the Pole were nothing compared to this boiling blackness. Twenty-four hours elapsed before there was any change. Such calls of nature as hunger or thirst or sleep were left unanswered. We maintained a terrific struggle to keep from being washed into the sea. At last the east paled, the south became blue, and the land on both sides rose in sight. The wind came steadily, but reduced in force, with a frosty edge that hardened our garments to sheets of ice. We were not far from the twin channels, Cardigan Strait and Hell Gate, where the waters of the Pacific and Atlantic meet. We were driving for Cardigan Strait, past the fiords into which we had descended from the western seas two weeks before. We had, therefore, lost an advance of two weeks in one day, and we had probably lost our race with time to reach the life-saving haunts of the Eskimo. Still, this line of thought was foreign to us. Not far away were bold cliffs from which birds descended to the rushing waters. At the sight my heart rose. Here we saw the satisfying prospect of an easy breakfast if only the waves would cease to fold in white crests. Long trains of heavy ice were rushing with railroad speed out of the straits. As we watched, the temperature continued to fall. Soon the north blackened with swirling curls of smoke. The wind came with the sound of exploding guns from Hell Gate. What, I asked myself, was to be our fate now? We took a southwest course. Freezing seas washed over the berg and froze our numbed feet to the ice, upon which a footing otherwise would have been very difficult. Adrift in a vast, ice-driven, storm-thundering ocean, I stood silent, paralyzed with terror. After a few hours, sentinel floes of the pack slowly shoved toward us, and unresistingly, we were ushered into the harboring influence of the heavy Polar ice. The berg lost its erratic movement, and soon settled in a fixed position. The wind continued to tear along in a mad rage, but we found shelter in our canoe, dozing away for a few moments while one paced the ice as a sentinel. Slowly a lane of quiet water appeared among the floes. We heard a strangely familiar sound which set our hearts throbbing. The walrus and the seal, one by one, came up to the surface to blow. Here, right before us, was big game, with plenty of meat and fat. We were starving, but we gazed almost helplessly on plenty, for its capture was difficult for us. We had only a few cartridges and four cans of pemmican in our baggage. These were reserved for use to satisfy the last pangs of famine. That time had not yet arrived. Made desperate by hunger, after a brief rest we began to seek food. Birds flying from the land became our game at this time. We could secure these with the slingshot made by the Eskimos, and later, by entangling loops in lines, and in various other ways which hunger taught us. A gull lighted on a pinnacle of our berg. Quietly but quickly we placed a bait and set a looped line. We watched with bated breath. The bird peered about, espied the luring bait, descended with a flutter of wings, pecked the pemmican. There was a snapping sound--the bird was ours. Leaping upon it, we rapidly cut it in bits and ravenously devoured it raw. Few things I have ever eaten tasted so delicious as this meat, which had the flavor of cod-liver oil. The ice soon jammed in a grinding pack against the land, and the wind spent its force in vain. We held our position, and two of us, after eating the bird, slept until the sentinel called us. At midnight the wind eased and the ice started its usual rebound, seaward and eastward, with the tide. This was our moment for escape. We were about ten miles off the shore of Cape Vera. If we could push our canvas canoe through the channels of water as they opened, we might reach land. We quickly prepared the boat. With trepidation we pushed it into the black, frigid waters. We hesitated to leave the sheltering berg which had saved our lives. Still, it had served its purpose. To remain might mean our being carried out to sea. The ultimate time had come to seek a more secure refuge on _terra firma_. Leaping into the frail, rocking canoe, we pushed along desperately through a few long channels to reach a wide, open space of water landward. Paddling frantically, we made a twisting course through opening lanes of water, ice on both sides of us, visible bergs bearing down at times on us, invisible bergs with spear-points of ice beneath the water in which our course lay. We sped forward at times with quick darts. Suddenly, and to our horror, an invisible piece of ice jagged a hole in the port quarter. Water gushed into the frail craft. In a few minutes it would be filled; we should sink to an icy death! Fortunately, I saw a floe was near, and while the canoe rapidly filled we pushed for the floe, reaching it not a moment too soon. A boot was sacrificed to mend the canoe. Patching the cut, we put again into the sea and proceeded. The middle pack of ice was separated from the land pack, leaving much free water. But now a land breeze sprang up and gave us new troubles. We could not face the wind and sea, so we took a slant and sought the lee of the pans coming from the land. Our little overloaded canoe weathered the seas very well, and we had nothing to gain and everything to lose by turning back. Again we were drenched with spray, and the canoe was sheeted with ice above water. The sun was passing over Hell Gate. Long blue shadows stretched over the pearl-gray sea. By these, without resort to the compass, we knew it was about midnight. As we neared the land-ice, birds became numerous. The waters rose in easy swells. Still nearer, we noted that the entire body of land-ice was drifting away. A convenient channel opened and gave us a chance to slip behind. We pointed for Cape Vera, dashed over the water, and soon, to our joy, landed on a ledge of lower rocks. I cannot describe the relief I felt in reaching land after the spells of anguish through which we had passed. Although these barren rocks offered neither food nor shelter, still we were as happy as if a sentence of death had been remitted. Not far away were pools of ice water. These we sought first, to quench our thirst. Then we scattered about, our eyes eagerly scrutinizing the land for breakfast. Soon we saw a hare bounding over the rocks. As it paused, cocking its ears, one of my boys secured it with a sling-shot. It was succulent; we cut it with our knives. Some moss was found among the rocks. This was a breakfast for a king. I returned to prepare it. With the moss as fuel, we made a fire, put the dripping meat in a pot, and, with gloating eyes, watched it simmering. I thrilled with the joy of sheer living, with hunger about to be satisfied by cooked food. Before the hare was ready the boys came along with two eider-ducks, which they had secured by looped lines. We therefore had now an advance dinner, with a refreshing drink and a stomach full, and solid rocks to place our heads upon for a long sleep. These solid rocks were more delightful and secure than pillows of down. The world had indeed a new aspect for us. In reality, however, our ultimate prospect of escape from famine was darker than ever. [Illustration: ARCTIC HARE] UNDER THE WHIP OF FAMINE BY BOAT AND SLEDGE, OVER THE DRIFTING ICE AND STORMY SEAS OF JONES SOUND--FROM ROCK TO ROCK IN QUEST OF FOOD--MAKING NEW WEAPONS XXIV IMPRISONED BY THE HAND OF FROST No time was lost in our onward course. Endeavoring at once to regain the distance lost by the drifting berg, we sought a way along the shores. Here, over ice with pools of water and slush, we dragged our sledge with the canvas boat ever ready to launch. Frequent spaces of water necessitated constant ferrying. We found, however, that most open places could be crossed with sledge attached to the boat. This saved much time. We advanced from ten to fifteen miles daily, pitching the tent on land or sleeping in the boat in pools of ice water, as the conditions warranted. The land rose with vertical cliffs two thousand feet high, and offered no life except a few gulls and guillemots. By gathering these as we went along, a scant hand-to-mouth subsistence daily was obtained. Early in August we reached the end of the land-pack, about twenty-five miles east of Cape Sparbo. Beyond was a water sky, and to the north the sea was entirely free of ice. The weather was clear, and our ambitions for the freedom of the deep rose again. At the end of the last day of sledge travel, a camp was made on a small island. Here we saw the first signs of Eskimo habitation. Old tent circles, also stone and fox traps in abundance, indicated an ancient village of considerable size. On the mainland we discovered abundant grass and moss, with signs of musk ox, ptarmigan, and hare, but no living thing was detected. After a careful search, the sledge was taken apart to serve as a floor for the boat. All our things were snugly packed. For breakfast, we had but one gull, which was divided without the tedious process of cooking. As we were packing the things onto the edge of the ice, we espied an oogzuk seal. Here was a creature which could satisfy for a while our many needs. Upon it one of our last cartridges was expended. The seal fell. The huge carcass was dragged ashore. All of its skin was jealously taken. For this would make harpoon lines which would enable the shaping of Eskimo implements, to take the place of the rifles, which, with ammunition exhausted, would be useless. Our boots could also be patched with bits of the skin, and new soles could be made. Of the immense amount of oogzuk meat and blubber we were able to take only a small part; for, with three men and our baggage and sledge in the little canvas boat, it was already overloaded. The meat was cached, so that if ultimate want forced our retreat we might here prolong our existence a few weeks longer. There was little wind, and the night was beautifully clear. The sun at night was very close to the horizon, but the sparkle of the shimmering waters gave our dreary lives a bright side. On the great unpolished rocks of the point east of Cape Sparbo a suitable camping spot was found, a prolonged feed of seal was indulged in, and with a warm sun and full stomachs, the tent was unnecessary. Under one of the rocks we found shelter, and slept with savage delight for nine hours. Another search of the accessible land offered no game except ducks and gulls far from shore. Here the tides and currents were very strong, so our start had to be timed with the outgoing tide. Starting late one afternoon, we advanced rapidly beyond Cape Sparbo, in a sea with an uncomfortable swell. But beyond the Cape, the land-ice still offered an edge for a long distance. In making a cut across a small bay to reach ice, a walrus suddenly came up behind the canoe and drove a tusk through the canvas. E-tuk-i-shook quickly covered the cut, while we pulled with full force for a pan of drift-ice only a few yards away. The boat, with its load, was quickly jerked on the ice. Already there were three inches of water in the floor. A chilly disaster was narrowly averted. Part of a boot was sacrificed to mend the boat. While at work with the needle, a strong tidal current carried us out to sea. An increasing wind brought breaking waves over the edge of the ice. The wind fortunately gave a landward push to the ice. A sledge-cover, used as a sail, retarded our seaward drift. The leak securely patched, we pushed off for the land ice. With our eyes strained for breaking seas, the boat was paddled along with considerable anxiety. Much water was shipped in these dashes; constant bailing was necessary. Pulling continuously along the ice for eight miles, and when the leads closed at times, jumping on cakes and pulling the boat after us, we were finally forced to seek a shelter on the ice-field. With a strong wind and a wet fall of snow, the ice-camp was far from comfortable. As the tide changed, the wind came from the west with a heavy, choppy sea. Further advance was impossible. Sleeping but a few minutes at a time, and then rising to note coming dangers, as does the seal, I perceived, to my growing dismay, a separation between the land and the sea ice. We were going rapidly adrift, with only interrupted spots of sea-ice on the horizon! There were a good many reefs about, which quickly broke the ice, and new leads formed on every side. The boat was pushed landward. We pulled the boat on the ice when the leads closed, lowering it again as the cracks opened. By carrying the boat and its load from crack to crack, we at last reached the land waters, in which we were able to advance about five miles further, camping on the gravel of the first river which we had seen. Here we were storm-bound for two days. There were several pools near by. Within a short distance from these were many ducks. With the slingshot a few of these were secured. In the midst of our trouble, with good appetites, we were feeding up for future contests of strength. With a shore clear of ice, we could afford to take some chance with heavy seas, so before the swell subsided, we pushed off. Coming out of Braebugten Bay, with its discharging glaciers and many reefs, the water dashed against the perpendicular walls of ice, and presented a disheartening prospect. These reefs could be passed over only when the sea was calm. With but a half-day's run to our credit, we were again stopped. As we neared our objective point, on the fast ice inside of a reef, we were greeted with the glad sight of what we supposed to be a herd of musk ox. About three miles of the winter ice was still fast to the land. Upon this we landed, cleared the canvas boat, and prepared to camp in it. I remained to guard our few belongings, while the two Eskimo boys rushed over the ice to try to secure the musk ox with the lance. It was a critical time in our career, for we were putting to test new methods of hunting, which we had partly devised after many hungry days of preparation. I followed the boys with the glasses as they jumped the ice crevasses and moved over the mainland with the stealth and ease of hungry wolves. It was a beautiful day. The sun was low in the northwest, throwing beams of golden light that made the ice a scene of joy. The great cliffs of North Devon, fifteen miles away, seemed very near through the clear air. Although enjoying the scene, I noted in the shadow of an iceberg a suspicious blue spot, which moved in my direction. As it advanced in the sunlight it changed from blue to a cream color. Then I made it out to be a Polar bear which we had attacked forty-eight hours previous. The sight aroused a feeling of elation. Gradually, as bruin advanced and I began to think of some method of defense, a cold shiver ran up my spine. The dog and rifle, with which we had met bears before, were absent. To run, and leave our last bit of food and fuel, would have been as dangerous as to stay. A Polar bear will always attack a retreating creature, while it approaches very cautiously one that holds its position. Furthermore, for some reason, the bears always bore a grudge against the boat. None ever passed it without testing the material with its teeth or giving it a slap with its paw. At this critical stage of our adventure the boat was linked more closely to our destiny than the clothes we wore. I therefore decided to stay and play the rôle of the aggressor, although I had nothing--not even a lance--with which to fight. Then an idea flashed through my mind. I lashed a knife to the steering paddle, and placed the boat on a slight elevation of ice, so as to make it and myself appear as formidable as possible. Then I gathered about me all the bits of wood, pieces of ice, and everything which I could throw at the creature before it came to a close contest, reserving the knife and the ice-ax as my last resort. When all was ready, I took my position beside the boat and displayed a sledge-runner moving rapidly to and fro. The bear was then about two hundred yards away. It approached stealthily behind a line of hummocks, with only its head occasionally visible. As it came to within three hundred feet, it rose frequently on its hind feet, dropped its forepaws, stretched its neck, and pushed its head up, remaining motionless for several seconds. It then appeared huge and beautiful. As it came still nearer, its pace quickened. I began to hurl my missiles. Every time the bear was hit, it stopped, turned about, and examined the object. But none of them proving palatable, it advanced to the opposite side of the boat, and for a moment stood and eyed me. Its nose caught the odor of a piece of oogzuk blubber a few feet beyond. I raised the sledge-runner and brought it down with desperate force on the brute's nose. It grunted, but quickly turned to retreat. I followed until it was well on the run. Every time it turned to review the situation, I made a show of chasing it. This always had the desired effect of hastening its departure. It moved off, however, only a short distance, and then sat down, sniffed the air, and watched my movements. As I turned to observe the boys' doings, I saw them only a short distance away, edging upon the bear. Their group of musk oxen had proved to be rocks, and they had early noted my troubles and were hastening to enter the battle, creeping up behind hummocks and pressure ridges. They got to within a few yards of the brute, and then delivered their two lances at once, with lines attached. The bear dropped, but quickly recovered and ran for the land. He died from the wounds, for a month later we found his carcass on land, placed near camp. For two days, with a continuation of bad luck, we advanced slowly. Belcher Point was passed at midnight of the 7th of August, just as the sun sank under the horizon for the first time. Beyond was a nameless bay, in which numerous icebergs were stranded. The bend of the bay was walled with great discharging glaciers. A heavy sea pitched our boat like a leaf in a gale. But, by seeking the shelter of bergs and passing inside of the drift, we managed to push to an island for camp. With moving glaciers on the land, and the sea storming and thundering, sleep was impossible. Icebergs in great numbers followed us into the bay, and later the storm-ground sea-ice filled the bay. On August 8, following a line of water along shore, we started eastward. A strong wind on our backs, with quiet waters, sent the little boat along at a swift pace. After a run of ten miles, a great quantity of ice, coming from the east, filled the bay with small fragments and ensnared us. Now the bay was jammed with a pack as difficult to travel over as quicksand. We were hopelessly beset. The land was sought, but it offered no shelter, no life, and no place flat enough to lie upon. We expected that the ice would break. It did not; instead, new winter ice rapidly formed. The setting sun brought the winter storms and premonitions of a long, bitter night. Meanwhile we eked a meagre living by catching occasional birds, which we devoured raw. Toward the end of August we pushed out on the ensnaring pack to a small but solid floe. I counted on this to drift somewhere--any place beyond the prison bars of the glaciers. Then we might move east or west to seek food. Our last meat was used, and we maintained life only by an occasional gull or guillemot. This floe drifted to and fro, and slowly took us to Belcher Point, where we landed to determine our fate. To the east, the entire horizon was lined with ice. Belcher Point was barren of game and shelter. Further efforts for Baffin's Bay were hopeless. The falling temperature, the rapidly forming young ice, and the setting sun showed us that we had already gone too long without finding a winter refuge. Our only possible chance to escape death from famine and frost was to go back to Cape Sparbo and compel the walrus that ripped our boat to give up his blubber, and then to seek our fortunes in the neighborhood. This was the only reachable place that had looked like game country. With empty stomachs, and on a heavy sea, we pushed westward to seek our fate. The outlook was discouraging. During all our enforced imprisonment we were never allowed to forget that the first duty in life was to provide for the stomach. Our muscles rested, but the signals sent over the gastric nerve kept the gray matter busy. We were near to the land where Franklin and his men starved. They had ammunition. We had none. A similar fate loomed before us. We had seen nothing to promise subsistence for the winter, but this cheerless prospect did not interfere with such preparations as we could make for the ultimate struggle. In our desperate straits we even planned to attack bears, should we find any, without a gun. Life is never so sweet as when its days seem numbered. The complete development of a new art of hunting, with suitable weapons, was reserved for the dire needs of later adventures. The problem was begun by this time. By an oversight, most of our Eskimo implements had been left on the returning sledges from Svartevoeg. We were thus not only without ammunition, but also without harpoons and lances. We fortunately had the material of which these could be made, and the boys possessed the savage genius to shape a new set of weapons. The slingshot and the looped line, which had served such a useful purpose in securing birds, continued to be of prime importance. In the sledge was excellent hickory, which was utilized in various ways. Of this, bows and arrows could be made. Combined with the slingshot and the looped line snares, the combination would make our warfare upon the feathered creatures more effective. We counted upon a similar efficiency with the same weapons in our hoped-for future attacks upon land animals. The wood of the sledge was further divided to make shafts for harpoons and lances. Realizing that our ultimate return to Greenland, and to friends, depended on the life of the sledge, the wood was used sparingly. Furthermore, hickory lends itself to great economy. It bends and twists, but seldom breaks in such a manner that it cannot be repaired. We had not much of this precious fibre, but enough for the time to serve our purpose. Along shore we had found musk ox horns and fragments of whale bone. Out of these the points of both harpoon and lance were made. A part of the sledge shoe was sacrificed to make metal points for the weapons. The nails of the cooking-box served as rivets. The seal skin, which we had secured a month earlier, was now carefully divided and cut into suitable harpoon and lassoo lines. We hoped to use this line to capture the bear and the musk ox. Our folding canvas boat was somewhat strengthened by the leather from our old boots, and additional bracing by the ever useful hickory of the sledge. Ready to engage in battle with the smallest and the largest creatures that might come within reach, we started west for Cape Sparbo. Death, on our journey, never seemed so near. [Illustration: OBSERVATION DETERMINING THE POLE--PHOTOGRAPH FROM ORIGINAL NOTE] [Illustration: BACK TO LAND AND TO LIFE--AWAKENED BY A WINGED HARBINGER] BEAR FIGHTS AND WALRUS BATTLES DANGEROUS ADVENTURES IN A CANVAS BOAT--ON THE VERGE OF STARVATION, A MASSIVE BRUTE, WEIGHING THREE THOUSAND POUNDS, IS CAPTURED AFTER A FIFTEEN-HOUR STRUGGLE--ROBBED OF PRECIOUS FOOD BY HUNGRY BEARS XXV GAME HAUNTS DISCOVERED The stormy sea rose with heavy swells. Oceanward, the waves leaped against the horizon tumultuously. Pursuing our vain search for food along the southern side of Jones Sound, early in September, we had been obliged to skirt rocky coves and shelves of land on which we might seek shelter should harm come to the fragile craft in which we braved the ocean storms and the spears of unseen ice beneath water. We had shaped crude weapons. We were prepared to attack game. We were starving; yet land and sea had been barren of any living thing. Our situation was desperate. In our course it was often necessary, as now, to paddle from the near refuge of low-lying shores, and to pass precipitous cliffs and leaping glaciers which stepped threateningly into the sea. Along these were no projecting surfaces, and we passed them always with bated anxiety. A sudden storm or a mishap at such a time would have meant death in the frigid sea. And now, grim and suffering with hunger, we clung madly to life. Passing a glacier which rose hundreds of feet out of the green sea, heavy waves rolled furiously from the distant ocean. Huge bergs rose and fell against the far-away horizon like Titan ships hurled to destruction. The waves dashed against the emerald walls of the smooth icy Gibraltar with a thunderous noise. We rose and fell in the frail canvas boat, butting the waves, our hearts each time sinking. Suddenly something white and glittering pierced the bottom of the boat! It was the tusk of a walrus, gleaming and dangerous. Before we could grasp the situation he had disappeared, and water gushed into our craft. It was the first walrus we had seen for several weeks. An impulse, mad under the circumstances, rose in our hearts to give him chase. It was the instinctive call of the hungering body for food. But each second the water rose higher; each minute was imminent with danger. Instinctively Ah-we-lah pressed to the floor of the boat and jammed his knee into the hole, thus partly shutting off the jetting, leaping inrush. He looked mutely to me for orders. The glacier offered no stopping place. Looking about with mad eagerness, I saw, seaward, only a few hundred yards away, a small pan of drift-ice. With the desire for life in our arms, we pushed toward it with all our might. Before the boat was pulled to its slippery landing, several inches of water flooded the bottom. Once upon it, leaping in the waves, we breathed with panting relief. With a piece of boot the hole was patched. Although we should have preferred to wait to give the walrus a wide berth, the increasing swell of the stormy sea, and a seaward drift forced us away from the dangerous ice cliffs. Launching the boat into the rough waters, we pulled for land. A triangle of four miles had to be made before our fears could be set at rest. A school of walrus followed us in the rocking waters for at least half of the distance. Finally, upon the crest of a white-capped wave, we were lifted to firm land. Drawing the boat after us, we ran out of reach of the hungry waves, and sank to the grass, desperate, despairing, utterly fatigued, but safe. Now followed a long run of famine luck. We searched land and sea for a bird or a fish. In the boat we skirted a barren coast, sleeping on rocks without shelter and quenching our thirst by glacial liquid till the stomach collapsed. The indifferent stage of starvation was at hand when we pulled into a nameless bay, carried the boat on a grassy bench, and packed ourselves in it for a sleep that might be our last. We were awakened by the glad sound of distant walrus calls. Through the glasses, a group was located far off shore, on the middle pack. Our hearts began to thump. A stream of blood came with a rush to our heads. Our bodies were fired with a life that had been foreign to us for many moons. No famished wolf ever responded to a call more rapidly than we did. Quickly we dropped the boat into the water with the implements, and pushed from the famine shores with teeth set for red meat. The day was beautiful, and the sun from the west poured a wealth of golden light. Only an occasional ripple disturbed the glassy blue through which the boat crept. The pack was about five miles northward. In our eagerness to reach it, the distance seemed spread to leagues. There was not a square of ice for miles about which could have been sought for refuge in case of an attack. But this did not disturb us now. We were blinded to everything except the dictates of our palates. As we advanced, our tactics were definitely arranged. The animals were on a low pan, which seemed to be loosely run into the main pack. We aimed for a little cut of ice open to the leeward, where we hoped to land and creep up behind hummocks. The splash of our paddles was lost in the noise of the grinding ice and the bellowing of walrus calls. So excited were the Eskimos that they could hardly pull an oar. It was the first shout of the wilderness which we had heard in many months. We were lean enough to appreciate its import. The boat finally shot up on the ice, and we scattered among the ice blocks for favorable positions. Everything was in our favor. We did not for a moment entertain a thought of failure, although in reality, with the implements at hand, our project was tantamount to attacking an elephant with pocket knives. We came together behind an unusually high icy spire only a few hundred yards from the herd. Ten huge animals were lazily stretched out in the warm sun. A few lively babies tormented their sleeping mothers. There was a splendid line of hummocks, behind which we could advance under cover. With a firm grip on harpoon and line, we started. Suddenly E-tuk-i-shook shouted "_Nannook_!" (Bear.) We halted. Our implements were no match for a bear. But we were too hungry to retreat. The bear paid no attention to us. His nose was set for something more to his liking. Slowly but deliberately, he crept up to the snoring herd while we watched with a mad, envious anger welling up within us. Our position was helpless. His long neck reached out, the glistening fangs closed, and a young walrus struggled in the air. All of the creatures woke, but too late to give battle. With dismay and rage, the walruses sank into the water, and the bear slunk off to a safe distance, where he sat down to a comfortable meal. We were not of sufficient importance to interest either the bear or the disturbed herd of giants. Our limbs were limp when we returned to the boat. The sunny glitter of the waters was now darkened by the gloom of danger from enraged animals. We crossed to the barren shores in a circuitous route, where pieces of ice for refuge were always within reach. On land, the night was cheerless and cold. We were not in a mood for sleep. In a lagoon we discovered moving things. After a little study of their vague darts they proved to be fish. A diligent search under stones brought out a few handfuls of tiny finny creatures. With gratitude I saw that here was an evening meal. Seizing them, we ate the wriggling things raw. Cooking was impossible, for we had neither oil nor wood. On the next day the sun at noon burned with a real fire--not the sham light without heat which had kept day and night in perpetual glitter for several weeks. Not a breath of air disturbed the blue glitter of the sea. Ice was scattered everywhere. The central pack was farther away, but on it rested several suspicious black marks. Through the glasses we made these out to be groups of walruses. They were evidently sound asleep, for we heard no calls. They were also so distributed that there was a hunt both for bear and man without interference. We ventured out with a savage desire sharpened by a taste of raw fish. As we advanced, several other groups were noted in the water. They gave us much trouble. They did not seem ill-tempered, but dangerously inquisitive. Our boat was dark in color and not much larger than the body of a full-sized bull. To them, I presume, it resembled a companion in distress or asleep. A sight of the boat challenged their curiosity, and they neared us with the playful intention of testing with their tusks the hardness of the canvas. We had experienced such love taps before, however, with but a narrow escape from drowning, and we had no desire for further walrus courtship. Fortunately, we could maintain a speed almost equal to theirs, and we also found scattered ice-pans, about which we could linger while their curiosity was being satisfied by the splash of an occasional stone. From an iceberg we studied the various groups of walruses for the one best situated for our primitive methods of attack. We also searched for meddlesome bears. None was detected. Altogether we counted more than a hundred grunting, snorting creatures arranged in black hills along a line of low ice. There were no hummocks or pressure lifts, under cover of which we might advance to within the short range required for our harpoons. All of the walrus-encumbered pans were adrift and disconnected from the main pack. Conflicting currents gave each group a slightly different motion. We studied this movement for a little while. We hoped, if possible, to make our attack from the ice. With the security of a solid footing, there was no danger and there was a greater certainty of success. But the speed of the ice on this day did not permit such an advantage. We must risk a water attack. This is not an unusual method of the Eskimo, but he follows it with a kayak, a harpoon and line fitted with a float and a drag for the end of his line. Our equipment was only a makeshift, and could not be handled in the same way. Here was food in massive heaps. We had had no breakfast and no full meal for many weeks. Something must be done. The general drift was eastward, but the walrus pans drifted slightly faster than the main pack. Along the pack were several high points, projecting a considerable distance seaward. We took our position in the canvas boat behind one of these floating capes, and awaited the drift of the sleeping monsters. Their movement was slow enough to give us plenty of time to arrange our battle tactics. The most vital part of the equipment was the line. If it were lost, we could not hope to survive the winter. It could not be replaced, and without it we could not hope to cope with the life of the sea, or even that of the land. The line was a new, strong sealskin rawhide of ample length, which had been reserved for just such an emergency. Attached to the harpoon, with the float properly adjusted, it is seldom lost, for the float moves and permits no sudden strain. To safeguard the line, a pan was selected only a few yards in diameter. This was arranged to do the duty of a float and a drag. With the knife two holes were cut, and into these the line was fastened near its center. The harpoon end was taken into the boat, the other end was coiled and left in a position where it could be easily picked from the boat later. Three important purposes were secured by this arrangement--the line was relieved of a sudden strain; if it broke, only half would be lost; and the unused end would serve as a binder to other ice when the chase neared its end. Now the harpoon was set to the shaft, and the bow of our little twelve-foot boat cleared for action. Peeping over the wall of ice, we saw the black-littered pans slowly coming toward us. Our excitement rose to a shouting point. But our nerves were under the discipline of famine. The pan, it was evident, would go by us at a distance of about fifty feet. The first group of walruses were allowed to pass. They proved to be a herd of twenty-one mammoth creatures, and, entirely aside from the danger of attack, their unanimous plunge would have raised a sea that must have swamped us. On the next pan were but three spots. At a distance we persuaded ourselves that they were small--for we had no ambition for formidable attacks. One thousand pounds of meat would have been sufficient for us. They proved, however, to be the largest bulls of the lot. As they neared the point, the hickory oars of the boat were gripped--and out we shot. They all rose to meet us, displaying the glitter of ivory tusks from little heads against huge wrinkled necks. They grunted and snorted viciously--but the speed of the boat did not slacken. E-tuk-i-shook rose. With a savage thrust he sank the harpoon into a yielding neck. The walruses tumbled over themselves and sank into the water on the opposite side of the pan. We pushed upon the vacated floe without leaving the boat, taking the risk of ice puncture rather than walrus thumps. The short line came up with a snap. The ice pan began to plough the sea. It moved landward. What luck! I wondered if the walrus would tow us and its own carcass ashore. We longed to encourage the homing movement, but we dared not venture out. Other animals had awakened to the battle call, and now the sea began to seethe and boil with enraged, leaping red-eyed monsters. The float took a zigzag course in the offing. We watched the movement with a good deal of anxiety. Our next meal and our last grip on life were at stake. For the time being nothing could be done. The three animals remained together, two pushing the wounded one along and holding it up during breathing spells. In their excitement they either lost their bearings or deliberately determined to attack. Now three ugly snouts pointed at us. This was greatly to our advantage, for on ice we were masters of the situation. Taking inconspicuous positions, we awaited the assault. The Eskimos had lances, I an Alpine axe. The walruses dove and came on like torpedo boats, rising almost under our noses, with a noise that made us dodge. In a second two lances sank into the harpooned strugglers. The water was thrashed. Down again went the three. The lances were jerked back by return lines, and in another moment we were ready for another assault from the other side. But they dashed on, and pulled the float-floe, on which we had been, against the one on which we stood, with a crushing blow. Here was our first chance to secure the unused end of the line, fastened on the other floe. Ah-we-lah jumped to the floe and tossed me the line. The spiked shaft of the ice-axe was driven in the ice and the line fixed to it, so now the two floes were held together. Our stage of action was enlarged, and we had the advantage of being towed by the animals we fought. Here was the quiet sport of the fisherman and the savage excitement of the battle-field run together in a new chase. The struggle was prolonged in successive stages. Time passed swiftly. In six hours, during which the sun had swept a quarter of the circle, the twin floes were jerked through the water with the rush of a gunboat. The jerking line attached to our enraged pilots sent a thrill of life which made our hearts jump. The lances were thrown, the line was shortened, a cannonade of ice blocks was kept up, but the animal gave no signs of weakening. Seeing that we could not inflict dangerous wounds, our tactics were changed to a kind of siege, and we aimed not to permit the animal its breathing spells. The line did not begin to slacken until midnight. The battle had been on for almost twelve hours. But we did not feel the strain of action, nor did our chronic hunger seriously disturb us. Bits of ice quenched our thirst and the chill of night kept us from sweating. With each rise of the beast for breath now, the line slackened. Gently it was hauled in and secured. Then a rain of ice blocks, hurled in rapid succession, drove the spouting animals down. Soon the line was short enough to deliver the lance in the captured walrus at close range. The wounded animal was now less troublesome, but the others tore about under us like submarine boats, and at the most unexpected moments would shoot up with a wild rush. We did not attempt to attack them, however. All our attention was directed to the end of the line. The lance was driven with every opportunity. It seldom missed, but the action was more like spurs to a horse, changing an intended attack upon us to a desperate plunge into the deep, and depriving the walrus of oxygen. Finally, after a series of spasmodic encounters which lasted fifteen hours, the enraged snout turned blue, the fiery eyes blackened, and victory was ours--not as the result of the knife alone, not in a square fight of brute force, but by the superior cunning of the human animal under the stimulus of hunger. During all this time we had been drifting. Now, as the battle ended, we were not far from a point about three miles south of our camp. Plenty of safe pack-ice was near. A primitive pulley was arranged by passing the line through slits in the walrus' nose and holes in the ice. The great carcass, weighing perhaps three thousand pounds, was drawn onto the ice and divided into portable pieces. Before the sun poured its morning beams over the ice, all had been securely taken ashore. With ample blubber, a camp fire was now made between two rocks by using moss to serve as a wick. Soon, pot after pot of savory meat was voraciously consumed. We ate with a mad, vulgar, insatiable hunger. We spoke little. Between gulps, the huge heap of meat and blubber was cached under heavy rocks, and secured--so we thought--from bears, wolves and foxes. When eating was no longer possible, sleeping dens were arranged in the little boat, and in it, like other gluttonous animals after an engorgement, we closed our eyes to a digestive sleep. For the time, at least, we had fathomed the depths of gastronomic content, and were at ease with ourselves and with a bitter world of inhuman strife. At the end of about fifteen hours, a stir about our camp suddenly awoke us. We saw a huge bear nosing about our fireplace. We had left there a walrus joint, weighing about one hundred pounds, for our next meal. We jumped up, all of us, at once, shouting and making a pretended rush. The bear took up the meat in his forepaws and walked off, man-like, on two legs, with a threatening grunt. His movement was slow and cautious, and his grip on the meat was secure. Occasionally he veered about, with a beckoning turn of the head, and a challenging call. But we did not accept the challenge. After moving away about three hundred yards on the sea-ice, he calmly sat down and devoured our prospective meal. With lances, bows, arrows, and stones in hand, we next crossed a low hill, beyond which was located our precious cache of meat. Here, to our chagrin, we saw two other bears, with heads down and paws busily digging about the cache. We were not fitted for a hand-to-hand encounter. Still, our lives were equally at stake, whether we attacked or failed to attack. Some defense must be made. With a shout and a fiendish rush, we attracted the busy brutes' attention. They raised their heads, turned, and to our delight and relief, grudgingly walked off seaward on the moving ice. Each had a big piece of our meat with him. Advancing to the cache, we found it absolutely depleted. Many other bears had been there. The snow and the sand was trampled down with innumerable bear tracks. Our splendid cache of the day previous was entirely lost. We could have wept with rage and disappointment. One thing we were made to realize, and that was that life here was now to be a struggle with the bears for supremacy. With little ammunition, we were not at all able to engage in bear fights. So, baffled, and unable to resent our robbery, starvation again confronting us, we packed our few belongings and moved westward over Braebugten Bay to Cape Sparbo. [Illustration: A THIEF OF THE NORTH] BULL FIGHTS WITH THE MUSK OX AN ANCIENT CAVE EXPLORED FOR SHELTER--DEATH BY STARVATION AVERTED BY HAND-TO-HAND ENCOUNTERS WITH WILD ANIMALS XXVI TO THE WINTER CAMP AT CAPE SPARBO As we crossed the big bay to the east of Cape Sparbo, our eyes were fixed on the two huge Archæn rocks which made remarkable landmarks, rising suddenly to an altitude of about eighteen thousand feet. They appear like two mountainous islands lifted out of the water. On closer approach, however, we found the islands connected with the mainland by low grassy plains, forming a peninsula. The grassy lands seemed like promising grounds for caribou and musk ox. The off-lying sea, we also found, was shallow. In this, I calculated, would be food to attract the seal and walrus. In our slow movement over the land swell of the crystal waters, it did not take long to discover that our conjecture was correct. Pulling up to a great herd of walrus, we prepared for battle. But the sea suddenly rose, the wind increased, and we were forced to abandon the chase and seek shelter on the nearest land. We reached Cape Sparbo, on the shores of Jones Sound, early in September. Our dogs were gone. Our ammunition, except four cartridges which I had secreted for use in a last emergency, was gone. Our equipment consisted of a half sledge, a canvas boat, a torn silk tent, a few camp kettles, tin plates, knives, and matches. Our clothing was splitting to shreds. Cape Sparbo, with its huge walls of granite, was to the leeward. A little bay was noted where we might gain the rocks in quiet water. Above the rocks was a small green patch where we hoped to find a soft resting place for the boat, so that we might place our furs in it and secure shelter from the bitter wind. When we landed we found to our surprise that it was the site of an old Eskimo village. There was a line of old igloos partly below water, indicating a very ancient time of settlement, for since the departure of the builders of these igloos the coast must have settled at least fifteen feet. Above were a few other ruins. Shortly after arriving we sought an auspicious place, protected from the wind and cold, where later we might build a winter shelter. Our search disclosed a cave-like hole, part of which was dug from the earth, and over which, with stones and bones, had been constructed a roof which now was fallen in. The long winter was approaching. We were over three hundred miles from Annoatok, and the coming of the long night made it necessary for us to halt here. We must have food and clothing. We now came upon musk oxen and tried to fell them with boulders, and bows and arrows made of the hickory of our sledge. Day after day the pursuit was vainly followed. Had it not been for occasional ducks caught with looped lines and sling shots, we should have been absolutely without any food. By the middle of September, snow and frost came with such frequency that we omitted hunting for a day to dig out the ruins in the cave and cut sod before permanent frost made such work impossible. Bone implements were shaped from skeletons found on shore for the digging. Blown drifts of sand and gravel, with some moss and grass, were slowly removed from the pit. We found under this, to our great joy, just the underground arrangement which we desired; a raised platform, about six feet long and eight feet wide with suitable wings for the lamp, and footspace, lay ready for us. The pit had evidently been designed for a small family. The walls, which were about two feet high, required little alteration. Another foot was added, which leveled the structure with the ground. A good deal of sod was cut and allowed to dry in the sun for use as a roof. While engaged in taking out the stones and cleaning the dungeon-like excavation, I suddenly experienced a heart-depressing chill when, lifting some debris, I saw staring at me from the black earth a hollow-eyed human skull. The message of death which the weird thing leeringly conveyed was singularly unpleasant; the omen was not good. Yet the fact that at this forsaken spot human hands had once built shelter, or for this thing had constructed a grave, gave me a certain companionable thrill. On the shore not far away we secured additional whale ribs and with these made a framework for a roof. This was later constructed of moss and blocks of sod. We built a rock wall about the shelter to protect ourselves from storms and bears. Then our winter home was ready. Food was now an immediate necessity. Game was found around us in abundance. Most of it was large. On land there were bear and musk ox, in the sea the walrus and the whale. But what could we do without either dogs or rifles? The first weapon that we now devised was the bow and arrow, for with this we could at least secure some small game. We had in our sledge available hickory wood of the best quality, than which no wood could be better; we had sinews and seal lashings for strings, but there was no metal for tips. We tried bone, horn and ivory, but all proved ineffective. One day, however, E-tuk-i-shook examined his pocket knife and suggested taking the side blades for arrow tips. This was done, and the blade with its spring was set in a bone handle. Two arrows were thus tipped. The weapons complete, the Eskimo boys went out on the chase. They returned in the course of a few hours with a hare and an eider-duck. Joy reigned in camp as we divided the meat and disposed of it without the process of cooking. A day later, two musk oxen were seen grazing along the moraine of a wasting glacier. Now the musk ox is a peace-loving animal and avoids strife, but when forced into fight it is one of the most desperate and dangerous of all the fighters of the wilderness. It can and does give the most fatal thrust of all the horned animals. No Spanish bull of the pampas, no buffalo of the plains, has either the slant of horn or the intelligence to gore its enemies as has this inoffensive-looking bull of the ice world. The intelligence, indeed, is an important factor, for after watching musk oxen for a time under varied conditions, one comes to admire their almost human intellect as well as their superhuman power of delivering self-made force. Our only means of attack was with the bow and arrow. The boys crept up behind rocks until within a few yards of the unsuspecting creatures. They bent the bows, and the arrows sped with the force and accuracy as only a hungry savage can master. But the beasts' pelts were too strong. The musk oxen jumped and faced their assailants. Each arrow, as it came, was broken into splints by the feet and the teeth. When the arrows were all used a still more primitive weapon was tried, for the sling shot was brought into use, with large stones. These missiles the musk oxen took good naturedly, merely advancing a few steps to a granite boulder, upon which they sharpened their horn points and awaited further developments. No serious injury had been inflicted and they made no effort to escape. Then came a change. When we started to give up the chase they turned upon us with a fierce rush. Fortunately, many big boulders were about, and we dodged around these with large stones in hand to deliver at close range. In a wild rush a musk ox cannot easily turn, and so can readily be dodged. Among the rocks two legs were better than four. The trick of evading the musk ox I had learned from the dogs. It saved our lives. After a while the animals wearied, and we beat a hasty retreat, with new lessons in our book of hunting adventures. The bow and arrow was evidently not the weapon with which to secure musk oxen. The musk ox of Jones Sound, unlike his brother farther north, is every ready for battle. He is often compelled to meet the bear and the wolf in vicious contests, and his tactics are as thoroughly developed as his emergencies require. Seldom does he fall the victim of his enemies. We were a long time in learning completely his methods of warfare, and if, in the meantime, we had not secured other game our fate would have been unfortunate. Harpoons and lances were next finally completed, and with them we hastened to retrieve our honor in the "ah-ming-ma" chase. For, after all, the musk ox alone could supply our wants. Winter storms were coming fast. We were not only without food and fuel, but without clothing. In our desperate effort to get out of the regions of famine to the Atlantic, we had left behind all our winter furs, including the sleeping bags; and our summer garments were worn out. We required the fuel and the sinew, the fat and the horn. One day we saw a herd of twenty-one musk oxen quietly grazing on a misty meadow, like cattle on the western plains. It was a beautiful sight to watch them, divided as they were into families and in small groups. The males were in fur slightly brown, while the females and the young ones were arrayed in magnificent black pelts. To get any of them seemed hopeless, but our appalling necessities forced us onward. There were no boulders near, but each of us gathered an armful of stones, the object being to make a sudden bombardment and compel them to retreat in disorder and scatter among the rocks. We approached under cover of a small grassy hummock. When we were detected, a bull gave a loud snort and rushed toward his nearest companions, whereupon the entire herd gathered into a circle, with the young in the center. We made our sham rush and hurled the stones. The oxen remained almost motionless, with their heads down, giving little snorts and stamping a little when hit, but quickly resuming their immobile position of watchfulness. After our stones were exhausted, the animals began to shift positions slightly. We interpreted this as a move for action. So we gave up the effort and withdrew. The days were long and the nights still light enough to continue operations as long as we could keep our eyes open. The whip of hunger made rest impossible. So we determined to seek a less formidable group of oxen in a position more favorable. The search was continued until the sinking glimmer of the sun in the north marked the time of midnight--for with us at that time the compass was the timepiece. When E-tuk-i-shook secured a hare with the bow and arrow, we ascended a rocky eminence and sat down to appease the calling stomach without a camp fire. From here we detected a family of four musk oxen asleep not far from another group of rocks. This was a call to battle. We were not long in planning our tactics. The wind was in our favor, permitting an attack from the side opposite the rocks to which we aimed to force a retreat. We also found small stones in abundance, these being now a necessary part of our armament. Our first effort was based on the supposition of their remaining asleep. They were simply chewing their cud, however, and rose to form a ring of defence as we advanced. We stormed them with stones and they took to the shelter of the rocks. We continued to advance slowly upon them, throwing stones occasionally to obviate a possible assault from them before we could also seek the shelter of the rocks. Besides the bow and arrow and the stones, we now had lances and these we threw as they rushed to attack us. Two lances were crushed to small fragments before they could be withdrawn by the light line attached. They inflicted wounds, but not severe ones. Noting the immense strength of the animals, we at first thought it imprudent to risk the harpoon with its precious line, for if we lost it we could not replace it. But the destruction of the two lances left us no alternative. Ah-we-lah threw the harpoon. It hit a rib, glanced to a rock, and was also destroyed. Fortunately we had a duplicate point, which was quickly fastened. Then we moved about to encourage another onslaught. Two came at once, an old bull and a young one. E-tuk-i-shook threw the harpoon at the young one, and it entered. The line had previously been fastened to a rock, and the animal ran back to its associates, apparently not severely hurt, leaving the line slack. One of the others immediately attacked the line with horns, hoofs and teeth, but did not succeed in breaking it. Our problem now was to get rid of the other three while we dealt with the one at the end of the line. Our only resource was a sudden fusilade of stones. This proved effective. The three scattered and ascended the boulder-strewn foreland of a cliff, where the oldest bull remained to watch our movements. The young bull made violent efforts to escape but the line of sealskin was strong and elastic. A lucky throw of a lance at close range ended the strife. Then we advanced on the old bull, who was alone in a good position for us. We gathered stones and advanced, throwing them at the creature's body. This, we found, did not enrage him, but it prevented his making an attack. As we gained ground he gradually backed up to the edge of the cliff, snorting viciously but making no effort whatever either to escape along a lateral bench or to attack. His big brown eyes were upon us; his sharp horns were pointed at us. He evidently was planning a desperate lunge and was backing to gain time and room, but each of us kept within a few yards of a good-sized rock. Suddenly we made a combined rush into the open, hurling stones, and keeping a long rock in a line for retreat. Our storming of stones had the desired effect. The bull, annoyed and losing its presence of mind, stepped impatiently one step too far backwards and fell suddenly over the cliff, landing on a rocky ledge below. Looking over we saw he had broken a fore leg. The cliff was not more than fifteen feet high. From it the lance was used to put the poor creature out of suffering. We were rich now and could afford to spread out our stomachs, contracted by long spells of famine. The bull dressed about three hundred pounds of meat and one hundred pounds of tallow. We took the tallow and as much meat as we could carry on our backs, and started for the position of our prospective winter camp, ten miles away. The meat left was carefully covered with heavy stones to protect it from bears, wolves and foxes. On the following day we returned with the canvas boat, making a landing about four miles from the battlefield. As we neared the caches we found to our dismay numerous bear and fox tracks. The bears had opened the caches and removed our hard-earned game, while the foxes and the ravens had cleared up the very fragments and destroyed even the skins. Here was cause for vengeance on the bear and the fox. The fox paid his skin later, but the bear out-generaled us in nearly every maneuvre. We came prepared to continue the chase but had abandoned the use of the harpoon. Our main hope for fuel was the blubber of the walrus, and if the harpoon should be destroyed or lost we could not hope to attack so powerful a brute as a walrus with any other device. In landing we had seen a small herd of musk oxen at some distance to the east, but they got our wind and vanished. We decided to follow them up. One day we found them among a series of rolling hills, where the receding glaciers had left many erratic boulders. They lined up in their ring of defence as usual when we were detected. There were seven of them; all large creatures with huge horns. A bitter wind was blowing, driving some snow, which made our task more difficult. The opening of the fight with stones was now a regular feature which we never abandoned in our later development of the art, but the manner in which we delivered the stones depended upon the effect which we wished to produce. If we wished the musk oxen to retreat, we would make a combined rush, hurling the stones at the herd. If we wished them to remain in position and discourage their attack, we advanced slowly and threw stones desultorily, more or less at random. If we wanted to encourage attacks, one man advanced and delivered a large rock as best he could at the head. This was cheap ammunition and it was very effective. In this case the game was in a good position for us and we advanced accordingly. They allowed us to take positions within about fifteen feet, but no nearer. The lances were repeatedly tried without effect, and after a while two of these were again broken. Having tried bow and arrow, stones, the lance and the harpoon, we now tried another weapon. We threw the lasso--but not successfully, owing to the bushy hair about the head and the roundness of the hump of the neck. Then we tried to entangle their feet with slip loops just as we trapped gulls. This also failed. We next extended the loop idea to the horns. The bull's habit of rushing at things hurled at him caused us to think of this plan. A large slip loop was now made in the center of the line, and the two natives took up positions on opposite sides of the animal. They threw the rope, with its loop, on the ground in front of the creature, while I encouraged an attack from the front. As the head was slightly elevated the loop was raised, and the bull put his horns in it, one after the other. The rope was now rapidly fastened to stones and the bull tightened the loop by his efforts to advance or retreat. With every opportunity the slack was taken up, until no play was allowed the animal. During this struggle all the other oxen retreated except one female, and she was inoffensive. A few stones at close range drove her off. Then we had the bull where we could reach him with the lance at arm's length, and plunge it into his vitals. He soon fell over, the first victim to our new art of musk ox capture. The others did not run very far away. Indeed, they were too fat to run, and two more were soon secured in the same way. This time we took all the meat we could with us to camp and left a man on guard. When all was removed to the bay we found the load too heavy for our boat, so, in two loads, we transported the meat and fat and skins to our camp, where we built caches which we believed impregnable to the bear, although the thieving creatures actually opened them later. Our lances repaired, we started out for another adventure a few days later. It was a beautiful day. Our methods of attack were not efficient, but we wished to avoid the risk of the last plunge of the lance, for our lives were in the balance every time if the line should break, and with every lunge of the animal we expected it to snap. In such case, we knew, the assailant would surely be gored. We were sufficiently independent now to proceed more cautiously. With the bull's willingness to put his head into the loop, I asked myself whether the line loop could not be slipped beyond the horns and about the neck, thus shutting off the air. So the line was lengthened with this effort in view. Of the many groups of oxen which we saw we picked those in the positions most to our advantage, although rather distant. Our new plan was tried with success on a female. A bull horned her vigorously when she gasped for breath, and which aided our efforts. A storming of stones scattered the others of the group, and we were left to deal with our catch with the knife. Our art of musk ox fighting was now completely developed. In the course of a few weeks we secured enough to assure comfort and ease during the long night. By our own efforts we were lifted suddenly from famine to luxury. But it had been the stomach with its chronic emptiness which had lashed the mind and body to desperate efforts with sufficient courage to face the danger. Hunger, as I have found, is more potent as a stimulant than barrels of whiskey. Beginning with the bow and arrow we had tried everything which we could devise, but now our most important acquisition was our intimate knowledge of the animal's own means of offense and defense. We knew by a kind of instinct when an attack upon us was about to be made, because the animal made a forward move, and we never failed in our efforts to force a retreat. The rocks which the animals sought for an easy defense were equally useful to us, and later we forced them into deep waters and also deep snow with similar success. By the use of stones and utilizing the creatures' own tactics we placed them where we wished. And then again, by the animal's own efforts, we forced it to strangle itself, which, after all, was the most humane method of slaughter. Three human lives were thus saved by the invention of a new art of chase. This gave us courage to attack those more vicious but less dangerous animals, the bear and walrus. The musk ox now supplied many wants in our "Robinson Crusoe" life. From the bone we made harpoon points, arrow pieces, knife handles, fox traps and sledge repairs. The skin, with its remarkable fur, made our bed and roofed our igloo. Of it we made all kinds of garments, but its greatest use was for coats with hoods, stockings and mittens. From the skin, with the fur removed, we made boots, patched punctures in our boat, and cut lashings. The hair and wool which were removed from the skins made pads for our palms in the mittens and cushions for the soles of our feet in lieu of the grass formerly used. The meat became our staple food for seven months without change. It was a delicious product. It has a flavor slightly sweet, like that of horseflesh, but still distinctly pleasing. It possesses an odor unlike musk but equally unlike anything that I know of. The live creatures exhale the scent of domestic cattle. Just why this odd creature is called "musk" ox is a mystery, for it is neither an ox, nor does it smell of musk. The Eskimo name of "ah-ming-ma" would fit it much better. The bones were used as fuel for outside fires, and the fat as both fuel and food. At first our wealth of food came with surprise and delight to us, for, in the absence of sweet or starchy foods, man craves fat. Sugar and starch are most readily converted into fat by the animal laboratory, and fat is one of the prime factors in the development and maintenance of the human system. It is the confectionery of aboriginal man, and we had taken up the lot of the most primitive aborigines, living and thriving solely on the product of the chase without a morsel of civilized or vegetable food. Under these circumstances we especially delighted in the musk ox tallow, and more especially in the marrow, which we sucked from the bone with the eagerness with which a child jubilantly manages a stick of candy. [Illustration: ARCTIC WOLF] WITH A NEW ART OF CHASE IN A NEW WORLD OF LIFE THREE WEEKS BEFORE THE SUNSET OF 1908--REVELLING IN AN EDEN OF GAME--PECULIARITIES OF ANIMALS OF THE ARCTIC--HOW NATURE DICTATES ANIMAL COLOR--THE QUEST OF SMALL LIFE XXVII COMING OF THE SECOND WINTER In two months, from the first of September to the end of October, we passed from a period of hunger, thirst and abject misery into the realm of abundant game. The spell for inactivity had not yet come. Up to this time we were too busy with the serious business of life to realize thoroughly that we had really discovered a new natural wonderland. The luck of Robinson Crusoe was not more fortunate than ours, although he had not the cut of frost nor the long night, nor the torment of bears to circumscribe his adventures. In successive stages of battle our eyes had opened to a new world of life. In searching every nook and cranny of land we had acquired new arts of life and a new perspective of nature's wonders. We slept in caves in storm; in the lee of icebergs in strong winds and on the mossy cushions of earth concavities. Here we learned to study and appreciate primal factors of both animal and plant life. In the Arctic, nature tries to cover its nakedness in places where the cruel winds do not cut its contour. The effort is interesting, not only because of the charm of the verdant dress, but because of the evidence of a motherly protection to the little life cells which struggle against awful odds to weave that fabric wherever a terrestrial dimple is exposed to the kisses of the southern sun. In these depressions, sheltered from the blasts of storms, a kindly hand spreads a beautiful mantle of colorful grass, moss, lichens and flowery plants. Here the lemming digs his home under the velvet cover, where he may enjoy the roots and material protection from the abysmal frost of the long night. Here in the protected folds of Mother Earth, blanketed by the warm white robe of winter, he sleeps the peace of death while the warring elements blast in fury outside. Here the Arctic hare plays with its bunnies during summer, and as the winter comes the young grow to full maturity and dress in a silky down of white. Under the snow they burrow, making long tunnels, still eating and sleeping on their loved cushions of frozen plants, far under the snow-skirts of Mother Earth, while the life-stilling blasts without expend their wintry force. Here the ptarmigan scratches for its food. The musk ox and the caribou browse, while the raven, with a kind word for all, collects food for its palate. The bear and the wolf occasionally visit to collect tribute, while the falcon and the fox with one eye open are ever on the alert for the exercise of their craft. In these little smiling indentations of nature, when the sun begins to caress the gentle slopes, while the snow melts and flows in leaping streams--the sea still locked by the iron grip of the winter embrace--the Arctic incubator works overtime to start the little ones of the snow wilds. Thus in these dimples of nature rocks the cradle of boreal life. Relieved of the all-absorbing care of providing food, I now was often held spellbound as I wandered over these spots of nature's wonders. Phases of life which never interested me before now riveted my attention. Wandering from the softly cushioned gullies, the harsh ridge life next came under my eyes. While the valleys and the gullies become garden spots of summer glory, the very protection from winds which makes this life possible buries the vegetable luxuriousness in winter under unfathomable depths of snow. The musk ox and the caribou, dependent upon this plant life for food, therefore become deprived of the usual means of subsistence. But Mother Nature does not desert her children. The same winds which compel man and feebler animals to seek shelter from its death-dealing assault, afford food to the better fitted musk ox and caribou. In summer, plants, like animals, climb to ridges, hummocks and mountain slopes, to get air and light and warm sunbeams. But the battle here is hard, and only very strong plants survive the force of wind and frosts. The plant fibre here become tenacious; with a body gnarled and knotty from long conflict the roots dig yards deep into the soil. This leaves the breathing part of the plant dwarfed to a few inches. Here the winter winds sweep off the snow and offer food to the musk ox and caribou. Thus the wind, which destroys, also gives means of life. The equalizing balance of nature is truly wonderful. In small, circumscribed areas we thus found ourselves in a new Eden of primeval life. The topography of North Devon, however, placed a sharp limit to the animated wilderness. Only a narrow strip of coast about Cape Sparbo, extending about twenty-five miles to the east and about forty miles to the west, presented any signs of land life. All other parts of the south shore of Jones Sound are more barren than the shores of the Polar sea. Although our larder was now well stocked with meat for food and blubber for fuel, we were still in need of furs and skins to prepare a new equipment with which to return to the Greenland shores. The animals whose pelts we required were abundant everywhere. But they were too active to be caught by the art and the weapons evolved earlier in the chase of the walrus, bear and musk ox. A series of efforts, therefore, was directed to the fox, the hare, the ptarmigan and the seal. It was necessary to devise special methods and means of capture for each family of animals. The hare was perhaps the most important, not only because its delicately flavored meat furnished a pleasing change from the steady diet of musk ox, but also because its skin is not equalled by any other for stockings. In our quest of the musk ox we had startled little groups of creatures from many centers. Their winter fur was not prime until after the middle of October. Taking notes of their haunts and their habits, we had, therefore, reserved the hare hunt until the days just before sunset. [Illustration: E-TUK-I-SHOOK WAITING FOR A SEAL AT A BLOW-HOLE] [Illustration: TOWARD CAPE SPARBO IN A CANVAS BOAT WALRUS--PRIZE OF A FIFTEEN HOUR BATTLE--4,000 POUNDS OF MEAT AND FAT] We had learned to admire this little aristocrat. It is the most beautiful, most delicate of northern creatures. Early in the summer we had found it grazing in the green meadows along the base of bird cliffs. The little gray bunnies then played with their mothers about crystal dens. Now the babes were full grown and clothed in the same immaculate white of the parents. We could distinguish the young only by their greater activity and their ceaseless curiosity. In the immediate vicinity of camp we found them first in gullies where the previous winter's snow had but recently disappeared. Here the grass was young and tender and of a flavor to suit their taste for delicacies. A little later they followed the musk ox to the shores of lagoons or to the wind-swept hills. Still later, as the winter snows blanketed the pastures and the bitter storms of night swept the cheerless drifts, they dug long tunnels under the snow for food, and when the storms were too severe remained housed in these feeding dugouts. An animal of rare intelligence, the hare is quick to grasp an advantage, and therefore as winter advances we find it a constant companion of the musk ox. For in the diggings of the musk ox this little creature finds sufficient food uncovered for its needs. With a skeleton as light as that of the bird and a skin as frail as paper it is nevertheless as well prepared to withstand the rigors of the Arctic as the bear with its clumsy anatomy. The entire makeup of the hare is based upon the highest strain of animal economy. It expends the greatest possible amount of energy at the cost of the least consumption of food. Its fur is as white as the boreal snows and absorbs color somewhat more readily. In a stream of crimson light it appears red and white; in a shadow of ice or in the darkness of night it assumes the subdued blue of the Polar world. Nature has bleached its fur seemingly to afford the best protection against the frigid chill, for a suitable white fur permits the escape of less bodily heat than any colored or shaded pelt. The fox is its only real enemy, and the fox's chance of success is won only by superior cunning. Its protection against the fox lies in its lightning-like movement of the legs. When it scents danger it rises by a series of darts that could be followed only by birds. Its expenditure of muscular energy is so economical that it can continue its run for an almost indefinite time. Shooting along a few hundred paces, it then rises to rest in an erect posture. With its black-tipped ears in line with its back it makes a fascinating little bit of nature's handiwork. Again, when asleep, it curls up its legs carefully in the long fur of its body, and its ever-active nose, with the divided lip, is then pushed into the long soft fur of the breast where the frost crystals are screened from the breath when storms carry drift snow. It is a fluffy ball of animation which provokes one's admiration. Deprived as we were of most of the usual comforts of life, many things were taught us by the creatures about. From the hare, with its scrupulous attention to cleanliness, we learned how to cleanse our hands and faces. With no soap, no towels and very little water, we had some difficulty in trying to keep respectable appearances. The hare has the same problem to deal with, but it is provided by nature with a cleansing apparatus. Its own choice is the forepaw, but with its need for snow shoes the hind legs serve a very useful purpose, and then, too, the surface is developed, a surface covered with tough fur which, we discovered, possessed the quality of a wet sponge and did not require, for efficiency, either soap or water. With hare paws, therefore, we kept clean. These paws also served as napkins. To take the place of a basin and a towel we therefore gathered a supply of hare paws, enough to keep clean for at least six months. The hare was a good mark for E-tuk-i-shook with the sling shot, and many fell victims to his primitive genius. Ah-we-lah, never an expert at stone slinging, became an adept with the bow and arrow. Usually he returned with at least a hare from every day's chase. Our main success resulted from a still more primitive device. Counting on its inquisitiveness we devised a chain of loop lines arranged across the hare's regular lines of travel. In playing and jumping through these loops, the animal tightened the lines and became our victim automatically. The ptarmigan chase was possible only for Ah-we-lah. The bird was not at all shy, for it often came close to our den and scattered the snow like a chicken. It was too small a mark for the sling shot and only Ah-we-lah could give the arrow the precise direction for these feathered creatures. Altogether, fifteen were secured in our locality, and all served as dessert for my special benefit. According to Eskimo custom, a young, unmarried man or woman cannot eat the ptarmigan, or "_ahr-rish-shah_" as they call it. That pleasure is reserved for the older people, and I did not for a moment risk the sacrilege of trying to change the custom. It was greatly to my advantage, for it not only impressed with suitable force my dignity as a superior Eskimo, but it enabled me to enjoy an entire bird at a time instead of only a teasing mouthful. To us the ptarmigan was at all times fascinating, but it proved ever a thing of mystery. Descending from the skies at unexpected times it embarks again for haunts unknown. At times we saw the birds in great numbers. At other times they were absent for months. In summer the bird has gray and brown feathers, mingled with white. It keeps close to the inland ice, making its course along the snowy coast of Noonataks, beyond the reach of man or fox. Late in September it seeks the lower ground along the sea level. Like the hare and the musk ox, it delights in windy places where the snow has been driven away. There it finds bits of moss and withered plants which satisfy its needs. The summer plumage is at first sight like that of the partridge. On close examination one finds the feathers are only tipped with color--underneath, the plumage is white. In winter it retains only the black feathers of its tail, otherwise it is as white as the hare. Its legs often are covered with tough fur, like that of the hare's lower hind legs. The meat is delicate in flavor and tender. It is the most beautiful of the four birds that remain in the white world when all is bleak during the night. We sought the fox more diligently than the ptarmigan. We had a more tangible way of securing it. Furthermore, we were in great need of its skin. E-tuk-i-shook and Ah-we-lah regarded fox hams as quite a delicacy--a delicacy which I never willingly shared when there were musk tenderloins about. We had no steel traps, and with its usual craft the fox usually managed to evade our crude weapons by keeping out of sight. Bone traps were made with a good deal of care after the pattern of steel traps. We used a musk-ox horn as a spring. But with these we were only partially successful. As a last resort, little domes were arranged in imitation of the usual caches, with trap stone doors. In these we managed to secure fourteen white and two blue animals. After that they proved too wise for our craft. The fox becomes shy only in the end of October, when its fur begins to be really worth taking. Before that it followed us everywhere on the musk ox quest, for it was not slow to learn the advantage of being near our battle scenes. We frequently left choice bits for its picking, a favor which it seemed to appreciate by a careful watchfulness of our camps. Although a much more cunning thief than the bear, we could afford its plunderings, for it had not so keen a taste for blubber and its capacity was limited. We thus got well acquainted. Up to the present we had failed in the quest of the seal. During the open season of summer, without a _kayak_, we could not get near the animal. As the winter and the night advanced, we were too busy with the land animals to watch the blow-holes in the new ice. When the sea is first spread with the thin sheet of colorless ice, which later thickens, the seal rises to the surface, makes a breathing hole, descends to its feeding grounds on the sea bottom for about ten minutes, then rises and makes another hole. This line of openings is arranged in a circle or a series of connecting, oblong lines, marking that particular seal's favorite feeding ground. Before the young ice is covered with snow, these breathing holes are easily located by a ring of white frost crystals, which condense and fall as the seal blows. But now that the winter had sheeted the black ice evenly with a white cover, the seal holes, though open, could not be found. We were not in need of either fat or meat, but the seal skins were to fill an important want. We required for boots and sled lashing the thin, tough seal hide. How could we get it? From our underground den we daily watched the wanderings of the bears. They trailed along certain lines which we knew to be favorable feeding grounds for seals, but they did not seem to be successful. Could we not profit by their superb scenting instinct and find the blow-holes? The bear had been our worst enemy, but unconsciously it also proved to be our best friend. We started out to trail the bear's footprints. By these we were led to the blow-holes, where we found the snow about had been circled with a regular trail. Most of these had been abandoned, for the seal has a scent as keen as the bear, but a few "live" holes were located. Sticks were placed to locate these, and after a few days' careful study and hard work we harpooned six seals. Taking only the skins and blubber, we left the carcasses for bruin's share of the chase--to be consumed later. We did not hunt together with the bear--at least, not knowingly. In these wanderings over game lands we were permitted a very close scrutiny of the animals about, and it was at this time that I came to certain definite conclusions as to prevailing laws of color and dress of our co-habitants of the Polar wastes. The animals of the Arctic assume a color in accordance to their need for heat transmission. The prevailing influence is white, as light furs permit the least escape of heat. It is evidently more important to confine the heat of the body, than to gather heat from the sun's feeble rays. The necessity for bleaching the furry raiment becomes most operative in winter when the temperature of the air is 150° below that of the body. In the summer, when the continued sunshine is made more heating by the piercing influence of the reflecting snow-fields, there is a tendency to absorb heat. Then nature darkens the skin, which absorbs heat accordingly. The relative advantage of light and dark shades can be easily demonstrated by placing pieces of white and black cloth on a surface of snow, with a slope at right angles to the sun's rays. If, after a few hours, the cloth is removed the snow under the black cloth will be melted considerably, while that under the white cloth will show little effect. Nature makes use of this law of physics to ease the hard lot of its creatures fighting the weather in the icy world. The laws of color protection as advocated in the rules of natural selection are not operative here, because of the vitally important demand of heat economy. If we now seek the problem of nature's body colored dyes, with heat economy as the key, our calculations will become easy. The serwah, a species of guillemot, which is as black as the raven in summer, is white in winter. The ptarmigan is light as pearl in winter, but its feathers become tipped with amber in summer. The hare is slightly gray in summer, but, in winter, becomes white as the snow under which it finds food and shelter. The white fox is gray in summer, the blue fox darkens as the sun advances, while its under fur becomes lighter with increasing cold. The caribou is dark brown as it grazes the moss-colored fields, but becomes nearly white with the permanent snows. The polar bear, as white as nature can make it, with only blubber to mix its paints, basks in the midnight sun with a raiment suggestive of gold. The musk ox changes its dark under-fur for a lighter shade. The raven has a white under-coat in winter. The rat is gray in summer but bleaches to blue-gray in winter time. The laws of selection and heat economy are thus combined. While thus preparing for the coming winter by seeking animals with furry pelts, the weather conditions made our task increasingly difficult. The storm of the descending sun whipped the seas into white fury and brushed the lands with icy clouds. With the descent of the sun, nature again set its seal of gloom on Arctic life. The cheer of a sunny heaven was blotted from the skies, and the coming of the winter blackness was signalled by the beginning of a warfare of the elements. All hostile nature was now set loose to expend its restive battle energy. For brief moments the weather was quiet, and then in awe-inspiring silence we steered for sequestered gullies in quest of little creatures. This death-like stillness was in harmony with our loneliness. As the sea was stilled by the iron bonds of frost, as life sought protection under the storm-driven snows of land, the winds, growing even wilder, beat a maddening onslaught over the dead, frozen world. The thunder of elements shook the very rocks under which we slept. Then again would fall a spell of that strange silence--all was dead, the sun glowed no more, the creatures of the wilds were hushed. We were all alone--alone in a vast, white dead world. [Illustration: LEMMING] A HUNDRED NIGHTS IN AN UNDERGROUND DEN LIVING LIKE MEN OF THE STONE AGE--THE DESOLATION OF THE LONG NIGHT--LIFE ABOUT CAPE SPARBO--PREPARING EQUIPMENT FOR THE RETURN TO GREENLAND--SUNRISE, FEBRUARY 11, 1909 XXVIII LIFE ABOUT CAPE SPARBO The coming night slowly fixed its seal on our field of activity. Early in August the sun had dipped under the icy contour of North Lincoln, and Jones Sound had then begun to spread its cover of crystal. The warm rays gradually melted in a perpetual blue frost. The air thickened. The land darkened. The days shortened. The night lengthened. The Polar cold and darkness of winter came hand in hand. Late in September the nights had become too dark to sleep in the open, with inquisitive bears on every side. Storms, too, increased thereafter and deprived us of the cheer of colored skies. Thus we were now forced to seek a retreat in our underground den. We took about as kindly to this as a wild animal does to a cage. For over seven months we had wandered over vast plains of ice, with a new camp site almost every day. We had grown accustomed to a wandering life like that of the bear, but we had not developed his hibernating instinct. We were anxious to continue our curious battle of life. In October the bosom of the sea became blanketed, and the curve of the snow-covered earth was polarized in the eastern skies. The final period for the death of day and earthly glory was advancing, but Nature in her last throes displayed some of her most alluring phases. The colored silhouette of the globe was perhaps the most remarkable display. In effect, this was a shadow of the earth thrown into space. By the reflected, refracted and polarized light of the sun, the terrestrial shadows were outlined against the sky in glowing colors. Seen occasionally in other parts of the globe, it is only in the Polar regions, with its air of crystal and its surface of mirrors, that the proper mediums are afforded for this gigantic spectral show. We had an ideal location. A glittering sea, with a level horizon, lay along the east and west. The weather was good, the skies were clear, and, as the sun sank, the sky over it was flushed with orange or gold. This gradually paled, and over the horizon opposite there rose an arc in feeble prismatic colors with a dark zone of purple under it. The arc rose as the sun settled; the purple spread beyond the polarized bow; and gradually the heavens turned a deep purple blue to the zenith, while the halo of the globe was slowly lost in its own shadow. The colored face of the earth painted on the screen of the heavens left the last impression of worldly charm on the retina. In the end of October the battle of the elements, storms attending the setting of the sun, began to blast the air into a chronic fury. By this time we were glad to creep into our den and await the vanishing weeks of ebbing day. In the doom of night to follow, there would at least be some quiet moments during which we could stretch our legs. The bears, which had threatened our existence, were now kept off by a new device which served the purpose for a time. We had food and fuel enough for the winter. There should have been nothing to have disturbed our tempers, but the coming of the long blackness makes all Polar life ill at ease. Early in November the storms ceased long enough to give us a last fiery vision. With a magnificent cardinal flame the sun rose, gibbered in the sky and sank behind the southern cliffs on November 3. It was not to rise again until February 11 of the next year. We were therefore doomed to hibernate in our underground den for at least a hundred double nights before the dawn of a new day opened our eyes. The days now came and went in short order. For hygienic reasons we kept up the usual routine of life. The midday light soon darkened to twilight. The moon and stars appeared at noon. The usual partition of time disappeared. All was night, unrelieved darkness, midnight, midday, morning or evening. We stood watches of six hours each to keep the fires going, to keep off the bears and to force an interest in a blank life. We knew that we were believed to be dead. For our friends in Greenland would not ascribe to us the luck which came after our run of abject misfortune. This thought inflicted perhaps the greatest pain of the queer prolongation of life which was permitted us. It was loneliness, frigid loneliness. I wondered whether men ever felt so desolately alone. We could not have been more thoroughly isolated if we had been transported to the surface of the moon. I find myself utterly unable to outline the emptiness of our existence. In other surroundings we never grasp the full meaning of the word "alone." When it is possible to put a foot out of doors into sunlight without the risk of a bear-paw on your neck it is also possible to run off a spell of blues, but what were we to do with every dull rock rising as a bear ghost and with the torment of a satanic blackness to blind us? With the cheer of day, a kindly nature and a new friend, it is easy to get in touch with a sympathetic chord. The mere thought of another human heart within touch, even a hundred miles away, would have eased the suspense of the silent void. But we could entertain no such hopefulness. We were all alone in a world where every pleasant aspect of nature had deserted us. Although three in number, a bare necessity had compressed us into a single composite individuality. There were no discussions, no differences of opinion. We had been too long together under bitter circumstances to arouse each other's interest. A single individual could not live long in our position. A selfish instinct tightened a fixed bond to preserve and protect one another. As a battle force we made a formidable unit, but there was no matches to start the fires of inspiration. The half darkness of midday and the moonlight still permitted us to creep from under the ground and seek a few hours in the open. The stone and bone fox traps and the trap caves for the bears which we had built during the last glimmer of day offered an occupation with some recreation. But we were soon deprived of this. Bears headed us off at every turn. We were not permitted to proceed beyond an enclosed hundred feet from the hole of our den. Not an inch of ground or a morsel of food was permitted us without a contest. It was a fight of nature against nature. We either actually saw the little sooty nostrils with jets of vicious breath rising, and the huge outline of a wild beast ready to spring on us, or imagined we saw it. With no adequate means of defense we were driven to imprisonment within the walls of our own den. From within, our position was even more tantalizing. The bear thieves dug under the snows over our heads and snatched blocks of blubber fuel from under our very eyes at the port without a consciousness of wrongdoing. Occasionally we ventured out to deliver a lance, but each time the bear would make a leap for the door and would have entered had the opening been large enough. In other cases we shot arrows through the peep-hole. A bear head again would burst through the silk covered window near the roof, where knives, at close range and in good light, could be driven with sweet vengeance. As a last resort we made a hole through the top of the den. When a bear was heard near, a long torch was pushed through. The snow for acres about was then suddenly flashed with a ghostly whiteness which almost frightened us. But the bear calmly took advantage of the light to pick a larger piece of the blubber upon which our lives depended, and then with an air of superiority he would move into the brightest light, usually within a few feet of our peep-hole, where we could almost touch his hateful skin. Without ammunition we were helpless. Two weeks after sunset we heard the last cry of ravens. After a silence of several days they suddenly descended with a piercing shout which cut the frosty stillness. We crept out of our den quickly to read the riddle of the sudden bluster. There were five ravens on five different rocks, and the absence of the celestial color gave them quite an appropriate setting. They were restless: there was no food for them. A fox had preceded them with his usual craftiness, and had left no pickings for feathered creatures. A family of five had gathered about in October, when the spoils of the chase were being cached, and we encouraged their stay by placing food for them regularly. Some times a sly fox, and at other times a thieving bear, got the little morsels, but there were usually sufficient picking for the raven's little crop. They had found a suitable cave high up in the great cliffs of granite behind our den. We were beginning to be quite friendly. My Eskimo companions ascribed to the birds almost human qualities and they talked to them reverently, thereby displaying their heart's desire. The secrets of the future were all entrusted to their consideration. Would the "too-loo-ah" go to Eskimo Lands and deliver their messages? The raven said "ka-ah" (yes). E-tuk-i-shook said: "Go and take the tears from An-na-do-a's eyes; tell her that I am alive and well and will come to take her soon. Tell Pan-ic-pa (his father) that I am in Ah-ming-ma-noona (Musk Ox Land). Bring us some powder to blacken the bear's snout." "Ka-ah, ka-ah," said the two ravens at once. Ah-we-lah began an appeal to drive off the bears and to set the raven spirits as guardians of our blubber caches. This was uttered in shrill shouts, and then, in a low, trembling voice, he said: "Dry the tears of mother's cheeks and tell her that we are in a land of todnu (tallow)." "Ka-ah," replied the raven. "Then go to Ser-wah; tell her not to marry that lazy gull, Ta-tamh; tell her that Ah-we-lah's skin is still flushed with thoughts of her, that he is well and will return to claim her in the first moon after sunrise." "Ka-ah, ka-ah, ka-ah," said the raven, and rose as if to deliver the messages. For the balance of that day we saw only three ravens. The two had certainly started for the Greenland shores. The other three, after an engorgement, rose to their cave and went to sleep for the night as we thought. No more was seen of them until the dawn of day of the following year. A few days later we also made other acquaintances. They were the most interesting bits of life that crossed our trail, and in the dying effort to seek animal companionship our soured tempers were sweetened somewhat by four-footed joys. A noise had been heard for several successive days at eleven o'clock. This was the time chosen by the bears for their daily exercise along our foot-path, and we were usually all awake with a knife or a lance in hand, not because there was any real danger, for our house cemented by ice was as secure as a fort, but because we felt more comfortable in a battle attitude. Through the peep-hole we saw them marching up and down along the foot-path tramped down by our daily spells of leg-stretching. They were feasting on the aroma of our foot-prints, and when they left it was usually safe for us to venture out. Noises, however, continued within the walls of the den. It was evident that there was something alive at close range. We were lonely enough to have felt a certain delight in shaking hands even with bruin if the theft of our blubber had not threatened the very foundation of our existence. For in the night we could not augment our supplies; and without fat, fire and water were impossible. No! there was not room for man and bear at Cape Sparbo. Without ammunition, however, we were nearly helpless. But noises continued after bruin's steps came with a decreasing metallic ring from distant snows. There was a scraping and a scratching within the very walls of our den. We had a neighbor and a companion. Who, or what, could it be? We were kept in suspense for some time. When all was quiet at the time which we chose to call midnight, a little blue rat came out and began to tear the bark from our willow lamp trimmer. I was on watch, awake, and punched E-tuk-i-shook without moving my head. His eyes opened with surprise on the busy rodent, and Ah-we-lah was kicked. He turned over and the thing jumped into a rock crevasse. The next day we risked the discomfort of bruin's interview and dug up an abundance of willow roots for our new tenant. These were arranged in appetizing display and the rat came out very soon and helped himself, but he permitted no familiarity. We learned to love the creature, however, all the more because of its shyness. By alternate jumps from the roots to seclusion it managed to fill up with all it could carry. Then it disappeared as suddenly as it came. In the course of two days it came back with a companion, its mate. They were beautiful little creatures, but little larger than mice. They had soft, fluffy fur of a pearl blue color, with pink eyes. They had no tails. Their dainty little feet were furred to the claw tips with silky hair. They made a picture of animal delight which really aroused us from stupor to little spasms of enthusiasm. A few days were spent in testing our intentions. Then they arranged a berth just above my head and became steady boarders. Their confidence and trust flattered our vanity and we treated them as royal guests. No trouble was too great for us to provide them with suitable delicacies. We ventured into the darkness and storms for hours to dig up savory roots and mosses. A little stage was arranged every day with the suitable footlights. In the eagerness to prolong the rodent theatricals, the little things were fed over and over, until they became too fat and too lazy to creep from their berths. They were good, clean orderly camp fellows, always kept in their places and never ventured to borrow our bed furs, nor did they disturb our eatables. With a keen sense of justice, and an aristocratic air, they passed our plates of carnivorous foods without venturing a taste, and went to their herbivorous piles of sod delicacies. About ten days before midnight they went to sleep and did not wake for more than a month. Again we were alone. Now even the bears deserted us. In the dull days of blankness which followed, few incidents seemed to mark time. The cold increased. Storms were more continuous and came with greater force. We were cooped up in our underground den with but a peep-hole through the silk of our old tent to watch the sooty nocturnal bluster. We were face to face with a spiritual famine. With little recreation, no amusements, no interesting work, no reading matter, with nothing to talk about, the six hours of a watch were spread out to weeks. We had no sugar, no coffee, not a particle of civilized food. We had meat and blubber, good and wholesome food at that. But the stomach wearied of its never changing carnivorous stuffing. The dark den, with its walls of pelt and bone, its floor decked with frosted tears of ice, gave no excuse for cheer. Insanity, abject madness, could only be avoided by busy hands and long sleep. My life in this underground place was, I suppose, like that of a man in the stone age. The interior was damp and cold and dark; with our pitiable lamps burning, the temperature of the top was fairly moderate, but at the bottom it was below zero. Our bed was a platform of rocks wide enough for three prostrate men. Its forward edge was our seat when awake. Before this was a space where a deeper hole in the earth permitted us to stand upright, one at a time. There, one by one, we dressed and occasionally stood to move our stiff and aching limbs. On either side of this standing space was half a tin plate in which musk-ox fat was burned. We used moss as a wick. These lights were kept burning day and night; it was a futile, imperceptible sort of heat they gave. Except when we got close to the light, it was impossible to see one another's faces. We ate twice daily--without enjoyment. We had few matches, and in fear of darkness tended our lamps diligently. There was no food except meat and tallow; most of the meat, by choice, was eaten raw and frozen. Night and morning we boiled a small pot of meat for broth; but we had no salt to season it. Stooped and cramped, day by day, I found occasional relief from the haunting horror of this life by rewriting the almost illegible notes made on our journey. My most important duty was the preparation of my notes and observations for publication. This would afford useful occupation and save months of time afterwards. But I had no paper. My three note books were full, and there remained only a small pad of prescription blanks and two miniature memorandum books. I resolved, however, to try to work out the outline of my narrative in chapters in these. I had four good pencils and one eraser. These served a valuable purpose. With sharp points I shaped the words in small letters. When the skeleton of the book was ready I was surprised to find how much could be crowded on a few small pages. By a liberal use of the eraser many parts of pages were cleared of unnecessary notes. Entire lines were written between all the lines of the note books, the pages thus carrying two narrations or series of notes. By the use of abbreviations and dashes, a kind of short-hand was devised. My art of space economy complete, I began to write, literally developing the very useful habit of carefully shaping every idea before an attempt was made to use the pencil. In this way my entire book and several articles were written. Charts, films and advertisement boxes were covered. In all 150,000 words were written, and absolute despair, which in idleness opens the door to madness, was averted. Our needs were still urgent enough to enforce much other work. Drift threatened to close the entrance to our dungeon and this required frequent clearing. Blubber for the lamp was sliced and pounded every day. The meat corner was occasionally stocked, for it required several days to thaw out the icy musk ox quarters. Ice was daily gathered and placed within reach to keep the water pots full. The frost which was condensed out of our breaths made slabs of ice on the floor, and this required occasional removal. The snow under our bed furs, which had a similar origin, was brushed out now and then. Soot from the lamps, a result of bad housekeeping, which a proud Eskimo woman would not have tolerated for a minute, was scraped from the bone rafters about once a week. With a difference of one hundred degrees between the breathing air of the den and that outside there was a rushing interchanging breeze through every pinhole and crevice. The ventilation was good. The camp cleanliness could almost have been called hygienic, although no baths had been indulged in for six months, and then only by an unavoidable, undesirable accident. Much had still to be done to prepare for our homegoing in the remote period beyond the night. It was necessary to plan and make a new equipment. The sledge, the clothing, the camp outfit, everything which had been used in the previous campaign, were worn out. Something could be done by judicious repairing, but nearly everything required reconstruction. In the new arrangement we were to take the place of the dogs at the traces and the sledge loads must be prepared accordingly. There was before us an unknown line of trouble for three hundred miles before we could step on Greenland shores. It was only the hope of homegoing, which gave some mental strength in the night of gloom. Musk ox meat was now cut into strips and dried over the lamps. Tallow was prepared and moulded in portable form for fuel. But in spite of all efforts we gradually sank to the lowest depths of the Arctic midnight. The little midday glimmer on the southern sky became indiscernible. Only the swing of the Great Dipper and other stars told the time of the day or night. We had fancied that the persistent wind ruffled our tempers. But now it was still; not a breath of air moved the heavy blackness. In that very stillness we found reasons for complaint. Storms were preferable to the dead silence; anything was desirable to stir the spirits to action. Still the silence was only apparent. Wind noises floated in the frosty distance; cracking rocks, exploding glaciers and tumbling avalanches kept up a muffled rumbling which the ear detected only when it rested on the floor rock of our bed. The temperature was low-- -48° F.--so low that at times the very air seemed to crack. Every creature of the wild had been buried in drift; all nature was asleep. In our dungeon all was a mental blank. Not until two weeks after midnight did we awake to a proper consciousness of life. The faint brightness of the southern skies at noon opened the eye to spiritual dawn. The sullen stupor and deathlike stillness vanished. Shortly after black midnight descended I began to experience a curious psychological phenomenon. The stupor of the days of travel wore away, and I began to see myself as in a mirror. I can explain this no better. It is said that a man falling from a great height usually has a picture of his life flashed through his brain in the short period of descent. I saw a similar cycle of events. The panorama began with incidents of childhood, and it seems curious now with what infinite detail I saw people whom I had long forgotten, and went through the most trivial experiences. In successive stages every phase of life appeared and was minutely examined; every hidden recess of gray matter was opened to interpret the biographies of self-analysis. The hopes of my childhood and the discouragements of my youth filled me with emotion; feelings of pleasure and sadness came as each little thought picture took definite shape; it seemed hardly possible that so many things, potent for good and bad, could have been done in so few years. I saw myself, not as a voluntary being, but rather as a resistless atom, predestined in its course, being carried on by an inexorable fate. Meanwhile our preparations for return were being accomplished. This work had kept us busy during all of the wakeful spells of the night. Much still remained to be done. Although real pleasure followed all efforts of physical labor, the balking muscles required considerable urging. Musk ox meat was cut into portable blocks, candles were made, fur skins were dressed and chewed, boots, stockings, pants, shirts, sleeping bags were made. The sledge was re-lashed, things were packed in bags. All was ready about three weeks before sunrise. Although the fingers and the jaws were thus kept busy, the mind and also the heart were left free to wander. In the face of all our efforts to ward aside the ill effects of the night we gradually became its victims. Our skin paled, our strength failed, the nerves weakened, and the mind ultimately became a blank. The most notable physical effect, however, was the alarming irregularity of the heart. In the locomotion of human machinery the heart is the motor. Like all good motors it has a governor which requires some adjustment. In the Arctic, where the need of regulation is greatest, the facilities for adjustment are withdrawn. In normal conditions, as the machine of life pumps the blood which drives all, its force and its regularity are governed by the never-erring sunbeams. When these are withdrawn, as they are in the long night, the heart pulsations become irregular; at times slow, at other times spasmodic. Light seems to be as necessary to the animal as to the plant. A diet of fresh meat, healthful hygienic surroundings, play for the mind, recreation for the body, and strong heat from open fires, will help; but only the return of the heaven-given sun will properly adjust the motor of man. As the approaching day brightened to a few hours of twilight at midday, we developed a mood for animal companionship. A little purple was now thrown on the blackened snows. The weather was good. All the usual sounds of nature were suspended, but unusual sounds came with a weird thunder. The very earth began to shake in an effort to break the seal of frost. For several days nothing moved into our horizon which could be imagined alive. About two weeks before sunrise the rats woke and began to shake their beautiful blue fur in graceful little dances, but they were not really alive and awake in a rat sense for several days. At about the same time the ravens began to descend from their hiding place and screamed for food. There were only three; two were still conversing with the Eskimo maidens far away, as my companions thought. In my subsequent strolls I found the raven den and to my horror discovered that the two were frozen. I did not deprive E-tuk-i-shook and Ah-we-lah of their poetic dream; the sad news of raven bereavement was never told. The foxes now began to bark from a safe distance and advanced to get their share of the camp spoils. Ptarmigan shouted from nearby rocks. Wolves were heard away in the musk ox fields, but they did not venture to pay us a visit. The bear that had shadowed us everywhere before midnight was the last to claim our friendship at dawn. There were good reasons for this which we did not learn until later. The bear stork had arrived. But really we had changed heart even towards the bear. Long before he returned we were prepared to give him a welcome reception. In our new and philosophical turn of mind we thought better of bruin. In our greatest distress during the previous summer he had kept us alive. In our future adventures he might perform a similar mission. After all he had no sporting proclivities; he did not hunt or trouble us for the mere fun of our discomfort or the chase. His aim in life was the very serious business of getting food. Could we blame him? Had we not a similar necessity? A survey of our caches proved that we were still rich in the coin of the land. There remained meat and blubber sufficient for all our needs, with considerable to spare for other empty stomachs. So, to feed the bear, meat was piled up in heaps for his delight. The new aroma rose into the bleaching night air. We peeped with eager eyes through our ports to spot results. The next day at eleven o'clock footsteps were heard. The noise indicated caution and shyness instead of the bold quick step which we knew so well. There was room for only one eye and only one man at a time at the peep-hole, and so we took turns. Soon the bear was sighted, proceeding with the utmost caution behind some banks and rocks. The blue of the snows, with yellow light, dyed his fur to an ugly green. He was thin and gaunt and ghostly. There was the stealth and the cunning of the fox in his movements. But he could not get his breakfast, the first after a fast of weeks, without coming squarely into our view. The den was buried under the winter snows and did not disturb the creature, but the size of the pile of meat did disturb its curiosity. When within twenty-five yards, a few sudden leaps were made, and the ponderous claws came down on a walrus shoulder. His teeth began to grind like a stone cutter. For an hour the bear stood there and displayed itself to good advantage. Our hatred of the creature entirely vanished. Five days passed before that bear returned. In the meantime we longed for it to come back. We had unconsciously developed quite a brotherly bear interest. In the period which followed we learned that eleven o'clock was the hour, and that five days was the period between meals. The bear calendar and the clock were consulted with mathematical precision. We also learned that our acquaintance was a parent. By a little exploration in February we discovered the bear den, in a snow covered cave, less than a mile west. In it were two saucy little teddies in pelts of white silk that would have gladdened the heart of any child. The mother was not at home at the time, and we were not certain enough of her friendship, or of her whereabouts, to play with the twins. With a clearing horizon and a wider circle of friendship our den now seemed a cheerful home. Our spirits awakened as the gloom of the night was quickly lost in the new glitter of day. On the eleventh of February the snow-covered slopes of North Devon glowed with the sunrise of 1909. The sun had burst nature's dungeon. Cape Sparbo glowed with golden light. The frozen sea glittered with hills of shimmering lilac. We escaped to a joyous freedom. With a reconstructed sled, new equipment and newly acquired energy we were ready to pursue the return journey to Greenland and fight the last battle of the Polar campaign. [Illustration: GUILLEMOT] HOMEWARD WITH A HALF SLEDGE AND HALF-FILLED STOMACHS THREE HUNDRED MILES THROUGH STORM AND SNOW AND UPLIFTED MOUNTAINS OF ICE TROUBLES--DISCOVER TWO ISLANDS--ANNOATOK IS REACHED--MEETING HARRY WHITNEY--NEWS OF PEARY'S SEIZURE OF SUPPLIES XXIX BACK TO GREENLAND FRIENDS On February 18, 1908, the reconstructed sledge was taken beyond the ice fort and loaded for the home run. We had given up the idea of journeying to Lancaster Sound to await the whalers. There were no Eskimos on the American side nearer than Pond's Inlet. It was somewhat farther to our headquarters on the Greenland shores, but all interests would be best served by a return to Annoatok. During the night we had fixed all of our attention upon the return journey, and had prepared a new equipment with the limited means at our command; but, traveling in the coldest season of the year, it was necessary to carry a cumbersome outfit of furs, and furthermore, since we were to take the place of the dogs in the traces, we could not expect to transport supplies for more than thirty days. In this time, however, we hoped to reach Cape Sabine, where the father of E-tuk-i-shook had been told to place a cache of food for us. Starting so soon after sunrise, the actual daylight proved very brief, but a brilliant twilight gave a remarkable illumination from eight to four. The light of dawn and that of the afterglow was tossed to and fro in the heavens, from reflecting surfaces of glitter, for four hours preceding and following midday. To use this play of light to the best advantage, it was necessary to begin preparations early by starlight; and thus, when the dim purple glow from the northeast brightened the dull gray-blue of night, the start was made for Greenland shores and for home. We were dressed in heavy furs. The temperature was -49°. A light air brushed the frozen mist out of Jones Sound, and cut our sooty faces. The sled was overloaded, and the exertion required for its movement over the groaning snow was tremendous. A false, almost hysterical, enthusiasm lighted our faces, but the muscles were not yet equal to the task set for them. Profuse perspiration came with the first hours of dog work, and our heavy fur coats were exchanged for the sealskin _nitshas_ (lighter coat). At noon the snows were fired and the eastern skies burned in great lines of flame. But there was no sun and no heat. We sat on the sledge for a prolonged period, gasping for breath and drinking the new celestial glory so long absent from our outlook. As the joy of color was lost in the cold purple of half-light, our shoulders were braced more vigorously into the traces. The ice proved good, but the limit of strength placed camp in a snowhouse ten miles from our winter den. With the new equipment, our camp life now was not like that of the Polar campaign. Dried musk ox meat and strips of musk fat made a steady diet. Moulded tallow served as fuel in a crescent-shaped disk of tin, in which carefully prepared moss was crushed and arranged as a wick. Over this primitive fire we managed to melt enough ice to quench thirst, and also to make an occasional pot of broth as a luxury. While the drink was liquefying, the chill of the snow igloo was also moderated, and we crept into the bags of musk ox skins, where agreeable repose and home dreams made us forget the cry of the stomach and the torment of the cold. At the end of eight days of forced marches we reached Cape Tennyson. The disadvantage of manpower, when compared to dog motive force, was clearly shown in this effort. The ice was free of pressure troubles and the weather was endurable. Still, with the best of luck, we had averaged only about seven miles daily. With dogs, the entire run would have been made easily in two days. As we neared the land two small islands were discovered. Both were about one thousand feet high, with precipitous sea walls, and were on a line about two miles east of Cape Tennyson. The most easterly was about one and a half miles long, east to west, with a cross-section, north to south, of about three-quarters of a mile. About half a mile to the west of this was a much smaller island. There was no visible vegetation, and no life was seen, although hare and fox tracks were crossed on the ice. I decided to call the larger island E-tuk-i-shook, and the smaller Ah-we-lah. These rocks will stand as monuments to the memory of my faithful savage comrades when all else is forgotten. From Cape Tennyson to Cape Isabella the coast of Ellesmere Land was charted, in the middle of the last century, by ships at a great distance from land. Little has been added since. The wide belt of pack thrown against the coast made further exploration from the ship very difficult, but in our northward march over the sea-ice it was hoped that we might keep close enough to the shores to examine the land carefully. A few Eskimos had, about fifty years previously, wandered along this ice from Pond's Inlet to the Greenland camps. They left the American shores because famine, followed by forced cannibalism, threatened to exterminate the tribe. A winter camp had been placed on Coburg Island. Here many walruses and bears were secured during the winter, while in summer, from Kent Island, many guillemots were secured. In moving from these northward, by skin boat and _kayak_, they noted myriads of guillemots, or "acpas," off the southeast point of the mainland. There being no name in the Eskimo vocabulary for this land, it was called Acpohon, or "The Home of Guillemots." The Greenland Eskimos had previously called the country "Ah-ming-mah Noona," or Musk Ox Land, but they also adopted the name of Acpohon, so we have taken the liberty of spreading the name over the entire island as a general name for the most northern land west of Greenland. In pushing northward, many of the Eskimos starved, and the survivors had a bitter fight for subsistence. Our experience was similar. [Illustration: PUNCTURED CANVAS BOAT IN WHIH WE PADDLED 1,000 MILES FAMINE DAYS WHEN ONLY STRAY BIRDS PREVENTED STARVATION DEN IN WHICH WERE SPENT 100 DOUBLE NIGHTS] [Illustration: BULL FIGHTS WITH THE MUSK OX ABOUT CAPE SPARBO] Near Cape Paget those ancient Eskimos made a second winter camp. Here narwhals and bears were secured, and through Talbot's Fiord a short pass was discovered over Ellesmere Land to the musk ox country of the west shores. The Eskimos who survived the second winter reached the Greenland shores during the third summer. There they introduced the _kayak_, and also the bow and arrow. Their descendants are to-day the most intelligent of the most northern Eskimos. To my companions the environment of the new land which we were passing was in the nature of digging up ancient history. Several old camp sites were located, and E-tuk-i-shook, whose grandfather was one of the old pioneers, was able to tell us the incidents of each camp with remarkable detail. As a rule, however, it was very difficult to get near the land. Deep snows, huge pressure lines of ice, and protruding glaciers forced our line of march far from the Eskimo ruins which we wished to examine. From Cape Tennyson to Cape Clarence the ice near the open water proved fairly smooth, but the humid saline surface offered a great resistance to the metal plates of the sled. Here ivory or bone plates would have lessened the friction very much. A persistent northerly wind also brought the ice and the humid discomfort of our breath back to our faces with painful results. During several days of successive storms we were imprisoned in the domes of snow. By enforced idleness we were compelled to use a precious store of food and fuel, without making any necessary advance. Serious difficulties were encountered in moving from Cape Clarence to Cape Faraday. Here the ice was tumbled into mountains of trouble. Tremendous snowdrifts and persistent gales from the west made traveling next to impossible, and, with no game and no food supply in prospect, I knew that to remain idle would be suicidal. The sledge load was lightened, and every scrap of fur which was not absolutely necessary was thrown away. The humid boots, stockings and sealskin coats could not be dried out, for fuel was more precious than clothing. All of this was discarded, and, with light sleds and reduced rations, we forced along over hummocks and drift. In all of our Polar march we had seen no ice which offered so much hardship as did this so near home shores. The winds again cut gashes across our faces. With overwork and insufficient food, our furs hung on bony eminences over shriveled skins. At the end of thirty-five days of almost ceaseless toil we managed to reach Cape Faraday. Our food was gone. We were face to face with the most desperate problem which had fallen to our long run of hard luck. Famine confronted us. We were far from the haunts of game; we had seen no living thing for a month. Every fiber of our bodies quivered with cold and hunger. In desperation we ate bits of skin and chewed tough walrus lines. A half candle and three cups of hot water served for several meals. Some tough walrus hide was boiled and eaten with relish. While trying to masticate this I broke some of my teeth. It was hard on the teeth, but easy on the stomach, and it had the great advantage of dispelling for prolonged periods the pangs of hunger. But only a few strips of walrus line were left after this was used. Traveling, as we must, in a circuitous route, there was still a distance of one hundred miles between us and Cape Sabine, and the distance to Greenland might, by open water, be spread to two hundred miles. This unknown line of trouble could not be worked out in less than a month. Where, I asked in desperation, were we to obtain subsistence for that last thirty days? To the eastward, a line of black vapors indicated open water about twenty-five miles off shore. There were no seals on the ice. There were no encouraging signs of life; only old imprints of bears and foxes were left on the surface of the cheerless snows at each camp. For a number of days we had placed our last meat as bait to attract the bears, but none had ventured to pay us a visit. The offshore wind and the nearness of the open water gave us some life from this point. Staggering along one day, we suddenly saw a bear track. These mute marks, seen in the half-dark of the snow, filled us with a wild resurgence of hope for life. On the evening of March 20 we prepared cautiously for the coming of the bear. A snowhouse was built, somewhat stronger than usual; before it a shelf was arranged with blocks of snow, and on this shelf attractive bits of skin were arranged to imitate the dark outline of a recumbent seal. Over this was placed a looped line, through which the head and neck must go in order to get the bait. Other loops were arranged to entangle the feet. All the lines were securely fastened to solid ice. Peepholes were cut in all sides of the house, and a rear port was cut, from which we might escape or make an attack. Our lances and knives were now carefully sharpened. When all was ready, one of us remained on watch while the others sought a needed sleep. We had not long to wait. Soon a crackling sound on the snows gave the battle call, and with a little black nose extended from a long neck, a vicious creature advanced. Through our little eye-opening and to our empty stomach he appeared gigantic. Apparently as hungry as we were, he came in straight reaches for the bait. The run port was opened. Ah-we-lah and E-tuk-i-shook emerged, one with a lance, the other with a spiked harpoon shaft. Our lance, our looped line, our bow and arrow, I knew, however, would be futile. During the previous summer, when I foresaw a time of famine, I had taken my four last cartridges and hid them in my clothing. Of the existence of these, the two boys knew nothing. These were to be used at the last stage of hunger, to kill something--or ourselves. That desperate time had not arrived till now. The bear approached in slow, measured steps, smelling the ground where the skin lay. I jerked the line. The loop tightened about the bear's neck. At the same moment the lance and the spike were driven into the growling creature. A fierce struggle ensued. I withdrew one of the precious cartridges from my pocket, placed it in my gun, and gave the gun to Ah-we-lah, who took aim and fired. When the smoke cleared, the bleeding bear lay on the ground. We skinned the animal, and devoured the warm, steaming flesh. Strength revived. Here were food and fuel in abundance. We were saved! With the success of this encounter, we could sit down and live comfortably for a month; and before that time should elapse seals would seek the ice for sun baths, and when seals arrived, the acquisition of food for the march to Greenland would be easy. But we did not sit down. Greenland was in sight; and, to an Eskimo, Greenland, with all of its icy discomforts, has attractions not promised in heaven. In this belief, as in most others, I was Eskimo by this time. With very little delay, the stomach was spread with chops, and we stretched to a gluttonous sleep, only to awake with appetites that permitted of prolonged stuffing. It was a matter of economy to fill up and thus make the sled load lighter. When more eating was impossible we began to move for home shores, dragging a sled overloaded with the life-saving prize. A life of trouble, however, lay before us. Successive storms, mountains of jammed ice, and deep snow, interrupted our progress and lengthened the course over circuitous wastes of snowdrifts and blackened our horizon. When, after a prodigious effort, Cape Sabine was reached, our food supply was again exhausted.[18] Here an old seal was found. It had been caught a year before and cached by Pan-ic-pa, the father of E-tuk-i-shook. With it was found a rude drawing spotted with sooty tears. This told the story of a loving father's fruitless search for his son and friends. The seal meat had the aroma of Limburger cheese, and age had changed its flavor; but, with no other food possible, our palates were easily satisfied. In an oil-soaked bag was found about a pound of salt. We ate this as sugar, for no salt had passed over our withered tongues for over a year. The skin, blubber and meat were devoured with a relish. Every eatable part of the animal was packed on the sled as we left the American shore. Smith Sound was free of ice, and open water extended sixty miles northward. A long detour was necessary to reach the opposite shores, but the Greenland shores were temptingly near. With light hearts and cheering premonitions of home, we pushed along Bache Peninsula to a point near Cape Louis Napoleon. The horizon was now cleared of trouble. The ascending sun had dispelled the winter gloom of the land. Leaping streams cut through crystal gorges. The ice moved; the sea began to breathe. The snows sparkled with the promise of double days and midnight suns. Life's buds had opened to full blossom. On the opposite shores, which now seemed near, Nature's incubators had long worked overtime to start the little ones of the wilds. Tiny bears danced to their mothers' call; baby seals sunned in downy pelts. Little foxes were squinting at school in learning the art of sight. In the wave of germinating joys our suppressed nocturnal passions rose with surprise anew. We were raised to an Arctic paradise. As it lay in prospect, Greenland had the charm of Eden. There were the homes of my savage companions. It was a stepping-stone to my home, still very far off. It was a land where man has a fighting chance for his life. In reality, we were now in the most desperate throes of the grip of famine which we had encountered during all of our hard experience. Greenland was but thirty miles away. But we were separated from it by impossible open water--a hopeless stormy deep. To this moment I do not know why we did not sit down and allow the blood to cool with famine and cold. We had no good reason to hope that we could cross, but again hope--"the stuff that goes to make dreams"--kept our eyes open. We started. We were as thin as it is possible for men to be. The scraps of meat, viscera, and skin of the seal, buried for a year, was now our sole diet. We traveled the first two days northward over savage uplifts of hummocks and deep snows, tripping and stumbling over blocks of ice like wounded animals. Then we reached good, smooth ice, but open water forced us northward, ever northward from the cheering cliffs under which our Greenland homes and abundant supplies were located. No longer necessary to lift the feet, we dragged the ice-sheeted boots step after step over smooth young ice. This eased our tired, withered legs, and long distances were covered. The days were prolonged, the decayed seal food ran low, water was almost impossible. Life no longer seemed worth living. We had eaten the strips of meat and frozen seal cautiously. We had eaten other things--our very boots and leather lashings as a last resort. So weak that we had to climb on hands and knees, we reached the top of an iceberg, and from there saw Annoatok. Natives, who had thought us long dead, rushed out to greet us. There I met Mr. Harry Whitney. As I held his hand, the cheer of a long-forgotten world came over me. With him I went to my house, only to find that during my absence it had been confiscated. A sudden bitterness rose within which it was difficult to hide. A warm meal dispelled this for a time. In due time I told Whitney: "I have reached the Pole." Uttering this for the first time in English, it came upon me that I was saying a remarkable thing. Yet Mr. Whitney showed no great surprise, and his quiet congratulation confirmed what was in my mind--that I had accomplished no extraordinary or unbelievable thing; for to me the Polar experience was not in the least remarkable, considered with our later adventures. Mr. Whitney, as is now well known, was a sportsman from New Haven, Connecticut, who had been spending some months hunting in the North. He had made Annoatok the base of his operations, and had been spending the winter in the house which I had built of packing-boxes. The world now seemed brighter. The most potent factor in this change was food--and more food--a bath and another bath--and clean clothes. Mr. Whitney offered me unreservedly the hospitality of my own camp. He instructed Pritchard to prepare meal after meal of every possible dish that our empty stomachs had craved for a year. The Eskimo boys were invited to share it. Between meals, or perhaps we had better call meals courses (for it was a continuous all-night performance--interrupted by baths and breathing spells to prevent spasms of the jaws)--between courses, then, there were washes with real soap and real cleansing warm water, the first that we had felt for fourteen months. Mr. Whitney helped to scrape my angular anatomy, and he volunteered the information that I was the dirtiest man he ever saw. From Mr. Whitney I learned that Mr. Peary had reached Annoatok about the middle of August, 1908, and had placed a boatswain named Murphy, assisted by William Pritchard, a cabin boy on the _Roosevelt_, in charge of my stores, which he had seized. Murphy was anything but tactful and considerate; and in addition to taking charge of my goods, had been using them in trading as money to pay for furs to satisfy Mr. Peary's hunger for commercial gain. Murphy went south in pursuit of furs after my arrival. For the first few days I was too weak to inquire into the theft of my camp and supplies. Furthermore, with a full stomach, and Mr. Whitney as a warm friend at hand, I was indifferent. I was not now in any great need. For by using the natural resources of the land, as I had done before, it was possible to force a way back to civilization from here with the aid of my Eskimo friends. Little by little, however, the story of that very strange "Relief Station for Dr. Cook" was unraveled, and I tell it here with no ulterior notion of bitterness against Mr. Peary. I forgave him for the practical theft of my supplies; but this is a very important part of the controversy which followed, a controversy which can be understood only by a plain statement of the incidents which led up to and beyond this so-called "Relief Station for Dr. Cook," which was a relief only in the sense that I was relieved of a priceless store of supplies. When Mr. Peary heard of the execution of my plans to try for the Pole in 1907, and before he left on his last expedition, he accused me of various violations of what he chose to call "Polar Ethics." No application had been filed by me to seek the Pole. Now I was accused of stealing his route, his Pole, and his people. This train of accusations was given to the press, and with the greatest possible publicity. A part of this was included in an official complaint to the International Bureau of Polar Research at Brussels. Now, what are Polar ethics? There is no separate code for the Arctic. The laws which govern men's bearing towards each other in New York are good in any part of the world. One cannot be a democrat in civilized eyes and an autocrat in the savage world. One cannot cry, "Stop thief!" and then steal the thief's booty. If you are a member of the brotherhood of humanity in one place, you must be in another. In short, he who is a gentleman in every sense of the word needs no memory for ethics. It is only the modern political reformer who has need of the cloak of the hypocrisy of ethics to hide his own misdeeds. An explorer should not stoop to this. Who had the power to grant a license to seek the Pole? If you wish to invade the forbidden regions of Thibet, or the interior of Siberia, a permit is necessary from the governments interested. But the Pole is a place no nation owned, by right of discovery, occupation, or otherwise. If pushing a ship up the North Atlantic waters to the limit of navigation was a trespass on Mr. Peary's preserve, then I am bound to plead guilty. But ships had gone that way for a hundred years before Mr. Peary developed a Polar claim. If I am guilty, then he is guilty of stealing the routes of Davis, Kane, Greely and a number of others. But as I view the situation, a modern explorer should take a certain pride in the advantages afforded by his worthy predecessors. I take a certain historic delight in having followed the routes of the early pathfinders to a more remote destination. This indebtedness and this honor I do now, as heretofore, acknowledge. The charge that I stole Mr. Peary's route is incorrect. For, from the limit of navigation on the Greenland side, my track was forced over a land which, although under Mr. Peary's eyes for twenty years, was explored by Sverdrup, who got the same unbrotherly treatment from Mr. Peary which he has shown to every explorer who has had the misfortune to come within the circle he has drawn about an imaginary private preserve. The charge of borrowing Peary's ideas, by which is meant the selection of food and supplies and the adoption of certain methods of travel, is equally unfounded. For Mr. Peary's weakest chain is his absolute lack of system, order, preparation or originality. This is commented upon by the men of every one of his previous expeditions. Mr. Peary early charged that my system of work and my methods of travel were borrowed from him. This was not true; but when he later, in a desperate effort to say unkind things, said that my system--the system borrowed from himself--was inefficient, the charge becomes laughable. As to the Pole--if Mr. Peary has a prior lien on it--it is there still. We did not take it away. We simply left our footprints there. Now as to the charge of using Mr. Peary's supplies and his people--by assuming a private preserve of all the reachable Polar wilderness of this section, he might put up a plausible claim to it as a private hunting ground. If this claim is good, then I am guilty of trespass. But it was only done to satisfy the pangs of hunger. This claim of the ownership of the animals of the unclaimed North might be put with plausible excuses to The Hague Tribunal. But it is a claim no serious person would consider. The same claim of ownership, however, cannot be said of human life. The Eskimos are a free and independent people. They acknowledge no chiefs among themselves and submit to no outside dictators. They are likely to call an incoming stranger "nalegaksook," which the vanity of the early travelers interpreted as the "great chief." But the intended interpretation is "he who has much to barter" or "the great trader." This is what they call Mr. Peary. The same compliment is given to other traders, whalers or travelers with whom they do business. Despite his claims Mr. Peary has been regarded as no more of a benefactor than any other explorer. After delivering, early in 1907, an unreasonable and uncalled for attack, Mr. Peary, two months after the Pole had been reached by me, went North with two ships, with all the advantage that unlimited funds and influential friends could give. At about the same time my companion, Rudolph Francke, started south under my instructions, and he locked my box-house at Annoatok wherein were stored supplies sufficient for two years or more. The key was entrusted to a trustworthy Eskimo. Under his protection this precious life-saving supply was safe for an indefinite time. With it no relief expedition or help from the outside world was necessary. Francke had a hard time as he pushed southward, with boat and sledge. Moving supplies to the limit of his carrying capacity, he fought bravely against storms, broken ice and thundering seas. The route proved all but impossible, but at last his destination at North Star was reached, only for him to find that he was too late for the whalers he had expected. Impossible to return to our northern camp at that time, and having used all of his civilized food en route, he was now compelled to accept the hospitality of the natives, in their unhygienic dungeons. For food there was nothing but the semi-putrid meat and blubber eaten by the Eskimos. After a long and desperate task by boat and sled he returned to Etah but he was absolutely unable to proceed farther. Francke's health failed rapidly and when, as he thought, the time had arrived to lay down and quit life, a big prosperous looking ship came into the harbor. He had not tasted civilized food for months, and longed, as only a sick, hungry man can, for coffee and bread. Almost too weak to arise from his couch of stones, he mustered up enough strength to stumble over the rails of that ship of plenty. After gathering sufficient breath to speak, he asked for bread and coffee. It was breakfast time. No answer came to that appeal. He was put off the ship. He went back to his cheerless cave and prayed that death might close his eyes to further trouble. Somewhat later, when it was learned that there was a house and a large store of supplies at Annoatok, and that the man had in his possession furs and ivory valued at $10,000, there was a change of heart in Mr. Peary. Francke was called on board, was given bread and coffee and whiskey. Too weak to resist, he was bullied and frightened, and forced under duress to sign papers which he did not understand. To get home to him meant life; to remain meant death. And the ship before him was thus his only chance for life. Under the circumstances he would naturally have put his name to any paper placed under his feeble eyes. But the law of no land would enforce such a document. In this way Mr. Peary compelled him to turn over $10,000 worth of furs and ivory, besides my station and supplies, worth at least $35,000, which were not his to turn over. The prized ivory tusks and furs were immediately seized and sent back on the returning ship. One of the narwhal tusks, worth to me at least $1,000, was polished and sent as Peary's trophy to President Roosevelt. Under the circumstances has not the President been made the recipient of stolen goods? When Francke, as a passenger, returned on the Peary supply ship, _Erik_, a bill of one hundred dollars was presented for his passage. This bill was presumably the bill for the full cost of his return. But the priceless furs and ivory trophies were confiscated without a murmur of conscious wrongdoing. This is what happened as the ship went south. Now let us follow the ship _Roosevelt_ in its piratic career northward. With Mr. Peary as chief it got to Etah. From there instructions were given to seize my house and supplies. This was done over the signature of Mr. Peary to a paper which started out with the following shameless hypocrisy: "This is a relief station for Dr. Cook." According to Mr. Whitney even Captain Bartlett quivered with indignation at the blushing audacity of this steal. The stores were said to be abandoned. The men, with Peary's orders, went to Koo-loo-ting-wah and forced from him the key with which to open the carefully guarded stores. The house was reconstructed. Murphy, a rough Newfoundland bruiser, who had been accustomed to kick sailors, was placed in charge with autocratic powers. Murphy could neither read nor write, but he was given a long letter of instruction to make a trading station of my home and to use my supplies. Now if Mr. Peary required my supplies for legitimate exploration I should have been glad to give him my last bread; but to use my things to satisfy his greed for commercial gain was, when I learned it, bitter medicine. Because Murphy could not write, Pritchard was left with him to read the piratic instructions once each week. Pritchard was also to keep account of the furs bought and the prices paid--mostly in my coin. Murphy soon forbade the reading of the instructions, and also stopped the stock-taking and bookkeeping. The hypocrisy of the thing seemed to pinch even Murphy's narrow brain. This same deliberate Murphy, accustomed to life in barracks, held the whip for a year over the head of Harry Whitney, a man of culture and millions. Money, however, was of no use there. Audacity and self-assumed power, it seems, ruled as it did in times of old when buccaneers deprived their victims of gold, and walked them off a plank into the briny deep. Murphy and Pritchard, the paid traders, fixed themselves cosily in my camp. Mr. Whitney had been invited as a guest to stay and hunt for his own pleasure. The party lived for a year at my expense, but the lot of Whitney was very hard as an invited guest, a privilege for which I was told he had paid Mr. Peary two thousand dollars or more. His decision to stay had come only after a disappointment in a lack of success of hunting during the summer season. He was, therefore, ill-provided for the usual Polar hardships. With no food, and no adequate clothing of his own, he was dependent on the dictates of Murphy to supply him. As time went on, the night with its awful cold advanced. Murphy gathered in all the furs and absolutely prohibited Whitney from getting suitable furs for winter clothing. He, therefore, shivered throughout the long winter in his sheepskin shooting outfit. Several times he was at the point of a hand-to-hand encounter with Murphy, but with young Pritchard as a friend and gentlemanly instincts to soften his manner, he grit his teeth and swallowed the insults. His ambition for a hunting trip was frustrated because it interfered with Murphy's plans for trading in skins. The worst and most brutal treatment was the almost inconceivable cruelty of his not allowing Mr. Whitney enough food for a period of months, not even of my supplies, although this food was used eventually to feed useless dogs. All of this happened under Mr. Peary's authority, and under the coarse, swaggering Murphy, whom Mr. Peary, in his book, calls "a thoroughly trustworthy man!" Mr. Peary's later contention, in a hypocritical effort to clear himself (see "The North Pole," page 76) that he placed Murphy in charge "to prevent the Eskimos from looting the supplies and equipment left there by Dr. Cook," is a mean, petty and unworthy slur upon a brave, loyal people, among whom thievery is a thing unknown. Unknown, yes, save when white men without honor, without respect for property or the ethics of humanity, which the Eskimos instinctively have, invade their region and rob them and fellow explorers with the brazenness of middle-aged buccaneers. ANNOATOK TO UPERNAVIK ELEVEN HUNDRED MILES SOUTHWARD OVER SEA AND LAND--AT ETAH--OVERLAND TO THE WALRUS GROUNDS--ESKIMO COMEDIES AND TRAGEDIES--A RECORD RUN OVER MELVILLE BAY--FIRST NEWS FROM PASSING SHIPS--THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN--SOUTHWARD BY STEAMER GODTHAAB XXX ALONG DANISH GREENLAND A few interesting days were spent with Mr. Whitney at Annoatok. The Eskimos, in the meantime, had all gone south to the walrus hunting grounds at Nuerke. Koo-loo-ting-wah came along with a big team of dogs. Here was an opportunity to attempt to reach the Danish settlements--for to get home quickly was now my all-absorbing aim. Koo-loo-ting-wah was in my service. He was guarding my supplies in 1908 when the ship _Roosevelt_ had come along. He had been compelled to give up the key to my box-house. He had been engaged to place supplies for us and search the American shores for our rescue. Peary, making a pretended "Relief Station," forced Koo-loo-ting-wah from his position as guardian of my supplies, and forbade him to engage in any effort to search for us, and absolutely prohibited him and everybody else, including Murphy, Prichard and Whitney, from engaging in any kind of succor at a time when help was of consequence. Koo-loo-ting-wah was liberally paid to abandon my interests (by Mr. Peary's orders, from my supplies), but, like Bartlett and Whitney and Prichard later, he condemned Mr. Peary for his unfair acts. When asked to join me in the long journey to Upernavik, he said, "_Peari an-nutu_" (Peary will be mad.) Koo-loo-ting-wah was now in Peary's service at my expense, and I insisted that he enter my service, which he did. Then we began our preparations for the southern trip. Accompanied by Whitney, I went to Etah, and for this part of the journey Murphy grudgingly gave me a scant food supply for a week, for which I gave him a memorandum. This memorandum was afterwards published by Mr. Peary as a receipt, so displayed as to convey the idea that all the stolen supplies had been replaced. At Etah was a big cache which had been left a year before by Captain Bernier, the commander of a northern expedition sent out by the Canadian Government, and which had been placed in charge of Mr. Whitney. In this cache were food, new equipment, trading material, and clean underclothes which Mrs. Cook had sent on the Canadian expedition. With this new store of suitable supplies, I now completed my equipment for the return to civilization.[19] To get home quickly, I concluded, could be done best by going to the Danish settlements in Greenland, seven hundred miles south, and thence to Europe by an early steamer. From Upernavik mail is carried in small native boats to Umanak, where there is direct communication with Europe by government steamers. By making this journey, and taking a fast boat to America, I calculated I could reach New York in early July. Mr. Whitney expected the _Erik_ to arrive to take him south in the following August. Going, as he planned, into Hudson Bay, he expected to reach New York in October. Although this would be the easiest and safest way to reach home, by the route I had planned I hoped to reach New York four months earlier than the _Erik_ would. The journey from Etah to Upernavik is about seven hundred miles--a journey as long and nearly as difficult as the journey to the North Pole. I knew it involved difficulties and risks--the climbing of mountains and glaciers, the crossing of open leads of water late in the season, when the ice is in motion and snow is falling, and the dragging of sledges through slush and water. Mr. Whitney, in view of these dangers, offered to take care of my instruments, notebooks and flag, and take them south on his ship. I knew that if any food were lost on my journey it might be replaced by game. Instruments lost in glaciers or open seas could not be replaced. The instruments, moreover, had served their purposes. The corrections, notes, and other data were also no longer needed; all my observations had been reduced, and the corrections were valuable only for a future re-examination. This is why I did not take them with me. It is customary, also, to leave corrections with instruments. In the box which I gave to Mr. Whitney were packed one French sextant; one surveying compass, aluminum, with azimuth attachment; one artificial horizon, set in a thin metal frame adjusted by spirit levels and thumbscrews; one aneroid barometer, aluminum; one aluminum case with maximum and minimum spirit thermometer; other thermometers, and also one liquid compass. All of these I had carried with me. Besides these were left other instruments used about the relief station. There were papers giving instrumental corrections, readings, comparisons, and other notes; a small diary, mostly of loose leaves, containing some direct field readings, and meteorological data. These were packed in one of the instrument cases. By special request of Mr. Whitney, I also left my flag. In addition, I placed in Mr. Whitney's charge several big cases of clothing and supplies which Mrs. Cook had sent, also ethnological collections, furs, and geological specimens. In one of these boxes were packed the instrument cases and notes. Mr. Whitney's plans later were changed. His ship, the _Erik_, not having arrived when Peary returned, Whitney arranged with Peary to come back to civilization on the latter's ship, the _Roosevelt_. As I learned afterwards, when the _Roosevelt_ arrived Mr. Whitney took from one of my packing boxes my instruments and packed them in his trunk. He was, however, prohibited from carrying my things, and all my belongings were consequently left at the mercy of the weather and the natives in far-off Greenland. I have had no means of hearing from them since, so that I do not know what has become of them. About Etah and Annoatok and on my eastward journey few notes were made. As well as I can remember, I left Annoatok some time during the third week of April. On leaving Whitney, I promised to send him dogs and guides for his prospective hunting trip. I also promised to get for him furs for a suitable winter suit--because, according to Mr. Peary's autocratic methods, he had been denied the privilege of trading for himself. He was not allowed to gather trophies, or to purchase absolutely necessary furs, nor was he accorded the courtesy of arranging for guides and dogs with the natives for his ambition to get big game. All of this I was to arrange for Whitney as I passed the villages farther south. In crossing by the overland route, over Crystal Palace Glacier to Sontag Bay, we were caught in a violent gale, which buried us in drifts on the highlands. Descending to the sea, we entered a new realm of coming summer joys. Moving along to Neurke, we found a big snowhouse village. All had gathered for the spring walrus chase. Many animals had been caught, and the hunters were in a gluttonous stupor from continued overfeeding. It was not long before we, too, filled up, and succumbed to similar pleasures. My boys were here, and the principal pastime was native gossip about the North Pole. Arriving among their own people here, Ah-we-lah and E-tuk-i-shook recounted their remarkable journey. They had, of course, no definite idea of where they had been, but told of the extraordinary journey of seven moons; of their reaching a place where there was no game and no life; of their trailing over the far-off seas where the sun did not dip at night, and of their hunting, on our return, with slingshots, string traps, and arrows. These were their strong and clear impressions.[20] From Neurke we crossed Murchison Sound, along the leads where the walrus was being hunted, and from there we set a course for the eastern point of Northumberland Island. We next entered Inglefield Gulf. Our party had grown. Half of the natives were eager to join us on a pilgrimage to the kindly and beloved Danes of Southern Greenland; but, because of the advancing season, the marches must be forced, and because a large sled train hinders rapid advancement, I reduced the numbers and changed the personnel of my party as better helpers offered services. From a point near Itiblu we ascended the blue slopes of a snow-free glacier, and after picking a dangerous footing around precipitous cliffs, we rose to the clouds and deep snows of the inland ice. Here, for twenty-four hours, we struggled through deep snow, with only the wind to give direction to our trail. Descending from this region of perpetual mist and storm, we came down to the sea in Booth Sound. From here, after a good rest, over splendid ice, in good weather, we entered Wolstenholm Sound. At Oomonoi there was a large gathering of natives, and among these we rested and fed up in preparation for the long, hazardous trip which lay before us. In this locality, the Danish Literary Expedition, under the late Mylius Ericksen, had wintered. Their forced march northward from Upernavik proved so desperate that they were unable to carry important necessaries. But the natives, with characteristic generosity, had supplied the Danes with the meat for food and the fat for fuel, which kept them alive during dangerous and trying times.[21] We now started for Cape York. My-ah, Ang-ad-loo and I-o-ko-ti were accepted as permanent members of my party. All of this party was, curiously enough, hostile to Mr. Peary, and the general trend of conversation was a bitter criticism of the way the people had been fleeced of furs and ivory; how a party had been left to die of cold and hunger at Fort Conger; how, at Cape Sabine, many died of a sickness which had been brought among them, and how Dr. Dedrick was not allowed to save their lives; how a number had been torn from their homes and taken to New York, where they had died of barbarous ill-treatment; how their great "Iron Stone," their only source of iron for centuries, the much-prized heritage of their nation, had been stolen from the point we were now nearing; and so on, throughout a long line of other abuses. But, at the time, all of this bitterness seemed to soften my own resentment, and I began to cherish a forgiving spirit toward Mr. Peary. After all, thought I, I have been successful; let us have an end of discord and seek a brighter side of life. Now I began to think for the first time of the public aspect of my homegoing. Heretofore my anticipations had been centered wholly in the joys of a family reunion, but now the thought was slowly forced as to the attitude which others would take towards me. In the wildest flights of my imagination I never dreamed of any world-wide interest in the Pole. Again I desire to emphasize the fact that every movement I have made disproves the allegation that I planned to perpetrate a gigantic fraud upon the world. Men had been seeking the North Pole for years, and at no time had any of these many explorers aroused any general interest in his expedition or the results. Millions of money, hundreds of lives, had been sacrificed. The complex forces of great nations had been arrayed unsuccessfully. I had believed the thing could be done by simpler methods, without the sacrifice of life, without using other people's money; and, with this conviction, had gone north. I now came south, with no expectations of reward except such as would come from a simple success in a purely private undertaking. I wish to emphasize that I regarded my entire experience as something purely personal. I supposed that the newspapers would announce my return, and that there would be a three days' breath of attention, and that that would be all. So far as I was personally concerned, my chief thought was one of satisfaction at having satisfied myself, and an intense longing for home. We camped at Cape York. Before us was the great white expanse of Melville Bay to the distant Danish shores. Few men had ever ventured over this. What luck was in store for us could not be guessed. But we were ready for every emergency. We moved eastward to an island where the natives greeted us with enthusiasm, and then we started over treacherous ice southward. The snow was not deep; the ice proved fairly smooth. The seals, basking in the new summer sun, augmented our supplies. Frequent bear tracks added the spirit of the chase, which doubled our speed. In two days we had the "Devil's Thumb" to our left, and at the end of three and a half days the cheer of Danish cliffs and semi-civilized Eskimos came under our eyes. The route from Annoatok to this point, following the circuitous twists over sea and land, was almost as long as that from Annoatok to the Pole, but we had covered it in less than a month. With a record march across Melville Bay, we had crossed a long line of trouble, in which Mylius Ericksen and his companions nearly succumbed after weeks of frosty torture. We had done it in a few days, and in comfort, with the luxury of abundant food gathered en route. Behind the Danish archipelago, traveling was good and safe. As we went along, from village to village, the Eskimos told the story of the Polar conquest. Rapidly we pushed along to Tassuasak, which we reached in the middle of May. This is one of the small trading posts belonging to the district of Upernavik. At Tassuasak I met Charles Dahl, a congenial Danish official, with whom I stayed a week. He spoke only Danish, which I did not understand. Despite the fact that our language was unintelligible, we talked until two or three o'clock in the morning, somehow conveying our thoughts, and when he realized what I told him he took my hand, offering warm, whole-souled Norse appreciation. Here I secured for Mr. Whitney tobacco and other needed supplies. For the Eskimos, various presents were bought, all of which were packed on the returning sleds. Then the time arrived to bid the final adieu to my faithful wild men of the Far North. Tears took the place of words in that parting. By sledge and oomiak (skin boat) I now continued my journey to Upernavik. Upernavik is one of the largest Danish settlements in Greenland and one of the most important trading posts. It is a small town with a population of about three hundred Eskimos, who live in box-shaped huts of turf. The town affords residence for about six Danish officials, who live, with their families, in comfortable houses. I reached there early one morning about May 20, 1909, and went at once to the house of Governor Kraul. The governor himself--a tall, bald-headed, dignified man, a bachelor, about fifty years of age, of genial manner and considerable literary and scientific attainments--answered my knock on the door. He admitted me hospitably, and then looked me over from head to foot. I was a hard-looking visitor. I wore an old sealskin coat, worn bearskin trousers, stockings of hare-skin showing above torn seal boots. I was reasonably dirty. My face was haggard and bronzed, my hair was uncut, long and straggling. However, I felt reassured in a bath and clean underclothing secured a week before at Tassuasak. Later these clothes were replaced by new clothes given me by Governor Kraul, some of which I wore on my trip to Copenhagen. My appearance was such that I was not surprised by the governor's question: "Have you any lice on you?" Some years before he had entertained some Arctic pilgrims, and a peculiar breed of parasites remained to plague the village for a long time. I convinced him that, in spite of my unprepossessing appearance, he was safe in sheltering me. At his house I had all the luxuries of a refined home with a large library at my disposal. I had also a large, comfortable feather-bed with clean sheets. I slept for hours every day, devoting about four or five hours to my work on my notes. At breakfast I told Governor Kraul briefly of my journey, and although he was polite and pleasant, I could see that he was skeptical as to my having reached the Pole. I remained with him a month, using his pens and paper putting the finishing touches on my narrative--on which I had done much work at Cape Sparbo. My notes and papers were scattered about, and Governor Kraul read them, and as he read them his doubts were dispelled and he waxed enthusiastic. Governor Kraul had had no news of the inside world for about a year. He was as anxious as I was for letters and papers. I went over his last year's news with a good deal of interest. While thus engaged, early one foggy morning, a big steamer came into port. It was the steam whaler _Morning_ of Dundee. Her master, Captain Adams, came ashore with letters and news. He recited the remarkable journey of Shackleton to the South Pole as his opening item in the cycle of the year's incidents. After that he gave it as his opinion that England had become Americanized in its politics, and after recounting the year's luck in whaling, sealing and fishing, he then informed me that from America the greatest news was the success of "The Merry Widow" and "The Dollar Princess." I was invited aboard to eat the first beefsteak and first fresh civilized food that I had eaten in two years. I then told him of my Polar conquest. He was keenly interested in my story, all of my reports seeming to confirm his own preconceived ideas of conditions about the Pole. When I went ashore I took a present of a bag of potatoes. To Governor Kraul and myself these potatoes proved to be the greatest delicacy, for to both the flavor and real fresh, mealy potatoes gave our meals the finishing touches of a fine dessert. I gave Captain Adams some information about new hunting grounds which, as he left, he said would be tried.[22] Life at Upernavik was interesting. Among other things, we noted the total eclipse of the sun on June 17. According to our time, it began in the evening at eighteen minutes past seven and ended ten minutes after nine. For a number of days the natives had looked with anxiety upon the coming of the mysterious darkness attending the eclipse, for now we were in a land of anxiety and uneasiness. It was said that storms would follow each other, displaying the atmospheric rage; that seals could not be sought, and that all good people should pray. Although a violent southwest gale did rush by, the last days before the eclipse were clear and warm. Governor Kraul suggested a camp on the high rocks east. Mr. Anderson, the governor's assistant, and I joined in the expedition. We took smoked and amber glasses, a pen and paper, a camera and field glasses. A little disk was cut out of the northern side of the sun before we started. There was no wind, and the sky was cloudless. A better opportunity could not have been afforded. It had been quite warm. The chirp of the snow bunting and the buzz of bees gave the first joyous rebound of the short Arctic summer. Small sand-flies rose in clouds, and the waters glittered with midsummer incandescence. Small groups of natives, in gorgeous attire, gathered in many places, and occasionally took a sly glance at the sun as if something was about to happen. They talked in muffled undertones. When one-third of the sun's disk was obscured it was impossible to see the cut circle with the unprotected eye. It grew perceptibly dark. The natives quieted and moved toward the church. The birds ceased to sing; the flies sank to the ground. With the failing light the air quickly chilled, the bright contour of the land blurred, the deep blue of the sea faded to a dull purple-blue seemingly lighter, but the midday splendor of high lights and shadows was lost. The burning glitter of the waters under the sun now quickly changed to a silvery glow. The alabaster and ultramarine blue of the icebergs was veiled in gray. When a thread of light spread the cut out, we knew that the total eclipse was over. In what seemed like a few seconds the gloom of night brightened to the sparkle of noon. [Illustration: SAVED FROM STARVATION--THE RESULT OF ONE OF OUR LAST CARTRIDGES] [Illustration: "MILES AND MILES OF DESOLATION." HOMEWARD BOUND _Copyright_, 1909, "_New York Herald Co._"] At the darkest time the natives had called for open church doors, and a sense of immediate danger came over the savage horizon with the force of a panic. A single star was visible for about a minute before and after the total eclipse. A slight salmon flush remained along the western horizon; otherwise the sky varied in tones of purple-blue. After the sea had brightened to its normal luster, Governor Kraul gave the entire native settlement a feast of figs. About June 20, the Danish supply ship, _Godthaab_, with Captain Henning Shoubye in command, arrived from South Greenland. Inspector Dougaard Jensen and Handelschef Weche were aboard on a tour of inspection along the Danish settlements. A corps of scientific observers were also aboard. Among these were Professors Thompsen and Steensby and Dr. Krabbe. Governor Kraul asked me to accompany him aboard the _Godthaab_. Thus I first met this group of men, who afterwards did so much to make my journey southward to Copenhagen interesting and agreeable. The Governor told them of the conquest of the Pole. At the time their interest in the news was not very marked, but later every phase of the entire trip was thoroughly discussed. In a few days the _Godthaab_ sailed from Upernavik to Umanak, and I took passage on her. Captain Shoubye quietly and persistently questioned me as to details of my trip. Apparently he became convinced that I was stating facts, for when we arrived at Umanak, the social metropolis of North Greenland, the people enthusiastically received me, having been informed of my feat by the captain. After coaling at a place near Umanak we started south. At the "King's Guest House" in Eggedesminde, the only hotel in Greenland, I met Dr. Norman-Hansen, a scientist, with whom I talked. He questioned me, and a fraternal confidence was soon established. Later the _Godthaab_, which took the missionary expedition to the northernmost Eskimo settlement at North Star Bay and then returned, arrived from Cape York with Knud Rassmussen and other Danes aboard. They had a story that my two Eskimos had said I had taken them to the "Big Nail." FROM GREENLAND TO COPENHAGEN FOREWARNING OF THE POLAR CONTROVERSY--BANQUET AT EGGEDESMINDE--ON BOARD THE HANS EGEDE--CABLEGRAMS SENT FROM LERWICK--THE OVATION AT COPENHAGEN--BEWILDERED AMIDST THE GENERAL ENTHUSIASM--PEARY'S FIRST MESSAGES--EMBARK ON OSCAR II FOR NEW YORK XXXI AT THE DANISH METROPOLIS At Eggedesminde was given the first banquet in my honor. At the table were about twenty people. Knud Rassmussen, the writer, among others spoke. In an excited talk in Danish, mixed with English and German, he foretold the return of Mr. Peary and prophesied discord. This made little impression at the time and was recalled only by later events. At this point I wish to express my gratitude and appreciation of the universal courtesy of which I was the recipient at every Danish settlement in my southward progress along the coast of Greenland. At Eggedesminde Inspector Daugaard-Jensen endeavored to secure an idle walrus schooner for me. By this I hoped to get to Labrador and thence to New York. This involved considerable official delay, and I estimated I could make better time by going to Copenhagen on the _Hans Egede_. Although every berth on this boat, when it arrived, was engaged, Inspector Daugaard-Jensen, with the same characteristic kindness and courtesy shown me by all the Danes, secured for me comfortable quarters. On board were a number of scientific men and Danish correspondents. As the story of my quest had spread along the Greenland coast, and as conflicting reports might be sent out, Inspector Daugaard-Jensen suggested that I cable a first account to the world. The anxiety of the newspaper correspondents on board gave me the idea that my story might have considerable financial value. I was certainly in need of money. I had only forty or fifty dollars and I needed clothing and money for my passage from Copenhagen to New York. The suggestions and assistance of Inspector Daugaard-Jensen were very helpful. Iceland and the Faroe Islands, frequent ports of call for the Danish steamers, because of a full passenger list and the absence of commercial needs, were not visited by the _Hans Egede_ on this return trip. The captain decided to put into Lerwick, in the Shetland Islands, so that I could send my message. I prepared a story of about 2,000 words, and went ashore at Lerwick. No one but myself and a representative of the captain was allowed to land. We swore the cable operator to secrecy, sent several official and private messages, and one to James Gordon Bennett briefly telling of my discovery. As the operator refused to be responsible for the press message, it was left with the Danish consul. To Mr. Bennett I cabled: "Message left in care of Danish consul, 2,000 words. For it $3,000 expected. If you want it, send for it." Our little boat pulled back to the _Hans Egede_, and the ship continued on her journey to Copenhagen. Two days passed. On board we talked of my trip as quite a commonplace thing. I made some appointments for a short stay in Copenhagen. Off the Skaw, the northernmost point of Denmark, a Danish man-of-war came alongside us. There was a congratulatory message from the Minister of State. This greatly surprised me. Meanwhile a motor boat puffed over the unsteady sea and a half dozen seasick newspaper men, looking like wet cats, jumped over the rails. They had been permitted to board on the pretext that they had a message from the American Minister, Dr. Egan. I took them to my cabin and asked whether the New York _Herald_ had printed my cable. The correspondent of the _Politiken_ drew out a Danish paper in which I recognized the story. I talked with the newspaper men for five minutes and my prevailing impression was that they did not know what they wanted. They told me Fleet Street had moved to Copenhagen. I confess all of this seemed foolish at the time. They told me that dinners and receptions awaited me at Copenhagen. That puzzled me, and when I thought of my clothes I became distressed. I wore a dirty, oily suit. I had only one set of clean linen and one cap. After consulting with the Inspector we guessed at my measurements, and a telegram was written to a tailor at Copenhagen to have some clothing ready for me. At Elsinore cables began to arrive, and thence onward I became a helpless leaf on a whirlwind of excitement. I let the people about plan and think for me, and had a say in nothing. A cable from Mr. Bennett saying that he had never paid $3,000 so willingly gave me pleasure. There was relief in this, too, for my expenses at the hotel in Eggedesminde and on the _Hans Egede_ were unpaid. At Elsinore many people came aboard with whom I shook hands and muttered inanities in response to congratulations. Reporters who were not seasick thronged the ship, each one insisting on a special interview. Why should I be interviewed? It seemed silly to make such a fuss. Cablegrams and letters piled in my cabin. With my usual methodical desire to read and answer all communications I sat down to this task, which soon seemed hopeless. I was becoming intensely puzzled, and a not-knowing-where-I-was-at sensation confused me. I did not have a minute for reflection, and before I could approximate my situation, we arrived at Copenhagen. Like a bolt from the blue, there burst about me the clamor of Copenhagen's ovation. I was utterly bewildered by it. I found no reason in my mind for it. About the North Pole I had never felt such exultation. I could not bring myself to feel what all this indicated, that I had accomplished anything extraordinarily marvelous. For days I could not grasp the reason for the world-excitement. When I went on deck, as we approached the city, I saw far in the distance flags flying. Like a darting army of water bugs, innumerable craft of all kind were leaping toward us on the sunlit water. Tugs and motors, rowboats and sailboats, soon surrounded and followed us. The flags of all nations dangled on the decorated craft. People shouted, it seemed, in every tongue. Wave after wave of cheering rolled over the water. Horns blew, there was the sound of music, guns exploded. All about, balancing on unsteady craft, their heads hooded in black, were the omnipresent moving-picture-machine operators at work. All this passed as a moving picture itself, I standing there, dazed, simply dazed. Amidst increasing cheering the _Hans Egede_ dropped anchor. Prince Christian, the crown prince, Prince Waldemar, King Frederick's brother, United States Minister Egan, and many other distinguished gentlemen in good clothes greeted me. That they were people who wore good clothes was my predominant impression. Mentally I compared their well-tailored garments with my dirty, soiled, bagged-at-the-knees suit. I doffed my old dirty cap, and as I shook hands with the Prince Christian and Prince Waldemar, tall, splendid men, I felt very sheepish. While all this was going on, I think I forgot about the North Pole. I was most uncomfortable. For a while it was impossible to get ashore. Along the pier to which we drew, the crowd seemed to drag into the water. About me was a babel of sound, of which I heard, the whole time, no intelligible word. I was pushed, lifted ashore, the crown prince before me, William T. Stead, the English journalist, behind. I almost fell, trying to get a footing. On both sides the press of people closed upon us. I fought like a swimmer struggling for life, and, becoming helpless, was pushed and carried along. I walked two steps on the ground and five on the air. Somebody grabbed my hat, another pulled off a cuff, others got buttons; but flowers came in exchange. At times Stead held me from falling. I was weak and almost stifled. On both sides of me rushed a flood of blurred human faces. I was in a delirium. I ceased to think, was unable to think, for hours. We finally reached the Meteorological building. I was pushed through the iron gates. I heard them slammed behind me. I paused to breathe. Somebody mentioned something about a speech. "My God!" I muttered. I could no more think than fly. I was pushed onto a balcony. I remember opening my mouth, but I do not know a word I said. There followed a lot of noise. I suppose it was applause. Emerging from the black, lonely Arctic night, the contrast of that rushing flood of human faces staggered me. Yes, there was another sensation--that of being a stranger among strange people, in a city where, however much I might be honored, I had no old-time friend. This curiously depressed me. Through a back entrance I was smuggled into an automobile. The late Commander Hovgaard, a member of the Nordenskjöld expedition, took charge of affairs, and I was taken to the Phoenix Hotel. Apartments had also been reserved for me at the Bristol and Angleterre, but I had no voice in the plans, for which I was glad. I was shown to my room and, while washing my face and hands, had a moment to think. "What the devil is it all about?" I remember repeating to myself. I was simply dazed. A barber arrived; I submitted to a shave. Meanwhile a manicure girl appeared and took charge of my hands. Through the bewildered days that followed, the thought of this girl, like the obsession of a delirious man, followed me. I had not paid or tipped her, and with the girl's image a perturbed feeling persisted, "Here is some one I have wronged." I repeated that over and over again. This shows the overwrought state of my mind at the time. Next the bedroom was a large, comfortable reception room, already filled with flowers. Beyond that was a large room in which I found many suits of clothes, some smaller, some bigger than the estimated size wired from the ship. At this moment there came Mr. Ralph L. Shainwald--an old friend and a companion of the first expedition to Mt. McKinley. He selected for me suitable things. Hastily I fell into one of these, and mechanically put on clean linen--or rather, the clothing was put on by my attendants. Now I was carried to the American Legation, where I lunched with Minister Egan, and I might have been eating sawdust for all the impression food made on me. For an hour, I have been told since, I was plied with questions. It is a strange phenomenon how our bodies will act and our lips frame words when the mind is blank. I had no more idea of my answers than the man in the moon. Upon my brain, with the quick, nervous twitter of moving-picture impressions, swam continually the scenes through which I moved. I have a recollection, on my return to the hotel, of going through hundreds of telegrams. Just as a man looks at his watch and puts it in his pocket without noting the time, so I read these messages of congratulation. Tremendous offers of money from publishers, and for lecture engagements, and opportunities by which I might become a music-hall attraction excited no interest one way or another. My desire to show appreciation of the hospitality of the Danes by returning to America on a Danish steamer prevented my even considering some of these offers. If I had planned to deceive the world for money, is it reasonable to believe I should have thrown away huge sums for this simple show of courtesy? Having lunched with Minister Egan, I spent part of the afternoon of the day of my arrival hastily scanning a voluminous pile of correspondence. Money offers and important messages were necessarily pushed aside. I had been honored by a summons to the royal presence, and shortly before five o'clock repaired to the royal palace. I still retain in my mental retina a picture of the king. It is a gracious, kindly memory. Surrounded by the queen and his three daughters, Princesses Ingeborg, Thyra, and Dagmar, he rose, a gray-haired, fatherly old man, and with warmness of feeling extended his hand. Out of that human sea of swirling white faces and staring eyes, in which I had struggled as a swimmer for life, I remember feeling a sense of security and rest. We talked, I think, of general topics. I returned to the hotel. Into my brain came the words, from some one, that the newspaper correspondents, representing the great dailies and magazines of the world, were waiting for me. Would I see them? I went downstairs and for an hour was grilled with questions. They came like shots, in many tongues, and only now and then did familiar English words strike me and quiver in my brain cells. I have been told I was self-possessed and calm. Had I gone through 30,000 square miles of land? Was I competent to take observations? Could I sit down and invent observations? Had I been fully possessed, I suppose, these sudden doubts expressed would have caused some wonderment; doubtless I was puzzled below the realm of consciousness, where, they say, the secret service of the mind grasps the most elusive things. I have since read my replies and marveled at the lucidity of certain answers; only my bewilderment, unless I were misquoted, can explain the absurdity of others. My impression of the banquet that night in the City Hall is very vague. I talked aimlessly. There were speeches, toasts were drunk; I replied. The North Pole was, I suppose, the subject, but so bewildered was I at the time, that nothing was further from my mind than the North Pole. If an idea came now and then it was the feeling that I must get away without offending these people. I felt the atmosphere of excitement about me for days, pressing me, crushing me. My time was occupied with consultations, receptions, lunches, and dinners, between which there was a feverish effort to answer increasingly accumulating telegrams. Mr. E. G. Wyckoff, an old friend, now came along and took from me certain business cares. By day there was excitement; by night excitement; there was excitement in my dreams. I slept no more than five hours a night--if I could call it sleep. As a surcease from this turmoil came the evening at King Frederick's summer palace, where I dined with the royal family and many notable guests. All were so kindly, the surroundings were so unostentatious, that for a short while my confusion passed. I remember being cornered near a piano after dinner by the young members of the family and plied with questions. I felt for once absolutely at ease and told them of the wild animals and exciting hunts of the north. Otherwise we talked of commonplace topics, and rarely was the North Pole mentioned. Until after midnight, on my return to my hotel, I sat up with the late Commander Hovgaard and Professor Olafsen, secretary of the Geographical Society. I clearly recall an afternoon when Professor Torp, rector of the university, and Professor Elis Stromgren, informed me that the university desired to honor me with a decoration. Professor Stromgren asked me about my methods of observation and I explained them freely. He believed my claim. The question of certain, absolute and detailed proofs never occurred to me. I was sure of the verity of my claim. I knew I had been as accurate in my scientific work as anyone could be. My first public account of my exploit was delivered before the Geographical Society on the evening of September 7, and in the presence of the king and queen, Prince and Princess George of Greece, most of the members of the royal family, and the most prominent people of Copenhagen. I had outlined my talk and written parts of it. With the exception of these, which I read, I spoke extempore. Because of the probability of the audience not understanding English, I confined myself to a brief narrative. The audience listened quietly and their credence seemed but the undemonstrative acceptance of an every-day fact. Not knowing that a medal was to be presented to me at that time, I descended from the platform on concluding my speech. I met the crown prince, who was ascending, and who spoke to me. I did not understand him and proceeded to the floor before the stage. Embarrassed by my misunderstanding, he unfolded his papers and began a presentation speech. Confused, I remained standing below. Whether I ascended the stage and made a reply or received the medal from the floor, I do not now remember. During the several days that followed I spent most of my time answering correspondence and attending to local obligations. An entire day was spent autographing photographs for members of the royal family. After much hard work I got things in such shape that I saw my way clear to go to Brussels, return to Copenhagen, and make an early start for home. I had delivered my talk before the Geographical Society. The reporters had seen me, and assailed me with questions, and had packed their suit cases. Tired to death and exhausted with want of sleep, I viewed the prospect of a departure with relief. Because of my condition I refused an invitation to attend a banquet which the newspaper _Politiken_ gave to the foreign correspondents at the Tivoli restaurant. They insisted that I come, if only for five minutes, and promised that there would be no attempt at interviewing. I went and listened wearily to the speeches, made in different languages, and felt no stir at the applause. While the representative of the _Matin_ was speaking in French, some one tiptoed up to me and placed a cablegram under my plate. From all sides attendants appeared with cables which were quietly placed under the plates of the various reporters. The _Matin_ man stopped; we looked at the cables. A deadly lull fell in the room. You could have heard a pin drop. It was Peary's first message--"Stars and Stripes nailed to the Pole!" My first feeling, as I read it, was of spontaneous belief. Well, I thought, he got there! On my right and left men were arguing about it. It was declared a hoax. I recognized the characteristic phrasing as Peary's. I knew that the operators along the Labrador coast knew Peary and that it would be almost impossible to perpetrate a joke. I told this to the dinner party. The speeches continued. No reference was made to the message, but the air seemed charged with electricity. My feeling at the news, as I analyze it, was not of envy or chagrin. I thought of Peary's hard, long years of effort, and I was glad; I felt no rivalry about the Pole; I did feel, aside from the futility of reaching the Pole itself, that Peary's trip possibly might be of great scientific value; that he had probably discovered new lands and mapped new seas of ice. "There is glory enough for all," I told the reporters. At the hotel a pile of telegrams six inches high, from various papers, awaited me. I picked eight representative papers and made some diplomatic reply, expressing what I felt. That Peary would contest my claim never entered my head. It did seem, and still seems, in itself too inconsequential a thing to make such a fuss about. This may be hard to believe to those who have magnified the heroism of such an achievement, a thing I never did feel and could not feel. While sitting at the farewell dinner of the Geographical Society the following day, Mr. Peary's second message, saying that my Eskimos declared I had not gone far out of sight of land, came to me. Those about received it with indignation. Many advised me to reply in biting terms. This I did not do; did not feel like doing. Peary's messages caused me to make a change in my plans. Previously I had accepted an invitation to go to Brussels, but now, as I was being attacked, I determined to return home immediately and face the charges in person. I took passage on the steamship _Oscar II_, sailing direct from Copenhagen to New York. COPENHAGEN TO THE UNITED STATES ACROSS THE ATLANTIC--RECEPTION IN NEW YORK--BEWILDERING CYCLONE OF EVENTS--INSIDE NEWS OF THE PEARY ATTACK--HOW THE WEB OF SHAME WAS WOVEN XXXII PEARY'S UNDERHAND WORK AT LABRADOR It seemed that, coming from the companionless solitude of the North, destiny in the shape of crowds was determined to pursue me. I expected to transfer from the _Melchior_ to the _Oscar II_ at Christiansaand, Norway, quietly and make my way home in peace. At Christiansaand the noise began. On a smaller scale was repeated the previous ovation of Copenhagen. On board the _Oscar II_ I really got more sleep than I had for months previous or months afterwards. After several days of seasickness I experienced the joys of comparative rest and slept like a child. My brain still seemed numbed. There were on the boat no curiosity-seekers; no crowds stifled me nor did applause thunder in my ears. Every few minutes, before we got out of touch with the wireless, there were messages; communications from friends, from newspapers and magazines; repetitions of the early charges made against me; questions concerning Peary's messages and my attitude toward him. When the boat approached Newfoundland the wireless again became disturbing. Then came the "gold brick" cable. At this time, every vestige of pleasure in the thought of the thing I had accomplished left me. Since then, and to this day, I almost view all my efforts with regret. I doubt if any man ever lived in the belief of an accomplishment and got so little pleasure, and so much bitterness, from it. That my Eskimos had told Mr. Peary they had been but two days out of sight of land seemed probable; it was a belief I had always encouraged. That Mr. Peary should persistently attack me did arouse a feeling of chagrin and injury. I spent most of my time alone in my cabin or strolling on the deck. The people aboard considered Peary's messages amusing. I talked little; I tried to analyze the situation in my mind, but wearily I gave it up; mentally I was still dazed. During the trip Director Cold, chief of the Danish United Steamship Company, helped me with small details in every way; Lonsdale, my secretary, and Mr. Cold's secretary were busy copying my notes and my narrative story, which I had agreed to give to the New York _Herald_. I had made no plans; my one object was to see my family. As we approached New York the wireless brought me news of the ovation under way. This amazed and filled me with dismay. I had considered the exaggerated reception of Copenhagen a manifestation of local excitement, partly due to the interest of the Danes in the North. New York, I concluded, was too big, too unemotional, too much interested in bigger matters to bother much about the North Pole. This I told Robert M. Berry, the Berlin representative of the Associated Press, who accompanied me on the boat. He disagreed with me. Having burned one hundred tons of coal in order to make time, the _Oscar II_ arrived along American shores a day before that arranged for my reception. So as not to frustrate any plans, we lay off Shelter Island until the next day. It was my wish to send a message to Mrs. Cook and ask her to come out. But the sea was rough; and, moreover, she was not well. Now tugs bearing squads of reporters began to arrive. We agreed to let no one aboard. The New York _Journal_, with characteristic enterprise, had brought Anthony Fiala on its tug with a note from Mrs. Cook. So an exception had to be made. An old friend and a letter from my wife could not be sent away. That night I slept little. Outside I heard the dull thud of the sea. Voices exploded from megaphones every few minutes. Mingled emotions filled me. The anticipation of meeting wife and children was sweet; that again, after an absence of more than two years, I should step upon the shores of my own land filled me with emotions too strong for words. The next morning I was up with the rising of the sun. We arrived at Quarantine soon after seven. About us on the waves danced a dozen tugs with reporters. In the distance appeared a tug toward which I strained my eyes, for I was told it bore my wife and children. With a feeling of delight, which only long separation can give, I boarded this, and in a moment they were in my arms. I was conscious of confusion about me; of whistling and shrieking; uncanny magnified voices thundering from scores of megaphones; of a band playing an American air. When the _Grand Republic_, thrilling a metallic salute, steamed toward us, and the cheers of hundreds rent the air, I remembered asking myself what it could be all about. Why all this agitation? Again the contagion of excitement bewildered me; the big boat drew near to a tug, above me swirled a cloud of hundreds of faces; around me the sunlit sea, with decorated craft, whirled and danced. As I giddily ascended the gangplank and felt a wreath of roses flung about me I was conscious chiefly of an unsuitable lack of appreciation. I spoke briefly; friends and relatives greeted me; the shaking of thousands of hands began; and all the while a deep hurt, a feeling of soreness, oppressed me. From that day on until after I left New York, my life was a kaleidoscopic whirl of excitement, for which I found no reason. I had no time to analyze or estimate public enthusiasm and any change of that enthusiasm into doubt. I had no sense of perspective; involuntarily I was swept through a cyclone of events. The bewilderment which came upon me at Copenhagen returned, and with it a feeling of helplessness, of puzzlement; I felt much as a child might when taking its first ride in a carousel. Each day thereafter, from morning until morning there was a continuous rush of excitement; at no time, until I fled from it, did I get more than four hours' sleep at night--disturbed sleep at that. I had not a moment for reflection, and even now, after recovering from the lack of mental perception which inevitably followed, it is with difficulty that I recall my impressions at the time. I suppose there are those who think that I was having a good time, but it was the hardest time of my life. I remember standing in the pilot house of the _Grand Republic_, my little ones by me, and watching thousands of men along the wharves of the East River, going mad. The world seemed engaged in some frantic revel. Factories became vocal and screamed hideously; boats became hoarse with shrieking; the megaphone cry was maddening. Drawing up to a gayly decorated pier, a thunder of voices assailed me. I felt crushed by the unearthly din. I was involuntarily shoved along, and found myself in an automobile--one of many, all decorated with flags. Cameras clicked like rapid-fire guns. A band played; roaring voices like beating sound waves rose and fell; faces swam before me. Through streets jammed with people we moved along. I hardly spoke a word to my wife, who sat near. Out of the scene of tumult, familiar faces peered now and again. I remember being touched by the sight of thousands of school children, assembled outside of public schools and waving American flags. In the neighborhood of the new bridge, under the arch, I recall seeing the eager face of my favorite boyhood school-teacher. It struck me at the time that she hardly seemed aged a day. Something swelled up within me, and I was conscious of a desire to lean out through the crowd and draw her into the machine. Through the thick congestion it was difficult to move; even the police were helpless. Now and again people tried to climb into the machine and were torn away. At the Bushwick Club I lunched in a small room with friends, and a feeling of pleasure warmed my heart. During the reception words of confidence were spoken and somehow filtered into my mind. I shook hands until my arms were sore, bowed my head until my neck ached. I was forced to retire. Later there was dinner at the club, after which I received seven hundred singers. By this time I felt like a machine. My brain was blank. About midnight, utterly exhausted, I arrived at the Waldorf-Astoria, where I fought through a crowd in the lobby. I think I sat and listened to Mrs. Cook telling me news of home and the family until night merged into morning. Next day the storm through which I was being swept began again. During that and the days following I made many mistakes, did and said unwise things. I want to show you, in telling of these events, just how helpless I was; what a victim of circumstance; how unfitted to bear the physical and mental demands of a ceaseless procession of public functions, lectures, dinners, receptions, days and nights of traveling, and how unable to cope with the many charges. In sixty days there were not less than two hundred lectures, dinners, and receptions, not to mention the unremitting train of press interviews. With no club of friends or organization of any kind behind me, I stood the strain alone. I was ignorant of much that was said about me. I had no one to gauge my situation at any time and advise me. About me was an unbearable pressure from friends and foes; I stood it until I could stand it no longer. There was not a minute of relief, not a minute to think. Coming after two years spent in the Arctic, at a time when nature was paying the debt of long starvation and hardship, the stress of events inevitably developed a mental strain bordering on madness. Where could I go to get rest from it all? This was my last thought at night and my first thought in the morning. During my second day at the Waldorf I had to read proofs of the narrative to be printed in the _Herald_, go over the plans of my book with the New York publishing house with whom I had signed a contract, and examine hundreds of films to select photographs. There were hundreds of letters and telegrams; scores of reporters demanding interviews; hundreds of callers, few of whom I was able to see. An army of publishers, lecture managers, and even vaudeville managers sent up their cards. The chief event of the first day in New York was the inquisition by newspaper reporters. They both interested and amused me. I had gone through the same ordeal in Copenhagen, and I knew that American interviewers are famed for their wolfish propensities. Before I saw the sensation-hungry press men, I got certain news that shocked my sense of the fairness of the American press. Someone interested in my case had sent me unsolicited copies of all telegrams, cables and wireless messages passing between New York and the Peary ship. These messages now continued to come daily, and thus I was afforded a splendid opportunity to watch an underhand game of deceit wherein Mr. Peary was shown to be in league with a New York paper aiming secretly to further his claims and to cast doubt upon mine. Among these was a message asking a certain editor to meet Peary at Bangor, Maine, to arrange for the pro-Peary campaign of bribery and conspiracy which followed. In another, and the most remarkable message, Mr. Peary first showed the sneaking methods by which the whole controversy was conducted. A long list of questions had been prepared by Mr. Peary at Battle Harbor, covering, as rival interests dictated, every phase of Polar work. These questions were sent to the New York _Times_ with instructions to compel answers from me on each of a series of catch phrases. When the _Times_ reporter came to me with these, I recognized the Peary phraseology at once. I afterwards compared the copy of Peary's telegram with that of the _Times_, and found in it nearly every question asked by the reporters. While the questions were being read off, it required a good deal of patience to conceal my irritation, as I knew Mr. Peary was talking through the smooth-faced, smiling press cubs, none of whom knew that he was Peary's mouthpiece. Every one of the Peary questions, however, was amusing, for I had answered each a dozen times in Europe. But if Mr. Peary must question me, why did he stoop to the hypocrisy of doing it through others? The other reporters asked many questions, the reports of which I have not seen since. But the duplicity of this little trick left a strong impression of unfairness. At about this time I began to examine critically the many efforts which Mr. Peary had begun to make to discredit my achievement. In going over such of his reports of his own claims as had gotten to me, I was at once struck with the statements parallel to mine which he had sent out, and since these so thoroughly proved my case I felt that I could be liberal and patient with Mr. Peary's ill-temper. I now learned that after Mr. Peary got the full reports of my attainment of the Pole at the wireless station at Labrador, he withdrew behind the rocks to a place where no one was looking, and digested that report. His own report came after the digestion of mine. In the meantime, his delay in proceeding to Sydney, Nova Scotia, and his silence, were explained by the official announcement that the ship was being washed and cleaned. This was manifestly absurd. No seaman returning from a voyage of a year, where sailors have no occupation whatever except such work, waits until he gets to port before cleaning his decks. Furthermore, this hiding behind the rocks of Labrador continued for weeks. What was the mysterious occupation of Mr. Peary? The _Roosevelt_, as described by visitors when she arrived at Sydney, was still very dirty. When Mr. Peary's much-heralded report was finally printed, every Arctic explorer at once said the astonishing parallel statements in Mr. Peary's narrative either proved my case or convicted Mr. Peary of plagiarism. My story, by this time, had got well along in the New York _Herald_. To help Mr. Peary out of his position, McMillan later rushed to the press. He was under contract not to write or talk to the press, nor to lecture, write magazine articles or books, as were all of Peary's men. But this prohibition was waived temporarily. Then McMillan made the statement that Dr. Cook must have gotten the "parallel data" and inside information from Mr. Peary's Eskimos. Everyone acquainted with Greenland, including McMillan, knows that such inter-communication was impossible. I had left for Upernavik by the time Peary returned to Etah. Therefore, McMillan and Peary both were caught in a deliberate lie, as were also Bartlett[23] and Borup later. These were Mr. Peary's witnesses in the broadside of charges with which I was to be annihilated. A few days after my arrival in America I learned for the first time of the strange death of Ross Marvin. We were asked by Mr. Peary to believe that this young man of more than average intelligence, a graduate of Cornell University and of the New York Nautical School, a man of experience on the Polar seas, stepped over young ice alone, without a life-line, and sank through a film of ice to a grave in the Arctic waters. An idiot might do that; but Marvin, unless he went suddenly mad, would not do it. To cross the young ice of open leads, like that in which Marvin is said to have perished, is a daily, almost hourly, experience in Arctic travel. To safeguard each other's lives, and to save sledges and dog teams, life-lines are carried in coils on the upstanders of the sled. When about to risk a crossing, a line is always fixed from one to the other and from sled to sled. When this is done, and an accident happens such as that which is alleged to have befallen Marvin, the victim is saved by the pull of his companions on the line. This is done as unfailingly as one eats meals. Would a man of Marvin's experience and intelligence neglect such a precaution? I knew such an accident might have happened to the inexperienced explorers of the days of Franklin, but to-day it seemed incredible. Furthermore, Peary was boasting of what he styled the "Peary system," for which is claimed such thoroughness that without it no other explorer could reach the Pole. If Marvin's death was natural, then he is a victim of this system. But let us read between the lines of this harrowing tragedy. After learning of my attainment of the Pole, Peary rushed to the wireless. With a letter in his pocket from Captain Adams which gave the news that started the ire of envy, and which also gave the news that convicted Peary of a lie, he thereafter for a week or more kept the wires busy with the famous "gold brick" messages. Marvin's death, and the duty to a bereaved family, which ordinary humanity would have dictated, were of no consequence to one making envious, vicious attacks. For a week all the world blushed with shame because of the dishonor thus brought upon our country and our flag. In New York there was a happy home, a loving mother, a fond sister; anxious friends were all busy in preparing surprises for the happy homecoming of the one beloved by all. It was a busy week, with joyous, heart-stirring anticipation. There was no news from the Peary ship. Not a word came to indicate that their expected returning hero had been lost in the icy seas. To that mother's yearning heart her boy was nearing home--but alas! no news came! A week passed, and still no news! At last, after Peary had digested my narrative, the carefully prepared press report was put on the wires. Ross Marvin's family, engrossed in preparations for a reception with flowers and flags, was about to see, in cold, black print, that he for whom their hearts beat expectantly was no more. At the last moment, Peary's conscience seemingly troubled him. A long message was sent to a friend to break the news and to soften the effects of the press reports on that poor mother and sister. That message was sent "Collect." A man who had given years of his time and his life to glorify Peary was not worthy of a prepaid telegram! Later, an important letter from Marvin reached his own home. In it the stealing of my supplies is referred to in a way to show that Marvin condemned Peary. The public ought to know the wording of this part of the letter. Why has it been suppressed? Marvin's death, to my understanding, does not seem natural. With a good deal of empty verbiage the sacrifice of this unfortunate young man is explained; but two questions are forced at once: Why was Marvin without a life-line? Why were conveniently lost with him certain data that might disprove Peary's case? If Marvin sank into the ice, as Peary said he did, then Peary is responsible for the loss of that life, for he did not surround him with proper safeguards. The death of this man points to something more than tragedy. Since Marvin's soundings were made under the authority of the Coast and Geodetic Survey, the American Government is, therefore, answerable for this death. Mr. Peary's treatment of Marvin wearied me of all the Peary talk at the time; and, furthermore, all of Mr. Peary's charges, of which so much fuss was made, carried the self-evident origin of cruel envy and selfishness. First, the Eskimos, put through a third degree behind closed doors, were reported to have said that I had not been more than two sleeps out of sight of land. This was easily explained. They had been instructed not to tell Mr. Peary of my affairs, and they had been encouraged to believe themselves always near land. Then this charge was dropped, and the next was made, the one about my not reporting the alleged cache at "Cape Thomas Hubbard." That assertion, instead of injuring me, convicted Peary of trying to steal from Captain Sverdrup the honor of discovering and naming Svartevoeg. For it was shown that by deception "Cape Thomas Hubbard" had been written over a point discovered years earlier by another explorer. For this kind of honor Hubbard had contributed to Peary's expeditions. But is not the obliteration of a geographic name for money a kind of geographic larceny? Then was forced the charge that I had told no one of my Polar success in the North, and therefore the entire report was an afterthought. Whitney and Prichard later cleared this up, but at the very time when Peary made this charge he had in his possession a letter from Captain Adams, of the whaler _Morning_, which he had received in the North, wherein my attainment of the Pole was stated. When Peary got the Adams letter he put on full steam, abandoned his plan to visit other Greenland ports, and came direct to Labrador, to the wireless. Why was the Adams letter suppressed, when it was charged that I had told no one? And, furthermore, why had Mr. Peary told no one on his ship of his own success until he neared Battle Harbor? All of these charges betrayed untruthful methods on the part of Mr. Peary in his own method of presentation. Automatically, without a word of defence on my part, each charge rebounded on the charger. Then there came the page broadside of rearranged charges printed by every American paper. It contained nothing new in the text, but with it there was a faked map, copied from Sverdrup, which was made to appear as though drawn by Eskimos. The best answer to this whole problem is that from the same tongues with which Mr. Peary tried to discredit me has come a much more formidable charge against Mr. Peary. For these same Eskimos have since said, without quizzing from me, that Mr. Peary never got to the Pole and that he never saw Crocker Land. This part of the controversy was thoroughly analyzed by Professor W. F. Armbruster and Dr. Henry Schwartz in the St. Louis _Mirror_[24]. While this controversy early began to rage, the tremendous offers of money which came in every hour contributed to my bewilderment. They seemed fabulous; the purport was beyond me. I imagined this as part of a dream from which I should awake. Were I the calculating monster of cupidity which some believe me, I suppose I should have been more circumspect in making my financial arrangements. I should hardly, for instance, have sold my narrative story to Mr. James Gordon Bennett for $25,000 when there were single offers of $50,000, $75,000, $100,000, and more, for it. While I was in Copenhagen, and before the _Herald_ offer was accepted, Mr. W. T. Stead had come with a message from W. R. Hearst with instructions to double any other offer presented for my narrative. Had I accepted Mr. Hearst's bid he would have paid $400,000 for what I sold for $25,000. Here is a sacrifice of $375,000. Does that look as if I tried to hoax the world for sordid gain, as my enemies would like the public to believe? What Mr. Bennett asked and offered $25,000 for was a series of four articles on adventures in the North, for use in the Sunday supplement of the _Herald_. I had no such articles prepared at the time, nor, as I knew, should I have time to write these. I did have the narrative story of my trip, which consisted of twenty-five thousand to thirty thousand words, complete. I decided, when I heard the first reports of doubt cast on my claim, to publish my narrative story as an honest and sincere proof of my claim as soon as possible. So I gave this to Mr. Bennett for the sum offered purely for Sunday articles. [Illustration: GOVERNOR KRAUL IN HIS STUDY ARRIVAL AT UPERNAVIK] [Illustration: POLAR TRAGEDY--A DESERTED CHILD OF THE SULTAN OF THE NORTH AND ITS MOTHER] Mr. Bennett offered me $5,000 additional for the European rights of this story. To this offer I made no reply, giving Mr. Bennett the sole news rights of the story for the entire world. When I reached New York, needing ready money, I wired Mr. Bennett for an advance on my story. He cabled back an immediate order for the entire sum of $25,000. This gave me a sudden glow, a feeling of pleasure at what I regarded as a display of confidence. With my lecture work and traveling I was kept so busy that I did not have time to go over the story, typewritten from my almost illegible notes, which was sent to the New York _Herald_. When I did go over the proofs and found many grievous errors, the _Herald_ had already syndicated the story. It was too late for any corrections, and thus many errors appeared. I made a contract with a New York publishing house, while in Copenhagen, with the idea of getting out my book and all proofs possible as soon as the presses would allow, in view of the imminent controversy. For the English and American rights to my book I was to receive $150,000 in a lump sum and an additional $150,000 in royalties. Although papers were signed for this, later on, when things seemed turning against me and I saw the publishers were getting "cold feet," I voluntarily freed them from the contract. By the time I left Copenhagen, as I figured later, offers for book and magazine material and lectures had aggregated just one and one-half million dollars. A prominent New York manager made me an offer of $250,000 for a series of lectures. During the first few days I had absolutely no system of caring for this correspondence, hundreds of important cablegrams remained unopened, and huge offers of money were ignored. It was only after Minister Egan sent Walter Lonsdale, in response to my request for a competent secretary, that some intelligible information was gleaned from the mass of correspondence. Most of it, as a matter of fact, was read only when we were on the _Oscar II_, bound for home. After making my arrangement with Mr. Bennett, the _Matin_ of Paris had sent me an offer of $50,000 for the serial rights of a French translation of the story to appear in the _Herald_. This included a lecture under the auspices of the paper in Paris. My anxiety to get home prevented a consideration of this; and it was only after I sailed on the _Oscar II_ that I realized I could have gone to Paris, delivered the lecture, and returned to New York by a fast boat. On the _Oscar II_ a wireless had reached me of a large offer for a lecture during the convention in St. Louis. This I decided to accept, the simple reason being that I needed money. Much criticism has been hurled at me because I started on a lecture campaign when I should have prepared my data and submitted proof. At that time I was in no position to anticipate or understand this criticism. Every explorer for fifty years had done the same thing, all had delivered lectures and written articles about their work after a first preliminary report. Supplementary and detailed data were usually given long afterwards, not as proof but as a part of the plan of recording ultimate results. I had the precedents of Stanley, Nordenskjöld, Nansen, Peary, and others. Had I anticipated the furore that was being raised about proofs, I probably should have taken public opinion into my consideration. So firm was my own conviction of achievement that the difficulty of supplying such absolute proof as the unique occasion afterwards demanded never occurred to me. My feeling at the time was that I was under no obligation to patrons, to the Government, to any society, or anyone, and that I had a right to deliver lectures at a time when public interest was keyed up, and to prepare my detailed reports at a time when I should have more leisure. My family needed money. Huge sums were offered me hourly; I should have been unwise indeed had I not accepted some of the offers. I am advised that stories of enormous lecture profits have been told. I am informed that the newspapers said I was to receive $25,000 for going to St. Louis. The truth is that I got less than half that, though I believe St. Louis probably spent more than $25,000 in preparing for my appearance there. All told, I delivered about twenty lectures in various large cities, receiving from $1,000 to $10,000 per lecture. My expenses were heavy, so that in the end I netted less than $25,000. When I determined to stop the lecture work and prepare my data, I canceled $140,000 worth of lecture engagements. Each day there was a routine of lunches with speeches, dinners with speeches, suppers with speeches. The task of devising speeches was ever present; with me it did not come easy. But speeches must be made, and I felt a tense strain, as if something were drawing my mentality from me. Everywhere I went crowds pressed about me. I shook hands until the flesh of one finger was actually worn through to the bone. Hundreds of people daily came to see me. About this time, too, my bewildered brain began to realize that I was also the object of most ferocious attacks from many quarters. I had no time to read the newspapers, and these charges and suspicions filtered in to me through reporters and friends. Usually they reached me in an exaggerated or a distorted form. There began at this time the publication of innumerable fake interviews and stories misrepresenting me.[25] One interviewer quoted me as saying that Dagaard Jensen had seen my records, and therefore confirmed my claim to the people in Copenhagen; another that I said Governor Kraul of Greenland had reported talking with my Eskimos, who had confirmed my report. Dagaard Jensen justly denied this by cable, as I had made no such statement. That about Governor Kraul was absurd on the face of it, as he was a thousand miles away from my Eskimos. I have no means of knowing the embarrassing statements attributed to me--things which were variously denied, and which hurt me. There was not time for me to consider or answer them. Then came the blow which almost stunned me--the news that Harry Whitney had not been allowed by Peary to bring my instruments and notes home with him. During the long night at Cape Sparbo I had carefully figured out and reduced most of my important observations. The old, rubbed, oily, and torn field notes, the instrumental corrections and the direct readings were packed with the instruments, and these were mostly left with Mr. Whitney. The figures were important for future recalculation, but otherwise had not seemed materially important to me, for they had served their purpose. I had with me all the important data, such as is usually given in a traveler's narrative. No more had ever been asked before. Under ordinary circumstances, these instruments and papers would not have been of great value, but under the public excitement their importance was immensely enhanced. I had publicly announced that Mr. Whitney would bring these with him on the boat in which he was to return. Had there been no notes and no instruments, I hardly should have said this were I perpetrating a fraud, for I should have known that the failure of Mr. Whitney to supply these would provoke widespread suspicion. This is just what happened. Had I foreseen the trouble that resulted, I should have taken my instruments with me to Upernavik, and have supplied my observations and notes at once. As I have said before, I believed in an accomplishment which I felt was largely personal, for which a world excitement was not warranted and in which I had such a sure confidence that I never thought of absolutely accurate proof. This was my folly--for which fate made me pay. Imagine my dismay, the heartsickness which seized me when, through the din of tumult and excitement, in the midst of suspicion, came the news that Mr. Whitney had been forced by Mr. Peary to take from the _Roosevelt_ and bury the very material with which I might have dispelled suspicion and quelled the storm of unmerited abuse. The instruments carried on my northern trip, and left with Mr. Whitney, and which he had seen, consisted of one French sextant; one aluminum surveying compass, with azimuth attachment, bought of Keuffer & Essen, New York; one glass artifical horizon, set in a thin metal frame, adjusted by spirit levels and thumbscrews, bought of Hutchinson, Boston; one aneroid barometer, aluminum, bought of Hicks; an aluminum case with maximum and minimum spirit thermometer; other thermometers, and one liquid compass. Other instruments used about stations were also left. With these were papers giving some instrumental corrections, readings, and comparisons, and other occasional notes, and a small diary, mostly loose leaves, containing some direct field reading of instruments and meteorological data. These took up very little space; and, if I remember correctly, all were snugly packed in one of the instrument cases. Mr. Whitney especially asked, as a personal favor, the honor of caring for my flag. Later, after his return, he said that as Mr. Peary had refused to let him take aboard my things, he had no alternative but to bury them at Etah. I have no complaint to make against Mr. Peary about this. He was at liberty to pick the freight of his own ship. But he later said: "His [Dr. Cook's] leaving of his records at Etah was a scheme by which he could claim that they were lost." If Mr. Peary knew this, why did he not bring them? At the time I felt crippled; my feeling of disgust with the problem, with myself, and with the situation began. It would be impossible to give in my report a continuous line of observations. I had no corrections for the instruments. I knew they might vary. I had no means of checking them. I had some copies of the original data, but they were not complete. I should have to rest my whole case on a report with reduced observations, for I knew it would not be possible to send a ship to Etah until the following year. And I also knew that if Eskimos were not given strong explicit instructions all would be lost. Meanwhile, many apparently trivial accusations against me were being widely discussed, which, never refuted, had their weight in the long run in discrediting my good faith. On every side I was attacked, not so much for unintentional error, as for deliberate falsehood. In the bewildering days that followed--during which I traveled to various cities to fulfill lecture engagements--I felt alone, a victim of such pressure as, I believe, has seldom been the fate of any human being. Friends confused me as much as the attacks of foes. Some advised one thing; others another; my brain staggered with their well-meaning advice. Most of them wanted me to "light out," as they expressed it, and attack Mr. Peary. A number suggested the formation of an organization, the work of which would be to issue counter attacks on Mr. Peary, to be written by various men, and to reply systematically to charges made against me. Such a course was distasteful to me, and, furthermore, the selfish, envious origin of all of Mr. Peary's charges seemed evident. Many of the other attacks seemed so ridiculous that I felt no one would believe them--which was another of my many mistakes. The more serious charges I believed could wait until I had time to sit down and reply to them at length. I felt the futility of any fragmentary retorts. At no time did I have an intelligent grasp of the situation, of the excited and exaggerated interest of the public, or of the fluctuating state of public opinion. In my many years of Arctic work I had gathered pictures of almost every phase of Arctic life and scene; on subsequent trips, unless for some special reason, I did not duplicate photographs of impregnable, unmeltable headlands, or of walrus, or icebergs which I considered typical. In the early rush for illustrative material I gave a number of these to the _Herald_, stating they were scenes I had passed, but which had been taken on an earlier expedition. By some mistake, which is not unusual in newspaper offices, one of these pictures was put under a caption, "Pictures of Dr. Cook's Polar Trip," or something to this effect. Whereupon, Mr. Herbert Bridgman, secretary of the Peary Arctic Club, shouted aloud, "Fraud!" and others took up the cry. A further charge that these pictures were not mine at all, but had been stolen or borrowed from Herbert Berri, was advanced--an absolute untruth, as I had the negatives, from which these pictures were made, in my possession. What, in those early days, had seemed a serious criticism offered against my claim, was that I had exceeded possible speed limits by asserting an average of about fifteen miles a day. The English critics were particularly severe. According to their reading, this had never been done before. Admiral Melville had taken this up in America before my arrival; by the time I got to New York, Mr. Peary had made a report of twenty to forty-five miles daily under similar conditions, and I asked myself the reason of the sudden hush. Much space was now given to the criticism by learned men of my giving seconds in observations. The point was taken that as you near the Pole the degrees of longitude narrow, and seconds are of no consequence. Therefore I was charged with trying to fake an impossible accuracy. I always regarded seconds as of little consequence, put them down as a matter of routine--for in that snow-blinding, bewildering North I worked more like a machine than a reasoning being--and now the inadvertent use of these was used to cast suspicion upon me. With this attack, like echoes from many places, came reiterations of the criticism, which, polly-like, was taken up by Rear-Admiral Chester. Professor Stockwell of Cleveland had earlier brought out this academic discussion. Because I had seen the midnight sun for the first time on April 7 it was claimed I must have been at a more southern point of the globe than I believed. At the time it seemed the only serious scientific criticism of my reports which was used against me. Whether I was on a more southerly point of the globe than I believed or not, I had not used the midnight sun, seen through a mystic maze of unknowable refraction, to determine position; to do so would have been impossible. With a constant moving and grinding of the ice, causing opening lanes of water, from which the inequality of temperature drew an evaporation like steam from a volcano, it is impossible at this season to see a low sun with a clear horizon. One looks through an opaque veil of blinding crystals. Every Arctic traveler knows that even when the sun is seen on a clear horizon, as it returns after the long night, his eyes are deceived--he does not see the sun at all, but a refracted image caused by the optical deception of atmospheric distortions. For this reason, as I knew, all observations of the sun when very low are worthless as a means of determining position. The assumption that I had done this seemed mere foolishness to me at the time. Staggered by the blow that Whitney had buried my instruments in the North, the recurring thoughts of these harassing charges certainly had no soothing effect. Alone, I was unable to cope with matters, anyway. I under-estimated the effect of the cumulating attacks. Oppressed by the undercurrent feeling that it was all a fuss about very little, a thing of insignificant worth, and disturbed by the growing uncertainty of proving such a claim to the point of hair-breadth accuracy by any figures, despair overcame me. I was so busy I could not pause to think, and was conscious only of the rush, the labor, the worry. I no longer slept; indigestion naturally seized me as its victim. A mental depression brought desperate premonitions. I developed a severe case of laryngitis in Washington; it got worse as I went to Baltimore and Pittsburg. At St. Louis, where I talked before an audience said to number twelve thousand persons, I could hardly raise my voice above a whisper. The lecture was given with physical anguish. I was feverish and mentally dazed. Thereafter, day by day, my thoughts became less coherent; I, more like a machine. I do not exaggerate when I say that there was practically not one hour of pleasure in those troubled days. The dinner which was given by the Arctic travelers at the Waldorf-Astoria pleased me more than anything during the entire experience. I felt the close presence of hundreds of warm friends; I was conscious of their good will. I can recall the ceremony of presenting the keys of the City of New York to me, but I was so confused and half ill that I was not in a condition to appreciate the honor. After I had been on my lecture tour for a few weeks, I began to feel persecuted. On every side I sensed hostility; the sight of crowds filled me with a growing sort of terror. I did not realize at the time that I was passing from periods of mental depression to dangerous periods of nervous tension. I was pursued by reporters, people with craning necks, good-natured demonstrations of friendliness that irritated me. In the trains I viewed the whirling landscape without, and felt myself part of it--as a delirious man swept and hurtled through space. I suppose I answered questions intelligently; like an automaton delivered my lectures, shook hands. I have been told I smiled pleasantly always--mentally I was never conscious of a smile. It is strange how, machine-like, a man can conduct himself like a reasonable being when, mentally, he is at sea. I have read a great deal about the subconscious mind; on no other theory can I account for my rational conduct in public at the time. Really, as I view myself from the angle of the present, I marvel that a man so distraught did not do desperate things. _Author's Note._--I have never attempted to disprove Mr. Peary's claim to having reached the North Pole. I prefer to believe that Mr. Peary reached the North Pole. So avid have been my enemies, however, to cast discredit upon my own achievement, by such trivial and petty charges, that it seems curious they have never noticed or have remained silent about many striking and staggering discrepancies in Mr. Peary's own published account of his journey. In Mr. Peary's book, entitled "The North Pole; Its Discovery, 1909," published by Frederick A. Stokes Company, on page 302, appears the following: "We turned our backs upon the Pole at about four o'clock of the afternoon of April 7." According to a statement made on page 304, Mr. Peary took time on his return trip to take a sounding of the sea five miles from the Pole. On page 305, Mr. Peary says: "Friday, April 9, was a wild day. All day long the wind blew strong from the north-northeast, increasing finally to a gale." And on page 306: "We camped that night at 87° 47´." Mr. Peary thus claims to have traveled from the Pole to this point, a distance of 133 nautical miles, or 153 statute miles, in a little over two days. This would average 76½ statute miles a day. Could a pedestrian make such speed? During this time Mr. Peary camped twice, to make tea, eat lunch, feed the dogs, and rest--several hours in each camp. Why I should never have gone out of sight of land for more than two days, as he has charged, when such miraculous speed can be made on the circumpolar sea, is something Mr. Peary might find interesting reasons to explain. On page 310, Mr. Peary says: "We were coming down the North Pole hill in fine shape now, and another double march, April 16-17, brought us to our eleventh upward camp at 85° 8´, one hundred and twenty-one miles from Cape Columbia." According to this, Mr. Peary covered the distance from 87° 47´, on April 9, to 85° 8´, on April 17--a distance of 159 nautical miles in eight day. This averaged twenty miles a day. On page 316, he says: "It was almost exactly six o'clock on the morning of April 23 when we reached the igloo of 'Crane City,' at Cape Columbia, and the work was done." Mr. Peary left 85° 8´ on April 17, according to his statement, and traveled 121 miles to Cape Columbia in six days, arriving on April 23. This last stretch was at the rate of twenty miles a day. To sum up, he traveled from the North Pole, according to his statements, to land, as follows: The first 133 nautical miles southward in two days, at the rate of 66 nautical miles, or 76½ statute miles, a day; the last 279 nautical miles in fourteen days, an average of 20 miles a day. According to Peary's book, Bartlett left him at 87° 46´, and Mr. Peary started on his final spurt to the Pole a little after midnight on the morning of April 2. By arriving at the point where he left Bartlett on the evening of April 9, he would have made the distance of 270 miles to the Pole from this point and back, in a little over seven days. In the New York _World_ of October 3, 1910, page 3, column 6, Matthew Henson makes the following statement: "On the way up we had to break a trail, and averaged only eighteen to twenty miles a day. On the way back we had our own trail to within one hundred miles of land, and then Captain Bartlett's trail. We made from twenty to forty miles a day." At the rate of twenty miles a day on the way up, which Henson claims was made, it would have taken 6 days and 18 hours to cover the distance of 135 miles from 87° 47´ to the Pole. Adding the thirty hours Mr. Peary claims he spent at the Pole for observations, eight days would have elapsed before they started back. Peary says the round trip of 270 miles from 87° 47´ N. to the Pole and the return to the same latitude was done in seven days and a few hours. Why has Mr. Peary never been asked to explain his miraculous speed and the discrepancy between his statement and Henson's? Henson was Mr. Peary's sole witness. When Mr. Peary, in a framed-up document, endeavors to disprove my claim by quoting my Eskimos, it would be just as fair to apply Henson's words to disprove Peary. Moreover, inasmuch as Mr. Peary's partisans attacked my speed limits when I made my first reports, does it not seem curious indeed that they now accept as infallible, and _ex cathedra_, the published reports of the almost supernatural feat in covering distance made by Mr. Peary? THE KEY TO THE CONTROVERSY PEARY AND HIS PAST--HIS DEALING WITH RIVAL EXPLORERS--THE DEATH OF ASTRUP--THE THEFT OF THE "GREAT IRON STONE," THE NATIVES' SOLE SOURCE OF IRON XXXIII ACTIONS WHICH CALL FOR INVESTIGATION Aiming to be retired from the Navy as a Captain, with a comfortable pension; aiming eventually to wear the stripes of a Rear-Admiral, which necessitated a promotion over the heads of others in the normal line of advancement, a second Polar victory, which was all that Peary could honestly claim, was not sufficient. Something must be done to destroy in the public eye the merits of my achievement for the first attainment of the Pole. I had reached the Pole on April 21, 1908. Mr. Peary's claims were for April 6, 1909, a year later. To destroy the advantage of priority of my conquest, and to establish himself as the first and only one who had reached the Pole, was now the one predominant effort to which Mr. Peary and his coterie of conspirators set themselves. To this end the cables were now made to burn with an abusive campaign, which the press, eager for sensations, took up from land's end to land's end, even to the two worlds. The wireless operators picked up messages that were being thrown from ship to ship and from point to point. Each carried unkind insinuations coming from the lips of Mr. Peary. The press and the public were induced to believe that Peary's words came from one who was himself above the shadow of suspicion. Their efforts, however, as we will see later, did not differ from the battle of envy forced against others before me, but it was now done more openly. It was difficult to remain silent against such world-wide slanders. But I reasoned that truth would ultimately prevail, and that the rebound of the American spirit of fair play would quell the storm. I had known for nearly a quarter of a century the man for whom the press now attacked me. I had served on two of his expeditions without pay; I had watched his successes and his failures; I had admired his strong qualities, and I had shivered with the shocks of his wrongdoings. But still I did not feel that anything was to be gained by retaliative abuse; and the truth about him, out of charity, I hesitated to tell. No, I argued, this warfare of the many against one, under the dictates of envy, must ultimately bring to light its own injustice. I had always reasoned that a quiet, dignified, non-assailing bearing would be most effective in a battle of this kind. Contrary to the general belief at the time, this was not done out of respect for Mr. Peary; it seemed the best means to a worthier end. But I did not know at this time that the press, dog-like, jumps upon him who maintains a non-attacking attitude. In modern times, the old Christian philosophy of turning the other cheek, as I have found, does not give the desired results. The press, which, at my home-coming, had lavished praise and glowing panegyric, now, as promptly, swung completely around and heaped upon my head terms of opprobrium and obloquy. Faked news items were issued to discredit me by Peary's associates; editors devoted space to jibes and sarcasms at my expense; clever writers and cartoonists did their best to make my name a humorous byword with my countrymen. Much of this I did not know until long after. The suddenness of all this--the terrible injustice and unreasonableness of it--simply overwhelmed me. Arriving from the cruel North, completely spent in body and in mind, the rest that I was urgently in need of had been constantly denied me. Instead, I had been caught up and held within a perfect maelstrom of excitement. That excitement still ran like fever in my veins. The plaudits of the multitude were still ringing in my ears when this horror of a world's contumely burst on my head. I could only bow my head and let the storm spend itself about me. Sick at heart and dazed in mind, conscious only of a vague disgust with all the world and myself, I longed for respite and forgetfulness within the bosom of my family. So, quietly, I decided to retire for a year, out of reach of the yellow papers; out of reach of the grind of the pro-Peary mill of infamy, still maintaining silence rather than stoop to the indignity of showing up the dark side of Mr. Peary's character. Having returned, I hesitate to do it now; but the weaving of the leprous blanket of infamy with which Peary and his supporters attempted to cover me cannot be understood unless we look through Mr. Peary's eyes--regard other explorers as he regarded them; regard the North as his inalienable property as he did, and regard his infamous, high-handed injustices as right. I have now decided to uncover the incentive of this one-sided fight to which I have so long maintained a non-attacking attitude. I had hoped, almost against hope, that the public would ultimately understand, without a word from me, the humbug of the mudslingers who were attempting to defame my character. I had felt sure that the hand which did the besmearing was silhouetted clearly against the blackness of its own making. But the storm of a sensation-seeking press later so thickened the atmosphere that the public, from which one has a sure guarantee of fair play, was denied a clear view. Now that the storm has spent its force; now that the hand which did the mudslinging has within its grasp the unearned gain which it sought; now that a clear point of observation can be presented, I am compelled, with much reluctance and distaste, to reveal the unpleasant and unknown past of the man who tried to ruin me; showing how unscrupulous and brutal he was to others before me; with evidence in hand, I shall reveal how he wove his web of defamation and how his friends conspired with him in the darkest, meanest and most brazen conspiracy in the history of exploration. In doing this, my aim is not to challenge Mr. Peary's claim, but to throw light on unwritten pages of history, which pages furnish the key to unlock the longclosed door of the Polar controversy and the pro-Peary conspiracy. From the earliest days, Mr. Peary's effort to reach the Pole was undertaken primarily for purposes of personal commercial gain. For twenty years he has passed the hat along lines of easy money. That hat would be passing to-day if the game had not been, in the opinion of many, spoiled by my success. For nearly twenty years he sought to be promoted over the heads of stay-at-home but hardworking naval officers. During all of this time, while on salary as a naval officer, he was away engaged in private enterprises from which hundreds of thousands of dollars went into his pockets. By wire-pulling and lobbying he succeeded in having the American Navy pay him an unearned salary. Such a man could not afford to divide the fruits of Polar attainment with another. In 1891, as the steamer _Kite_ went north, Mr. Peary began to evince the brutal, selfish spirit which later was shown to every explorer who had the misfortune to cross his trail. Nansen had crossed Greenland; his splendid success was in the public eye. Mr. Peary attempted to belittle the merited applause by saying that Nansen had borrowed the "Peary system." But Peary had borrowed the Nordenskiold system, without giving credit. A few months later, Mr. John M. Verhoeff, the meteorologist of the _Kite_ expedition, was accorded such unbrotherly treatment that he left his body in a glacial crevasse in preference to coming home on the same ship with Mr. Peary. This man had paid $2,000 for the privilege of being Peary's companion. Eivind Astrup, another companion of Peary, a few years later was publicly denounced because he had written a book on his own scientific observations and did work which Peary had himself neglected to do. This attempt to discredit a young, sensitive explorer was followed by his mental unbalancement and suicide. About 1897, Peary took from the people of the Farthest North the Eskimos' treasured "Star Stone." At some remote period in the unknown history of the frigid North, thousands of years ago, when, possibly, the primitive forefathers of the Eskimos were perishing from inability to obtain food in that fierce war waged between Nature and crude, blindly struggling, aboriginal life because of a lack of weapons with which to kill, there swiftly, roaringly, descended from the mysterious skies a gigantic meteoric mass of burning, white-hot iron. Whence it came, those dazed and startled people knew not; they regarded it, as their descendants have regarded it, with baffled mystified terror; later, with reverence, gratitude, and a feeling akin to awe. Gazing skyward, in the long, starlit nights, there undoubtedly welled up surgingly in the wild hearts of these innocent, Spartan children of nature, a feeling of vague, instinctive wonder at the Power which swung the boreal lamps in heaven; which moves the worlds in space; which sweeps in the northern winds, and which, for the creatures of its creation, apparently consciously, and often by means seemingly miraculous, provides methods of obtaining the sources of life. As the meteor and its two smaller fragments cooled, the natives, by the innate and adaptive ingenuity of aboriginal man, learned to chip masses from it, from which were shaped knives and arrows and spearheads. It became their mine of treasure, more precious than gold; it was their only means of making weapons for obtaining that which sustained life. With new weapons, they developed the art of spear-casting and arrow-throwing. As the centuries passed, animals fell easy prey to their skill; the starvation of elder ages gave way to plenty. The arm of God, it is said in the Scriptures, is long. From the far skies it extended to these people of an ice-sheeted, rigorous land, that they might survive, this miraculous treasure. It seemed, however, that the arm of man, in its greed, proved likewise long; and as the strange providence which gave these people their chief means of killing was kind, so the arm of man was cruel. In 1894, R. E. Peary, regarding the Arctic world as his own, the people as his vassals, came north, and a year later took from these natives, without their consent, the two smaller fragments. In 1897 he took "The Tent," or Great Iron Stone, the natives' last and one source of mineral wealth and ancestral treasure. That it was these people's great source of securing metal meant nothing to him; that it was a scientific curio, whereby he might secure a specious credit from the well-fed armchair gentlemen of science at home, meant much to the man who later did not hesitate to employ methods of dishonor to try to secure exclusive credit of the achievement of the Pole. Just as he later tried to rob me of honor, so he ruthlessly took from these people a thing that meant abundance of game--and game there meant life. The great "Iron Stone" was hauled aboard the S. S. _Hope_, and brought to New York. Today it reposes in the Museum of Natural History--a bulky, black heap of metal, which can be viewed any day by the well-fed and curious. In the North, where he will not go again to give his mythical "abundance of guns and ammunition," the Eskimos need the metal which was sold to Mrs. Morris K. Jesup (who presented it to the museum) for $40,000. That money went into Mr. Peary's pockets. In a land where laws existed this act would be regarded as a high-handed, monumental and dishonorable theft. One who might attempt now to purloin the ill-gotten hulk from the museum would be prosecuted. Taken from the people to whose ancestors it was sent, as if by a providence that is divine, and to whom it meant life, it gave Mr. Peary so-called scientific honors among his friends. In the name of religion, it has been said, many crimes have been committed. It remained for this man to reveal what atrocious things could be done in the fair name of science. At about the same time a group of seven or eight Eskimos were put aboard a ship against their will and brought to New York for museum purposes. They were locked up in a cellar in New York, awaiting a market place. Before the profit-time arrived, because of unhygienic surroundings and improper food, all but one died. When in the grip of death, through a Mrs. Smith, who ministered to their last wants, they appealed with tears in their eyes for some word from Mr. Peary. They begged that he extend them the attention of visiting them before their eyes closed to a world of misery and trouble. There came no word and no responsive call from the man who was responsible for their suffering. Of seven or eight innocent wild people, but one little child survived. That one--Mene--was later even denied a passage back to his fathers' land by Mr. Peary. A few years later, the Danish Literary Expedition visited the northernmost Eskimos in their houses. The splendid hospitality shown the Danes by the Eskimos saved their lives. The Danish people, aiming to express their gratitude for this unselfish Eskimo kindness, sent a ship to their shores on the following year, loaded with presents, at an expenditure of many thousands of kroner. That ship, under the direction of Captain Schoubye, left at North Star great quantities of food, iron and wood. After the Danes had turned their backs, Mr. Peary came along and deliberately, high-handedly, took many of the things. This story is told today by every member of the tribe whom Peary claims to have befriended, whom he calls "my people." The sad story of the unavoidable deaths by starvation of the members of General Greely's Expedition has for years been issued and reissued to the press by Mr. Peary and his press agents, in such form as to discredit General Greely and his co-workers. His own inhuman doings about Cape Sabine and the old Greely stamping-grounds have been suppressed. In 1901 the ship _Erik_ left Mr. Peary, with a large group of native helpers, near Cape Sabine. An epidemic, brought by the Peary ship, soon after attacked the Eskimos. Many died; others survived to endure a slow torture. Peary had no doctor and no medicine. In the year previous, Peary had shown the same spirit to the ever faithful Dr. Dedrick that he had shown to Verhoeff, to Astrup, and to others. Although Dedrick could not endure Peary's unfairness, he remained, against instructions, within reach for just such an emergency as this epidemic presented. He offered his services when the epidemic broke out, but Peary refused his offer, and allowed the natives to die rather than permit a competent medical expert to attend the afflicted. Near the same point, a year later, Captain Otto Sverdrup wintered with his ship. His mission was to explore the great unknown to the west. This unexplored country had been under Mr. Peary's eye for ten years; but instead of exploring it, his time was spent in an easy and comparatively luxurious life about a comfortable camp. When Sverdrup's men visited the Peary ship, they were denied common brotherly courtesy and were refused the hospitality which is universally granted, by an unwritten law, to all field workers. Mr. Peary even refused to send him, on his returning ship, important letters and papers which Sverdrup desired taken back. He also refused to allow Sverdrup to take native guides and dogs-which did not belong to Mr. Peary. This same courtesy was later denied to Captain Bernier, of the Canadian Expedition. Thus attempting to make a private preserve of the unclaimed North, he attempted to discredit and thwart every other explorer's effort. In line with the same policy, every member of every Peary expedition has been muzzled with a contract which prevented talking or writing after the expedition's return--contracts by which Mr. Peary derived the sole credit, the entire profit, and all the honor of the results of the men who volunteered their services and risked their lives. This same spirit was shown at the time when, at 87° 45´´, he turned Captain Bartlett back, because he (Peary), to use his own words, "wanted all the honors." In profiting by his long quest for funds for legitimate exploration, we find Peary engaged in private enterprises for which public funds were used. Much of this money was, in my judgment, used to promote a lucrative fur and ivory trade, while the real effort of getting to the Pole was delayed, seemingly, for commercial gain. I believe the Pole might have been reached ten years earlier. But delay was profitable. After being thus engaged for years in a propaganda of self-exploitation, in assailing other explorers whom he regarded as rivals, in committing deeds in the North unworthy of an American and officer of the Navy, Peary, knowing that I had started Poleward, knowing that relief must inevitably be required, ultimately appropriated my supplies, and absolutely prevented any effort to reach me, which even the natives themselves might have made. Peary knew he was endangering my life. He knew that he was getting ivory and furs in return for supplies belonging to me, and which I should need. He knew, also, that it would not coincide with his selfish purposes of appropriating all honor and profit if I reached the Pole and should return and tell the world. His deliberate act was in itself--whether so designed or not--an effort to kill a brother explorer. The stains of at least a dozen other lives are on this man. The property which Peary took from Francke and myself, with the hand of a buccaneer and the heart of a hypocrite, was worth thirty-five thousand dollars. This was done, not to insure expedition needs, but to satisfy a hunger for commercial gain, and to inflict a cowardly, underhanded injury on a rival. All of my caches, my camp equipment, my food, were taken; and under his own handwriting he gave the orders which deprived me of all relief efforts at a time when relief was of vital importance. Certainly to all appearances this was a deliberate, preconceived plan to kill a rival worker by starvation. Here we find an American naval officer stooping to a trick for which he would be hanged in a mining camp. Many members of his expeditions, some rough seamen, speak with shuddering of his actions in that far-away North. In my possession are affidavits, voluntarily made and given to me by members of Mr. Peary's expeditions, revealing gross actions, which, in an officer of the Navy, call for investigation. Mention has been made of certain facts, because, only by knowing these things, can people understand the spirit and character of the man and the unscrupulous attacks made upon me, and understand, also, why, out of a sense of delicacy and dislike for mudslinging, I remained silent so long. It is only because the public has been misled by a sensational press, because I realize I have suffered by my own silence, in order that history may know the full truth and accord a just verdict, that with reluctance, with a sense of shuddering distaste, I have been compelled to present these unpleasant pages of unwritten Arctic history. When Mr. Peary and his partisans attacked me they hesitated at nothing that was untrue, cruel and dishonorable--forgery and perjury even seemed justifiable to them in their effort to discredit me. I still hesitate to speak of certain unworthy, unblushing and utterly cruel acts of which Mr. Peary is guilty. I would have preferred to remain silent about the actions of which I have told. Assuming the attitude of one above reproach, Peary, upon his return, assailed me as a dishonest person who tried to rob him of honor. Had the actual and full truths been told at the time about Peary's life in the North, his charges would have rebounded annihilatingly upon himself. For certain things the people of this country, who are clean, honest and fair, will not stand. The facts told about Peary in the affidavits given me make his charges of dishonor and dishonesty against me a travesty, indeed. Yet, at a time when I might have profited by revealing phases of Mr. Peary's personal character, I preferred to remain silent. Of certain things men do not care to speak. Although Mr. Peary and his friends endeavored to make the Polar controversy a personal one, I regarded Mr. Peary's personal actions as having no bearing upon his, or my, having attained the Pole. He and his friends forced a personal fight; they tried to injure my veracity, my reputation for truth-telling, my personal honor. I had hoped against hope that the truth would resolve itself without any necessity of my revealing elements of Mr. Peary's character. I have herein recited pages from his past, known to Arctic explorers but not to the general public, so that his attitude toward me may be understood. Yet all, indeed, has not been told. Although Mr. Peary did not scruple to lie about me, I still hesitate to tell the full truth about him. In the white, frozen North a tragedy was enacted which would bring tears to the hearts of all who possess human tenderness and kindness. This has never been written. To write it would still further reveal the ruthlessness, the selfishness, the cruelty of the man who tried to ruin me. Yet here I prefer the charity of silence, where, indeed, charity is not at all merited. The knowledge of these facts tempered the shocks I felt when the Peary campaign of defamation was first made against me. I told myself that a man who had done these things would, in the nature of things, be branded by the truth, as he deserved. I was not so greatly surprised that Peary tried to steal my honor. I knew that he had stolen tangible things. Yet the theft of food, even though a man's life depends upon it, is not so awful as the attempt to steal the good name a father hopes to bequeath his children. Yet Peary has attempted to do this. He has attempted to blacken me in the eyes of my family; but, with the conscience of a brute, he has deserted two of his own children--left them to starve and freeze in the cheerless north. They are there today crying for food and a father, while he enjoys a life of luxury at the expense of the American tax-payers. This statement calls for an investigation by the Secretary of the Navy. See photograph of the deserted child of the Sultan of the North, facing page 493. THE MT. McKINLEY BRIBERY THE BRIBED, FAKED AND FORGED NEWS ITEMS--THE PRO-PEARY MONEY POWERS ENCOURAGE PERJURY--MT. M'KINLEY HONESTLY CLIMBED--HOW, FOR PEARY, A SIMILAR PEAK WAS FAKED XXXIV HOW A MAN'S SOUL WAS MARKETED After Mr. Peary had done his utmost to try to disprove my Polar attainment; after the chain of newspapers which, for him, in conjunction with the New York _Times_, had printed the same egregious lies on the same days, from the Atlantic to the Pacific; after they had expended all possible ammunition, the damages inflicted were still insufficient. My narrative, as published in the New York _Herald_, was still more generally credited than Mr. Peary's. To gain his end, something else had to be done. Something else was done. The darkest page of defamation in the world's history of exploration was now written by the hands of bribers and perjurers. The public suddenly turned from the newspaper-inculcated idea of "proof" in figures to a more sane examination of personal veracity. To destroy my reputation for truth in the public mind was the next unscrupulous effort decided upon. The selfish and self-evident press campaign, obviously managed by the Peary cabal, to that end had given unsatisfactory results. Some vital blow must be delivered by fair means or otherwise. The climb of Mt. McKinley was now challenged. I had made a first ascent of the great mid-Alaskan peak in 1906. The record of that conquest was published during my absence in the North, under the title, "To the Top of the Continent." The book, being printed at a time when I was unable to see the proofs, contained some mistakes; but in it was all the data that could be presented for such an undertaking. The Board of Aldermen of the City of New York decided to honor me by offering the keys and the freedom of the metropolis on October 15. This was to be an important event. The pro-Peary conspiracy aiming to deliver striking blows through the press, their propaganda was so planned that the bribed, faked and forged news items were issued on days which gave them dramatic and psychologic climaxes. Two days before the New York demonstration in my favor, the pretentious full-page broadside of distorted Eskimo information was issued. This fell flat; for it was instantly seen to be a pretentious rearrangement of old charges. But it was so played up as to fill columns of newspaper space and impress readers by its magnitude. This was followed by the Barrill affidavit, similarly played up so as to fill a full newspaper page, which I shall analyze later. All this was done to draw a black cloud over the day of honor in New York, the 15th day of October. Since the published affidavit of my old associate, Barrill, was a document which proved him a self-confessed liar; since the affidavit carried with it the earmarks of pro-Peary bribery and perjury, I reasoned again that fair-minded people would in time see through this moneyed campaign of dishonor. In all history it has been shown that he who seeks to besmear others usually leaves the greatest amount of mud on himself. But again I had not counted on the unfairness of the press. The only reason given that I should have faked the climb of Mt. McKinley is that, in some vague way, I was to profit mightily by a successful report. The expedition was to have been financed by a rich Philadelphia sportsman. He did advance the greater portion of the sum required. We were to prepare a game trail for him. Something interfered, he relinquished his trip, and did not send the balance of money promised. The result was that many checks I had given out went to protest. Harper & Brothers had agreed, before starting, to pay me $1,500 for an account of the expedition, whether successful or not. On my return this was paid, and went to meet outstanding debts--debts to pay which I embarrassed myself. Instead of "profits" from this alleged "fake," I suffered a loss of several thousand dollars. As is quite usual in all exploring expeditions, some of the members of my Mt. McKinley expedition, who did not share in the final success, were disgruntled. Chief among these was Herschell Parker. Owing to ill-health and inexperience, Parker had proved himself inefficient in Alaskan work. Climbing a little peak forty miles from the great mountain, when he was with me, he had pronounced Mt. McKinley unclimbable. Climbing a similar hill, four years later, he stooped to the humbug of offering a photograph of it as a parallel to my picture of the top of Mt. McKinley. This man was so ill-fitted for such work that two men were required to help him mount a horse. But I insisted that we continue at least to the base of the mountain. At the first large glacier, Parker and his companion, Belmore Brown, balked, halting in front of an insignificant ice-wall. The ascent of Mt. McKinley, still thirty-five miles off, they said, was impossible. Parker returned, and in a trail of four thousand miles to New York told every press representative how impossible was the ascent of Mt. McKinley. By the time Parker reached New York a cable went through that the thing was done. At a point four thousand miles from the scene of action, he again cried, "Impossible!" When I returned to New York, however, a month later, and Parker learned the details, he publicly and privately credited my ascent of Mt. McKinley. Nothing further was said to doubt the climb until two years later, when he lined up with the Peary interests. Using Parker as a tool, Peary's Arctic Club, through him, first forced the side-issue of Mt. McKinley. With the Barrill affidavit, made later, were printed other affidavits by Barrill's friends, who had not been within fifty miles of the mountain when it was climbed. This act, to me, was a bitter climax of injustice. But I have since learned that Printz got $500 of pro-Peary money; that both Miller and Beecher were promised large amounts, but were cheated at the "showdown." Printz afterwards wrote that he would make an affidavit for me for $300, and at Missoula he made an affidavit in which he attempted to defend me.[26] This he offered to sell to Roscoe Mitchell for $1,000. While easy pro-Peary money was passing in the West, Parker came forward with his old grudge. His chief contention was that, because he had taken home with him in deserting the object of the expedition a hypsometer, I could not have measured the high altitudes claimed. The altitude had been measured by triangulation by the hydrographer of the expedition, but I had other methods of measuring the ascent. I had two aneroid barometers, specially marked for very high climbing, thermometers, and all the usual Alpine instruments. The hypsometer was not at that time an important instrument. Parker also showed unfair methods by allowing the press repeatedly to print that he had been the leader and the organizer of the expedition. This he knew to be false. I had organized two expeditions to explore Mt. McKinley, at a cost of $28,000. Of this Parker had furnished $2,500. Parker took no part in the organization of the last expedition, had given no advice to help supply an adequate equipment, and in the field his presence was a daily handicap to the progress of the expedition. Heretofore, this was never indicated. But when he allows himself to be quoted as the leader of an expedition upon which he attempts to throw discredit, then it is right that all the facts be known. In the press reports, when Parker was first heard from, came the news that on the Pacific coast, at Tacoma, a lawyer by the name of J. M. Ashton was retained by someone. To the press Ashton said he was engaged "to look into the McKinley business," but he did not know by whom--whether by Cook or Peary. He was "engaged" in a business too questionable to tell who furnished the money. In the final ascent of Mt. McKinley there was with me Edward Barrill, the affidavit-maker. He was a good-natured and hard-working packer, who had proved himself a most able climber. Together we ascended the mountain in September, 1906. To this time (1909) there was not the slightest doubt about the footprints on the top of the great mountain. Barrill had told everybody that he knew, and all who would listen to him, that the mountain was climbed. He went from house to house boastfully, with my book under his arm, telling and retelling the story of the ascent of Mt. McKinley. That anyone should now believe the affidavit, secured and printed for Peary, did not to me seem reasonable. Parker, filling the position of betrayer and traitor to one who had saved his life many times, had decided, as the Polar controversy opened, to direct the Mt. McKinley side-issue of the pro-Peary effort. The first news of bribery in the matter came from Darby, Montana. This was Barrill's home town. A Peary man from Chicago was there. He frankly said that he would pay Barrill $1,000 to offer news that would discredit the climb of Mt. McKinley. Other news of the dishonest pro-Peary movement induced me to send Roscoe Mitchell, of the New York _Herald_, to the working ground of the bribers. Mitchell was working under the direction of my attorneys, H. Wellington Wack, of New York, Colonel Marshal, of Missoula, and General Weed, of Helena, Montana. Mitchell secured testimony and evidence regarding the buying of Barrill, but was unable to put the conspirators in jail. At Hamilton, Montana, there had appeared a man with $5,000 to pass to Barrill. Barrill's first reply was that he had climbed the mountain; that Dr. Cook had climbed the mountain; that to take that $5,000, in his own words, he "would have to sell his own soul." Barrill's business partner, Bridgeford, was present. He later made an affidavit for Mr. Mitchell covering this part of the pro-Peary perjury effort. A little later, however, Barrill said to his partner he "might as well see what was in it." Five thousand dollars to Barrill meant more than five million dollars to Mr. Peary or his friends. To Barrill, ignorant, poor, good-natured, but weak, it was an irresistible temptation. Barrill now went to Seattle. He visited the office of the Seattle _Times_. In the presence of the editor, Mr. Joe Blethen, he dickered for the sale of an affidavit to discredit me. He knew such an affidavit had news value. Indefinite offers ranging from $5,000 to $10,000 were made. Not getting a lump sum off-hand, Barrill, dissatisfied, then went over to Tacoma, to the mysterious Mr. Ashton. That all this was done, was told me on my trip west shortly afterward, by Mr. Blethen himself. After visiting Ashton, Barrill was seen in a bank in Tacoma. Barrill had said to his partner that to make an affidavit denying my climb would be "selling his soul." Barrill, ill at ease, reluctant, appeared. It is a terrible thing to lure a weak man to dishonor; it is still more tragic and awful when that man is bought so his lie may hurt another. The time for the parting of his soul had arrived in the bank. With the sadness of a funeral mourner Barrill was pushed along. The talk was in a muffled undertone. But it all happened. In the presence of a witness, whose evidence I am ready to produce, $1,500 was passed to him. This money was paid in large bills, and placed in Barrill's money-belt. There were other considerations, and I know where some of this money was spent. His soul was marketed at last. The infamous affidavit was then prepared. This affidavit was printed first in the New York _Globe_. The _Globe_ is partly owned and entirely controlled by General Thomas H. Hubbard, the President of the Peary Club. With General Hubbard, Mr. Peary had consulted at Bar Harbor immediately after his return from Sydney. Together they had outlined their campaign. General Hubbard is a multi-millionaire. A tremendous amount of money was spent in the Peary campaign. In the Mt. McKinley affidavit of Barrill we can trace bribery, a conspiracy, and black dishonor, right up to the door of R. E. Peary. If Peary is not the most unscrupulous self-seeker in the history of exploration, caught in underhand, surreptitious acts too cowardly to be credited to a thief, caught in the act of bartering for men's souls and honor in as ruthless a way as he high-handedly took others' property in the North; if he, drawing an unearned salary from the American Navy, has not brindled his soul with stripes that fit his body for jail, let him come forward and reply. If Peary is not the most conscienceless of self-exploiters in all history, caught in the act of stealing honor by forcing dishonor, let him come forward and explain the Mt. McKinley perjury. Now let us examine the others who were lined up in this desperate black hand movement. In New York there is a club, at first organized to bring explorers together and to encourage original research. It bore the name of Explorers' Club; but, as is so often the case with clubs that monopolize a pretentious name, the membership degenerated. It is now merely an association of museum collectors. Among real explorers, this club to-day is jocularly known as the "Worm Diggers' Union." In 1909 Mr. Peary was president. His press agent, Bridgman, was the moving spirit, and one of Colonel Mann's muck-rakers was secretary. Of course, such a society, committed to Peary, had no use for Dr. Cook. In a spirit of helping along the pro-Peary conspiracy, and after the Barrill affidavit was secured, the Explorers' Club took upon itself the supererogatory duty of appointing a committee to pass on my ascent of Mt. McKinley. There was but one real explorer on this committee. The others were kitchen geographers, whose honor and fairness had been bartered to the Peary interests before the investigation began. Without a line of data before them, they decided, with glee and gusto, that Mt. McKinley had not been climbed. This was what one would expect from such an honor-blind group of meddlers. But Mr. Peary's press worker, Bridgman, who himself had engineered the investigation, used this seeming verdict of experts to Mr. Peary's advantage.[27] Still all these combined underhanded efforts failed to reach vital spots and to turn the entire public Mr. Peary's way. Something more must still be done, Peary's press agent offered $3,000, and the cowardly Ashton, of Tacoma, offered another $3,000, to send an expedition to Alaska, to further the pro-Peary effort to down a rival. The traitor, Parker, responded. He was joined by the other quitter, Belmore Brown, who has conveniently forgotten to return borrowed money to me. This Peary-Parker-Brown combination went to Alaska in 1910, engaged in mining pursuits and hunting adventures. They returned with the expected and framed report that Mt. McKinley had not been climbed, and that they had climbed a snow-hill, had photographed it, and that the photograph was similar to mine of the topmost peak of Mt. McKinley. Mt. McKinley has a base twenty-five miles wide; it has upon the various slopes of its giant uplift hundreds of peaks, all glacial, polished, and of a similar contour. No one peak towers gigantically above the others. On the top are many peaks, no particular one of which can with any accuracy of inches be decided arbitrarily as the very highest. The top of a mountain does not converge to a pin-point apex. One looks out, not into immediate space on all sides, but over an area, as I have said, of many peaks. My photograph of the peak, which loomed highest among the others on the top, possesses a profile not unusual among ice-cut rocks. The Peary-Parker-Brown seekers tried hard to duplicate this photograph, so as to show I had faked my picture. The thing might have been done easily in the Canadian Rockies. It could be done in a dozen more accessible places in Alaska; but, without real work, it could be only crudely done near Mt. McKinley. The photograph which Peary's friends offered to discredit the first ascent is one of a double peak, part of which vaguely suggests but a poor outline of Mt. McKinley, and in which a rock has been faked. Who is responsible for this humbug? Where is the negative? The photograph bears no actual semblance to my picture of the top of Mt. McKinley whatever. But why was the negative faked? Parker excuses the evident unfairness of the dissimilar photograph by saying that he could not get the same position as I must have had. But is laziness or haste an excuse when a man's honor is assailed.[28] Let us follow the Peary high-handed humbugs further. To the southeast of Mt. McKinley is a huge mountain, which I named Mt. Disston in 1905. This peak was robbed of its name, and over it Parker wrote Mt. Huntington. To the northeast of Mt. McKinley is another peak, charted on my maps, to which Peary gave the name of the president of the Peary Arctic Trust. To this peak was given the same name, by the same methods of stealing the credit of other explorers, as that adopted by Peary when, in response to $25,000 of easy money, he wrote the same name, "Thomas Hubbard," over Sverdrup's northern point of Heiberg Land. Can it be doubted that the Peary-Parker-Brown propaganda of hypocrisy and dishonor in Alaska is guided by no other spirit than that of Mr. Peary? Many persons say: "We will credit Dr. Cook's attainment of the Pole if this Mt. McKinley matter is cleared up." I have heard this often. I have offered in my book proofs of the climb--the same proofs any mountain-climber offers. To discredit these, my enemies stooped to bribery. I have in my possession, and have stated here, proofs of this. Such proofs are even more tangible than the climbing of a far-away mountain. Is any other clarifier or any other evidence required to prove the pro-Peary frauds? THE PEARY-PARKER-BROWN HUMBUG UP TO DATE This chapter is best closed by an analysis of the second effort of Parker and Brown. It will be remembered that in their first venture as hirelings of the Peary propaganda, they balked at the north-east ridge, without making a serious attempt. This ridge--(the ridge upon which I had climbed to the top of Mt. McKinley) was pronounced impossible and therefore my claim in their judgment was false, for such a statement $3,000.00 had been paid. During the spring of 1912, again with $5,000 of Pro-Peary money to discredit me--The same hirelings went through the range, attacked the same ridge from the west and by the really able efforts of their guide, La Voy, a point near the top was reached. The Associated Press report of this effort said that the principal result of the expedition was to show that the north-east ridge (the ridge which I had climbed), was climbable. The very men sent out and paid, therefore, by my enemies to disprove my work have proven, against their will, my first ascent of Mt. McKinley. Two other exploring parties were about the slopes of Mt. McKinley during the time of the Peary-Parker defamers. The first, a group of hardy Alaskan pioneers, whose report is written in the Overland Magazine for February, 1913, by Ralph H. Cairns--after an unbiased study of reports both for and against, Cairns credits my first ascent. The well known Engineer R. C. Bates, who as a U. S. revenue inspector of mines and an explorer and mountain climber, did much pioneer work about Mt. McKinley. He also goes on record in the Los Angeles Tribune of February 13th, 1913, as saying: "Dr. Cook really succeeded in ascending the north-east ridge of Mt. McKinley as claimed in 1906." Bates confirms the charge of $5,000 being paid the Parker-Brown expedition to refute my 1906 ascent, and says: "In 1906 Dr. Cook claimed he climbed Mt. McKinley by the north-east ridge. In the account of the 1910 expedition, Parker claimed that 'the north-east ridge, the one used by Dr. Cook, was absolutely unsurmountable'. I, with a party of two, explored the mountain in 1911 and selected the north-east ridge as the only feasible route to the top. I ascended to 11,000 feet, according to barometric measure. I told of the exploit to members of the Parker party, who took the same course in 1912. Mr. Parker now contradicts his former statement by saying, 'The north-east ridge is the only feasible ridge, and whoever goes up will follow in my footsteps.'" It is important to note that Dr. Cook's previous footsteps were eliminated, $5,000 had been paid for that very purpose. In a personal interview Mr. Bates made the very grave change that one of the leaders of the very expedition sent out to discredit me, had offered him a bribe to swear falsely to certain assessment work on claims which had not been done. The Peary-Parker-Brown movement is therefore from many sources a proven propaganda of bribery, conspiracy and perjury. That such men can escape the doom of prison cells is a parody upon human decency, and yet such are the men who are responsible for the distrust which has been thrown on my work. THE DUNKLE-LOOSE FORGERY ITS PRO-PEARY MAKING XXXV THE LAST PERJURED DEFAMATION With the bitterness of the money-bought document to shatter my veracity regarding the ascent of Mt. McKinley ever before me, I canceled in November all my lecture engagements. Mr. William M. Grey, then managing my tour, broke contracts covering over $140,000. But, for the time being, these could not be filled. I was nearing a stage of mental and physical exhaustion, and required rest. Seeking a quiet retreat, my wife and I left the Waldorf-Astoria and secured quarters at the Gramatan Inn, in Bronxville, N. Y. Here was prepared my report and data to be sent to Copenhagen. At this time, as if again destined by fate, innocently I made my greatest error, opened myself to what became the most serious and damaging charge against my good faith, and the misstated account of which, published later, was used by my enemies in their efforts to brand me as a conscious faker and deliberate fraud. When I now think of the incidents leading up to the acquaintance of Dunkle and Loose, it does seem that I had lost all sense of balance, and that my brain was befogged. Shortly before I had started West, Dunkle was brought to me by Mr. Bradley on the pretext of wanting to talk life insurance. During my lecture tour threats from fanatics reached me, and in my nervous condition it was not hard for me to believe that my life was in danger. Then, too, it seemed that all the money I had made might be spent in efforts to defend myself. I decided to protect my wife and children by life insurance. How Dunkle guessed this--if he did--I do not know. But at just the right moment he appeared, and I fell into the insurance trap. At the time I did not know that Dunkle had been a professional "subscription-raiser," who, while I was in the North, had volunteered to raise money for a relief expedition--provided he was given an exorbitant percentage. For this reason both Anthony Fiala and Dillon Wallace had refused to introduce him to me before he secured the introduction by Mr. Bradley. When Mrs. Cook first saw him, with feminine intuition she said: "Don't have anything to do with that man. I don't like his looks." I did not heed this, however. After some futile life insurance talk, he surprised me by saying irrelevantly: "By the way, I have an expert navigator, a friend of mine, who can prove that Peary was not at the Pole." "I have not challenged Mr. Peary's claim," I replied, "and do not wish to. The New York _Herald_, however, may listen to what you have to say." That was all that was said at the time. After my return from the western lecture tour, Dunkle seemed to be always around, and at every opportunity spoke to me. He gained a measure of confidence by criticising the press campaign waged against me. I naturally felt kindly toward anyone who was sympathetic. At this time, when the problem of accurate observations was worrying me, when my mind was beginning to weigh the problem of scientific accuracy--again just at the psychological moment--Dunkle brought Loose out to the Gramatan Inn and introduced him to me, saying that he was an expert navigator. Pretending a knowledge of the situation in Europe, Loose told me the Danes were becoming impatient. I replied that I was busy preparing my report. "Something ought to be done in the meantime," he said. "Now, I have connections with some of the Scandinavian papers, and I think some friendly articles in the meantime would allay this unrest." The idea seemed reasonable; anything that would help me was welcome, and I told Loose, if he wanted to, that he might go ahead. He visited me several times, and broached the subject of the possible outcome of the Copenhagen verdict. By this time I felt fairly friendly with him. Finally he brought me several articles. They seemed weak and irrelevant. Lonsdale read them, said there was not much to them, but that they might help. Loose mailed the articles--or said he did. Then, to my amazement, he made the audacious suggestion that I let him go over my material. I flatly refused. He pointed out, what I myself had been thinking about, that all observations were subject to extreme inaccuracy. He suggested his working mine out backward to verify them. As I regarded him as an experienced navigator, I thought this of interest. I was not a navigator, and, moreover, had had no chance of checking my figures. So, desiring an independent view, and thinking that another man's method might satisfy any doubts, I told him to go ahead, using the figures published in my story in the New York _Herald_. At the time I told him to purchase for me a "Bowditch Navigator," which I lacked, and any other almanacs and charts he needed for himself. He came out to the Gramatan to live. Arrangements for his stay had been made by Dunkle--under the name of Lewis, I have been told since--but I knew nothing of this at the time. I gave Loose $250, which was to compensate him in full for the articles and his running expenses. It struck me that he took an unnecessarily long time to finish his work of checking my calculations. Late one night, returning from the city, I went to his room. Dunkle was there. Papers were strewn all over the room. "Well," said Loose, "I think we have this thing all fixed up." Dunkle, smooth-tongued and friendly as ever, said, "Now, Doctor, I want to advise you to put your own observations aside. _Send these to Copenhagen!_" I looked up amazed, incredulous. I felt stunned for the moment, and said little. I then took the trouble to look over all the papers carefully. There was a full set of faked observations. The examination took me an hour. During that time Dunkle and Loose were talking in a low tone. I did not hear what they said. I saw at once the game the rascals had been playing. The insinuation of their nefarious suggestion for the moment cleared my mind, and a dull anger filled me. "Gentlemen," I said, "pack up every scrap of this paper in that dress-suit case. Take all of your belongings and leave this hotel at once." I stood there while they did so. Not a word was spoken. Sheepish and silent, they shuffled from the room, ashamed and taken aback. Sick at heart at the thought that these men should have considered me unscrupulous enough to buy and use their faked figures, I went to my room. From that day--November 22--I have not received a letter or telegram from either. Months later, in South America, I read with horrified amazement a summary of the account of this occurrence, sold by Dunkle and Loose to the New York _Times_. Distorted and twisted as it was I doubt if even the _Times_ would have used it had Dunkle and Loose not forced the lie that these faked figures were sent to Copenhagen. They knew, as God knows, that every scrap of paper on which they wrote was packed in a suit-case as dirty as the intent of their sin-blotted paper. If my report to the Copenhagen University proved anything, it was, by comparison, figure by figure, with the affidavits published, that in this at least I was guilty of no fraud. In a re-examination later, a handwriting expert has come to the conclusion that the name of Loose was forged, and Loose was later put in jail for another offense. To the city editor of a New York evening paper Loose offered to sell a story retracting the charges published in the _Times_. Dunkle admitted to witnesses that he had been paid for the affidavit published in the New York _Times_. Loose, willing to discredit the _Times_ story, said, however, he "wanted big money" for a retraction. One question that is forced in the interest of fair-play is, Why did the New York _Times_, without investigation, print a news item by which a man's honor is attacked, which is not only a perjury but a forgery? The managing editor was shown the evidence of this forgery, admitted its force, but not a word was printed to counteract the harm done by printing false news. Captain E. B. Baldwin, a year later, discovered that this pro-Peary faked stuff was in possession of Professor James H. Gore, one of Mr. Peary's friends in the National Geographic Society, which prostituted its name for Peary by passing upon valueless "proofs." From the methods pursued by this society later, I am inclined to the belief that the Dunkle-Loose fake was concocted for members of this society. If not, how does it happen that Professor Gore is in possession of this faked, forged, and perjured stuff? HOW A GEOGRAPHIC SOCIETY PROSTITUTED ITS NAME XXXVI THE WASHINGTON VERDICT--THE COPENHAGEN VERDICT While one group of pro-Peary men were early engaged in various conspiracies, extending from New York to the Pacific coast, fabricating false charges, faking, and forging news items designed to injure me, men higher up in Washington were planning other deceptions behind closed doors. The Mt. McKinley bribery and the Dunkle-Loose humbug had the desired effect in reducing the opposition in Washington, and by December of 1909 the controversy was settled to Mr. Peary's satisfaction by a group of men who, by deception, betrayed public trust. The National Geographic Society very early assumed a meddlesome air in an effort to dictate the distribution of Polar honors. With the excuse that they would give a gold medal to him who could prove priority to the claim of Polar discovery, they began a series of movements that would put a dishonorable political campaign to shame. In the light of later developments, medals from this society are regarded by true scientific workers as badges of dishonor. By way of explanation, one of the officers said that they made it a rule to examine all original field observations before the society honored an explorer. This was a deliberate falsehood, for no explorer going to Washington had previously packed his field papers and instruments for inspection. If so, then this society again convicts itself of a humbug, as it did later. Mr. Peary had been given a gold medal for his claim of having reached the farthest north in 1906. Peary admitted that his position rested on one imperfect observation. I happened, quite by accident, to be in a position, soon after Peary's return, to examine the instruments with which the farthest north observations had been made. Every apparatus was so bent and bruised that further observations were impossible. Of course Peary will say that the instruments were injured en route on the return. But this does not excuse the idle boast of the members of the National Geographic Society, who said that they always examined a returning explorer's field notes and apparatus, when in this case they did not see Mr. Peary's observations nor his instruments. As a matter of fact, the National Geographic, like every other geographic society, had previously rated the merits of an explorer's work by his published reports. Their tactics were now changed to bring about a position where they might focus the controversy to Mr. Peary's and their advantage. There would have been no harm in this effort, if it had been honest; but, as we will see presently, falsehood and deception were evident in every move. The position of the National Geographic Society is very generally misunderstood because of its pretentious use of the word "National." In reality, it is neither national nor geographic. It is a kind of self-admiration society, which serves the mission of a lecture bureau. It has no connection with the Government and has no geographic authority save that which it assumes. As a lecture bureau it had retained Mr. Peary to fill an important position as its principal star for many years. To keep him in the field as their head-line attraction they had paid $1,000 to Mr. Peary for the very venture now in question. This so-called "National" Geographic Society was, therefore, a stock owner in the venture upon which they passed as an unbiased jury. Of course Mr. Peary consented to rest his case in their hands; but, for reasons above indicated and for others given below, I refused to have any dealings with such an unfair combination. The Government was appealed to, and every political and private wire was pulled to compel me to submit my case to a packed jury. During all the time when this was done, its moving spirits, Gilbert Grosvenor and Admiral Chester, were publicly and privately saying things about me and my attainment of the Pole that no gentleman would utter. That Mr. Peary was a member of this society; that his friends were absolute dictators of the power of appointment; that they were stock owners in Mr. Peary's enterprise--all of this, and a good many other facts, were carefully suppressed. To the public this society declared they were "neutral, unbiased and scientific"--no more deliberate lie than which was ever forced upon the public. Of course I refused to place my case in dishonest pro-Peary hands. With shameless audacity this society helped Mr. Peary carry along his press campaign by disseminating the cowardly slurs of Grosvenor, Chester, and others. They watched and encouraged the McKinley bribery; they closed their eyes to the Kennan lies. Through Chester and others, they faked pages of sensational pseudo-scientific news, all with the one centered aim of forcing doubt on opposing interests before the crucial moment, when, behind closed doors, the matter could be settled to their liking. Thus, when Peary, his club, and his affiliated boosters at Washington were carrying their press slanders to a focus, there came a loud cry from the National Geographic Society for proofs. With some wrangling, and a good deal of protest from half-hearted men, like Professor Moore, a jury was appointed to pass upon Mr. Peary's claims and mine. My claims were to be passed upon against my will. Unbiased and real Arctic explorers like General Greely and Admiral Schley were carefully excluded from this jury. Instead, armchair geographers, who were closely related to the Peary interests, were appointed as a "neutral jury," as follows: _Henry Gannett_, a close personal friend of Mr. Peary. _C. M. Chester_, related to Mr. Peary's fur trader, a member of a coterie that divided the profits of fleecing the Eskimos. _O. H. Tittman_, chief of a department under which part of Mr. Peary's work was done. With a flourish of trumpets, including pages of self-boosting news distributed by Mr. Peary's press agents, this commission began its important investigation. At the time, it was said that all of Mr. Peary's original field papers and instruments were under careful scrutiny. Later it was shown that one of the jury saw only COPIES. On November 4, 1909, was issued the verdict of this jury: "That Commander Peary reached the North Pole on April 6, 1909." This verdict, at its face value, was fair; but the circumstances which surrounded it before and after were such as to raise a doubt that can never be removed. With the verdict came the insinuation that no one else had reached the Pole before Peary; that my claim of priority was dishonest. A nagging press campaign continued to emanate from Washington. I have no objection to Mr. Peary's friends endorsing him--a friend who will stretch a point is not to be condemned. But when such friends stoop to dishonorable methods to inflict injury upon others, then a protest is in order. My aim here is not to deny that Mr. Peary reached the Pole near enough for all practical purposes, but to show how men sacrificed their word of honor to boost Mr. Peary and to discredit me. The verdict of this jury which was to settle the controversy for all time was sent out on wires that encircled the globe. Soon after there was a call for the data upon which that jury passed. The public called for it; the Government called for it; foreign geographical societies asked for it. No one was allowed to see the wonderful "proofs." Why? Officially, that commission said that Mr. Peary's contract with a magazine prevented the publication of the "proofs." But every member of the commission was on the Government pay-roll. Why, may we ask, should a Government official be muzzled with a bid for commercial gain? This contract was held by Benjamin Hampton, of _Hampton's Magazine_. If Hampton's contract muzzled the Government officials, Mr. Hampton thought so little of the so-called "proofs" that he did not print them. For, in _Hampton's_ installment, with the eye-attracting title, "Peary Proofs Positive," the real data upon which the Peary case rests were eliminated. Why? In Mr. Peary's own book that material is again suppressed. Why? For the same reason that the jury was muzzled. _The material would not bear public scrutiny!_ The real difficulty is that, in the haste to floor rival claims, Mr. Peary and all his biased helpers fixed as the crucial test of Polar attainment an examination of field observations. Mr. Peary had his; he had refused to let Whitney bring part of mine from the North; and, therefore, he and his friends supposed that I was helpless, by assuming this false position. But when Mr. Peary's own material was examined, it was found that his position rested on a set of worthless observations--calculations of altitudes of the sun so low that it is questionable if the observation could have been made at all. So long as three men, behind closed doors, could be made to say "Yes, Peary reached the Pole," and so long as this verdict came with the authority of a Geographic Society and the seeming endorsement of national prestige, the false position could be impressed upon the pubic as a _bona-fide_ verdict. But, with publicity, the whole railroading game would be spoiled. These three men could be influenced. But there are a hundred thousand other men in the world whose lives depend upon their knowledge of just such observations as were here involved. They knew publicity would bring the attention of these men to the fact that Mr. Peary's polar claim rests upon the impossible observations of a sun at an altitude less than 7° above the horizon. The three armchair geographers, seldom out of reach of dusty book-shelves, passed upon these worthless observations. Not one of one hundred thousand honest sextant experts would credit such an observation as that upon which Mr. Peary's case rests--not even in home regions, where for centuries tables for corrections have been gathered. [29]A year later, at the Congressional investigation of the Naval Committee in Washington, Mr. Peary and two of his jurors admitted that in the much-heralded Peary proofs "there was no proof." Members of the Geographic Society acknowledged their "examination" of Peary's instruments was made in the Pennsylvania Station, when they opened Mr. Peary's trunk and casually looked over its contents. Therefore, Mr. Peary's claim for a second victory now rests upon his book. In forcing the controversy, the press and the public have come to the conclusion that one or the other report must be discredited. This is an incorrect point of view. Each case must be judged upon its own merits. To prove my case, it is not necessary to disprove Peary's; nor, to prove Peary's, should it have been necessary to try to disprove mine. Much has been said about my case resting in foreign hands. This came about in a natural way. It was not intended to convey the idea that my own countrymen were incompetent or dishonest. In the case of the National Geographic Society they have irretrievably prostituted their name; but the same is not true of other American authorities. When I came to Copenhagen, the Danish Geographic Society gave me a first spontaneous hearing. The Copenhagen University honored me. It was, therefore, but proper that the Danes should be the first to pass upon the merits of my claim. While these arrangements were in progress, I met Professor Thorp, the Rector of the University of Copenhagen, at the American Legation. I did not know the purport of that meeting, nor of his detailed, careful questions; but on the 6th of September appeared an official statement in the press reports. In these it was stated that the meeting had been arranged to satisfy the University authorities as to whether the Pole had been reached. Among other things, Professor Thorp said: "As there were certain questions of a special astronomical nature with which I myself was not sufficiently acquainted, I called in our greatest astronomical scientist, Professor Stromgren, who put an exhaustive series of mathematical, technical and natural scientific questions to Dr. Cook, based particularly on those of his contentions on which some doubts had been cast. "Dr. Cook answered all to our full satisfaction. He showed no nervousness or excitement at any time. I dare say, therefore, that there is no justification for anybody to throw the slightest doubt on his claim to have reached the Pole and the means by which he did it. Professor Stromgren and I are entirely satisfied with the evidence." I have always maintained that the proof of an explorer's doings was not to be found in a few disconnected figures, but in the continuity of his final book which presents his case. To this end I prepared a report, accompanied by the important part of the original field notes and a complete set of reduced observations. These were submitted to the University of Copenhagen in December of 1909. The verdict on this was that in such material there was no absolute proof of the attainment of the Pole. The Peary press agents were in Copenhagen, and sent this news out so as to convey the idea that Copenhagen had denounced me; that, in their opinion, the Pole had not been reached as claimed, and that I had hoaxed the world for sordid gain; all of which was untrue. But the press flaunted my name in big headlines as a faker. "In the Cook data there is no proof," they repeated as the verdict of Copenhagen. A year later Mr. Peary and his jurors confessed unwillingly in Congress that in the Peary data there was no proof. This was reported in the official Congressional pamphlets, but, so far as I know, not a single newspaper displayed the news. The two cases, therefore, so far as verdicts go, are parallel. Wearied of the whole problem of undesirable publicity; mentally and physically exhausted; disgusted with the detestable and slanderous campaign, which, for Mr. Peary, the press forced unremittingly, I decided to go away for a year, to rest and recuperate. This could not be done if I took the press into my confidence; and, therefore, I quietly departed from New York, to be joined by my family later. Out of the public eye, life, for me, assumed a new interest. In the meantime, the public agitation was stilled. Time gave a better perspective to the case; Mr. Peary got that for which his hand had reached. He was made a Rear-Admiral, with a pension of $6,000 under retirement. By the time I had resolved my case, I received through my brother, William L. Cook, of Brooklyn, and my London solicitor, various offers from newspapers and magazines for any statement I desired to make. Because I had gone away quietly and remained in seclusion, the newspapers had inflamed the public with an abnormal curiosity in my so-called mysterious disappearance. This fact imparted a great sensational value to any news of my public reappearance or to any statement which I might make. Eager to secure a "beat," newspapers were offering my brother as high as one thousand dollars merely for my address. The New York newspaper which had led the attack against me sent an offer, through my London solicitor, of any figure which I might make for my first exclusive statement to the public. One magazine offered me ten thousand dollars for a series of articles. While in London I received a message from Mr. T. Everett Harry, of _Hampton's Magazine_, concerning the publication of a series of articles explaining my case. Mr. Harry came to London and talked over plans for these. The opportunity of addressing the same public, through the same medium, as Mr. Peary had in his serial story, strongly influenced me--in fact, so strongly that, while I had a standing offer of ten thousand dollars, I finally gave my articles to _Hampton's_ for little more than four thousand dollars. In order that _Hampton's Magazine_ might benefit by the publicity attaching to my first statement, and in response to the editor's request, I came quietly to the United States with Mr. Harry, by way of Canada, to consult with the editor before making final arrangements. Mr. Harry and I had agreed upon the outline for the articles. They were to be a series of heart-to-heart talks, embodying the psychological phases of the Polar controversy and my own actions. In these I determined fully to state my case, explain the ungracious controversy, and analyze the impossibility of mathematically ascertaining the Pole or of proving such a claim by figures. The articles that eventually appeared in _Hampton's_, with the exception of unauthorized editorial changes and excisions of vitally important matter concerning Mr. Peary, were practically the same as planned in London. Coming down from Quebec, I stopped in Troy, New York, to await Mr. Hampton, who was to come from New York. While there, a sub-editor, with all a newspaper man's sensational instincts, came to see me. He communicated, it seems, a brilliant scheme for a series of articles. As he outlined it, I was to go secretly to New York, submit myself to several employed alienists who should pronounce me insane, whereupon I was to write several articles in which I should admit having arrived at the conclusion that I reached the Pole while mentally unbalanced! This admission was to be supported by the alienists' purchased report! This plan, I was told, would "put me right" and make a great sensational story! When I was told of this I felt staggered. Did people--could they--deem me such a hoax that, in order to obtain an unwarranted sympathy, or to make money, I should be willing to admit to such a shameful, mad, atrocious and despicable lie? I said nothing when the suggestion was made. At heart, I felt achingly hurt. I felt that this newspaper man, not hesitating at deceiving the public in order to get a sensation, regarded me as a scoundrel. I was learning, too, as I had throughout the heart-bitter controversy, the duplicity of human nature. After a talk with Mr. Hampton, who finally arrived, and who, I am glad to say, had no such suggestion himself to offer, I got to work on my articles after the general plan spoken of in London. These were written at the Palatine Hotel, in Newburgh. The articles finished, I returned to London to settle certain business matter prior to my public return to America by Christmas. Imagine my amazed indignation when, shortly before sailing, the cables brought the untrue news, "Dr. Cook Confesses." Imagine my heart-aching dismay when, on reaching the shores of my native country, I found the magazine which was running the articles in which I hoped to explain myself, had blazoned the sensation-provoking lie over its cover--"Dr. Cook's Confession." I had made no confession. I had made the admission that I was uncertain as to having reached the exact mathematical Pole. That same admission Mr. Peary would have to make had he been pinned down. He did make this admission, in fact, while his own articles, a year before, were being prepared, in the _Hampton's_ office. In order to advertise itself, the magazine employed the trick of construing a mere admission of uncertainty as to the exact pin-point attainment of the Pole as a "confession." To the public I had apparently authorized this. The misrepresentation hurt me, and for a time placed me in an unhappy dilemma. Before the appearance of the January _Hampton's_, in which the first instalment of my articles appeared, a series of press stories supposedly based upon my forthcoming articles were prepared and sent out by the sub-editor who had suggested the insanity plan. These were prepared during the absence of Mr. Harry in Atlantic City. By picking garbled extracts from my articles about the impossibility of a pin-point determination of the Pole, and the crazy mirage-effects of the Arctic world, these news-stories were construed to the effect that I admitted I did not know whether I had been at the North Pole or whether I had not been at the North Pole, and also that I admitted to a plea of insanity. These stories were printed on the first pages of hundreds of newspaper all over the country, under scareheads of "Dr. Cook Admits Fake!" and "Dr. Cook Makes Plea of Insanity!" In these reports, written by the sub-editor, he gave himself credit for the "discovery" of Dr. Cook and the securing of his articles for _Hampton's_. This claim for the magazine "beat" was as dishonest as his handling of the press matter for _Hampton's_. My dealings with the magazine were entirely through Mr. Harry, whose frankness and fair-dealing early disposed me to give my story to the publication he represented. The widespread dissemination of the untrue and cruelly unfair "confession" and "insanity-plea" stories dazed me. I felt impotent, crushed. In my very effort to explain myself I was being irretrievably hurt. I was being made a catspaw for magazine and newspaper sensation. But misrepresentations do not make history. The American people cannot always be hoodwinked. The reading public soon realized that my story was no more a confession than the "Peary Proof Positive" instalment in Hampton's had been the embodiment of any real Polar proofs. Finding that it was impossible, in magazines and newspapers, to tell the full truth; finding that what I did say was garbled and distorted, I concluded to reserve the detailed facts for this book. There were truths about Mr. Peary which, I suppose, no paper would have dared to print. I have told them here. There were truths about myself which, because they explain me, the papers, preferring to attack me, would not have printed. I have told them here. I climbed Mt. McKinley, by my own efforts, without assistance; I reached the Pole, save for my Eskimos, alone. I had spent no one's money, lost no lives. I claimed my victory honestly; and as a man believing in himself and his personal rights, at a time when I was nervously unstrung and viciously attacked, I went away to rest, rather than deal in dirty defamation, alone. At a time when the tables seemed turned, when the wolves of the press were desirous of rending me, I came back to my country--alone. I have now made my fight; I have been compelled to extreme measures of truth-telling that are abhorrent to me. I have done this because, otherwise, people would not understand the facts of the Polar controversy or why I, reluctant, remained silent so long. I have done this single-handedly. I have confidence in my people; more than that, I have implicit and indomitable confidence in--Truth. RETROSPECT Returning from the North, in September, 1909, while being honored in Copenhagen for my success in reaching the North Pole, there came, by wireless from Labrador, messages from Robert E. Peary, claiming the attainment exclusively as his own, and declaring that in my assertion I was, in his vernacular, offering the world a "gold brick." On April 21, 1908, I had reached a spot which I ascertained, with as scientific accuracy as possible, to be the top of the axis around which the world spins--the North Pole. On April 6, 1909, a year later, Mr. Peary claimed to have reached the same spot. To substantiate his charge of fraud, Peary declared that my Eskimo companions had said I had been only two sleeps from land. Why, he further asked, had I not taken reputable witnesses with me on such a trip? I had taken, on my final dash, two expert Eskimos. Mr. Peary had four Eskimos and a negro body servant. Before launching further charges, Mr. Peary delayed his ship, the _Roosevelt_, at Battle Harbor, on the pretext of cleaning it, that he might digest my New York _Herald_ story, compare it with his own, and fabricate his broadside of abuse. There he was in constant communication with the New York _Times_, General Thomas Hubbard--president of the Peary Arctic Club and financial sponsor of the "trust"--and Herbert L. Bridgman. The _Times_, eager to "beat" the _Herald_, was desirous of descrediting me and launching Peary's as the _bona-fide_ North Pole discovery story. General Hubbard, Mr. Bridgman, and the "trust" were eager for a publicity and acclaim greater than that which might attach to any honorable second victor. Dishonor and perjury, to secure first honors, were not even to be weighed in the balance. When I arrived in New York, I was confronted by a series of technical questions, designed to baffle me. These questions, I learned, had been sent to the _Times_ by Mr. Peary with instructions that the _Times_ "get after" me. I answered these questions. I had answered them in Europe. Mr. Peary, when he arrived at Sydney, and afterward, refused to answer any questions. He continued simply to attack me, to make insinuations aspersing my honesty, playing the secret back-hand game of defamation conducted by his friends of his Arctic Club. Why had I not, on my return from my Polar trip, told anyone of the achievement, Mr. Peary asked in an interview, aiming to show that my Polar attainment was an afterthought. On my return to Etah I had told Harry Whitney and Pritchard. They, in turn, told Captain Bob Bartlett. Captain Bartlett, as well as the Eskimos, in turn told Peary at Etah that I claimed to have reached the Pole. At the very moment when this charge was made, Peary had in his pocket Captain Adams' letter which gave the same information. Why did Mr. Peary suppress this information, convicting himself of insinuating an untruth from three different sources to challenge my claim. Returning from the North with the negro, Henson, and Eskimos, Mr. Peary himself had not told his own companions on the _Roosevelt_ of his own success. Why was this? In a portentous statement Mr. Peary and his party declared my Eskimos said I had not been more than two sleeps from land. I had instructed my companions not to tell Peary of my achievement. He had stolen my supplies. I felt him unworthy of the confidence of a brother explorer. I had encouraged the delusion of E-tuk-i-shook and Ah-we-lah that almost daily mirages and low-lying clouds were signs of land, so as to prevent the native panic and desertion on the circumpolar sea. They had possibly told this to Peary in all honesty; but other natives also told him that we had reached the "Big Nail." Why was the news to Mr. Peary's liking given, while that which he did not like was ignored? Not long ago, Matthew Henson, interviewed in the south, was quoted as saying that Peary did not get to the Pole. In another interview he said that Peary, like a tenderfoot, rode in a fur-cushioned sledge until they got to a place which was "far enough." I still prefer to believe Peary rather than Henson. Peary's Eskimo companions of a former trip positively deny Peary's claimed discovery of Crocker Land. I still prefer to believe that Crocker Land does deserve a place on the map. Peary's last Eskimo companions say that he did not reach the Pole. But I prefer to credit his claim. Mr. Peary's spirit has never been that of fairness to others when a claim impinges upon his own. He has always adopted the tactics of the claim-jumper. In a like manner, and with similar intent, Mr. Peary had attacked many explorers before me. To prevent his companions from profiting by their own work, members of each expedition were forced to sign contracts that barred press interviews, eliminated cameras, prohibited lecturing or writing, or even trading for trophies. To insure Mr. Peary all the honor, his men were made slaves to his cause. In a quarrel which resulted from these impossible conditions, Eivind Astrup was assailed. Broken-hearted, he committed suicide. Captain Otto Sverdrup was made to feel the sting of the same grasping spirit. General A. W. Greely has been unjustly attacked. All of this detestable selfishness culminated in the treatment of Captain Bob Bartlett. When the Pole, to Peary, seemed within reach, and the glory of victory was within grasp, the ever-faithful Bartlett was turned back and his place was taken by a negro, that Peary might be, to quote his own words, "the only white man at the Pole." When, on my return to New York, I found myself attacked by a man of this caliber, I decided that the public, without any counter-defamation on my part, would read him aright and see through the unscrupulous and dishonest campaign. So I remained silent. Coming down to Portland from Sydney, where he had landed, Mr. Peary gave out an interview insinuating that I had had no instruments with which to take observations. "Would Dr. Cook," he asked, "if he had had instruments, have left them in the hands of a stranger (Harry Whitney), when upon these depended his fame or his dishonor?" On his return to this country, Mr. Whitney corroborated my statement of leaving my instruments with him. Mr. Peary's own captain, who had cross-questioned my Eskimos for Mr. Peary, later stated to two magazine editors that my companions had described to him the instruments I had had. Is it reasonable to suppose that Mr. Peary did not know of this? I know that he knew. If he is an honest man, why did he stoop to this dishonesty? Even if he believed me to be dishonest, dishonest methods only placed him in the class of the one he attacked as dishonest. By using the same underhand methods, as when he got the New York _Times_ to cross-question me for himself, Peary now got his friends of the Geographic Society, who had boosted him, to call for "proofs." Such proofs, it appeared, should always be presented before public honors were accepted or the returns of a lecture tour considered. But Peary had engaged in exploration for twenty years, and had always given lectures at once, without ever offering proofs. I was asked to cancel lecture engagements and furnish what Peary knew neither he nor anybody else could furnish offhand. For the proof of an explorer's doings is his final book, which requires months and years to prepare. With much blaring of trumpets, the Peary "proofs" were submitted to his friends of the National Geographic Society. With but a casual examination of copies of data, claimed at the time to be original field notes, with no explanation of the wonderful instruments upon which it had been earlier claimed Polar honors rested, an immediate and favorable verdict was rendered. A huge picture was published, showing learned, bewhiskered gentlemen examining the Peary "proofs," and reaching their verdict. Mr. Peary's case for a rediscovery of the Pole was won--for the time. The public were deceived into believing that positive proofs had been presented; that the society, acting as a competent and neutral jury, was honest. Later it was shown that its members were financially interested in Mr. Peary's expedition, and still later it was admitted that the Peary proofs contained no proof. All of this later development has had no publicity. In the meantime, I was attacked for delay. My data was finally sent to the University of Copenhagen. A verdict of "Unproven" was rendered. Thereupon, Mr. Peary and his friends at once shouted "Fraud!" The press parrot-like re-echoed that shout. With this unfair insinuation there came to me the biting sting of a burning electric shock as the wires quivered all around the world. At the Congressional investigation, a year later, the Peary data was shown to be useless as proof. It was a verdict precisely like that of Copenhagen on mine, but the press did not print it. Did the Peary interests have any control over the American press or its sources of news distribution? After the call for "proof" came charges, from members of the Peary cabal, that I was unable to take observations. Mr. Peary was so much better equipped than I to do so! Moreover, he had had the able scientific assistance of Bartlett and--the negro. When I was at the Pole the sun was 12° above the horizon. At the time Peary claims he was there it was less than 7°. Difficult as it is to take observations at 12°, because of refracted light, any accurate observation at 7° is impossible. It is indeed, questionable if an observation could be made at all at the time when Peary claims to have been at the Pole. Finding that, despite all charges, the public believed in me, Mr. Peary, through his coöperators, attempted to discredit my veracity. An affidavit, which was bought, as I have evidence to prove, was made by Barrill to the effect that I had not climbed Mt. McKinley. The getting of this affidavit is placed at the door of Mr. Peary. Do honest men, with honest intentions, buy perjured documents? Do honest men, believing in themselves, besmirch their own honor by deliberate lying? Dunkle and Loose came to me, offered to look over the observations in my _Herald_ story, and--suddenly--to my amazement--offered a set of faked observations, manufactured at the instigation of someone. I refused the batch of faked papers, and turned the two nefarious conspirators out of my hotel. A comparison of my Copenhagen report with the Dunkle perjured story, later printed in the New York _Times_, proves I used not one of their figures. Mr. R. J. McLouglin later proved that the hand which signed "Dunkle" also signed "Loose" to that lying document. It is, therefore, not only a perjury, but a forgery. Recently, Professor J. H. Gore, a member of the National Geographic Society, and one of Peary's friends, acknowledged to Evelyn B. Baldwin that he had in his possession the faked observations which were made by Dunkle and Loose. How did he come by them? Why does he have them? What were the relations between Dunkle and Loose, Peary's friends, the New York _Times_, and the National Geographic Society? Do honest men, with honest intentions, conspire with men of this sort, men who offered to sell me faked figures--most likely to betray me had I been dishonest enough to buy them--and who, failing, perjured themselves? Disgusted, I decided to let my enemies exhaust their abuse. I knew it eventually would rebound. Determined to retire to rest, to resolve my case in quietude and secrecy, I left America. My enemies gleefully proclaimed this an admission of imposture. Yet, after they had turned almost every newspaper in the country against me, having rested, having resolved my case, having secured damaging proofs of the facts of the conspiracy against me, I returned to America. Realizing my error in so long remaining silent; realizing the power of a sensation-seeking press, which has no respect for individuals or of truth, I determined, painful as would be the task, to tell the unpleasant, distasteful truth about the man who tried to besmirch my name. This may seem unkind. But I was kind too long. Truth is often unpleasant, but it is less malicious than the sort of lies hurled at me. After I had left America, the newspapers, desirous of sensation, had played into the hands of those who, with seeming triumph, assailed me. But meanwhile, however, I was taking advantage of the opportunity to rest and gain an accurate perspective of the situation. I thought out my case, considered it pro and con, puzzled out the reasons for, and the source of, the newspaper clamor against me. Through friends in America who worked quietly and effectively, I secured evidence, which is embodied in affidavits, which laid bare the methods employed to discredit me in the Mt. McKinley affair. I learned of the methods used, and just what charges were made, to discredit my Polar claim. Damaging admissions were secured concerning Mr. Peary's fabricated attacks from the mouths of Mr. Peary's own associates. Knowing these facts, at the proper time, I returned to my native country to confront my enemies. I have proceeded in detail to state my case and reveal the hitherto unknown inside facts of the entire Polar controversy. I have stated certain facts before the public. Neither Mr. Peary nor his friends have replied. One point in the Polar controversy has never reached the public. Both Mr. Peary and many of his friends asserted that I left the country just in time to escape criminal prosecution. They said the charge was to be that I had obtained money on a false pretence by accepting fees for lecturing on my discovery. I returned to America. I have been lecturing for fees on my discovery since; I have not yet been prosecuted. Were Mr. Peary not the sort of man who would stoop to dishonor, to discredit a rival in order to gain an unfair advantage for himself, were he not guilty of the gross injustice I have stated, he would have had all the opportunity in the world for effectively coming back at me. But he has remained silent. Why? I have, as I have said, absolute confidence in the good sense, spirit of fair-play, and ability of reasoning judgment of my people. My case rests, not with any body of armchair explorers or kitchen geographers, but with Arctic travelers who can see beyond the mist of selfish interests, and with my fellow-countrymen, who breathe normal air and view without bias the large open fields of honest human endeavor. In this book I have stated my case, presented my proofs. As to the relative merits of my claim, and Mr. Peary's, place the two records side by side. Compare them. I shall be satisfied with your decision. FREDERICK A. COOK. [Illustration] [Illustration] * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [1] Accused of being the most colossal liar of history, I sometimes feel that more lies have been told about me than about anyone ever born. I have been guilty of many mistakes. Most men really true to themselves admit that. My claim to the North Pole may always be questioned. Yet, when I regard the lies great and small attached to me, I am filled almost with indifference. As a popular illustration of the sort of yarns that were told, let me refer to the foolish fake of the gum drops. Someone started the story that I expected to reach the Pole by bribing the Eskimos with gum drops--perhaps the idea was that I was to lure them on from point to point with regularly issued rations of these confections. Wherever I went on my lecture tour after my return to the United States, much to my irritation I saw "Cook" gum drops conspicuously displayed in confectionery store windows. Hundreds of pounds of gum drops were sent to my hotel with the compliments of the manufacturers. On all sides I heard the gum-drop story, and in almost every paper read the reiterated tale of leading the Eskimos to the Pole by dangling a gum drop on a string before them. I never denied this, as I never denied any of the fakes printed about me. The fact is, that I never heard the gum-drop yarn until I came to New York. We took no gum drops with us on our Polar trip, and, to my knowledge, no Eskimo ate a gum drop while with me. [2] Among the many things which the public has been misled into believing is that Mr. Bradley and I together connived the trip for the purpose of essaying this quest of the Pole. The fact is, not until I reached Annoatok, and saw that conditions were favorable for a long sledge journey, did I finally determine to make a Poleward trip; not until then did I tell my decision definitely to Mr. Bradley. One of the big mistakes which has been pounded into the public mind is that the proposed Polar exploit was expensively financed. It did cost a great deal to finance the planned hunting trip. Mr. Bradley's expenses aggregated, perhaps, $50,000, but my journey Northward, which was but an extension of this yachting cruise, cost comparatively little. [3] The killing of Astrup.--The head of Melville Bay was explored by Eivind Astrup while a member of the Peary expedition of 1894-1895. Astrup had been a member of the first expedition, serving without pay, during 1891 and 1892 and proving himself a loyal supporter and helper of Mr. Peary, when he crossed the inland ice in 1892. As a result of eating pemmican twenty years old, in 1895, Astrup was disabled by poisoning, due to Peary's carelessness in furnishing poisoned food. Recovering from this illness, he selected a trustworthy Eskimo companion, went south, and under almost inconceivable difficulties, explored and mapped the ice walls, with their glaciers and mountains, and the off-lying islands of Melville Bay. This proved a creditable piece of work of genuine discovery. Returning, he prepared his data and published it, thus bringing credit and honor on an expedition which was in other respects a failure. Astrup's publication of this work aroused Peary's envy. Publicly, Peary denounced Astrup. Astrup, being young and sensitive, brooded over this injustice and ingratitude until he had almost lost his reason. The abuse was of the same nature as that heaped on others, the same as that finally hurled at me in the wireless "Gold Brick" slurs. For days and weeks, Astrup talked of nothing but the infamy of Peary's attack on himself and the contemptible charge of desertion which Peary made against Astrup's companions. Then he suddenly left my home, returned to Norway, and we next heard of his suicide. Here is one life directly chargeable to Peary's narrow and intolerant brutality. Directly this was not murder with a knife--but it was as heinous--for a young and noble life was cut short by the cowardly dictates of jealous egotism. [4] The Death of John M. Verhoeff.--As we passed Robertson Bay, there came up memories of the tragedy of Verhoeff. This young man was a member of Peary's first expedition, in 1891. He had paid $2,000 toward the fund of the expedition. Verhoeff was young and enthusiastic. He gave his time, his money, and he risked his life for Peary. He was treated with about the same consideration as that accorded the Eskimo dogs. When I last saw him in camp, he was in tears, telling of Peary's injustice. Mrs. Peary--I advert to this with all possible reluctance--had done much to make his life bitter, and over this he talked for days. Finally he said: "I will never go home in the same ship with that man and that woman." It was the last sentence he uttered in my hearing. He did not go home in that ship. Instead, he wandered off over the glacier, where he left his body in the blue depths of a crevasse. [5] Before he sailed on his last Northern expedition Mr. Peary, learning that I had preceded him, took the initial step in his campaign to discredit me by issuing a statement to the effect that I was bent upon the unfair and dishonest purpose of enlisting in my aid Eskimos which he had the exclusive right to command. Mr. Peary's attitude that the Eskimos, because he had given them guns, powder and needles, belong to him, is as absurd as his pretension to the sole ownership of the North Pole. Although Mr. Peary had spent about a quarter of a century essaying the task by means of luxurious expeditions, he had done little more than other explorers and did not, in my opinion, either secure an option on the Pole or upon the services of the natives. In giving guns, etc., to the natives he also did no more than other explorers, and the Danes for many years, have done. Nor was this with him a magnanimous matter of gracious bounty, for, in prodigal return for all he gave them, Mr. Peary on every expedition secured a fortune in furs and ivory. The Eskimos belong to no one. For ages they have worked out their rigorous existence without the aid of white men, and Mr. Peary's pretension becomes not only absurd but grotesque when one realizes that following the arrival of ships with white crews, the natives have fallen easy victims of loathsome epidemics, mostly of a specific nature, for which the trivial gifts of any explorer would ill repay them. [6] One of the charges which Mr. Peary circulated before he returned North in 1908, was, that I violated a rule of Polar ethics by not applying for a license to seek the Pole, nor giving notice of my proposed trip. There is no such rule in Polar ethics. The following letter, however, to his press agent, Mr. Herbert Bridgman, dated Etah, August 26, 1907, answers the charge: "My dear Bridgman: I have hit upon a new route to the North Pole and will stay to try it. By way of Buchanan Bay and Ellesmere Land and northward through Nansen Strait over the Polar sea seems to me to be a very good route. There will be game to the 82°, and here are natives and dogs for the task. So here is for the Pole. Mr. Bradley will tell you the rest. Kind regards to all--F. A. Cook." "It will be remembered," continued Mr. Bridgman, in his press reports, "that Dr. Cook, accompanied by John R. Bradley, Captain Moses Bartlett, and a number of Eskimos, left North Sidney, N. S., early last July on the American Auxiliary Schooner Yacht _John R. Bradley_, which landed the party at Smith Sound. Mr. Bradley returned to North Sydney on the yacht on October 1. _The expedition is provisioned for two years and fully equipped with dogs and sledges for the trip. The party is wintering thirty miles further north than Peary did two years ago._" And yet Bridgman, in line with the indefatigable pro-Peary boosters, later tried to lead the public to believe that I had nothing but gum drops with which to undertake a trip to the Pole. This same Bridgman also printed in what Brooklyn people call the "Standard Liar" the fake about my using, as my own, photographs said to belong to the newspaper cub, Herbert Berri. For fifteen years Bridgman used my photographs and my material for his lectures on the Arctic and Antarctic, generally without giving credit. Evidently, my work and my results were good enough for him to borrow as Peary did. So long as my usefulness served the Bridgman-Peary interests, there was no question of my credibility, but when my success interfered with the monopoly of the fruits of Polar attainment, then I was to be striped with dark lines of dishonor. The most amusing and also the most significant incident of the Bridgman-Peary humbug was the faked wireless message which Bridgman printed for Peary in his paper. Peary claims he reached the Pole on April 6, 1909. In the Standard Union, Brooklyn, of April 14, 1909 (eight days after the alleged discovery), Peary's friend H. L. Bridgman, one of the owners, printed the following: "PEARY DUE NORTH POLE TWELVE M., THURSDAY" (APRIL 15, 1909). Is Mr. Bridgman a psychic medium? How, with Peary thousands of miles away, hundreds of miles from the most northerly wireless station, did he sense the amazing feat? Were he and Peary in telepathic communication? Or, rather, does this not seem to point to an agreement entered into before the departure of Peary, about a year before the attempt was made, to announce on a certain day the "discovery" of the Pole? From other sources we learn that the timing of the arrival of the ship at Cape Sheridan seems to have been made good, but in an apparent effort on the part of Peary to keep faith with Bridgman on April 15, we find him in trouble. If Peary arranged his "discovery" for this agreed date, he would have had to take nine days for his return trip from the Pole. This would increase his speed limit 50 per cent., and since he is regarded with suspicion on his speed limits, to make his "Pole Discovery" story fit in between the known time when he left Bartlett and the time when he got back to the ship, he was compelled to break faith with Bridgman and went back nine days on his calendar, placing the date of Pole reaching at April 6. [7] _Game List._--The following animals were captured from August 15, 1907, to May 15, 1909: Two thousand four hundred and twenty-two birds, 311 Arctic hares, 320 blue and white foxes, 32 Greenland reindeer, 4 white reindeer, 22 polar bears, 52 seals, 73 walrus, 21 narwhals, 3 white whales, and 206 musk oxen. [8] Auroras in the Arctic are best seen in more southern latitudes. The display here described was the brightest observed on this trip. Not more than three or four others were noted during the following year, but in previous trips I have witnessed some very wonderful color and motion displays. The best illustrations of this remarkable color of aurora and night come from the brush of Mr. Frank Wilbert Stokes. These were reproduced in the _Century Magazine_ of February, 1903. After their appearance, Mr. Peary accorded to Mr. Stokes (a member of his expedition) the same sort of treatment as he had accorded Astrup--the same as that shown to others. In a letter to the late Richard Watson Gilder, editor of the _Century_, he denounced and did his utmost to discredit Mr. Stokes by insisting that no such remarkable colors are displayed by the aurora borealis. Mr. Gilder replied, in defense of Mr. Stokes, by quoting from Peary's own book, "Northward," Vol. II, pages 194, 195, 198 and 199, descriptions of even more remarkable color effects. [9] The so-called "Jesup" sled, which Mr. Peary used on his last Polar trip, is a copy of the Eskimo sledge, a lumbering, unwieldy thing weighing over one hundred pounds and which bears the same relation to a refined bent-hickory vehicle that a lumber cart does to an express wagon. In this "Jesup" sledge there is a dead weight of over fifty pounds of useless wood. The needless weight thus carried can, in a better sledge, be replaced by fifty pounds of food. This fifty pounds will feed one man over the entire route to the Pole. Mr. Peary claims that the Pole is not reachable without this sled, but Borup, in his book, reports that most of the sledges were broken at the first trial. Since an explorer's success is dependent upon his ability to transport food it behooves him to eliminate useless weight. Therefore, the solid runner sled is as much out of place as a solid wood wheel would be in an automobile. [10] A great deal of careful search and study was prosecuted about Svartevoeg, for here Peary claims to have left a cache, the alleged placing of which he has used as a pretext for attempting to take from the map the name of Svartevoeg, given by Sverdrup, when he discovered it, to the northern part of Heiberg Land. Peary, coming later, put on his map the name Cape Thomas Hubbard, for one who had put easy money in his hands. But no such cache was found, and I doubt very much if Peary ever reached this point, except through a field-glass at very long range. [11] On their return to Etah, and after I had left for Upernavik, my Eskimos, questioned by Mr. Peary, who was anxious to secure anything that might serve towards discrediting me, answered innocently that they had been only a few sleeps from land. This unwilling and naive admission was published in a pretentious statement, the purpose of which was to cast doubt on my claim. Other answers of my Eskimos, to the effect that I had instruments and had made constant observations, it is curious to note, were suppressed by Mr. Peary and his party on their return. Every insinuation was made to the effect that I had had no instruments, had consequently taken no observations, and had, therefore, no means of ascertaining the Pole even had I wished to do so. [12] My enemies credit me with a journey of two thousand miles, which is double Peary's greatest distance; but then, to deny my Polar attainment, they keep me sitting here, on a sterile waste of ice, for three months. Would any man sit down there and shiver in idleness, when the reachable glory of Polar victory was on one side and the get-at-able gastronomic joy of game land on the other? Only a crazy man would do that, and we were too busy to lose our mental balance at that time. When leg-force controls human destiny, and a half-filled stomach clears the brain for action, for a long time, at least, insanity is very remote. Furthermore, the Eskimo boys said we traveled on the ice-pack for seven moons, and that we reached a place where the sun does not dip at night; where the day and night shadows were of equal length. Has Mr. Peary reached that point? If so, neither he nor his Eskimos have noted it. [13] After my return to Copenhagen I was widely quoted as declaring that I had discovered and traversed 30,000 square miles of new land. What I did report was that in my journey I had passed through an area wherein it was possible to declare 30,000 square miles--a terrestrial unknown of water and ice--cleared from the blank of our charts. I have been quoted as describing this land as "a paradise for hunters" and criticised on the ground that animal life does not exist so far north. Whether animal life existed there, I do not know, for the impetus of my quest left no time to investigate. I passed the last game at Heiberg Land. In my diary of the day's doings, only the results of observations were written down. The detail calculations were made on loose sheets of paper and in other note books--wherein was recorded all instrumental data. Later all my observations were reduced in the form in which they were to be finally presented. Therefore, these field papers with their miscellaneous notes had served their purpose, as had the instruments; and for this reason most of the material was left with Harry Whitney. A few of the important calculations were kept more as a curiosity. These will be presented as we go along. Those left I thought might later be useful for a re-examination of the results; but it never occurred to me that Whitney would be forced to bury the material, as he was by Peary. I do not regard those buried notes as being proof or as being particularly valuable, except as proving Peary to be one of the most ungracious and selfish characters in history. In the subsequent excitement, because Peary cried fraud on the very papers which he had buried for me, an agitated group of American armchair explorers came to the conclusion against the dictates of history that the proof of the Polar quest was to be found in the re-examination of the figures of the observations for position. Part of mine were buried. Peary had his. Thus handicapped, because blocks of my field calculations were absent, with the instruments and chronometer corrections, I rested my case at Copenhagen on a report, the original notes giving the brief tabulations of the day's doings, and the complete set of reduced observations. My friends have criticised me for not sending the data given below and similar observations to Copenhagen to prove my claim, but I did not deem it worth while to present more, taking the ground that if in this there was not sufficient material to explain the movement step by step of the Polar quest, then no academic examination could be of any value. This viewpoint, as I see it at present, was a mistake. I am now presenting every scrap of paper and every isolated fact, not as proof but as part of the record of the expedition, with due after-thought, and the better perspective afforded by time. Every explorer does this. Upon such a record history has always given its verdict of the value of an explorer's work. It will do the same in estimating the relative merits of the Polar quest. =Observation as figured out in original field paper for March 30, 1908=: Longitude 95.36. Bar. 30.10 had risen from 29.50 in 2 hours. Temp. -34°. Wind 2. Mag. N. E. Clouds Mist W.-Water bands E. ---- 95½ Noon, 0 18--46--10 4 ---- 18--48--20 +--------- 0 +------------- 60 | 382 2 | 37--34--30 +--------- +------------- 6-22 18--47--15 I. E. +2 +------------- 2 | 18--49--15 +------------- 58 9--24--38 6½ h. --16-- 2 ---------- -------------- 29 9-- 8--36 348 R. & P. -- 9 +----------- -------------- 60 | 377 8--59--36 +----------- 90 6--17 -------------- 3--43--15 81--00--24 ------------- 3--49--32 3--49--32 -------------- 84--49--56 Shadows 39 ft. (of tent pole 6 ft. above snow). (Directions Magnetic.) Because of the impossibility of making correct allowances for refraction, I have made a rough allowance of -9´ for refraction and parallax in all my observations. The tent pole was a hickory floor slat of one of the sledges. It was 6 ft. 6 ins. high, 2 ins. wide, and 1/2 in. thick. This stick was marked in feet and inches, to be used as a measuring stick. It also served as a paddle and steering oar for the boat. By pressing this tent pole 6 ins. into the snow, it served as a 6 ft. pole to measure the shadows. These measurements were recorded on the observation blanks. Absolute accuracy for the measurements is not claimed, because of the difficulty of determining the line of demarcation in long, indistinct shadows; but future efforts will show that my shadow measurements are an important check on all sun observations by which latitude and longitude are determined. [14] Peary claims to have seen life east of this position. This is perfectly possible, for Arctic explorers have often noted when game trails were abundant one year, none were seen the next. In these tracks of foxes and bears, as noted by Baldwin, are positive proofs of the position of Bradley Land--for such animals work only from a land base. [15] Observation on April 8, from original field-papers. April 8, 1908, Longitude 94°-2´. Bar. 29.80, rising. Temp. -31°. Wind 2, Mag. N. E. Clouds St. 3. --- 0 21°--59´--30´´ 0 21 --08 --20 94° --- +---------------- 4´ 2 | 43 -- 7 --50 +------ +---------------- 60 | 376´ 21 --33 --55 +------ ---------------- 6-16 I. E. +2 +---------------- 56´´ 2 | 21 --35 --50 � 6¼ +---------------- -------- 10 --47 --55 14 --9 336 ---------------- +-------- 10 --38 --55 60 | 350 90-- +-------- ---------------- 5--50 79 --21 -- 5 7-- 9--33 7 --15 --23 ----------- ---------------- 7--15--23 86 --36 --28 Shadows 32 ft. (of pole 6 ft. above snow). [16] After trying to explain this impression fifteen months later to a Swiss professor, who spoke little English, he quoted me as saying that the sun at night about the Pole was much lower than at noon. No such ridiculous remark was ever made. In reality the eye did not detect any difference in the distance between the sun and the horizon through the next twenty-four hours. There was no visible rise or set, the night dip of the nocturnal swing of the sun was entirely eliminated. We had, however, several ways of checking this important phenomena, which will be introduced later. [17] _The Fall of Body Temperature_--The temperature of the body was frequently taken. Owing to the breathing of very cold air, the thermometer placed in the mouth gave unreliable results, but by placing the bulb in the armpits, when in the sleeping bag, fairly accurate records were kept. These proved that extreme cold had little influence on bodily heat; but when long-continued overwork was combined with insufficient food, the temperature gradually came down. On the route to the Pole the bodily temperature ranged from 97° 5´ to 98° 4´. In returning, the subnormal temperature fell still lower. When the worry of being carried adrift and the danger of never being able to return became evident, then the mental anguish, combined as it was with prolonged overwork, continued thirst and food insufficiency, was strikingly noted by our clinical thermometer. During the last few weeks, before reaching land at Greenland in 1909, the subnormal temperature sank to the remarkable minimum of 96° 2´ F. The Eskimos usually remained about half a degree warmer. The respiration and heart action was at this time fast and irregular. In the summer period of famine about Jones Sound the temperature was normal. At that time we had an abundance of water and an interesting occupation in quest of game, but we often felt the cold more severely than in the coldest season of winter. [18] _The Tragedies of Cape Sabine._--Cape Sabine has been the scene of one of the saddest Arctic tragedies--the death by starvation of most of the members of the Greely Expedition. Several modern travelers, including Mr. Peary, have, in passing here, taken occasion to criticise adversely the management of this expedition. In his last series of articles in _Hampton's Magazine_, Peary has again attempted to throw discredit on General Greely. It is easy, after a lapse of forty years, to show the mistakes of our predecessors, and thereby attempt to belittle another's effort; but is it right? I have been at Cape Sabine in a half-starved condition, as General Greely was. I have watched the black seas of storm thunder the ice and rock walls, as he did; and I have looked longingly over the impassable stretches of death-dealing waters to a land of food and plenty, as he did. I did it, possessing the accumulated knowledge of the thirty years which have since passed, and I nearly succumbed in precisely the same manner as did the unfortunate victims of that expedition. The scientific results of the Lady Franklin Bay Expedition were so carefully and so thoroughly gathered that no expedition to the Arctic since has given value of equal importance. Greely's published record is an absolute proof of his ability as a leader and a vindication of the unfair insinuations of later rivals. In passing along this same coast, E-tuk-i-shook called my attention to several graves, some of which we opened. In other places we saw human bones which had been left unburied. They were scattered, and had been picked by the ravens, the foxes and the wolves. With a good deal of sorrow and reserve I then learned one of the darkest imprinted pages of Arctic history. When the steamer _Erie_ returned, in 1901, a large number of Eskimos were left with Mr. Peary near Cape Sabine. They soon after developed a disease which Mr. Peary's ship brought to them. There was no medicine and no doctor to save the dying victims. Dr. T. F. Dedrick, who had served Mr. Peary faithfully, was dismissed without the payment of his salary, because of a personal grudge, but Dedrick refused to go home and leave the expedition without medical help. He remained at Etah, living with the Eskimos in underground holes, as wild men do, sacrificing comfort and home interests for no other purpose except to maintain a clean record of helpfulness. As the winter and the night advanced, Dr. Dedrick got news that the Eskimos were sick and required medical assistance. He crossed the desperate reaches of Smith Sound at night, and offered Mr. Peary medical assistance to save the dying natives. Peary refused to allow Dedrick to attempt to cure the afflicted, crying people. Dedrick had been without civilized food for months, and was not well himself after the terrible journey over the storm-swept seas of ice. Before returning, he asked for some coffee, a little sugar and a few biscuits. These Mr. Peary refused him. Dr. Dedrick returned. The natives, in fever and pain, died. Theirs are the bones scattered by the wild beasts. Who is responsible for these deaths? "_Peary-tiglipo-savigaxua_" (Peary has stolen the iron stone), was now repeated with bitterness by the Eskimos. In 1897 it occurred to Mr. Peary that the museums would be interested in the Eskimos, and also in the so-called "Star Stone," owned by the Eskimos. It had been passed down from generation to generation as a tribal property; from it the natives, from the Stone Age, had chipped metal for weapons. This "meteorite" was, without Eskimo consent, put by Mr. Peary on his ship; without their consent, also, were put a group of men and women and children on the ship. All were taken to New York for museum purposes. In New York the precious meteorite was sold, but the profits were not divided with the rightful owners. The men, women and children (merchandise of similar value) were placed in a cellar, awaiting a marketplace. Before the selling time arrived, all but one died of diseases directly arising out of inhuman carelessness, due to the dictates of commercialism. Who is responsible for the death of this group of innocent wild folk? [19] These supplies had, fortunately, been left in the care of Mr. Whitney. In the months that followed, Murphy several times threatened to take these things, but Whitney's sense of justice was such that no further pilfering was allowed. The unbrotherly tactics which Mr. Peary had shown to Sverdrup and other explorers were here copied by his representative. Captain Bernier was bound for the American coast, to explore and claim for Canada the land to the west. He desired a few native helpers. There were at Etah descendants of Eskimo emigrants from the very land which Bernier aimed to explore. These men were anxious to return to their fathers' land, and would have made splendid guides for Bernier. Murphy volunteered to ask the Eskimos if they would go. He went ashore, pretending that he would try to secure guides, but, in reality, he never asked a single Eskimo to join Bernier. Returning, he said that no one would go. Later he boasted to Whitney and Prichard of the intelligent way in which he had deceived Captain Bernier. Was this under Mr. Peary's instructions? [20] I now learned, also, that the Eskimos had told their tribesmen of their arrival at the mysterious "Big Nail," which, of course, meant less to them than the hardship and unique methods of hunting. Among themselves the Eskimos have an intimate way of conveying things, a method of expression and meaning which an outsider never grasps. At most, white men can understand only a selected and more simple language with which the Eskimos convey their thoughts. This partly accounts for the unreliability of any testimony which a white man extracts from them. There is also to be considered an innate desire on the part of these simple people to answer any question in a manner which they think will please. In all Indian races this desire to please is notoriously stronger than a sense of truth. The fact that my Eskimos, when later questioned as to my whereabouts, are reported to have answered that I had not gone far out of sight of land, was due partly to my instructions and partly to this inevitable wish to answer in a pleasing way. While they spoke among themselves of having reached the "Big Nail," they also said--what they later repeated to Mr. Peary--that they had passed few days beyond the sight of land, a delusion caused by mirages, in which, to prevent any panic, I had with good intentions encouraged an artificial belief in a nearness to land. But we were for weeks enshrouded in dense fogs, where nothing could be seen. The natives everywhere had heard of this, and inquired about it. Why has Mr. Peary suppressed this important information? We traveled and camped on the pack for "seven moons." Why was this omitted? We reached a place where the sun did not dip at night; where there was not enough difference in the height of the day and night sun to give the Eskimo his usual sense of direction. Why was this fact ignored? [21] In appreciation of this kind helpfulness, the Danes later sent a special ship loaded with presents, which were left for distribution among the good-natured Eskimos who had helped Ericksen. Mr. Peary came along after the Danes had turned their backs, and picked from the Danish presents such things as appealed to his fancy, thus depriving the Eskimos of the merited return for their kindness. What right had Mr. Peary to take these things? The Danes, who have since placed a mission station here, in continuation of their policy to guard and protect the Eskimos, are awaiting an answer to this question to-day. [22] When Captain Adams arrived off the haunts of the northernmost Eskimos, he sent ashore a letter to be passed along to Mr. Peary, as he was expected to return south during that summer. In his letter Captain Adams told of my attainment of the Pole. The letter got into Mr. Peary's hands before he returned to Labrador. With this letter in his pocket, Mr. Peary gave as his principal reason for doubting my success that nobody else had been told that I had reached the Pole. I told Whitney, I had told Pritchard--thus Peary's charge was proven false later. But why did he suppress the information which Captain Adams' letter contained? With this letter in his pocket, why did Mr. Peary say that no one had been told? [23] Captain Robert A. Bartlett, of the Peary ship _Roosevelt_, has figured much in this controversy. Most of his reported statements, I am inclined to believe, are distorted. But he has allowed the words attributed to him to stand; therefore, the harm done is just as great as if the charges were true. He allowed Henry Rood, in _The Saturday Evening Post_, to say that my expedition was possible only through the advice of Bartlett. Every statement which Rood made, as Bartlett knows, is a lie. He has allowed this to stand, and he thereby stands convicted as party to a faked article written with the express purpose of inflicting an injury. Bartlett cross-questioned my Eskimos about instruments. By showing them a sextant and other apparatus he learned that I not only had a full set, but he also learned how I used them. Peary, although having Bartlett's report on this, insinuated that I had no instruments, and that I made no observations. Bartlett knew this to be a lie, but he remained silent. He is therefore a party to a Peary lie. In the early press reports Bartlett is credited with saying that "Cook had no instruments." A year later, after Bartlett returned from another trip north, faked pictures and faked news items were printed with the Bartlett interviews and reports. There was no protest, and at the same time Bartlett said that books, instruments, and things belonging to me had been destroyed. In the following year Bartlett announced that he was "going after Cook's instruments." Has the press lied, or has Bartlett lied? Next to Henson, Mr. Peary's colored servant, Captain Bartlett is Peary's star witness. George Borup, in "A Tenderfoot With Peary," after repeating in his book many pro-Peary lies, tried to prove his assertion by an alleged study of my sledge (P. 300): "Except for its being shortened, the sledge was the same as when it had left Annoatok. It weighed perhaps thirty pounds, and was very flimsy." This is a deliberate lie, for it was only a half-sled, reassembled and repaired by old bits of driftwood. After this first lie he says, in the same paragraph: "Yet it had only two cracks in it." The upstanders had been cracked in a dozen places, the runners were broken, and every part was cracked. Borup shows by his orthography of Eskimo words that he knows almost nothing of the Eskimo language. Therefore he may be dismissed as incompetent where Eskimo reports are to be interpreted. He is committed to the Peary interests, which also eliminates him from the jury. But in his report of my sled he has stooped to lies which forever deprive him of being credited with any honest opinion on the Polar controversy. [24] Professor Armbruster and Dr. Schwartz, of St. Louis, at a time when few papers had the courage to print articles in my defence, appealed to W. R. Reedy, of the _Mirror_, for space to uncover the unfair methods of the Pro-Peary conspiracy. This space was liberally granted, and the whole controversy was scientifically analyzed by the _Mirror_ in an unbiased manner. Here is shown an important phase of the Peary charges, from the _Mirror_, April 21, 1910. As it clearly reveals the facts, I present part of it as follows: The point made by Dr. Schwartz, that there is a contradiction between Peary's statements of September 28 and October 13, is well taken. The statement of October 13 is a point-blank contradiction of the previous one. Dr. Schwartz notes that when Peary made, on September 28, what Peary called his strongest indictment of Dr. Cook, Peary must have had with him at Bar Harbor the chart with the trail of Cook's route, and infers that, as the later charge was by far the stronger indictment of the two, there must be some other explanation of the contradiction. Analysis of this contradiction develops one of the most serious propositions of the whole Polar controversy. Mr. Peary might now say that he was holding his strongest point in reserve, but such explanation would not be sufficient, for he stated that the indictment of September 28 is "the strongest that has been advanced in Arctic exploration ever since the great expedition was sent there," and no child is so simple as to believe that the indictment of September 28 is at all comparable in magnitude to the one of October 13. Upon analysis, we find that there is indeed another explanation, and only one, and that is, that _when the indictment of September 28 was made, the one of October 13 had not been conceived or concocted_, and it will show that Peary, Bartlett, McMillan, Borup and Henson, _all_ who signed the statement of October 13, perpetrated a gross falsehood and imposition upon the public. All are caught in the one net. If this coterie had received from the Eskimos such information as is claimed by them in their statement of October 13, then they must have received it from the Eskimos _before Peary and his party left Etah on their return to America_. If they had the information when they left the Eskimos at Etah, on their return to America, then they had it when they arrived at Indian Harbor, and before their statement of September 28 was made. In their statement of October 13, 1909, Peary, Bartlett, McMillan, Borup and Henson state, and sign their names to the statement made to the world and copyrighted, that they had a map on which E-tuk-i-shook and Ah-we-lah, Dr. Cook's two Eskimos, had traced for them the route taken by Dr. Cook, and that this was also supported by the verbal statements of the two Eskimos, _that Dr. Cook had reached the northern point of Heiberg Land, or Cape Thomas Hubbard; that he had gone two sleeps north of it, had then turned to the west or southwest, and returned to the northern headland of Heiberg Land, but on the west or northwest side, and had sent back one of the Eskimos to the cache left on the headland, but on the east side of the point, and remained at this new place on the west side of the point for four or five sleeps_. Then, all the time that Peary was challenging and impugning that Dr. Cook had reached even the northern point of Heiberg Land, according to their own statement of October 13, _they had in their pockets the map and information from the Eskimos that Dr. Cook had not only reached the northern point of Heiberg Land, but traveled above it and turned around the point_. In so challenging that Dr. Cook had reached even the northern point of said land, and thereby discrediting Dr. Cook with all the force and influence at their command, when, according to their own later statement, they had then and at that time, and before such time (since they left Etah on their return to America), the statements, trail of route and testimony of the Eskimos entirely to the contrary, _Peary and his coterie deliberately and knowingly perpetrated on the public the grossest of falsehoods and impositions_. There are several other contradictions in the statement of October 13. One is the statement that Pan-ic-pa (the father of E-tuk-i-shook), was familiar with the first third and last third of the journey of Dr. Cook and his two Eskimos. Pan-ic-pa may be familiar with the territory of the last third of the route, but not with the journey made by Dr. Cook and E-tuk-i-shook and Ah-we-lah over this part of the route, for these three alone made the journey from Cape Sparbo to Annoatok. Pan-ic-pa went only as far as the northern point of Heiberg Land, and returned from there nearly a year before Dr. Cook and his two Eskimos arrived from Cape Sparbo. This is shown by Peary and his party themselves in their statement that Pan-ic-pa, the father of E-tuk-i-shook, a very intelligent man, _who was in the party of Eskimos that came back from Dr. Cook from the northern end of Nansen's Strait_ (Sound), came in and indicated the same localities and details as the two boys. Of course Pan-ic-pa could only indicate the localities that he had himself journeyed to with Dr. Cook, and not any after he had left Dr. Cook and the two Eskimos at the northern point of Heiberg Land, or the northern end of Nansen's Sound, which is the same thing. Another contradiction, a very serious one indeed, as important as the first of the foregoing contradictions is, that if Peary and his party had such information from the Eskimos as they claimed in their statement of October 13, then they knew that the little sledge of Dr. Cook which they saw at Etah was not the sledge that made the trip to the Pole. The printed reports show that long before October 13 Peary and all his henchmen were challenging and charging to the public that the little sled in question left with Whitney, could not possibly have made the trip to the Pole. In the statement of October 13, Peary and his party state that, according to the Eskimos, Dr. Cook and his two Eskimos started from the northern point of Heiberg Land with only two sledges. Further on in the statement, that the dogs and one sledge were abandoned in Jones Sound, and that at Cape Vera--western end of Jones Sound--Peary and his party say that E-tuk-i-shook and Ah-we-lah, Dr. Cook's two Eskimos, informed them that (quoting Peary and his party's statement verbatim), "here they cut the remaining sledge off--that is, shortened it, as it was awkward to transport with the boat, and near here they killed a walrus." _During all the time then, before October 13, that Peary and his party were belittling this sled, and referring to its character as a positive proof that Dr. Cook could not have reached the Pole, and stating that it would have been knocked to pieces in a few days, they, according to their own statement of October 13, knew, even while using such argument against Dr. Cook, that the little sled was not the original sled, but only a part of one which the desperate and fearfully hard-pressed wanderers had themselves--having no dogs--dragged their food for three hundred miles over one of the roughest and most terrible stretches of the frozen zone, never before traveled by man._ According to their own statement of October 13, Peary and his clique convict themselves of boldly and deliberately perpetrating gross falsehoods against Dr. Cook and upon the people. Then shall we believe anything further from them? There is only one rational view to take of their statement of October 13. That, knowing their first charges were certain to fail, the statement of October 13 was concocted for their own base purposes. _No sane person can believe that if they had had such exceedingly damaging information as is claimed by them in their statement of October 13, they could have instead made use of charges far less damaging and known to them to be false._ W. J. ARMBRUSTER. ST. LOUIS, MO., April 13, 1910. [25] One of the meanest and pettiest charges concocted for Mr. Peary at a time when personal veracity was regarded as the test of rival claims was that I had attempted to steal the scientific work of a missionary while I was on the Belgica Antarctic Expedition. Director Townsend, of the New York Aquarium, who, like Mr. Peary, was drawing a salary from the taxpayers while his energies were spent in another mission, declared I had taken a dictionary, compiled by Thos. Bridges, of Indian words, and had put it forth as my own work. Dalenbagh, of the American Geographical Society, and of the "Worm Diggers' Union," polly-like, also repeated this charge. "Of the other charges against Dr. Cook we are at sea," he said, "but here is something that we know about." By expending five cents in stamps, five minutes with the pen, both Townsend and Dalenbaugh might have learned that the dishonor which they were trying to attach to some one else was on themselves. Under big headlines, "Dr. Cook Steals a Missionary's Work," the New York _Times_ and other pro-Peary papers printed columns of absolute lies in what purported to be interviews with Townsend. Dalenbaugh, pointing to this gleefully, said "Dr. Cook has been guilty of wrong-doing for many years." Now what were the facts? Among the scientific collections of the Belgian Expedition, was a series of notes, embodying a Yahagan Indian Dictionary, made by the missionary, Thomas Bridges. Although this was of little use to anybody, it was a scientific record worthy of preservation. In a friendly spirit toward the late Mr. Bridges and his Indians, I persuaded the Belgians at great expense to publish the work. It was written in the old Ellis system of orthography, which is not generally understood. Working on this material for one year without pay, I changed it to ordinary English orthography, but made few other alterations. The book is not yet printed, but part of it is in press. The introduction was printed five years ago, and among the first paragraphs appear these words: "My visit among the tribe of Fuegians was not of sufficient length to make a thorough study, nor had I the opportunity to collect much data from Indians, but I was singularly fortunate in being in the company of Mr. Thomas Bridges and Mr. John Lawrence, men who have made these people their life study. The credit of collecting and making this Yahagan Grammar and Vocabulary belongs solely to Mr. Bridges, who devoted most of his time during thirty-seven years to recording this material. My work is limited to a slight re-arrangement of the words, a few additions of notes and words, and a conversion of the Ellis phonetic characters in which the native words were written into ordinary English orthography. It is hoped that this study of Yahagan language, with a few of their tales and traditions, will, with a report of the French Expedition, make a fitting end to an important record of a vanishing people." Then follows a short favorable biography of the man whose work I was accused of stealing. [26] Letter from Barrill's associate: MISSOULA, MONT., Oct. 12, 1909. Friend Cook--I am sorry that I can't come at present. But will come and see you in about fifteen days if you will send me Three Hundred and Fifty ($350.00), and I will say that the report in the papers (that Dr. Cook did not ascend Mt. McKinley), from what I have, is not true. Hoping to see you soon. Your friend, (Signed) FRED PRINTZ. [27] While this book was going through the press, several chapters of the proof-sheets, stolen from the printers, Messrs. Lent & Graff, were found on the table of the Explorers' Club on June 27, 1911. It is important to note that this pro-Peary repository of bribed, faked and forged writings, which were issued to defame me, is also the den for stolen goods. Who are the thieves who congregate there to deposit their booty? Why the theft of a part of my book? What humbug has this club and its shameless president next to offer? [28] Letter from an onlooker when Mt. McKinley was climbed: To Dr. Cook's Friends: Professor Parker says "regretfully" that Dr. Cook's evidence as to the ascent of Mt. McKinley was unconvincing. I was located in the foothills of Mt. McKinley, and had been for about a year, when Dr. Cook, Professor H. C. Parker, Mr. Porter, the topographer of the party, and Mr. Miller, Fred Printz and the rest of the party, landed at the head-waters of the Yentna River, in the foothills of Mt. McKinley. I met Professor Parker and the rest of the party, and saw a great deal of them while they were up there, as I had three mining camps in the foothills from which they made their try for the top of the mountain. I let Dr. Cook have one of my Indian hunters, who knew every foot of the country around there, for a guide. Dr. Cook also had some of his caches in my camps, leaving supplies which he did not take along with his pack-trains. Some of Dr. Cook's party were in our camps nearly every day or so, and consequently I became very well posted in regard to Dr. Cook's affairs, and very well acquainted with him. Dr. Parker should be the last one to say anything about mountain-climbing or anything else connected with the expedition, or anything where it takes a man and pluck to accomplish results--good results; as he showed himself to be the rankest kind of a tenderfoot while in the foothills of Mt. McKinley, and was the laughing stock of the country. Mt. McKinley and the country around there was too rough for him. He got "cold feet," and started back for the States, before he had even seen much of the country around there. Looking over my memoranda, I find that Dr. Cook had given up his attempt to climb Mt. McKinley for the time being, and had sent Printz and Miller on a hunting expedition, and the rest of the party was scattered out to hunt up something new. At that time I came into Youngstown, and the boys were getting ready to strike out on their different routes, and Dr. Cook was going down to Tyonic, in Cook's Inlet, with his launch, to meet a friend, Mr. Disston, who expected to go on a hunting trip with him. The friend did not arrive, so Dr. Cook returned to the head-waters of the Yentna River, to Youngstown, arriving there on Monday, August 27. On Sunday, August 28, he started down to the Sushitna River. I went down with him as far as the Sushitna Station, and he told me he was going to run up the river and strike Fish Creek, which ran up on another side of Mt. McKinley, and see what the chances were to make the top of the continent from that side. He made it. I was one of the last to see him start on the ascent, and one of the first to see him when he returned after he had made the ascent. Dr. Cook proved to be a man in every respect, as unselfish as he was courageous, always giving the other fellow a thought before thinking of himself. Upon his arrival from the ascent of the mountain, although tired and worn and in a bad physical condition himself, he gave his unlimited attention to a party of prospectors who had been picked up from a wreck in the river, and brought into camp in an almost dying condition just before his arrival. He spent hours working over these men, and did not give himself a thought until they were properly cared for. _Evidence?_ No man who has known Dr. Cook, been with him, worked with him, and learned by personal experience of his courage, energy and perseverance, would ask for evidence beyond his word. Dr. Cook is one of the most daring men, and can stand more hardships than any man I have ever met, and I believe I have met some of the most able men of the world when it comes to roughing it over the trails in Alaska and the North. Dr. Cook climbed Mt. McKinley. Of course there are always skeptics--men who have a wishbone instead of a backbone, and who, when wishing has brought to them no good results, their last effort is pushed forth in criticism of the things which have been constructed or accomplished by men, their superiors. If Professor Parker wants evidence to convince him, I think he can find it, provided he will put himself to as much trouble in looking for evidence as he has in criticising such evidence as he has obtained. Respectfully yours, J. A. MACDONALD. VONTRIGGER, CALIFORNIA. _Author's Note._--It is a curious fact that most men who have assailed me are themselves sailing under false colors. Herschell Parker was an assistant professor and instructor in the Department of Physics in Columbia University. This gave him the advantage of using the title, "Professor," but, like many others, his university association was mostly for the prestige it gave him. His professorship assumption was, therefore, a deception. Instead of devoting himself conscientiously to university interests, he was, like Peary, engaged in private enterprises--such as the Parker-Clark light, and other ventures--and employed substitute instructors to do the work for which he drew a salary, and for which he claimed the honor and the prestige. A man who thus sails falsely under the banner of a professorship is just the man to try to steal the honor of other men. Here is a make-believe professor who is not a professor; whose dwarfed conscience is eased by drippings from the Arctic Trust; who has stooped to a photographic humbug. He is a fitting exponent of the bribing pro-Peary propaganda. [29] When Mr. Peary first returned from the North, and began his attacks upon me, he caused a demand for "proofs" through the New York _Times_ and its affiliated papers; he had them call for my instruments; he insinuated that I had had no instruments with me in the North (despite the fact that Captain Bartlett had informed him that my own Eskimos had testified that I had); he declared that any Polar claim must be established by an examination of observations and an examination of the explorer's instruments. In view of the unwarranted newspaper call for "proofs," I was embarrassed by having left my instruments with Whitney. Mr. Peary had his, however. But were they carefully examined by the august body who so eagerly decided he reached the Pole? Was the verdict of the self-appointed arbiters of the so-called National Geographic Society based upon such examination as Mr. Peary--concerning my case--had declared necessary? Testifying before the subcommittee of the Committee on Naval Affairs, when the move was on to have Peary made a Rear-Admiral, Henry Gannett, one of the three members of the National Geographic Society, who had passed on Peary's claim, admitted that their examination of Mr. Peary's instruments was casually and hastily made in the Pennsylvania Station at Washington. When Peary later appeared in person before the committee, he admitted having come to Washington from Portland, Maine, to consult with the members of the National Geographic Society who were to examine his proofs, and that he had brought his instruments with him in a trunk, which was left at the station. The following took place (See official Congressional Report, Private Calendar No. 733, Sixty-first Congress, Third Session, House of Representatives, Report No. 1961, pages 21 and 22): "Mr. Roberts--How did the instruments come down? "Captain Peary--They came in a trunk. "Mr. Roberts--Your trunk? "Captain Peary--Yes. "Mr. Roberts--After you reached the station and found the trunk, what did you and the committee do regarding the instruments? "Captain Peary--I should say that we opened the trunk there in the station. "Mr. Roberts--That is, in the baggage-room of the station? "Captain Peary--Yes. "Mr. Roberts--Were the instruments all taken out? "Captain Peary--_That I could not say. Members of the committee will probably remember better than I._ "Mr. Roberts--Well, do you not have any recollection of whether they took them out and examined them? "Captain Peary--Some were taken out, I should say; whether all were taken out I could not say. "Mr. Roberts--Was any test of those instruments made by any member of the committee to ascertain whether or not the instruments were inaccurate? "Captain Peary--_That I could not say. I should imagine that it would not be possible to make tests there._ "Mr. Roberts--Were those instruments ever in the possession of the committee other than the inspection at the station? "Captain Peary--NOT TO MY KNOWLEDGE." NOTE.--This, then, was the basis of the glorious verdict of the packed jury which assailed me; which demanded as necessary instruments of me which had been left in the North, and which posed as a fair body of experts! All important questions asked of Peary, Tittman and Gannett were hedged, their aim being to avoid publicity. In substance, they admitted that in the "Peary Proofs," passed upon a year before, there was no proof. They admitted that their favorable verdict was reached upon an examination of COPIES of Mr. Peary's observations, and that the examination and decision occurred at a sort of social gathering in the house of Admiral Chester, who had attacked me. Chairman Roberts, commenting on the testimony, wrote (see page 15): "From these extracts from the testimony it will be seen that Mr. Gannett, after his careful examination of Captain Peary's proofs and records, did not know how many days it took Captain Peary from the time he left Bartlett to reach the Pole and return to the _Roosevelt_, that information being supplied by a Mr. Grosvenor. It will be also observed that Mr. Gannett, as a result of his careful examination of Captain Peary's proofs and records, gives Captain Peary, in his final dash to the Pole, the following equipment: Two sledges, 36 or 32 dogs, 2 Eskimos, and Henson. It will be seen later from Captain Peary's testimony, that he had on that final dash 40 dogs, 5 sledges, and a total of six men in his party. This discrepancy on so vital a point must seem quite conclusive that the examination of the Geographic Society's committee was anything but careful." * * * * * APPENDIX COPY OF THE FIELD NOTES The following copy of the daily entries in one of my original note-books takes the expedition step by step from Svartevoeg to the Pole and back to land. As will be seen by those here reproduced, the original notes are mostly abbreviations and suggestions, hasty tabulations and reminders, memoranda to be later elaborated. The hard environment, the scarcity of materials, and cold fingers did not encourage extensive field notes. Most of these field notes were rewritten while in Jones Sound, and some were also copied and elaborated in Greenland. In planning this expedition, every article of equipment and every phase of effort was made subordinate to the one great need of covering long distances. We deliberately set out for the Pole, with a desperate resolution to succeed, and although appreciating the value of detail scientific work, I realized that such work could not be undertaken in a pioneer project like ours. We therefore did not burden ourselves with cumbersome instruments, nor did we allow ourselves to be side-tracked in attractive scientific pursuits. Elaborate results are not claimed, but the usual data of Arctic expeditions were gathered with fair success. (Notes usually written at end of day's march.) ---------------------------------------------------------------------- |Date.| Miles | OBSERVATIONS, ETC. | |Covered.| (Exact copy from original Field Papers) -----+-----+--------+------------------------------------------------- March| 18 | 26 | Svartevoeg. Made cache here for return. 1908.| | | Supporting party goes back. Noon start; | | | 4 men, 46 dogs, 4 sleds; 26 miles. Ice heavy, | | | wavy; little snow; crystals hard; land | | | screened by drift. Camp on old field. Night | | | uncomfortable; air humid, penetrating. | | | Snowhouse of hard snow imperfectly made. | | | (Other notes of this date so dim that they | | | cannot be read. _Compass directions, unless | | | otherwise noted, are true._) | | | | 19 | 21 | Clearer, overland thick; -56° F.; Wind 2 W.; | | | sun feeble; blue haze. On march, ice smaller; | | | use of axe; crossings troublesome. Camp lee of | | | big hummock. Cannot send supply back; must | | | follow for another day. | | | | 20 | 16 | Land more clearly visible; sky overcast; wind | | | W. S. W. 1; ice worse. Small igloo. The last | | | feed men return. | | | | 21 | 29 | Awoke, sun N. E.; orange glow; -63° F.; | | | bar. 30.10, steady; no clouds; sky pale purple. | | | More snow (on ice); groaning sledges; mirages, | | | lands, mountains, volcanoes. Air light; wind | | | sky N.; Grant Land a mere line; -46°. Torture | | | of light snow; march 14 hours. | | | | 22 | 22 | A. M.; wind E. 3; -59°. Start 12 (noon); sky | | | clearer; wind 2; water sky N. Grant Land visible | | | P. M. (Later) Temp. rose to -46°. Wind tolerably | | | high; pressure lines; the big lead. Camp on old | | | field on bank; ice noises; search for the | | | crossing. Young, elastic ice. | | | | 23 | 17 | Cross the big lead. Young ice elastic and | | | dangerous; western sky again threatening; ice | | | movement east; fields small; narrow open lanes. | | | Course for 85th on 97th; -40°; march 11 hours; | | | 23 miles, credit 17 miles. Ice noises; night | | | beautiful; sun sank into pearly haze. (Later) | | | Orange glow; pack violet and pale purple blue; | | | sky late--partly cl. appearance of land W. | | | | 24 | 18 | Observations 83.31--96.27; -41°; bar. 29.70. | | | West bank of fog and haze. Start afternoon; | | | no life; old seal hole and bear tracks; long | | | march; ice improving. 10 h.; pedometer 21 m.; | | | camp in coming storm; rushing clouds; signs of | | | land W. 18 m. (credited on course). | | | | 25 | 18 | Early awakened by dogs. Storm spent soon; | | | sunrise temp. -26°, later -41°; west again | | | smoky. Back to the bags; cracking ice; the | | | breaking and separating ice and the crevasse | | | episode; in a bag and in water; ice-water | | | and pemmican; masks of ice. Good march over | | | newly-fractured ice; ice in motion. | | | | 26 | 17 | Still windy; some drift snow; another storm | | | threatening. How we need rest! Strong wind | | | during the night. Position D. R. 84.24--96.53. | | | | 27 | 16 | In camp until noon. Strong winds all night; | | | eased at noon; clearing some; sun; weather | | | unsettled. Short run; squally en route; made | | | early camp. Bar. 29.05. | | | | 28 | 0 | Weather still unsettled. Temp. -41°; Bar. 29.15; | | | west ugly. No progress. The drift. In camp. | | | Anxious about stability of igloo. The collapsed | | | camp. Midnight; north cloudy, but ice bright; | | | many hummocks. | | | | 29 | 9 | Start early P. M. A little blue in the west; sun | | | bursts; pack disturbed; hard traveling, due to | | | fresh crevasses. Camp midnight; only 9 miles. | | | | 30 | 10 | Land, 9 A. M., cleared; land was seen; westerly | | | clouds settled over it. Observations 84.50, | | | 95.36; bearing of land, southern group, West by | | | South to West by North true. Other bearings | | | taken later place a coast line along the 102 | | | meridian from lat. 84° 20´ to 85° 10´. There | | | must be much open water about the land, for | | | banks of vapor persistently hide part. A low fog | | | persistent; cannot see shore; for days we have | | | expected to see something W., but never a clear | | | horizon. Probably two island S. like Heiberg, | | | 1,800 ft. high, valleys, mountains, snow N., | | | table 1,000, thin ice sheet, bright nights. | | | From observation paper: Bar. 30.10, had risen | | | from 29.50 in 2 hours; wind 2-3 mag. S.; | | | clouds mist, East, water-bands W.; shadow | | | (of 6 ft. pole) 39 ft. | | | | 31 | 10 | Land screened by mist; wind W. 2-0. Ice | | | fracture; no sign of life--none since 83. | | | April| 1 | 18 | (Time of traveling) 9 to 6; ice better; fields 1908.| | | larger; crevasses less troublesome; temp. -32°. | | | There is no more darkness at night. | | | | 2 | 12 | (Start) 9.30; (stop) 8. Smooth ice; hard snow; | | | ice 28 ft. and 32. Night bright but cloudy. | | | Temp. -35°; bar. 30.10; leads difficult. | | | | 3 | 10 | 8.30 to 6.30. Temp. -39°; bar. 30.12; sky | | | clearing at noon, but low clouds and frosty haze | | | persist in the W. and N. Night bright; sun at | | | midnight under cloud and haze. | | | | 4 | 14 | 8.45 to 6.10. Snow softer; used snowshoes; have | | | crossed 11 crevasses; much chopping; brash and | | | small hummocks. | | | | 5 | 14 | 9 (A. M.) to 5.45 (P. M.). Snow better. | | | Ice larger. Oh, so tired! Snowshoes. | | | | 6 | 14 | 8.10 (A. M.) to 6.15 (P. M.). Snow hard. Ice | | | flat. Few hummocks. Less wavy. Snow (shoes). | | | Sun faces. | | | | 7 | 14 | 11 to 10. Beautiful clear weather; even the | | | night sky clear. Midnight sun first seen. | | | Ice 36 ft. (thick). (Another measurement gave | | | 21 feet.) | | | | 8 | 9 | Observation before starting, 86.36, 94.2. In | | | spite of what seemed like long marches we made | | | only 106 miles in 9 days. Much distance lost in | | | crossings. (From field paper) bar. 29.50, | | | rising; temp. -37°; wind mag. N. E., 2; clouds | | | St. 3; shadow (6 ft. pole), 32 feet. | | | | 9 | 14 | 9 A. M. to 5.30 P. M.; snow hard; ice about the | | | same; wind cutting; frost bites. Clothes humid. | | | | 10 | 16 | 10 P. M. to 7 A. M. Working hours changed; big | | | marches and long hours no longer possible; snow | | | good; ice steadily improving; bodily fatigue | | | much felt; wind 1-28 W. | | | | 11 | 15 | 10.30 to 8 A. M. Observation end of March, | | | 87.20, 95.19; the pack disturbance of B. Ld. | | | lost; farthest north; little crushed ice; | | | old floes less irregular; anxious about food; | | | wind 3 W. (true); 300 miles in 24 days; work | | | intermittent; too tired to read instruments. | | | (From other field notes, Temp. -39°; | | | bar. 29.90°.) | | | | 12 | 21 | 11 P. M. to 7 A. M. Thoughts of return. Food | | | supply reduced. Hope to economize in warmer | | | weather. Very heavy ice. Much like land ice. | | | Wind 2 W. S. W. The awful monotony! | | | | 13 | 17 | 12 P. M. to 7 A. M. The same heavy glacier-like | | | ice.... The occasional soup. Hummocks 15-20 ft. | | | Ahwelah in tears at start. W. black. Sun under | | | rushing vapors. Ice changes. Leads. | | | | 14 | 23 | 11 P. M. to 7.10 A. M. 88.21, 95.52. Wind light | | | but penetrating. Off the big field, ice smaller. | | | Some open leads. Little sign of pressure. Snow | | | soft, but less precipitation. Dogs get up | | | better speed. 100 miles from Pole. (From other | | | observation papers: Bar. 29.90, falling; | | | temp., -44°; shadow (6 ft. pole) 30½ feet.) | | | | 15 | 14 | 10 P. M. to 7 A. M. Ice same. Wind -1, S. W. | | | Working to the limit of muscle capacity. So | | | tired and weary of the never ceasing tread! | | | | 16 | 15 | 10.30 to 8 A. M. Ice passed. Several heavy old | | | floes. Made 6 crossings. Wind 1-3, W. S. W. | | | | 17 | 13 | 10.15 to 8 A. M. Ice same. Crevasses new. | | | 7 crossings. Saw several big hummocks. Ice | | | less troublesome. Temp., -40°; bar., 30.00. | | | Sled friction less. | | | | 18 | 14 | 9 P. M. to 6. Ice, though broken, smooth. The | | | horizon line not so irregular as that of more | | | S. ice. Sky and ice of a dark purple blue. | | | (Bar. 30.02.) | | | | 19 | 16 | 11 P. M. to 8 A. M. (Position) 89.31. D. R. | | | 94.03. Camp on an old field--the only one on | | | the horizon with big hummocks. Ice in very large | | | fields; surface less irregular, but in other | | | respects not different from farther S. Eskimos | | | told that in two average marches Pole would be | | | reached. Extra rations served. Camp in tent. | | | (Bar., 29.98; Temp., -46°.) | | | | 20 | 15½ | 8 P. M. to 4 A. M. An exciting run; ice aglow in | | | purple and gold; Eskimos chanting. Wind, S. 1 | | | 89; 46.45. (D. R.) 94.52. New enthusiasm; good | | | march. Temp., -36°; bar. (not legible on notes); | | | course set for 97th. | | | | 21 | 13½ | 1 A. M. to 9 A. M. Observations noon: 89; 59.45; | | | ped. 14. Camp; sleep in tent short time; after | | | observations advance; pitch tent; (also) made | | | camp--snow--prepared for two rounds of | | | observations. Temp., 37.7°; bar., 29.83. Nothing | | | wonderful; no Pole; a sea of unknown depth; ice | | | more active; new cracks; open leads; but surface | | | like farther south. Overjoyed but find no words | | | to express pleasure. So tired and weary! How we | | | need a rest! 12, night. Sun seems as high as at | | | noon, but in reality is a little higher, owing | | | to its spiral ascent. The mental elation--the | | | drying of furs, and (making) photos--Eskimos' | | | ideas and disappointment of no Pole--thoughts | | | of home and its cheer. But oh, such monotony of | | | sky, wind and ice! The dangers of getting back. | | | (From other observation papers: Temp, ranged | | | from -36° by mercury thermometer to -39° by | | | spirit thermometer; clouds Alt. St., 1; wind | | | mag. S., 1; ice blink E.; water sky, W.; shadow | | | (of 6 ft. pole) 28 feet.) | | | | 22 | 0 | Moved camp 4 m. magnetic S. Made 4 observations | | | for altitude; S. at noon, W. at 6, N. at 12M, E. | | | at 6 A. M. Ice same; more open water; wind 2-3; | | | temp., -41°; (from field paper) W. S. W., 1 to | | | 2. There are only two big hummocks in sight. | | | (Made a series of observations for the sun's | | | altitude, 2 on the 21st at the first camp, 4 on | | | the 22nd at W. M. camp, and another midnight | | | 22-23. Before we left deposited tube.) | | | | 23 | 20 | Start for home. 12.30 to noon. Fairly clear--ice | | | smooth, but many new crevasses. Temp., -41°. | | | Course for 100 mer. | | | | 24 | 16 | 11 P. M. to 9 A. M. These records, being made at | | | the end of the day's journey, give the doings of | | | the day previous--this note for the 24th is in | | | reality written on the morning of the 25th, when | | | comfortable in camp. Wind 1-2 W. Temp., -36°. | | | Ice smooth--fields larger; 5 crossings; the | | | pleasure of facing home. | | | | 25 | 15 | 8-8. Temp., -37°; Wind 1-2 W. S. W.; ice same. | | | The worry of ice breaking up for me, signs of | | | joy for the Eskimo. | | | | 26 | 14 | 9 to 7. Still much worried about return; | | | possibility of ice disruption and open water | | | near land; wind light; ice shows new cracks, | | | but few have opened; seems to be little | | | pressure; few hummocks; snow hard and | | | traveling all that could be desired. | | | | 27 | 14 | 9.30 to 8. Ice same; wind S. E. 1; good going; | | | crossings not troublesome; dogs in good spirits; | | | Eskimos happy; but all very tired. Temp., -40°. | | | | 28 | 14 | 9.15 to 7.45. Ice same; wind 1 W.; snow | | | moderately hard; few hummocks and no pressure | | | lines. | | | | 29 | 13 | Midnight to 8.45 A. M. Ice more active; fresh | | | cracks; some open cracks but no leads. Wind 1 S. | | | | 30 | 15 | Midnight to 8 A. M. Ped. registered 121 m. from | | | Pole; camp by D. R., 87.59-100; observations | | | 88.01, 97.42. Course half point more W. | | | Temp., -34°. Start more westerly. | | | May | 1 | 18 | 12.30 to 9 A. M. Much color to the sunbursts, 1908.| | | but the air humid; the temperature persistently | | | near -40°, but considerable range with the | | | direction of the light winds and mists when | | | they come over leads. Much very heavy smooth | | | ice--undulating, not hummocky like S. | | | | 2 | 12 | 2 A. M. to 11 A. M. Fog, clouds and wet air. | | | Temp., -15°. Hard to strike a course. | | | | 3 | 13 | 1 A. M. to 10 A. M. Thick weather; wind E. 2; | | | ice friction less; occasional light snow fall. | | | | 4 | 14 | 3 to 11 A. M. Air clear but sky obscured; ice | | | very good, but hummocks appearing on the | | | horizon. | | | | 5 | 11 | 11 P. M. to 6 A. M. Strong wind; occasional | | | breathing spell behind hummocks; squally with | | | drifts. | | | | 6 | 0 | In camp. Stopped by signs of storm; tried to | | | build igloo but wind prevented; in a collapsed | | | tent for 24 hours; eat only half ration of | | | pemmican. | | | | 7 | 10 | 8 A. M. to 3 P. M. Wind detestable; ice bad; | | | life a torture; sky persistently obscured; no | | | observations; pedometer out of order, only time | | | to gauge our distance. | | | | 8 | 12 | 2 A. M. to 10. Weather bad; windy, S. W.; some | | | drift; heavy going. | | | | 9 | 13 | 1 to 8 A. M. (Weather) thick; wind easier; ice | | | in big fields; snow a little harder, snowshoes | | | steady. | | | | 10 | 13 | 11 P. M. of the 9th to 6 A. M. Heavy going but | | | little friction on sled; some drift; see more | | | hummocks. | | | | 11 | 0 | May 11. In camp. Strong wind; heavy drift; | | | encircle tent with snow blocks. | | | | 12 | 11 | 12.30 to 8.30 A. M. Wind still strong; cestrugi | | | troublesome, but temperature moderate; sled | | | loads getting light. | | | | 13 | 12 | 11 P. M. of 12th, to 7.30 A. M. of 13th. Wind | | | easier, S. S. W.; snow harder; ice very thick | | | and very large fields; fog. | | | | 14 | 9 | 3 A. M. to 9 A. M. No sky; strong wind compelled | | | to camp early. | | | | 15 | 13 | 1 A. M. to 10. Fog; ice much crevassed; passed | | | over several cracks--some opening. | | | | 16 | 14 | May 16. 11 P. M. of the 15th to 6 A. M. Cl. 10; | | | wind again troublesome; light diffused, making | | | it difficult to find footing. | | | | 17 | 11 | 2 A. M. to 10. Thick; ice more and more broken; | | | smaller and more cracked--cracks give much | | | trouble. | | | | 18 | 11 | 1 A. M. to 9.30. Wind more southerly and strong; | | | ice separating; some open water in leads. | | | | 19 | 12 | 11 P. M. to 7.30. Wind veering east; fog | | | thicker; ice very much broken, but snow surface | | | good. | | | | 20 | 6 | Midnight to 9 A. M. Open water; active pack; | | | almost impossible. | | | | 21 | 8 | 11 P. M. to 9. Conditions the same; our return | | | seems almost hopeless; no observations--cannot | | | even guess at the drift. | | | | 22 | 0 | In camp. Gale N. E.; temp, high; air wet; | | | ice breaking and grinding; worried about the | | | ultimate return; food low. | | | | 23 | 5 | 3 A. M. to 7 A. M. Still squally, but forced a | | | short march. | | | | 24 | 12 | 12 noon to 8 A. M. Short clearing at noon; the | | | first clear mid-day sky for a long time; west | | | still in haze. Water sky W. and S. W.; no land | | | in sight--though the boys saw the land later | | | when I was asleep; ice much broken. | | | 84° 02´-97° 03´. | | | | 25 | 14 | 10 P. M. to 6 A. M. Ice better; no wind; thick | | | fog; snow hard. Temp., -10°. | | | | 26 | 12 | 11 P. M. to 7.45 A. M. Ice in fields of about | | | 1 M. somewhat hummocky; crossings hard; no wind. | | | | 27 | 11 | 11.30 P. M. to 9.30 A. M. Ice same; thick fog. | | | | 28 | 13 | 12 m. night to 10 A. M. Ice still same; fog; | | | wind 3, shifting E. S. E. and S. W. | | | | 29 | 11 | 11.30 P. M. to 9.30 A. M. As we came here the | | | water sky in the southwest to which we had | | | aimed, gradually working west, led to a wide | | | open lead, extending from north to south, and | | | almost before knowing it, in the general plan | | | of the ice arrangement, we found ourselves to | | | the east of this lead. Temp. rose to zero. Ice | | | much broken; air thick; light vague; impossible | | | to see irregularities. Food 3/4 rations; and | | | straight course for Nansen Sound. | | | | 30 | 10 | 12 to 11 A. M. Ice in heaps; open water; brash | | | the worst trouble; little fog. | | | | 31 | 11 | 11.15 P. M. to 9 A. M. Ice little better; snow | | | hard; sleds go easy; much helping required | | | (over pressure lines). | | | June | 1 | 12 | 10.45 to 8. Ice in large fields; many hummocks; 1908.| | | few heavy fields. | | | | 2 | 12 | 10 P. M. to 9 A. M. Ice steadily improving. | | | | 3 | 11 | 10 P. M. to 8 A. M. Ice begins to show action of | | | sun. Temperature occasionally above freezing. | | | | 4 | 10 | 9.30 P. M. to 7.30 A. M. Fog; ice offering much | | | trouble, but friction little and load light. | | | | 5 | 11 | 9.45 P. M. to 7 A. M. Hummocks exposed to sun | | | have icicles. | | | | 6 | 0 | In camp. Strong N. W. gale. | | | | 7 | 0 | In camp. Gale continues, with much snow; the ice | | | about breaks up; anxious about map. (Not knowing | | | either drift or position, were puzzled as to | | | proper course to set.) | | | | 8 | 14 | 1 A. M. to noon. Ice bad, but snow hard, and | | | after rest progress good; wind still blowing | | | west. | | | | 9 | 10 | 11 P. M. to 9 A. M. With thick ice and this kind | | | of traveling it is hard to guess at distances. | | | | 10 | 0 | 10.30 P. M. to 8. Bad ice; open leads; still no | | | sun. | | | | 11 | 14 | 10 P. M. to 8 A. M. Large smooth ice; little | | | snow; wind S. W., 1; no fog, but sky still of | | | lead. | | | | 12 | 15 | 10.30 to 5. Small fields but good going; | | | sky black to the east. | | | | 13 | 14 | 10 to 8 A. M. Fog cleared first time since last | | | observation. Land in sight south and east. | | | Heiberg and Ringnes Land; water sky; small ice; | | | brash and drift eastward. We have been carried | | | adrift far to the south and west, and | | | examination of ice eastward proves that all | | | is small ice and open water. Heiberg Island | | | is impossible to us. What is our fate? Food and | | | fuel is about exhausted, though we still have | | | 10 bony dogs. Upon these and our little pemmican | | | we can possibly survive for 20 days. In the | | | meantime we must go somewhere. To the south | | | is our only hope. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- NOTE.--_June 14_ and thereafter to _September 1_, all notes were briefly jotted down in another diary, a collection of loose leaves in which the observations of the return were made. This diary was left with the instruments at Etah with Mr. Whitney. The data, however, had been rewritten at Cape Sparbo, so that the notes had served their purpose and were of no further value when no pretentious publication was anticipated. Other notes were made on loose sheets of paper or on leaves of the note books. Many of these were destroyed, others were rubbed out to make room for recording what was regarded as more important data, and a few were retained quite by accident. QUESTIONS THAT ENTER CALCULATIONS FOR POSITION OF THE NORTH POLE. By FREDERICK A. COOK. Much abstruse, semi-scientific and academic material has been forced into the polar discussions about proofs by observation. The problem presented is full of interesting points, and to elucidate these I will ask the reader to go back with me to that elusive imaginary spot, the North Pole. Here we find no pole--and absolutely nothing to mark the spot for hundreds of miles. We are in the center of a great moving sea of ice and for 500 miles in every direction it is the same hopeless desert of floating, shifting crystal. I believed then that we had reached the Pole, and it never occurred to me that there would be a cry for absolute proof. Such a demand had never been presented before. The usual data of the personal narrative of the explorers had always been received with good faith. But let us reopen the question and examine the whole problem. Is there any positive proof for a problem of this kind? Is there any one sure shoulder upon which we can hang the mantle of polar conquest? We are deprived of the usual landmarks of terrestrially fixed points. The effort to furnish proof is like trying to fix a point in Mid-Atlantic. But here you have the tremendous advantage of known compass variation, sure time, reasonably accurate corrections. Not only by careful observation at sea of fixed stars and other astronomical data, but by an easy and quick access to and from each shore, and by reliable tables for reductions gathered during scores of years of experience. All this is denied in the mid-polar basins at the time when it is possible to arrive there. There is no night, there are no stars, and the sun, the only fixed object by which a position can be calculated, is not absolutely fixable. It is low on the horizon. Its rays are bent in getting to the recording instruments while passing through the thick maze of floating ice mist. This mist always rests on the pack even in clear days. The very low temperature of the atmosphere and the distorting, twisting mirage effect of different strata of air, with radically different temperatures, wherein each stratum has a different density, carry different quantities of frosted humidity. All of this gives to the sunbeam, upon which the calculation for latitude and longitude is based, the deceptive appearance of a paddle thrust into clear water. The paddle in such case seems bent. The sunbeam is bent in a like manner, since it passes through an unknown depth of refractory air for the correction of which no law can be devised until modern aerial navigation brings to a science that very complex problem of the geography of the atmosphere. For this reason, and for others which we will presently show, this whole idea of proof by figures as devised by Mr. Peary and the armchair geographers, falls to pieces. Let us take the noon observation--a fairly certain method to determine latitude in most zones of the earth where for hundreds of years we have learned to make certain corrections, which by use have been incorporated as laws in the art of navigation. About five minutes before local noon the sea captain goes to the bridge with sextant in hand. His time is certain, but even if it were not, the sun rises and sets and therefore changes its altitude quickly. The captain screws the sun down to a fixed angle on his sextant; he puts the instrument aside; then takes it up again, brings the sun to the horizon, examines his instrument. The sun has risen a little further; it is not yet noon. This is repeated again and again, and at last the sun begins to descend. It is now local noon. This gives a rough check for his time. There is a certain sure moment for his observation at just the second when it is accurate,--when the sun's highest ascent has been reached. Such advantages are impossible when nearing the Pole. The chronometers have been shooting the shoots of the pack for weeks. The sudden changes of temperature also disturb the mechanism, and therefore time, that very important factor upon which all astronomical data rest, is at best only a rough guess. For this reason alone, if for no other, such as unknown refraction and other optical illusions, the determination of longitude when nearing the Pole becomes difficult and unreliable. All concede this, but latitude, we are told by the armchair observer, is easy and sure. Let us see. The time nears to get a peep of the sun at noon, but what is local noon? The chronometers may be, and probably are, far off. And there is no way to correct even approximately. I do not mean on hours, but there may be unknowable differences of minutes, and each minute represents a mile. Let us see how this affects our noon observation. Five or ten minutes before local noon the observer levels his artificial horizon and with sextant in hand lies down on the snow. A little drift and nose bleaching wind complicate matters. The fingers are cold; the instrument must be handled with mittens; the cold is such that at best a shiver runs up the spine, the eye blinks with snow glitter and frost. The arms, hands and legs become stiff from cold and from inaction. He tries exactly what the sea captain does in comfort on the bridge, but his time is a guess, he watches the sun, he tries to catch it when it is highest, but this is about as difficult as it is to catch a girl in the act of winking when her back is turned. The sun does not rise and set as it does in temperate climes--it circles the horizon day and night in a spiral ascent so nearly parallel to the line of the horizon that it is a practical impossibility to determine by any possible means at hand when it is highest. One may lie on that snow for an hour, and though steadied with the patience of Job, the absolute determination of the highest point of the sun's altitude or the local noon is almost a physical impossibility. This observation is not accurate and gives only results of use in connection with other calculations. These results at best are also subject to that unknown allowance for really great atmospheric refraction. The geographic student will, I am sure, agree that against this the magnetic needle will offer some check, for if you can be certain that when the needle points to a positive direction, then it is a simple matter to get approximate time with it and the highest noon altitude; but since the correction for the needle, like that of latitude and longitude, is based on accurate time, and since it is further influenced by other local and general unknown conditions--therefore even the compass, that sheet anchor of the navigator, is as uncertain as other aids to fixing a position in the polar basin. In making such observations an artificial horizon must be used. This offers an uncontrollable element of inaccuracy in all Arctic observations when the sun is low. My observations were made with the sun about 12° above the horizon. At this angle the image of the sun is dragged over the glass or mercury with no sharp outlines, a mere streak of light, and not a perfect, sharp-cut image of the sun which an important observation demands. Mr. Peary's altitudes were all less than 7°. I challenge any one to produce a clear cut image of the sun on an artificial horizon with the sun at that angle. All such observations therefore are unreliable because of imperfect contact, for which there can be no correction. The question of error by refraction is one of very great importance. In the known zones the accumulated lesson of ages has given us certain tables for correction, but even with these advantages few navigators would take an observation when the sun is but 7° above the horizon and count it of any value whatever. In the Arctic the problem of refraction presents probable inaccuracies, not of seconds or minutes, but possibly of degrees. Every Arctic traveler has seen in certain atmospheric conditions a dog enlarged to the image of a bear. A raven frequently looks like a man, and a hummock, but 25 feet high, a short distance away, will at times rise to the proportions of a mountain. Mirages turn things topsy-turvy, and the whole polar topography is distorted by optical illusions. Many explorers have seen the returning sun over a sea horizon after the long night one or two days before the correct time for its reappearance. This gives you an error in observations which can be a matter of 60 miles. Here is a tangle in optics, which cannot under the present knowledge of conditions be elucidated, and yet with all these disadvantages, the group of armchair geographers of the National Geographic Society pronounces a series of sun altitudes less than 7° above the horizon as proof positive of the attainment of the Pole. Furthermore these men are personal friends of Mr. Peary, and the society for whom they act is financially interested in the venture which they indorsed. Is this verdict based upon either science or justice, or honor? In response to a public clamor for a peep at these papers, a more detestable unfairness was forced on the public. The venerable director of the Coast and Geodetic Survey, who was one of Mr. Peary's jurors, instead of showing his hand, and thus freeing himself from a dishonest entanglement, asked his underlings, H. C. Mitchell and C. R. Duval, to stoop to a dishonor to veil the humbug previously perpetrated. Under the instruction of their chief, the first figures of Mr. Peary's sextant readings have been taken, and by manipulating these they have helped Mr. Peary by saying that their calculation placed Mr. Peary within two miles of the Pole. Perhaps Mr. Peary was at the pin-point of the Pole, but when he allows his friends to use questionable methods to give a false security to his claim, then his claim is insecure indeed. Mitchell and Duval took the sextant readings at face value. If Mr. Peary or his computers had frankly admitted the uncertainty of the grounds upon which these sextant readings rested, then one would be inclined to grant the benefit of doubt; but as was the case regarding the verdict of the National Geographic Society, the public was carefully excluded from a knowledge of the shaky grounds upon which these calculations are based. The impossibility of correct time and adequate allowance for refraction render such figures useless as proof of a position. But what about the image of the sun upon the artificial horizon? An important observation demands that this should be sharp and clear, otherwise the observation is worthless. Mitchell and Duval have surely thought of this. Perhaps they have tried an experiment. As real scientific students they should have experimented with the figures with which they played. If the experiment has not been made they are incompetent. In either case a trick has been used to bolster up the deceptive verdict of the National Geographic Society. A dish of molasses, a bull's eye lantern and a dark room are all that is necessary to prove how the public has been deceived by men in the Government pay as scientific computers. With the bull's eye as the sun, the molasses or any other reflecting surface as a horizon, with the light striking the surface at less than 7 degrees, as Mr. Peary's sun did, it will be found that the sun's image is an oblong streak of light with ill-defined edges. Such an image cannot be recorded on a sextant with sufficient accuracy to make it of any use as an observation. Mitchell and Duval must know this. If so, they are dishonest, for they did not tell the public about it. If they did not know it they are incompetent and should be dismissed from the Government service. With all of these uncertainties a course which gives a workable plan of action can be laid over the blank charts, but there always remains the feebly guarded mystery of the ice drift. When the course is set, the daily run of distance can be checked by estimating speed and hourly progress with the watches. Against this there is the check of the pedometer or some other automatic measure for distance covered. The shortening night shadows and the gradual coming to a place where the night and day shadows are of about equal length is a positive conviction to him who is open to self-conviction, as a polar aspirant is likely to be. But frankly and candidly, when I now review one and all of these methods of fixing the North Pole, or the position of a traveler en route to it, I am bound to admit that all attempt at proof represented by figures is built on a foundation of possible and unknowable inaccuracy. Figures may convince an armchair geographer who has a preconceived opinion, but to the true scientist with the many chances for mistakes above indicated there is no real proof. The verdict on such data must always be "not proven" if the evidence rests on a true scientific examination of material which at best and in the very nature of things is not checked by the precision which science demands. The real proof--if proof is possible--is the continuity of the final printed book that gives all the data with the consequent variations. FROM A CRITICAL REVIEW OF THE POLAR CLAIMS IN A FORTHCOMING BOOK By CAPTAIN THOMAS F. HALL of Omaha, Neb. DR. COOK'S VALID CLAIM. Cook's narrative has been before the public nearly two years. It has been subject to the most minute scrutiny that invention, talent and money could give. It is to-day absolutely unscathed. Not one item in it from beginning to end has been truthfully discredited. It stands unimpeached. Mud enough has been thrown. Bribery and conspiracy have done their worst. A campaign of infamy has been waged, and spent its force; but not one solitary sentence has been proven wrong. Musk-ox fakes, starved dogs, fictitious astronomical or other calculations may have some effect on popular opinion; but they have none on the actual facts. They do not budge the truth a hair's breadth and they do not make history. Cook's claim to the Discovery of the North Pole is as sound and as valid as the other claims of discovery, or the achievement of any one preceding him in the Arctic or the Antarctic. VERDICT OF GEN. A. W. GREELY, REAR ADMIRAL W. S. SCHLEY AND OTHER ARCTIC EXPERTS Dr. Cook is the discoverer of the North Pole.--GENERAL A. W. GREELY. No one familiar with the Polar problem doubts Dr. Cook's success. Peary never tried to get to the Pole. He copied Cook's data and then, by official intrigue tried to "put it over." A study of Peary's deception on compass variation will prove that.--CLARK BROWN. You can prove the discovery of Northermost Land. The Eskimo talk is nonsense. The Polar discussion should be settled by an International Commission--PROF. OTTO NORDENSKJOLD. Dr. Cook was the first and only man to reach the North Pole--CHAS. E. RILLIET. I have gone over all of Dr. Cook's data, and, in spite of the statements to the contrary, I believe he reached the Pole.--MAURICE CONNELL. It has always been my pleasure to support Dr. Cook. I can see no reason for doubting his success. Who are his accusers, surely not Arctic Explorers?--CAPTAIN OTTO SVERDRUP. I am convinced that if anyone reached the Pole, Dr. Cook got there.--ANDREW J. STONE. From first to last I have championed Dr. Cook's cause, and after going over the printed records of both claimants I am doubly convinced that he reached the Pole.--CAPTAIN EDWARD A. HAVEN. Dr. Cook reached the Pole, I doubt Peary, his observations bear the stamp of inexcusable inaccuracy and bunglesome carelessness. One cannot read Peary's book and believe in him.--CAPTAIN JOHN MENANDER. Washington, D. C., Jan. 7th, 1911. Dear Dr. Cook: ... I would assure you that I have never varied in the belief that you reached the Pole. After reading the published accounts, daily and critically, of both claimants, I was forced to the conclusion from their striking similarity that each of you was the eye witness of the other's success. Without collusion it would have been impossible to have written accounts so similar, and yet in view of the ungracious controversy that has occurred since that view (collusion) would be impossible to imagine. While I have never believed that either of you got within a pin-point of the Pole, I have steadfastly held that both got as near the goal as was possible to ascertain considering the imperfections of the instruments used and the personal errors of individuals under circumstances as adverse to absolute accuracy. Again I have been broad enough in my views to believe that there was room enough at the Pole for two; and never narrow enough to believe that only one man got there. I believe that both are entitled to the honor of the achievement. Very truly yours, (Signed) W. S. SCHLEY. POSITIVE PROOF OF DR. COOK'S ATTAINMENT OF THE POLE BY CAPTAIN EVELYN BRIGGS BALDWIN METEOROLOGIST PEARY EXPEDITION, 1893-4, SECOND-IN-COMMAND WELLMAN EXPEDITION 1898-9, AND ORGANIZER AND LEADER OF THE BALDWIN-ZIEGLER POLAR EXPEDITION, 1901-2, ETC. I can prove the truth of Dr. Cook's statements in regard to his discovery of the North Pole from Peary's own official record of his last dash to the Northward. So far as I can learn, Dr. Cook has never made a "confession" in regard to his trip to the Pole in the sense that he denied his first statements. He has merely said that, in view of the great difficulty in determining the exact location of the Pole, he may not have been exactly upon the northernmost pin-point of the world. Peary, under pressure at the Congressional investigation, was forced to admit the same. For three hundred years there has been a rivalry among civilized men to be the first to reach the North Pole. I believe that the honor of having succeeded in the attempt should go--not to Peary--but to the man who reached the Pole a year before Peary claims to have been there. Dr. Cook is now in New York City, and I have talked with him several times recently. With the information that I myself have gathered, I believe that he really did reach the Pole, or came so close to that point that he is entitled to the credit of the Pole's discovery. [Illustration: THE LAND-DIVIDED ICE-PACK REPORTED BY PEARY PROVES COOK'S ATTAINMENT OF THE POLE] Bradley Land is located between latitude 84 and 85. It was discovered by Cook in his Poleward march. The land ice, or glacial ice, which Cook also discovered, is located between latitude 87 and latitude 88. Cook's line of march carried him thirty or forty miles to the east of Bradley Land and then upon the glacial ice. The proximity to the new land gave Cook a favorable land-protected surface upon which to travel, and also afforded him protection from gales and from the consequent movements of the pack-ice westward of the new lands. Cook traveled in the lee of the groups of islands and over ice floes more stationary than the ice farther to the east, over which Peary traveled. EVIDENCE OF COOK'S TRAVELS A critical examination of Peary's book not only reveals a remarkable corroboration of Cook's discovery of Bradley Land and the glacial island north of it, but also seems to indicate the existence of islands farther west between the same parallels of latitude. Referring to page 250, when beyond the 86th parallel, Peary says: "In this march there was some pretty heavy going. Part of the way was over some old floes, which had been broken up by many seasons of unceasing conflict with the winds and tides. Enclosing these more or less level floes were heavy pressure ridges over which we and the dogs were obliged to climb." In other words, the floes which Peary describes in this part of his journey clearly indicate that they were just such floes as one would expect to find after having passed through a group of islands, and, therefore, contrasting naturally with the immense size of the floes which both Cook and Peary traversed north of the 88th parallel. Beginning with page 258, we have a most instructive description by Peary of the ice between the parallels wherein Cook locates the glacial ice and upon which he traveled for two days. It is such ice as one would expect to find after having passed around the north and south ends of an island from forty to sixty miles to the westward. This particular area Peary designates as a veritable "Arctic Phlegethon," and it is inconceivable to believe in this Phlegethon without also believing in the existence of the glacial ice, as located and described by Dr. Cook. Let us, therefore, examine Peary's narrative minutely. He says, on page 259, "When I awoke the following day, March 28, the sky was apparently clear; but, ahead of us, was a thick, smoky, ominous haze drifting low over the ice, and a bitter northeast wind, which, in the orthography of the Arctic, plainly spelled 'Open Water'...." Also, on the same page: "After traveling at a good rate for six hours along Bartlett's trail, we came upon his camp beside a wide lead, with a dense black, watery sky to the northwest, north and northeast." Again, on page 260: "... The break in the ice had occurred within a foot of the fastening of one of my dog teams, ... Bartlett's igloo was moving east on the ice raft, which had broken, and beyond it, as far as the belching fog from the lead would let us see, there was nothing but black water." Finally, on page 262, Peary says: "This last march had put us well beyond my record of three years before, probably 87° 12´. The following day, March 29, was not a happy one for us. Though we were all tired enough to rest, we did not enjoy picnicing beside this Arctic Phlegethon which, hour after hour, to the north, northeast and northwest, seemed to belch black smoke like a prairie fire.... Bartlett made a sounding of one thousand two hundred and sixty fathoms, but found no bottom." In the foregoing we have positive proof that this almost open water area was not caused by shoals at that immediate point. Peary's concern as regards this big hole in the ice-pack is set forth further on page 265, as follows: "The entire region through which we had come during the last four marches was full of unpleasant possibilities for the future. Only too well we knew that violent winds, for only a few hours, would send the ice all abroad in every direction. Crossing such a zone on a journey north is only half the problem, for there is always the return to be figured on. Though the motto of the Arctic must be 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,' we ardently hoped there might not be violent winds until we were south of this zone again on the return." From this it is apparent that Peary realized fully the permanent character of this Phlegethon over which he was traveling. With astonishing persistency, he refers again and again to this particular locality. Quoting from page 303, when on his return march, he says: "There was one region just above the 87th parallel, a region about fifty-seven miles wide, which gave me a great deal of concern until we had passed it. Twelve hours of strong wind blowing from any quarter excepting the north would have turned that region into an open sea. I breathed a sigh of relief when we left the 87th parallel behind." And, as though the Phlegethon had not already been sufficiently described, on page 307 we find recorded: "Inspired by our good fortune we pressed on again completing two marches, and when we camped we were very near the 87th parallel. The entry that I made in my diary that night is perhaps worth quoting: 'Hope to reach the Marvin Igloo (86° 38´) to-morrow. I shall be glad when we get there on to the big ice again. This region here was open water during February and the early part of March and is now covered with young ice which is thoroughly unreliable as a means of return. A few hours of a brisk wind east, west, or south, would make this entire region open water for some fifty to sixty miles north and south, and an unknown extent east and west. Only calm weather or a northerly wind keeps it practicable.'" ABSOLUTE PROOF OF COOK'S CLAIM From the foregoing it is self-evident that Peary's observations by sextant could not be more corroborative of Cook's latitude than that the Phlegethon is proof of the existence of a glacial island between the same two parallels traversed by both explorers. Cook had discovered the _cause_, and Peary followed to discover the effect of that _cause_. To one familiar with the conditions of ice-floes in the vicinity of islands in the Arctic the reasons for this are as clear as it would be to the lay mind should it be suddenly announced that on a certain date an astronomer had discovered the head of a comet, which being doubted by rival investigators, might lead to the unhappy discrediting of the original discoverer; but should it be as suddenly announced that a rival astronomer had observed the tail of a comet in the same locality there would quite certainly follow a reversal of public sentiment. EVIDENCE OF HIS TRAVELS Of first importance also in proving the existence of new lands discovered by Cook is the evidence derived from the existence of animal life, since Arctic game clings close to the shore line in its search for food. Birds must find their nesting places on lands. Foxes live upon birds and the refuse left in the trails of polar bears and seals. Seals feed upon shrimps and find the chief source of food in waters close to the land. Polar bears in turn feed upon seals, and necessarily are found more numerously about lands or islands. For this reason we will examine Peary's official narrative of his journey north for evidence of Dr. Cook's discovery of land to within 2° of the North Pole. Having noted Dr. Cook's statement relative to the blow hole of a seal near Bradley Island, we will follow in Peary's trail for corroboration of Cook's journey eleven months previous, and a comparatively short distance westward of Peary's line of march. Referring to Peary's "North Pole" on page 249, while in latitude 85° 48´ he records: "While we were engaged in this business we saw a seal disporting himself in the open water of the lead." Still farther along, when in latitude 86° 13´, Peary states, on page 252: "Along the course of one of those leads we saw the fresh tracks of a polar bear going west." ANIMAL TRAILS VERIFY COOK'S REPORT Arctic travelers will well appreciate the force of this statement relative to the polar bear, who, scenting the land a few miles to the westward, was in search of seals. The freshness of the bear's tracks is proof that it had not drifted on some ice floe from remote parts of the Arctic basin. Again, referring to page 257, we find that Peary while traveling through deep snow March 28, records: "During the day we saw the tracks of two foxes in this remote and icy wilderness, nearly two hundred and forty nautical miles beyond the northern coast of Grant Land." It is worthy of note that Peary does not state just how far from the glacial or land ice upon the submerged island over which Cook traveled the fox tracks were. But it is evident that the foxes were less than two sleeps from land, since Peary states that Marvin's observation placed them in about latitude 86° 38´, the very latitude in which Cook traveled upon the stationary land ice. Still again, page 307, while on his return march and near the 88th parallel Peary observes: "Here we noticed some fox tracks that had just been made. The animal was probably disturbed by our approach. These are the most northerly animal tracks ever seen." Certainly. Why not? Since they were so near the northern termination of the land ice discovered by Dr. Cook. In this connection it is also important to remark that between latitude 88 and his approximate approach to the Pole, Dr. Cook makes no mention of animal life, and this is corroborated by Peary's own statement that he observed no tracks of animals beyond the 88th parallel. Thus Peary corroborated Cook by the very absence of animal life in the very region where Cook states he saw no land. PEARY'S STATEMENTS PROVE COOK'S On Peary's return journey he states that as they approached Grant Land the fresh tracks of foxes and other evidences of animal life were very numerous. And if the nearness of land was evidenced in this case it is also clear that the tracks and appearance of animals on his journey in the high latitudes should be given equal weight as evidence of the lands discovered by Cook. The line of deep sea soundings taken by Peary from Cape Columbia northward indicates a steady increase in depth to latitude 84° 24´, where the lead touched bottom at eight hundred and twenty-five fathoms, until, in latitude 85° 23´, the sounding showed a depth of but three hundred and ten fathoms. Referring to this, we find that Peary says, on page 338 of his narrative: "This diminution in depth is a fact of considerable interest in reference to the possible existence of land to the westward." It seems to me that it is not impertinent to remark that this land to the westward was scarcely two sleeps distant, as Dr. Cook has steadfastly maintained. Finally, on page 346, Peary says: "Taking various facts into consideration it would seem that an obstruction (lands, islands or shoals) containing nearly half a million square statute miles probably exists, and another at or near Crocker Land." MORE ACCURATE OBSERVATIONS BY COOK THAN BY PEARY And this is all that Dr. Cook claims in his location of land to the northward of the very Crocker Land to which Peary alludes. As to Dr. Cook's and Peary's observations when in the immediate vicinity of the Pole, I would call attention to the following facts: Cook's determination by the sextant of the sun's altitude was made April 21, 1908; Peary's final observations were taken April 7 of the following year. The sun being thus two weeks higher at the time Cook made his observations, he was able to secure a more accurate series of altitudes, and this will have an important bearing in substantiation of his claims. Considering the difficulty which Peary has had in proving whether he was at 1.6 miles from the Pole on the Grant Land side or the Bering Strait side, and whether he was ten or fifteen miles away, I think Dr. Cook was justified in saying that, although he believed he was at the North Pole, he is not claiming that he had been exactly at the pin-point of the North Pole. At any rate, it places Dr. Cook in the position of endeavoring to tell the truth. In this connection I feel like replying to a criticism which Mr. Grosvenor, editor of the National Geographic Magazine, published over his own signature immediately following Dr. Cook's return from the Pole. "Cook's story reads like that of a man who had filled his head with the contents of a few books on polar expeditions and especially the writings of Sverdrup." ARMCHAIR CRITICISMS UNFAIR Now, since Sverdrup is a real navigator, having accompanied Nansen during his three years' drift on the Fram, and, following this, having himself organized and led an expedition during three years to the westward of Grinnell Land, in the course of which he discovered and charted, in 1902, Heiberg Land and contiguous islands (which, however, Peary charted four years later and named Jessup Land), I do not consider Mr. Grosvenor's armchair criticism of the writings of Capt. Sverdrup and of Dr. Cook quite in keeping with the principles of a square deal and fair play. Among the reasons which Peary assigns for doubting Dr. Cook is one pertaining to the original records which Dr. Cook unwillingly left at Etah. The leaving behind of these papers, according to Peary, was merely a scheme on Cook's part, so that he might claim they had been lost or destroyed and thus escape being forced to produce them in substantiation of his claim. Recently, when I asked Dr. Cook about this, his reply was: "This does not sound very manly. If this was so in Peary's belief, why did he not bring them back? Here was absolute proof in his own hands. Why did he bury it?" Armchair geographers and renegades may endeavor to discredit Dr. Cook, but the seals and polar bears and little foxes will bear testimony of unimpeachable character to substantiate his claims as the discoverer of the North Pole. The reading public will not forget that when Paul Du Chaillu, returning from his expedition to Africa, reported the discovery of the pigmies, he was denounced as a faker and a liar. For three years Du Chaillu, as he has told me himself, sought in vain to re-establish his credibility, and when at the end of that time he succeeded in bringing some of the pigmies and exhibiting them before the scientific bodies of the world, then the "doubting Thomases" were obliged to give him credit as the discoverer of the African dwarfs. The yellow press and sensation mongers will decry Dr. Cook as they did Du Chaillu, for some years to come, but Arctic explorers endorse him to-day. Rear Admiral W. S. Schley, General A. W. Greely, Captain Otto Sverdrup, Captain Roald Amundsen, and all the world's greatest explorers have indorsed Dr. Cook. I have seen Dr. Cook's original field notes, his observations, and the important chapters of his book, wherein his claim is presented in such a way that the scientific world must accept it as the record and the proof of the greatest geographic accomplishment of modern times. Putting aside the academic and idle argument of pin-point accuracy--the North Pole has been honestly reached by Dr. Cook 350 days before anyone else claimed to have been there. (Signed) EVELYN BRIGGS BALDWIN. VERDICT OF THE GEOGRAPHIC HISTORIAN DR. COOK'S RECORD IS ACCURATE IT IS CERTIFIED--IT IS CORROBORATED HE IS THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH POLE By EDWIN SWIFT BALCH (From the N. Y. Tribune, April 14, 1913) Which was it: Cook or Peary? Who discovered the North Pole? Everybody thought the question had been settled long ago, but now comes an eminent geographer and explorer, who says, over his name, that both got to the "Big Nail," and that it was the Brooklyn doctor who did it first. And in defense of his belief he cites chapter and verse, and uses Peary's own story to prove that his hated rival it was who first stood at the top of the earth, "where every one of the cardinal points is South." The intrepid defender of Cook is Edwin Swift Balch, fellow of the Association for the Advancement of Science, member of the Wyoming Historical and Geological Society, the Franklin Institute, American Philosophical, American Geographical and Royal Geographical Societies, writer on arctic, antarctic geographical and ethnological topics for the learned societies of the world. Dr. Balch lives at No. 1412 Spruce street, Philadelphia, and the title of his book, just published by Campion & Co., of Philadelphia, is "The North Pole and Bradley Land." "ALL TRAVELLERS CALLED LIARS" "From time immemorial travellers have been called liars," says Mr. Balch in a chapter devoted to "travellers who were first doubted and afterward vindicated," and it is on this general assumption of their Munchausen-like proclivities that much of the weight of argument depends. But most of all the truthfulness of the doctor's assertion that on April 21, 1908, he and his two Eskimo boys, E-tuk-i-shook and Ah-we-lah, reached the goal and "were the only pulsating creatures in a dead world of ice," is shown by the fact that conditions reported by Cook as existing there were corroborated by Peary. "The man who breaks into the unknown may say what he chooses and present such astronomical observations as he sees fit," says Mr. Balch, "but his proof rests on his word. But if the next traveller corroborated the discoverer, instantly the first man's statements are immeasurably strengthened. "To solve such a problem as that of who discovered the North Pole, this comparative method seems to the writer the only one available. It is not a matter of belief, it is a matter of comparison and reasoning. It is not the evidence which Cook produces _which in itself alone could prove Cook's claims_. It is the geographical evidence offered by both Cook and Peary, which, when carefully compared, affords, in the writer's judgment, the only means of arriving at a conclusion. It is Peary's statements and observations which prove, as far as can be proved at present, Cook's statements." ALL DISCOVERERS FIRST DOUBTED The writer then mentions a score of the great discoverers and explorers of history who have been defamed and berated by their contemporaries, yet whose achievements have in time proved them to be truth tellers. Marco Polo, "greatest of mediaeval travellers, was generally discredited." Amerigo Vespucci "to this day remains under a cloud for things he did not do." Fernao Mendes Pinto, Nathaniel B. Palmer, Robert Johnson, James Weddell, von Drygalski, Nordenskjold, Bruce, Charcot, Dr. Krapf, Dr. Robmann, Du Chaillu, Stanley, Livingstone, Colter, all have been reviled as fabricators, yet all have been honored by those who came later, he says. "There are three records of Dr. Cook's journey of 1908," says the writer. "Cook's first announcement was a long cablegram sent from Lerwick, Shetland Islands, and published in the 'New York Herald' of September 2, 1909. The full original narrative was sent immediately after this and published in the 'New York Herald' between September 15 and October 7, 1909, with the title 'The Conquest of the Pole.' "_Both of these were written and sent before Cook could, by any possibility, have seen or heard of any of the results of Peary's last expedition._ The third record is Cook's book "My Attainment of the Pole," which is simply an enlargement on the earlier story. COOK MUST HAVE BEEN FIRST The point here emphasized is that Cook could not have had anything on which to base his description of conditions north of 83:20 north latitude, and as his description agreed with that later given by Peary, there could be no doubt that Cook was there first. "The reason for this is that these statements can be based on nothing but Cook's own observations," says Mr. Balch, "for Cook started for Denmark from South Greenland before Peary started for Labrador from North Greenland, and therefore everything Cook stated or wrote or published immediately after his arrival in Europe must be based on what Cook observed or experienced himself. "_Cook's original narrative stands on its own merits; it is the first and most vital proof of Cook's veracity, and yet it has passed almost unnoticed._ The points on which the two accounts, Cook's and Peary's, of conditions at 90 degrees north agree most fundamentally, and hence most definitely establish the truthfulness of Cook, are first the "account of the land sighted in 84:20 north to 85:11 north (Bradley Land). The second is the glacial land ice in 87-88 degrees north. The third is the account of the discovery of the North Pole and the description of the ice at the North Pole." COOK'S THREE ACHIEVEMENTS Cook's first great discovery, the writer holds, was Bradley Land, named after his friend and backer. This land, Cook declared, had a great crevasse in it, making it appear like two islands, the southerly one starting at 84:20 north. Peary made no mention of land north of 83:20 north. "Whether there is land or water in the intervening sixty geographical miles is a problem," says the writer, "but in order to be perfectly fair to both explorers and to allow for errors in observation one might split the difference at 83:50 north and consider that latitude as a dividing line between the lands discovered respectively by Cook and Peary." "The second important discovery of Cook's is the glacial land ice in 87 north to 87 north-88 north," says the writer. "A closely similar occurrence was observed by Peary on his 1906 trip in about 86 north, 60 west." But the most important particular in which the two men agree, in the mind of Mr. Balch, is in their description of the ice at the pole. Cook reported that it was "a smooth sheet of level ice." The writer adds: "if that description of the North Pole is accurate, the writing of it by Cook, first of all men, on the face of it is proof that Cook is the discoverer of the North Pole." THE SNOW WAS PURPLE But not only was the ice at the pole smooth and level, but the snow there was "purple" in the story of Cook, a detail in which he is again borne out by Peary. "Purple snow," says the writer, "is a linguistic expression, an attempt to suggest with words what Frank Wilbert Stokes has done with paints in his superb pictures of the polar regions. Hence," he says, "the use of the word 'purple' by Dr. Cook, who is not a trained artist, proves that he has the eye of an impressionist painter and that he is an extremely accurate observer of his surroundings.... That Cook's description is accurate is in the next place certified to by Peary. Peary corroborates Cook absolutely about conditions enroute to the North Pole; and Cook is corroborated by Peary, not only by what Peary saw, but by what Peary did. If there was anything in the Western Arctic between the North Pole and 87:47 north but 'an endless field of purple snows,' smooth and slippery, Peary could not have covered the intervening 133 geographical miles in two days and a few hours. Peary, therefore, from observation and from actual physical performance proves that Cook's most important statement is true." The evidence is thus examined, step by step. The statements of the two men are compared, word by word, and this is the conclusion reached: "In view of all these facts it becomes certain that Cook must have written his description of the North Pole from his own observations, for until Cook actually traversed the Western Arctic between 88 degrees north and the North Pole, and told the world the facts, no one could have said whether in that area there was land or sea, nor have stated anything of the conditions of its ice, with its unusual, perhaps unique, flat surface. "But Cook, in his first cable dispatch, stated definitely and positively and finally that at the North Pole there was no land, but sea, frozen over into smooth ice, and Peary confirmed Cook's statements. "Cook was accurate, and the only possible inference is that Cook was accurate because Cook knew; and the further inevitable conclusion is that since Cook knew, Cook had been at the North Pole." (_Ed._) In personal letters Balch further says, "I have tried to look at it as if this were the year 2013, and all of us in heaven.... It is only a question of time till Dr. Cook is recognized as the discoverer of the North Pole." FOR A NATIONAL INVESTIGATION A REQUEST By DR. FREDERICK A. COOK For three years I have sought in various ways to bring about a National investigation of the relative merits of the Polar Attainment and the unjust propaganda of distrust which followed. Such an investigation would do no harm if the original work and the later criticism has been done in good faith. Why has it been refused? To take the ground that it is a private matter and that the Government has taken no official part in the Polar race is to assume a false position. The injustice of this evasive policy is brought out in my telegram to former President Taft--and again in my letter to President Wilson. To compel such an investigation and to appoint Arctic explorers as National experts has been my main mission on the platform. Much against my will I have been forced to adopt the usual political tactics of getting to the voters to force action by Congress and the official circles of Washington. When in 1911 the bill was introduced in Congress to retire Peary as a Rear Admiral with a pension, I supposed that this would automatically bring about a thorough scientific examination of the merits of the rival Polar claims. And such an investigation I then believed would surely bring about the only reward I have ever claimed--The appreciation of my fellow countrymen. It was however, as I learned later, a bold Pro-Peary movement fostered by lobbyists whose conscience was eased by drippings from the Hubbard-Bridgeman Arctic Trust, but I still believed that the dictates of National prestige were such that the usual white-washing and rail-roading process could not be adopted in a question of such International importance. I did not begrudge Mr. Peary a pension if honest methods were pursued to adjust the bitterly fought contention in the eyes of the world. My friends made no protest in Congress. As matters progressed, however, I saw that such men as Prof. Willis Moore and others of his kind--men I had previously trusted as honest, really proved themselves, double-faced, political back-scratchers. Then I changed my tactics. When one's honor is bartered by thieves under the guise of friends--and when these thieves are part of a government from which justice is expected--Then one is bound to uncover the leprous spots of one's accusers. I am glad to note that Prof. Moore, the President of the National Geographic Society, has since been exposed as being too crooked to fit into a berth of the present administration. There are others whose long fingers have been in the Polar-pie who will also meet their fate as time exposes their flat-heads. To call a halt on this National Humbug where only official chair-warmers and political crooks served as experts, I sent the following telegram to former President Taft: COPY OF TELEGRAM SENT TO FORMER PRESIDENT TAFT Omaha, Neb., March 4, 1911 The President--The White House, Washington, D. C. When you sign the Peary bill you are honoring a man with sin-soiled hands who has taken money from our innocent school children. A part of this money I believe was used to make Arctic concubines comfortable. I am ready to produce others of the same opinion. Thus for twenty years while in the pay of the navy, supplied with luxuries from the public purse, Peary has enjoyed, apparently with National consent, the privilege denied the Mormons. There are at least two children now in the cheerless north crying for bread and milk and a father. These are growing witnesses of Peary's leprous character. Will you endorse it? By endorsing Peary you are upholding the cowardly verdict of Chester, Tittman and Gannett, who bartered their souls to Peary's interests by suppressing the worthlessness of the material upon which they passed. These men on the Government pay-roll have stooped to a dishonor that should make all fair-minded people blush with shame. This underhanded performance calls for an investigation. Will you close these dark chamber doings to the light of justice? In this bill you are honoring one, who in seeking funds for legitimate exploration, has passed the hat along the line of easy money for twenty years. Much of this money was in my judgment used to promote a lucrative fur and ivory trade, while the real effort of getting to the pole was delayed seemingly for commercial gain. Thus engaged in a propaganda of hypocrisy he stooped to immerality and dishonor and ultimately when his game of fleecing the public was threatened, he tried to kill a brother explorer. The stain of at least two other lives is on this man. This bill covers a page in history against which the spirits of murdered men cry for redress. Peary is covered with the scabs of unmentionable indecency, and for him your hand is about to put the seal of clean approval upon the dirtiest campaign of bribery, conspiracy and black-dishonor that the world has ever known. If you can close your eyes to this, sign the Peary bill. (Signed) FREDERICK A. COOK The telegram was received but not acknowledged--the Peary bill was signed. But the false assumption of Peary's "Discovery of the Pole" was eliminated from the bill. There is therefore no National endorsement of Peary; though he was given an evasive Old Age Pension which the newspapers quoted incorrectly as an official recognition of Peary's claim to polar priority. I now appeal to President Wilson and the present administration to make some official endeavor to clear our National emblem of the stain of the envious Polar contention. To that end I have written the following letter: AN APPEAL TO PRESIDENT WILSON (COPY OF A LETTER) Chicago, May 1, 1913 Honored Sir: I appeal to you to forward a movement which will adjust in the eyes of the world the contention regarding the rival Polar claims. The American Eagle has spread its wings of glory over the world's top. It would seem to be a National duty to determine officially whether there is room for one or two under those wings. The graves of our worthy ancestors are marks in the ascent of the ladder of latitudes. Hundreds of lives, millions of dollars, have been sacrificed in the quest of the Pole. The success at last attained has lifted the United States to the first ranks as a Nation of Scientific Pioneers. Every true American has quivered with an extra thrill of pride with the knowledge that the unknown boreal center has been pierced and that the stars and stripes have been put to the virgin breezes of the North Pole. The unjustified and ungracious controversy which followed has wounded our National honor; it has left a stain upon our flag. Is it not, therefore, our duty as a Nation to dispel the cloud of contention resting over the glory of Polar attainment? I have given twenty years to the life-sapping task of Polar exploration--all without pay--all for the benefit of future man. Returning--asking for nothing, expecting only brotherly appreciation of my fellow countrymen, I am compelled to face an unjust battle of political intrigues by men in the pay of the Government. My effort now is not for money nor for a pension, but to defend my honor and that of my family. The future of my children demands an exposition of the unfair methods of the arm-chair geographers in Washington. However, I do not ask the administration to defend me or my posterity, but do ask that the men who draw a salary from the National treasury be made answerable for a propaganda of character assassination, among these is Prof. Willis Moore and others of the so-called National Geographic Society. The National Geographic Society with Prof. Moore as President is responsible for the false interpretation of the rival Polar claims. This society is a private organization used mostly for political purposes; for two dollars per year a college professor or a street-sweeper becomes with equal facility a "national geographer." It is, therefore, not "national" nor "geographic," and when this society poses as a scientific body, it is an imposition upon American intelligence, and yet it is this society, with the well-known political trickery of Prof. Moore, which has attempted to decide for the world the merits of Polar attainment. An investigation of the wrong doings of this society will quickly bring to light the injustice of the Polar controversy. A commission of Polar explorers appointed by National authority will end for all times the problem of the rival Polar claims. There is an abundance of material on both sides by which such a commission could come to a reasonable conclusion. The general impression that the Polar contention has been scientifically determined is not true. There has been no real investigation into either claim. Such an investigation could only be made by Arctic explorers, and to bring about this end I would suggest the appointment of an International Commission of such men as General A. W. Greely, U. S. A., Captain Otto Sverdrup of Norway and Professor Georges Lecointe of Belgium. Their decision would be accepted everywhere. Greely and Sverdrup have each spent four years in the very region under discussion, and Lecointe is the Secretary of the International Bureau for Polar Research and also director of the Royal Observatory of Belgium. Such men will render a decision free from personal bias, free from National prejudice and their verdict will be accepted by the Nations of the world. Though I am an interested party I insist that my appeal is not altogether a personal one. In the interest of that deep-seated American sense of fair play, in the interest of National honor, in the interest of the glory of our flag, it would seem to be a National duty to have the distrust of the Polar attainment cleared by an International commission. Respectfully submitted, (Signed) FREDERICK A. COOK To the President, The White House, Washington, D. C. Thousands of requests similar to those reproduced below have gone to various officials in Washington. Such appeals demand action. Chicago, May 7, 1913 Mr. Josephus Daniels, Secretary of the Navy, Washington, D. C. Dear Sir: Rear Admiral Peary wears the stripes of the Navy, he is drawing a pension of $6,000.00 per year from the tax-payers--The National dictates of honor compel such a man to be clean morally--honest and upright officially. Dr. Cook has publicly made charges against Peary which relegate this Naval Officer to the rank of a common thief and degenerate. In his book, "My Attainment of the Pole," (Mitchell-Kennedy, N. Y.) there are specific charges made which call for an investigation. These charges have remained unanswered for three years--Why? In the Polar controversy the flag has been dragged through muck, and this dishonor seems to rest upon a man for whose actions you are responsible. The American people have a right to demand an investigation into the intrigue of the Peary Polar Propaganda, and as one believing in justice at the bar of public opinion, I ask that you take steps to clear this cloud in the eyes of the world. Respectfully, FRED HIGH Editor of _The Platform_, The Lyceum and Chautauqua Magazine, Steinway Hall, Chicago. Chicago, May 22, 1913. To Congressman James R. Mann, Washington, D. C. Dear Sir: The conquest of the North Pole has lifted the United States to a first position as a Nation of scientific pioneers. The controversy which followed is a blot on our flag and it is a slur at our National honor. From the Government purse and from private resources we have spent millions to reach the top of the earth; it would appear therefore to be our duty as a Nation to adjust the Polar contention in the eyes of the world. If Dr. Cook has reached the Pole, a year earlier than Peary, as most Arctic explorers believe, then the seeming endorsement and the pension of the Naval officer is an injustice to Dr. Cook and an imposition on the public; if both have reached the Pole then there should be a suitable recognition and reward extended to each. As one of thousands of American citizens, I beg of you to forward a movement which will bring about a National investigation into this problem, with a suitable provision for a proper recognition. Respectfully, CHARLES W. FERGUSON, Pres., The Chautauqua Managers Association, Orchestra Bldg., Chicago. CAN THE GOVERNMENT ESCAPE THE RESPONSIBILITY? BY FRED HIGH While the Danes were royally entertaining Dr. Cook on September 4th, 1909, telegrams were being showered upon him by all the world. The King of Sweden sent this message: "A BRILLIANT DEED, OF WHICH THE AMERICAN PEOPLE MAY RIGHTLY BE PROUD." The American minister to Denmark made Dr. Cook's visit state business and joined in the effort to share Cook's honors. Dr. Cook paused in the midst of all this splendor to cable the following message to our President: Copenhagen, Sept. 4, 1909. President, The White House, Washington. I have the honor to report to the chief magistrate of the United States that I have returned, having reached the North Pole." To which President Taft cabled the following reply: Beverly, Mass., Sept. 4, 1909. Frederick A. Cook, Copenhagen, Denmark. Your dispatch received. Your report that you have reached the North Pole calls for my heartiest congratulations, and stirs the pride of all Americans that this feat which has so long baffled the world has been accomplished by the intelligent energy and wonderful endurance of a fellow countryman." WILLIAM H. TAFT. Was President Taft speaking for the American people when he called Dr. Cook's achievement the pride of all Americans? Were we ready to share Cook's joys? Share his honors? If so, then in all fairness, should we not share in his trials and tribulations? Are we like the crazy base ball fan who cheers a pitching hero when he wins and insults him with all kinds of vile epithets when he loses? For one I shared in that thrill of pride and was glad to know that I had had dealings with Dr. Cook before he went in search of the Pole, consequently, I felt in honor bound to withhold any hasty criticisms that I might feel tempted to hurl at Dr. Cook. All who joined in his praises should insist upon it that he be given a chance to disprove every charge that has been brought against him, that he be given a chance to explain his every act before we join in the cry to crucify him. "Crucify him, or give us the most contemptible coward, moral leper and political crook that has lived in our time," if Dr. Cook's charges are true. Believing that this is a matter that ought to be fairly settled by competent and orderly methods, I have written to several congressmen and senators, and the following correspondence speaks for itself: Chicago, Illinois, May 7, 1913. Hon. Wooda N. Carr, Washington, D. C. Dear Sir: I wish to ask a personal favor of you, one that I think the public is interested in and one that I think the world ought to know more about. It is the Cook-Peary controversy. I have given this considerable thought and study. I have heard Dr. Cook lecture a number of times and have talked to him personally and tried to find out from every angle the facts as to whether or not his story is true. So far I have been unable to find a flaw in any of his statements, and Mr. Peary by his actions has given every evidence that Dr. Cook is telling the truth. Therefore, as a citizen who is interested in the larger affairs of this country, and as the editor of The Platform, which is devoted to the Lyceum and Chautauqua movement, I am asking whether or not it would be compatible with fair play and our sense of justice and real national dignity to take this controversy out of the hands of individuals and settle it by an official tribunal, or by a commission of arctic explorers. I shall be very glad, indeed, if you will inform me of what steps could best be taken to bring about the settlement of this controversy. If there are any authoritative facts developed along this line, I will be glad to know where to locate them as my sole object is to learn the truth. Under separate cover I am sending you copy of The Platform which contains Doctor Cook's letter to President Wilson, which I hope you will read. Yours very truly, (Signed) FRED HIGH. House of Representatives, U. S. Washington, D. C., May 13, 1913. Mr. Fred High, 602 Steinway Hall, Chicago, Ill. Dear Sir: Your letter of the 7th inst., regarding the Cook-Peary controversy, received. I do not think it would be possible to get Congress to interfere in this matter. It is a question of little concern to many who discovered the Pole, or whether it was discovered at all. It seems to be a personal matter, the settlement of which should be determined by the persons interested. Very truly yours, (Signed) WOODA N. CARR. Is it a matter of no concern whether or not the North Pole has been discovered? Is it a matter of no concern whether a man can fake a story about having discovered the North Pole, receive the homage of the world, fleece the American public out of thousands of dollars for fees to hear his lecture and go unpunished? If Dr. Cook has hoaxed the world as so many have charged him with having done, this is more than a private matter. If Dr. Cook has discovered the North Pole, are we acting the part of fellow countrymen by shirking our duty? Shall Congress say that the clique at Washington either make good its charges against Dr. Cook, or be made to retract and stand disgraced in the eyes of the world? We shared Cook's honors. Will we shirk when he calls upon his countrymen for a square deal? The following letter was received from Senator Miles Poindexter and should be carefully studied: United States Senate, Committee on Expenditures in the War Department. Washington, D. C. May 9, 1913. Mr. Fred High, Editor, The Platform, 602 Steinway Hall, 64 E. Van Buren St., Chicago, Illinois. My dear Mr. High: I have yours of 7th inst., and was very much pleased to know that you are interested in securing a fair examination, officially if possible, into Dr. Cook's claims of discovery. Ever since the Cook-Peary controversy began, I have paid more or less close attention to the questions involved therein. I have talked with a number of residents around the neighborhood of Mt. McKinley, Alaska, some of whom are friendly and some unfriendly to Dr. Cook; have read with great care Dr. Cook's book describing his polar expedition; and have followed through the newspapers and otherwise the various phases of the controversy and happenings in connection therewith. As a lawyer, I have always been especially interested in the study of the credibility of witnesses, the weight of evidence; and in deducing logical conclusions therefrom. From the careful consideration of the comparative character of the witnesses for and against Dr. Cook, their motives, and the attitude and hearing throughout the controversy of Cook and Peary themselves, I have a very fixed and firm conviction that Dr. Cook's story is true. I believe the majority of the people of the country who are interested in the subject are of the same opinion. From my observation of the miserable petty cliques and factional squabbles in official circles of the Government, such for instance as the Sampson-Schley controversy and innumerable smaller disputes, I have long ago ceased to accept, as necessarily correct, official evidence merely because it is official. I have not yet seen a copy of The Platform containing Dr. Cook's letter to President Wilson which you say you are forwarding me under separate cover, and when received will read it with much interest. Not having read it, I do not know just what plan Dr. Cook proposes for an official investigation. I will be glad however, to learn the basis upon which it is proposed to make the test an official investigation. It occurs to me that it is entirely a private matter and that the Government officially has nothing to do with it. Every man has as much right as any other man to form a conclusion in the case; public opinion, if the facts can be presented to the public, is the best judgment. I would be apprehensive of submitting the absolute determination of the question to an official tribunal for the reasons, among others, which I have mentioned above. However, will be glad to learn further as stated of the proposal. With kind regards. Very truly yours, (Signed) MILES POINDEXTER. Senator Poindexter's letter is a stricture on official Washington that ought to cause every true patriot to blush with shame. Are we at the point where even an impartial investigation can not be had into the controversy as to who discovered the North Pole? There are thousands who believe this is a question that touches our national honor and therefore is a rightful subject for a Congressional Investigation. Those who believe this, ought to write to their representatives at Washington and urge such action as will lay the facts before the world. * * * * * The following letter from Hon. Champ Clark is worthy of much consideration as it reveals the real status of this controversy as it exists in official circles. Dr. Cook is a private citizen with no Cook Arctic club to back him and share his gains. No National Geographical Society helped to finance his venture with the hope of managing his lectures as a sort of bureau graft. He is a private citizen. Speaker Clark's letter furnishes us with the reason for asking Congress to take a hand in this affair for it shows how ready our statesmen are to give ear when the people speak: THE SPEAKER'S ROOM HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES WASHINGTON, D. C. May 10, 1913. Mr. Fred High, Editor of The Platform, Chicago, Illinois. My dear Mr. High: I have your letter touching the Cook-Peary controversy. I note what you say. I do not see clearly what it is that you are suggesting. That is, whether you want Congress to formulate some plan to determine the matter by appointing a commission of Arctic explorers, or exactly what it is that you do want. Of course, I do not know very much about Arctic explorations and do not set a very high store on them as I never could understand what sort of good would come of locating the North Pole. I am a good deal of a utilitarian, and am a disciple of the Baconian philosophy rather than of the philosophy of Aristotle and the Greek school. To tell the truth, I have always had a hazy sort of an idea that both Cook and Peary discovered the North Pole. I have not valued my opinion highly enough to undertake to exploit it or to induce anybody else to believe it as I have enough other matters on hand to employ the time and attention of one man. Wishing you success, I am Your friend, (Signed) CHAMP CLARK The following opinion of the men on the Chautauqua platform is attributed to our good friend from Missouri: "The Chautauqua has been a powerful force in directing the political thought of the country, which is largely sociological in these latter days. I approve the Chautauqua lecturers, with whom I have been associated, because they constitute as fine a group of men and women as can be found among the splendid citizenship of America. I have a deep and abiding interest in them, and bid them a hearty godspeed in their work." Dr. Cook is perhaps the leading Chautauqua lecturer of the present season. He is now booked to appear at seventy Chautauquas this Summer and it is certain that even the genial Speaker of the House wouldn't want to associate with a man who would hoax the world for gain. Certainly he wouldn't want "The greatest liar of the Century" to be one of the powerful forces directing the political thoughts of the Century. If Dr. Cook discovered the North Pole he should be given the credit for that great achievement. We certainly have a right to see to it that neither Dr. Cook nor Mr. Peary are treated as though they were the scum of the earth. Dr. Cook has brought charges against Mr. Peary as a Naval officer. He still brings these charges, and he should be made to prove them. Peary, an officer of the Navy, has brought charges against Cook and he should be made to prove them. Mr. Peary is an officer of our navy, drawing an old age pension. His position is such that he cannot ignore Dr. Cook's open charges. He is honor bound to protect the good name of this great country by asking an investigation of these charges. To remain silent, is to stand to be branded as the arch-degenerate of our day. Don't forget it was he who opened up the mud batteries and caused this undignified controversy. No honorable man can allow such open charges of gross immorality as Dr. Cook preferred against Mr. Peary in his telegram to President Taft. These have been printed in magazines and newspapers as well as appearing in Dr. Cook's books, now in the sixtieth thousand edition. Here in Illinois press stories of improper conduct implicating Lieutenant-Governor Barrett O'Hara were circulated and he immediately asked the state legislature to investigate them. The legislature appointed a committee that took testimony and reported these stories were groundless and false. Is a retired Admiral less important in the eyes of the world than the Lieutenant-Governor of Illinois, or has the "old tar" taken an immunity bath? Are we any farther along than were those who put Columbus in chains and stoned the Prophets and nailed the Christ to the Cross? Are we so engrossed in the material things that all questions of honor are of no concern to us? It is true that the bar of public opinion is the court of last resort in a real democracy, but it is equally true that it is essential to see that the source of public opinion be not polluted. Should our school children be taught that Peary discovered the Pole if Dr. Cook was there first? Senator Robert M. LaFollette says: "You can't buy, you can't subsidize the Lyceum. At least, it never has been done. The Press has been subsidized. Papers and magazines which were printing the bad records of public officials and political parties have, in many instances, been forced out of the field or silenced. Special privilege organized as a System has its own press. But the Lyceum platform is free. Really, I sometimes think that, from the days of Wendell Phillips to now, the Lyceum has pretty nearly been the salvation of the country." The Lyceum and the Chautauqua have given Dr. Cook a fair hearing, and it is now a matter of National pride that when the press was silent or hostile, Congress indifferent, the Chautauqua, the one distinctively American institution, gave him an honest, impartial hearing. * * * * * I write as I do because, being the editor of The Lyceum and Chautauqua Magazine, I have tried to give Dr. Cook the same opportunity to present his case as I would expect him to do by me were I in his place and he in mine. AFTER YOU HAVE READ THIS BOOK KINDLY WRITE YOUR CONGRESSMAN CALLING FOR AN INVESTIGATION. INDEX Acpohon, Trail Along, 183; "The Land of Guillemots," 191 Acponie Island, 50 Adams, Captain, 458; Peary Suppressed Letter Presented by, 459, 487, 489 Advance Bay, 106 Ah-tah, Turns Away Ma-nee, 58 Ah-we-lah, Told Bartlett That Observations Were Made, 13, 189; Chosen for Dash to Pole, 196; Sure of Nearness of Land, 225, 230, 269, 270, 284, 293, 307, 327, 335; Prevents Boat From Sinking, 366, 385, 399; Recounts Remarkable Journey to the Pole, 452 Ahwynet, 96 Alaskan Wilds, 29 Alexander, Cape, 65, 117, 122, 152 Al-leek-ah, 95 American Legation, 469 Amund Ringnes Land, 329 Anderson, Mr., 460 Annoatok, 25; Supplies Stored at, 30; Started for, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71; First Day at, 75; Erected a House of Packing Boxes at, 76, 79, 83, 84, 85, 104, 110, 117, 152, 157, 194, 195, 226, 312, 336, 379, 437, 442, 443, 447, 451, 456 Antarctic Exploration, 28 Arctic, Bradley, Expedition, 24, 27 Arctic Circle Crossed, 34 Armbruster, Professor W. F., Defense of Dr. Cook by, 490 Armour of Chicago, Food Supplies by, 135 Arthur Land, 191 Ashton, J. M., 526, 530 Astrup, Eivind, Death of, 38, 511, 515, 560 Atholl, Cape, Sailed Around, 46 Auckland, Cape, 60 Auks, 62 Auroras, 112 Axel Heiberg Land, 193, 194, 201, 212, 246, 327, 329, 333 Bache Peninsula, Headed for, 158, 435 Baffin's Bay, 362 Baldwin, Captain Evelyn B., 135, 540, 564 Baldwin-Zeigler, Cache of Supplies Left by, 203 Bancroft Bay, 103 Bangor, 483 Barrill Affidavit, 13, 14, 522, 523, 524 Bartlett, Capt. Robt. A., Learns from Eskimos That Observations Were Made, 13; Assisted Peary in His Lies, 485, 558, 560, 562. Bathurst Land, 337 Battle Harbor, Arrival at, 31; Questions Prepared by Peary at, 483, 489, 557 Bay, Baffin's, 362; Bancroft, 103; Braebugten, 358, 377; Buchanan, 77; Cannon, 162; Dallas, 103, 104; Flagler, 154, 161, 168; Melville, 38; Entered, 39, 42, 44, 45; North Star, 46; Anchored in, 50, 462; Olrick's, 59, 63; Pioneer, 314; Robertson, 63; Sontag, 451 Bay Fiord, Overland to, 162, 168 Bear Hunting, 177, 184, 189, 432 Belcher Point, Passed, 361, 362 Belgian Antarctic Expedition, 28, 497 Belle Isle, Straits of, Entering, 31 Bennett, James Gordon, Cable to, 464, 465; Selling Narrative Story to, 491, 492, 493 Bernier, Captain, 448, 516 Berri, Herbert, 502 Berry, Robert M., 478 "Big Lead," Peary's Eskimos Become Panic-Stricken at, 11; Dr. Cook Reaches the Shores of, 217; Crossing the, 221, 222, 224, 250 "Big Nail," 85, 243 Blethen, J., 527 Bonsall Island, 106 Booth Sound, 453 Borup, George, 485, 486 Bradley, John R., Compact Made for Expedition, 24; Expedition, 29; Join Party, 31; Called to Action, 51; Assumed Direction, 53; Shoots Duck, 54, 537 "_Bradley, John R._," S. S., Sailed July 3, 1907, 23; Going Northward, 28; Aboard the, 30; Sailing Qualities of the, 31 Bradley Land, 246, 249; Positive Proof of, 251 Braebugten Bay, 358, 377 Breton, Cape, 30 Bridgeford, 527 Bridgman, Herbert L., Kitchen Explorer, 13, 77, 78, 502, 529, 557 Bridges, Thomas, Yahgan Dictionary, 497, 498 Brooklyn Dairy Business, 27 Brooke's Island, 106 Brown, Belmore, 524 Buchanan Bay, 77 Bushwick Club, 481 Cairn Point, Passed, 68 Camped for the Winter, 393 Cannon Bay, 162 Cannon Fiord, 203 Cape Alexander, Passed, 65, 117, 122, 152; Athol, Sailed Around, 46; Auckland, 60; Breton, 30; Clarence, 429; Faraday, 429, 430; Hatherton, 167; Inglefield, 68; Isabella, 428; Louis Napoleon, 435; Paget, 428; Parry, 59; Robertson, Proceeded to, 61, 62; Rutherford, 159; Sabine, Note Left at, 149, 150, 154, 157, 158, 161, 336, 426, 431; Tragedies of, 433, 434; Seiper, 103; Sheridan, 78; Sparbo, 344, 355, 357, 363, 364, 377, 378, 413, 497; Tennyson, 427, 428, 429; "Thomas Hubbard," 201; Veile, 154, 161; Vera, 343, 352, 353; York, 44, 454, 455 Cardigan Strait, 350 Caribou Hunting, 109 Chester, Rear-Admiral, 502, 543, 544 Christiansaand, 476 Clarence, Cape, 429 Coast and Geodetic Survey, 488 Coburg Island, 428 Cold, Director, 477 Columbus, Christopher, 7 Conger, Fort, Party Left by Peary to Die of Cold and Hunger at, 454 Congress, Investigation of, Admission of Peary Witnesses in, 15, 18, 547 Contracts, Book, 494 Controversy, Polar, 5 Cook, Mrs., 478 Copenhagen, 12, 15, 244, 465, 466, 476, 479, 482, 494, 497, 538, 539, 540, 549, 550, 551, 557, 563 Copenhagen, University of, 549, 562 Cornell University, 485 Crocker Land, 226, 490, 559 Crown Prince Gustav Sea, 329, 336 Crystal Palace Glacier, 451 Dahl, Charles, 456 Dallas Bay, 103, 104 Danes, Hospitality of the, 515 Danish Literary Expedition, 453, 515 Davis Straits, Entered, 31 Dedrick, Dr., Harshly Treated by Peary, 434, 454, 515 De Gerlache, 134 "Devil's Thumb," 456 Dial Shadow, at the Pole, 308 Disco, Island of, Sighted, 34 Dundas Island, 337 Dunkle, Faked Observations of, 15, 535; Introduced to, 536, 537, 538, 539, 540, 563 Dunkle-Loose Forgery, Explanation of, 355 Egan, Dr., 465, 469, 470, 494 Eggedesminde, 462; First Banquet in Honor of Discovery of the Pole at, 463, 466 Eidsbotn, Descended to, 343 Ellef Ringnes Land, 329 Ellesmere Land, 71; the Promised Land, 101, 191, 344 Elsinore, 466 Endor, 2 Equipment, Examination of, 149 Eric the Red, 33 "_Erik_," S. S., Peary Supply Ship, 443, 449, 451, 515 Eskimos, Delusions of, 11; Testimony of, 12, 34; Married Life Among the, 48; Tents, 49; Bargaining, 49; Study of Walrus Habits, 52; Customs Pertaining to Children, 54; Romance, 55; Have No Salutation, 61; Equality of Children and Dogs to the, 63; Prosperity Measured by the Number of Dogs, 68; Engaged in Request of Reserve Supplies, 85; Making Clothes, 90; Gloom When the Long Night Begins, 92; Mourning for the Dead, 95; Dancing, 97; Joy in Killing a Bear, 108; Christmas Festivities, 137; Ice Cream, 137; the Coming of the Stork to the, 142; Love for Children, 145; Belief in Shadows, 180; Show Anxiety, 206; Questioned by Peary, 206; Comedies and Tragedies of the, 322; Weird Customs of the, 399; Describe Trip to Pole, 452; Hostility to Peary, 454; Put Through the Third Degree by Peary, 488; Put on Board Peary's Ship Against their Will, 514 Etah, 13; Steered for, 64; Landing Difficult at, 69, 70; Eskimos Return to, 206, 312, 448, 449, 451, 558 E-tuk-i-shook, 12; Told Bartlett That Observations Were Made, 13; Sights Bears, 183; Chosen for Dash to Pole, 196, 293; Sure of Nearness to Land, 225, 230, 270, 279, 284, 293, 307, 327, 335; Kills a Walrus, 373, 381; Secures a Hare, 384; An Adept With a Sling Shot, 399; Recounts Remarkable Journey to the Pole, 452. Eureka Sound, Reached, 102, 183, 192 Explorers' Club, 529 Faraday, Cape, 429, 430 Faroe Islands, 464 Fenker, Governor, 36 Fiala, Anthony, 478, 536 Fiord Umanak, Reached, 38; Bay, Overland to, 162, 168; Snag's, 193; Cannon, 203; Musk Ox, 343; Talbot's, 429 Floundering in the Open Sea, 231 Flagler Bay, Advance Supplies Sent to, 154, 161, 168 Foulke Fiord, Entered, 66 Fox, Arctic, 398 Francke, Rudolph, 25; Selected as Companion to Dr. Cook, 72, 73, 79; Hunting, 89, 90; Meat Gathered and Dried in Strips by, 114; Prepared a Feast, 147, 148; Asked to Join Party, 153, 155; Remained in Charge of Supplies at Annoatok, 204; in Starving Condition Refused Bread and Coffee by Peary, 442; Compelled by Peary to Turn Over Furs and Ivory, 443, 517 Franklin Bay Expedition, Lady, 158 Fridtjof Nansen Sound, 315, 327 Game, Captured, 100 Gannett, Henry, 544 "Gates of Hades," 66 Gilder, Richard Watson, 112 Glacier, Crystal Palace, 451; Humboldt, 45, 100, 106, 109; Petowik, Sighted, 45 Gloucester, 23 "_Godthaab_," S. S., Supply Ship, 461 Godhaven, Sheltered in, 36, 37 Goggles, Amber-Colored, Used to Protect the Eyes, 226 "Gold Brick," Slurs, 39 Gore, Professor, 540, 563 Gramatan Inn, 535 Grand Republic, 479, 480 Grant Land, 191, 212, 214, 215, 226 Great Iron Stone, 513 Greely Expedition, Camp of, 158; Peary Throws Discredit Upon the, 433, 515 Greely, General A. W., 168, 544, 560 Greely River, 168 Greenland, Steered for, 31; Interior, 32, 37, 45, 62, 69, 79, 117, 364, 408, 433, 436, 489, 497 Grinnell Land, 191 Grinnell Peninsula, 337, 342 Grosvenor, Gilbert, 543, 544 Gulf, Inglefield, 46, 59; Crossing, 60, 453; of St. Lawrence, Sailed Over, 31 Gum Drop Story, Explanation of, 30 Hague Tribunal, The, 441 Hampton, Benjamin, 546, 553 Hampton's Magazine, 546, 552, 553 "_Hans Egede_," S. S., Sailed on, 464, 466, 467 Hansen, Dr. Norman, 462 Hares, Arctic, 67, 163 Harry, T. Everett, 552, 554 Hassel Sound, 329, 334 Hatherton, Cape, 67 Hayes, Dr., 66, 222 Hearst, W. R., Offer From, 491 Hell Gate, 348; Drifting Towards, 350, 353 Henson, Matthew, Statement of, 506, 559 Holland House, Compact Made at, 24 Holsteinborg, 32 "_Hope_," S. S., 513 Hovgaard, Commander, 468, 472 "Hubbard, Cape Thomas," 201, 489 Hubbard, General Thomas, 528, 558 Humboldt Glacier, 45, 100, 106, 109 Hunting, Caribou, 109; Bear, 177, 184, 189, 432; Hare, 67, 89, 163; Musk Ox, 171, 184, 378-392; Narwhal, 87; Walrus, 54, 64, 367-373; In the Moonlight, 114-129 Icarus, 43 Ice, Explosion of, 124 Iceberg, Adrift on an, 346 Iceland, 464 Igloo, Building an, 166 Ik-wa, the Cruelty of, 55, 56, 57 Inglefield, Cape, 68 Inglefield, Gulf, 46, 59; Crossing, 60, 453 Instruments, Carried on Journey to Pole, 198; Left With Whitney, 450; Buried, 499 Investigation of Peary's So-Called Proofs, 544, 545 Isabella Cape, 428 Island, Bonsall, 106; Brook's, 106; Coburg, 428; Disco, 34, 50; Littleton, Passing Inside of, 67; Dundas, 337; Faroe, 464; North Cornwall, 336; Saunders, 54; Schei, 185; Shannon, 203; Shelton, 478; Weyprecht, 159 Itiblu, Near, 59, 453 Jensen, Inspector Dougaard, 461, 463, 464, 497 Jesup, Mrs. Morris K., 514 Jones Sound, 324, 342, 383, 396, 406, 426 Kraul, Governor, 457, 458, 459, 460, 461, 497 Kane Basin, 66, 101 Kane, Dr., 66 Kanga, 59 Karnah, 60 Kennedy Channel, 66 King Christian Land, 336 "King's Guest House," Only Hotel in Greenland, 462 "_Kite_," S. S., 511 Kookaan, 63 Koo-loo-ting-wah, Leading Man, 101, 105, 108, 109, 184; Took Instructions to Francke, 204; Paid by Peary to Abandon Supplies, 448 Ky-un-a, the Death of, 127 Labrador, 9, 31, 463, 484, 557 Lancaster Sound, 192, 336, 342, 425 Lands-Lokk, 195 Lerwick, Sent First Cable to New York From, 464 Lonsdale, 477, 494, 537 Loose, 15; Faked Observations, 535, 537, 538, 539, 540, 563 Louis Napoleon, Cape, 435 Lifeboat Cove, Searched for Relics Along, 67 Lincoln Land, 191 Lincoln Sea, 214 Littleton Island, Passing Inside of, 67 MacDonald, J. A., Describes the Mt. McKinley Ascent, 531, 532, 533 McLaughlin, A. J., 563 Ma-nee, the Romance of, 55, 56, 57 Mann, Colonel, 13, 529 Marshal, Colonel, 527 Marvin, Ross, the Suspicious Death of, 485; Letters Suppressed, 488 _Matin_, Paris, offer $50,000, 494 McMillan, Makes False Statements, 484 "_Melchior_," S. S., 476 Melville, Admiral, 502 Melville Bay, 38; Entered, 39, 42, 44, 45, 455 Meteorite, "Star Stone," Stolen by Peary, 435, 454, 512 _Mirror_, St. Louis, the Only Paper to Grant Space to Uncover the Unfair Methods of the Pro-Peary Conspiracy, 490, 491, 492 Mitchell, Roscoe, 525, 527 "_Morning_," S. S., 458 Mountain, Table, "Oomanaq," 46 Mt. McKinley, Affidavit, 13, 14; Scaled, 29, 522; Description of ascent, 531, 535, 541 Murchison Sound, 453 Museum of Natural History, 513 Musk Ox Fiord, 343 Musk Ox Hunting, 171, 184, 387 My-ah, Disposes of Wives to Gain Dogs, 48; Direct Hunting, 51 Mylius Erickson, 133, 453 Nansen, introduced the Kayak, 133, 495 Nansen Sound, Through, 164, 193, 195, 203 Nansen Straits, 77 Narwhal Hunt, Description of, 87 Naval Committee, 10 National Geographic Society, 10, 13, 540, 541, 542, 544, 549, 561, 564 Needles, Eskimo, How They are Made, 91 Newfoundland Boats, 31 New York _Globe_, 528 New York _Herald_, 465, 482, 493, 527, 538, 557 New York _Times_, Published Lying Document, 15; Peary's Questions Sent to, 483, 521, 540, 557, 561, 564 New York _World_, 506 New York, University of, Graduated From, 27 Nordenskjold, 495 Nordenskjold, Expedition, 468 Nordenskjold System Borrowed by Peary, 511 North Cornwall Island, 336 North Devon, 183, 342, 359, 396, 423 North Lincoln, 406 North Pole, 3, 4, 5, 8, 16, 18, 19, 20, 21, 24, 30, 74, 155, 284, 287, 310, 449, 452, 455, 557 North Star Bay, 44, 46; Anchored in, 50, 462 Norwegian Bay, 336 Nuerke, 447, 451, 453 Observations, 245, 257, 274, 292, 302 Olafsen, Professor, 472 Olrik's Bay, 59, 63 "Oomanaq," Table Mountain, 46 Oomanooi, Village of, Visited, 47, 453 _Oscar II_, S. S., Sailed on to New York, 475, 476, 477, 494, 495 Paget, Cape, 428 Palatine Hotel, 554 Parker, Professor Herschell, 13, 523, 524 Parry, Cape, 59 Peary, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 19, 20, 27, 28, 38, 39, 77, 112, 131, 200, 212, 244, 253, 433, 438, 439, 440, 441, 443, 444, 447, 448, 451, 452, 454, 459, 463, 474, 477, 482, 483, 484, 485, 487, 490, 491, 492, 493, 496, 499, 500, 501, 502, 505, 506, 507, 508, 509, 510, 511, 512, 513, 514, 516, 517, 518, 519, 527, 528, 529, 530, 540, 542, 543, 544, 545, 557, 558, 563, 565 Peary, Mrs., 63 Pennsylvania R. R. Station (Washington), Casual Examination of Peary's Instruments in, 10 Penny Strait, 337 Petowik Glacier, 45 Phoenix Hotel, Stayed at, 468 Pioneer Bay, 340, 341 Polar Ethics, Accused of Violating, 439 Poe, Edgar Allen, 140 "_Polaris_," S. S., Stranded in Sinking Condition, 67 Pole, Copy of Note Left in Tube at, 313 Pole Star, 136 _Politiken_, 465, 473 Pond's Inlet, 425 Portland, 560 Press, Injustice of the, 19 Printz, F., 525 Proofs, Peary's Demands for, 547, 548, 549 Quebec, 553 Rassmussen, Knud, Lived Among Eskimos, 46; Heard Story From Eskimos of Finding the "Big Nail," 462; Foretold Return of Peary and Prophesied Discord, 463 Rensselaer Harbor, 101 Rice Strait, Through, 158 Roberts, Mr., 548 Robertson Bay, 63 Robertson, Cape, Proceed to, 61, 62 Robeson Channel, 218 "Robinson Crusoe" Life, 391 Rocky Mountains, 33 Rood, Henry, 485 Roosevelt, Stolen Tusk Presented to, 443 "_Roosevelt_," S. S., 438; Piratical Career of the, 444, 447, 451, 484, 557 Route to the Pole, 285 Royal Geographical Society, 472, 473, 475 Rutherford, Cape, 159 Sabine, Cape, Notes Left at, 149, 150, 154, 157, 158, 161, 336; Tragedies of, 426, 431, 433, 434, 515 Saunders Island, 54 Schei Land, 185 Schley Land, 79, 164, 191 Schley, Rear-Admiral, 168, 544, 584 Schley River, 168 Schwartz, Dr. Henry, 490 Seattle _Times_, 527 Seiper, Cape, 103 Ser-wah-ding-wah, 122, 152 Shackleton's Journey to the South Pole, 458 Shadows at the Pole, 304, 306, 308 Shainwald, Ralph L., 469 Shakespeare, 140 Shelter Island, 478 Shannon Island, 203 Sheridan, Cape, 78 Schoubye, Captain Henning, 46, 515 Sledges, Making of, 128 Smith, Mrs., 514 Smith Sound, Entered, 65, 66; Left, 71, 104, 122, 150 Snag's Fiord, 193 Sontag, Astronomer, Lost Life, 222 Sontag Bay, 451 Sound, Booth, 453; Eureka, 182, 183, 192; Fridtjof Nansen, 315, 327; Hassel, 329, 334, 365; Jones, 324, 342, 383, 396, 406, 426; Lancaster, 192, 336, 425; Murchison, 453; Nansen, Through, 164, 193, 195, 203; Smith, Entered, 65, 66; Left, 71, 164, 122, 150; Whale, Entered, 59; Wolstenholm, 46; Walrus Adventure in, 50, 433. Sparbo, Cape, 344, 355, 357, 363, 364, 377, 378, 413, 497 Speed Limits, Criticized, 502; Peary's, 505 Spitzbergen, 289 Squint, Boreal, 275 Stanley, 7, 495 "Star Stone," 435, 454, 512 Stars and Stripes Pinned to the North Pole, 287 Stead, William T., 467, 468, 491 Steinsby, Professor, 461 St. Lawrence, Gulf of, 31 St. Louis, Lecture, 496 Stockwell, Professor, 503 Stokes, Frank Wilbert, 112 Straits, Davis, 31; Belle Isle, Entering, 31; Rice, Through, 158; Vaigat, Passed, 38; Cardigan, 350 Stromgren, Professor Elis, 472, 550 Stork, Visits at Christmas, 142 Supplies, 197; Taken for Journey to Pole, 198, 199; Seized by Peary, 444 Sydney, Harry Whitney, Arrives at, 12; Journey to, 236, 558, 561 Svarten Huk, 38 Svartevoeg, 180; Camped South of, 193, 194, 195, 201, 206, 247, 287, 363 Sverdrup, Captain Otto, Exploration of, 80, 191; Mapped Channels by, 192, 201, 342; Peary Stole the Honor of the Naming of Svartevoeg From, 489, 490, 516, 560 Table Mountain, "Oomanaq," 46 Tacoma, 528, 530 Talbot's Fiord, 429 Tassuasak, Arrived at, 456 Temperature of the Body, 324 Tennyson, Cape, 427, 428, 429 "Tent, The," Meteorite, 513 Tents, Eskimo, 49 Thompsen, Professor, 461 "Thumb, The Devil's," 39 Tittman, O. H., 544 Torp, Professor, 472, 549, 560 Townsend, Director, of the New York Aquarium, Falsely Accused Dr. Cook of Stealing a Dictionary Compiled by Thomas Bridges of Indian Words, 497, 498 To-ti-o, 107; Joy in Killing of Bear, 108 Troy, 553 Tung-wing-wah, 95 Umanak, 449, 461, 462 Umanak Fiord, 38 United Steamship Company, 477 Upernavik, Island, Appeared, 38, 206, 448, 449, 457, 459, 461 Vaigat Straits, Passed, 38 Veile, Cape, 154, 161 Vera, Cape, 343, 352, 353 Verhoeff, John M., the Death of, 63, 511, 515 Vespucci, Amerigo, 7 Wack, H. Wellington, 527 Waldorf-Astoria, Arrived at, 481; Dinner Given at, 504, 535 Wallace, Dillon, 536 Walrus Hunting, 15, 50, 122, 123, 367-373; In the Moonlight, 114-129 Whale Sound, Entered, 59 Whitney, Harry, 12; Instruments left with, 244, 437; Ill Treated by Peary's Boatswain Murphy, 445, 449, 451; Peary Refused Permission to Bring From the North Instruments and Data Left in His Hands, 497; Forced to Bury Instruments, 499, 558 Weapons, Making, 381 Weche, Handelschef, 461 Weed, General, 527 Wellington, Channel, 336, 340 Weyprecht Island, 159 Wolstenholm Sound, 46, 50, 453 "Worm Diggers' Union," 529 Wyckoff, E. G., 471 York, Cape, 44, 454, 455 INDEX OF NEW MATERIAL Arctic Club of America (b) Balch, Edwin Swift, Article by, 595-599 (b) Bates, R. C., Credits Mt. McKinley ascent, 534 (b) Bradley Land, 597-598 Chautauqua Managers Association, Article by (a, b, c) Caines, Ralph H., Credits Mt. McKinley ascent, 534 (b) Cook-Peary Controversy, 606, 607, 608 Cook Must Have Been First, 597 Cook's Three Achievements, 598 Carr, Wooda N. Letter to and from, 606 Can Government Escape Responsibility, 605 Clark, Champ, Letter from, 608 Danish Geographical Society (b) "Discoverer of the Pole," Peary denied title (a) Daniels, Josephus, Card to, 603 Discoverers Doubted, 596 Explorers, Verdicts of, 584 Geographic Societies, European, Forced to Honor Peary (a) Greely, Gen. A. W., 603 (b) Glacial Land, Discovery of, 598 Hubbard-Bridgeman, Arctic Trust, 600 Hoax the World, 606 High, Fred, Editor of Platform, Article by, 604, 605, 610 King of Belgium (b) Kill Brother Explorer, Tried to, 602 Lecointe, Prof. Georges, 603 Lyceum and Chautauqua Magazine, 604, 610 Mann, Congressman James R., Card to, 604 Mt. McKinley Expedition, 534 Moore, Prof. Willis, 601, 603 North Pole, 595, 604, 606 National Investigation, Desired by Cook, 600 National Geographical Society, 601, 603, (a) Overland Magazine, Article by R. H. Caines, 534 Official Evidence not Necessarily Correct, 607 O'Hara, Barrett, 609 Pension Peary, Old Age, 602, 603 Purple Snow, 598, 599 Peary's Data proves Cook's, 596, 597, 599 Poindexter, Miles, Letter from, 607 Petty Cliques in Washington, 607 Peary-Parker-Brown Humbug up to date, 534 Parker-Brown Mt. McKinley Expedition, 534 Schley, Rear Admiral W. S. (b) Sverdrup, Capt. Otto, 603 (b) Sampson-Schley Controversy, 607 Scientific Pioneers, U. S. first rank, 602 Tribune, N. Y., Article from, 595 Travelers Called Liars, 595 Taft, Wm. H., Telegram to, 606 University of Copenhagen, Conferred Degree, Ph. D. (a, b) Wilson, Woodrow, Letter to, 602 * * * * * OTHER BOOKS BY DR. COOK You have read Dr. Cook's narrative of his expedition to the North Pole. His other books are of equal interest. Through the First Antarctic Night A narrative of the Belgian South Pole Expedition of 1897, in charge of Commander de Gerlache, with Dr. Cook as surgeon. This expedition came near sharing the fate of Captain Scott of the English expedition. Captain Roald Amundsen, discoverer of the South Pole, in speaking to the Press of the hardships which the members of the Belgica expedition withstood says: "During the winter scurvy broke out and at the same time several of the party showed signs of mental trouble. Dr. Cook proved himself a surgeon equal to the situation. All of his patients recovered. Here I learned to know Dr. Cook and to appreciate him as one of the ablest, most honest, most reliable men I have ever met. Members of the Belgica expedition owe their lives to Dr. Cook, as it was through his ingenious plan of sawing the channel through the pack-ice to open water, thus releasing the ice locked ship, that saved the entire party from death." The above is covered in detail in similar words on pages 19, 20, 23 Volume One of "The South Pole" a late book by Captain Amundsen. On page 24 of the same volume he says: "Upright, honorable, capable and consciencious in the extreme; such is the memory we retain of Dr. Frederick A. Cook." To the Top of the Continent Exploration in Sub-Artic Alaska. A thrilling account of the first ascent of America's highest mountain--Mount McKinley. Dr. Cook has been engaged in exploration for twenty years--the best part of his life--all without pay. He has furnished his own money for most of his expeditions. He is a quiet, unassuming man and has done all of his work with little thought of personal gain or honorary publicity. Quietly he came forward and told us that one of the greatest exploits ever made in mountain climbing was now accomplished. It did not occur to him to beat a drum or blow a trumpet to make this known to the world. The work was accomplished; this was sufficient for him. Little was known of the Mt. McKinley trip until Peary brought it up as a side issue to throw doubt on Dr. Cook's Polar Claim; see page 534 of this book. My Attainment of the Pole Edition de Luxe Captain Amundsen in speaking of Dr. Cook's Polar trip says: "It was a pity that Peary should besmirch his beautiful work by circulating outrageous accusations against a competitor who had WON THE BATTLE in open field. If Peary is to prove the accusation by the evidence of Cook's two followers, I must confess it is a very weak foundation." * * * * * The above books by Dr. Frederick A. Cook have been printed in edition de Luxe, especially for subscription purposes. The regular price is $5.00 each, but to accommodate those further interested in exploration, we have arranged to make a special reduced price; see next page. .................................... .................................... The Polar Publishing Co., 601 Steinway Hall, Chicago, Ill. Gentlemen: Enclosed find three dollars ($3.00) for which please send me postpaid, one copy of "Through the First Antarctic Night," by Dr. Frederick A. Cook, and oblige Yours truly, ........................................ .................................... ........................................ .................................... The Polar Publishing Co., 601 Steinway Hall, Chicago, Ill. Gentlemen: Enclosed find three dollars ($3.00) for which please send me postpaid, one copy of "To the Top of the Continent," by Dr. Frederick A. Cook, and oblige Yours truly, .................................... .................................... .................................... .................................... The Polar Publishing Co., 601 Steinway Hall, Chicago, Ill. Gentlemen: Enclosed find three dollars ($3.00) for which please send me postpaid, one copy of "My Attainment of the Pole," Edition de Luxe, by Dr. Frederick A. 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