Fatal North (13 page)

The sailor casually asked him why.

“You know, Hayes,” Bessels said, stopping to laugh before continuing, “Captain Hall's death was the best thing that could have happened for this expedition.”

8

Stirring an Ice-Co Id Grave

F
or more than a week after Charles Francis Hall went to his grave, a terrible storm raged: seven days of blinding snow blizzards and roaring winds, the likes of which members of the North Polar Expedition had not before experienced. Even the Eskimos, born and raised in the clime, were awestruck by the intensity of the celestial violence. During Hall's illness the weather had been unusually calm and clear for winter. Now, they agreed, it was as if the spirits were angry.

The night after Hall's burial, the ship's company were startled at midnight by a loud cry of distress. The carpenter, Nathaniel Coffin, was found crouching in horror in a corner of his bunk, believing that he had heard a voice calling to him from the adjacent storeroom. To pacify him, the storeroom was unlocked and searched. Despite proof that no one was lurking inside, the carpenter continued to believe that he had heard something. Because his bunk was so near the storeroom, he was offered an empty bunk in the upper berthing compartment. The carpenter was happy crawling into the bunk so recently occupied by Captain Hall, and he soonfell asleep.

Several men had close calls in the big storm.

Dr. Emil Bessels was trapped overnight in the Observatory by the howling snowstorm, a virtual prisoner. He went eight hours after running out of coal and having no heat in temperatures that dropped to 24 degrees below zero. Finally he was reached and brought back to the ship by the two Eskimo hunters and meteorologist Frederick Meyer, whose eyelids froze from battling the driving snow and icy winds up to sixty miles per hour. The storm was so violent it was impossible for Meyer and Bessels to stand against the wind on the way back to the ship, and even when creeping on their hands and knees they had difficulty making headway. The Eskimos had less difficulty with the trek, as they knew better how to battle the strong wind. All except Hans ended up frostbitten.

Herman Sieman, a thirty-one-year-old German seaman who had never before sailed in Arctic waters, went out to examine the tide gauge to make sure the vessel was not in danger of drifting from her anchorage. Solid and strong of build, Sieman was nonetheless lifted up by the storm and carried a hundred feet, whereupon he was thrown violendy upon the ice, and covered by freezing water rushing up through huge cracks that opened. When he recovered from the shock, he found that he was lying on his back with hands and feet in the air. Fortunately, he still retained his lantern, which had not gone out. Getting up on his feet, he forced his way against the wind and reached the fire hole in the ice, which was where the tidal activity was read. The gale-force snowstorm was so furious that he could hardly keep his eyes open long enough to read the tide gauge.

The poor dogs suffered greatly on the ice. Their yelps of distress so affected the men that they were brought in off the ice and provided with shelter on deck under the awning.

The creaking of the masts and the howling of the wind through the rigging proved that the storm continued to rage without a lull. In the lower cabin, all felt the rocking of the vessel as well as the grinding of the ship's hull in her icy cradle upon
the berg, causing everyone much anxiety. In the upper cabin, crewmen heard the heavy canvas awnings on the main deck repeatedly snapping like thunder in the wind.

The wind blew with such force against the broadside of the vessel that she was thrown over on one side, and the snow wall built around her gave way and sank several feet. The more than two-foot-thick ice encircling
Polaris
began cracking loudly, and the vessel was repeatedly driven against the ice with severe shocks.

The ice had broken all around the bay, and they were now surrounded by open waters within half a mile. Although still stuck in the ice floe, the vessel had begun to drift from the protection of Providence Berg. They quickly put out another anchor forward in eight fathoms of water, but
Polaris
still headed ominously toward the wind-whipped bay, filled with swirling icebergs.

Someone had to get a line attached to the berg, but Buddington hesitated to give the order, apparently unsure if it would be obeyed. The duty was made perilous by the extreme violence of the wind and the steep, slippery surface of the berg.

Seaman William Nindemann, a strong, quiet twenty-three-year-old German, stepped forward. “I'll try.”

“Joe and Hans will give you a hand,” said Buddington, volunteering the Eskimos.

To illuminate the work, a large pan containing tarred rope saturated with kerosene oil was set out onto the ice and lit.

Nindemann succeeded in getting across the cracking ice floe to the berg fifty feet away. Using a hatchet, he cut steps up the side of the berg and scaled its slippery banks. He carried with him an ice anchor and a line tied to a stanchion on deck. From the ship's supply he had taken the heaviest of the ice anchors, a seventy-five-pound iron hook that he strapped to his back. As line was fed to him by the natives from the ice floe, the seamen secured the hook into the berg and the line was pulled taut from the ship.

Once the ship was holding steadily to the berg, a cheer went
up from the assembled officers and crew who had watched Nindemann perform his daredevil feat. For added security, two other anchors were made ready, and the Eskimos took these across the floe and up the side of the berg to the waiting Nindemann. With the three lines secured to the berg, the threat of the ship being carried away and colliding with fast-drifting bergs was eased. Nindemann and a native were frostbitten during their exposure but not seriously.

During a brief lull in the storm, the damage was assessed. Two sledges left outside had drifted away when the ice broke. Also missing were a handful of dogs, although they were soon found buried under a wall of fresh snow in a doghouse; cold but uninjured.

When the gale picked up again, the water crashing against the ship's side sounded ominous, and the shocks of the vessel against the ice were alarming. In spite of the heavy strain, the anchors and lines secured to the berg held fast.

When the storm finally passed, the vessel was found to be exposed to wildly drifting floes the wind had driven into the bay. It was decided to bring
Polaris
more under the protection of Providence Berg. Crewmen sawed a narrow opening through the youngest ice—already seven inches thick—in order to bring the ship around under better shelter. With all hands pulling on the hawsers and adjusting anchor lines as they went, they managed to move her through the gap in the ice floe eighty feet to the middle of the berg on its long side, but still a safe distance away.

Command of the ship had passed without challenge to Sidney Buddington, and his true nature was revealed early. As Hall's body still lay aboard ship awaiting burial, Buddington had summoned the officers to his cabin. They expected an important consultation or perhaps even an inspirational message, but to their surprise they found him already three sheets to the wind, waiting to play poker with them. Upon Hall's death, Buddington had inherited the captain's keys, including the one that opened the locked supply of wine, rum, and whiskey that had been boarded for special occasions. Also, Buddington took
possession of Hall's personal effects, keeping some for himself and freely distributing the rest among members of the crew, sometimes selling or bartering them. The new skipper strolled the decks of the ship, sometimes sober and other times not, cursing and vilifying the memory of their tragically departed leader—often while wearing a favored article of the dead man's clothing.

Within days of Hall's death, Bessels prepared a document that he and Buddington signed. It read:

Consultation

Thank-God Harbor

November 13, 1871

First consultation held between Messrs. S. O. Buddington and E. Bessels. Through the mournful death of our noble commander, we feel compelled to put into effect the orders given to us by the
[
Navy
]
Department, viz:

“
Mr. Buddington shall, in case of your death or disability, continue as the sailing master, and control and direct the movements of the vessel; and Dr. Bessels shall, in such case, continue as the chief of the scientific department, directing all sledge-journeys and scientific operations. In the possible contingency of their nonconcurrence as to the course to be pursued, then Mr. Buddington shall assume the sole charge and command, and return with the expedition to the United States with all possible dispatch.”

It is our honest intention to honor our dear flag, and to hoist her on the most northern part of the earth, to complete the enterprise upon which the eyes of the whole civilized world are raised, and to do all in our power to reach our proposed goal.

S. O. Buddington

Emil Bessels

With that, the potentially divisive split-command clause had been invoked. Buddington could take the ship wherever he
pleased, while Bessels was assured a free hand in carrying out his scientific chores, and for any discoveries that were accomplished by way of explorations north, the honor would redound to him as sledge-journey leader.

Whatever discipline had existed on
Polaris
died with Hall. Although now in command of the ship, Buddington exerted only minimal control over the crew. Unlike regular Navy officers, he did not appreciate the importance of finding work to keep idle men busy and out of mischief. Nor was any effort made to provide them with recreation, regular exercise, or religious expression. In one of his first official acts, Buddington put a stop to Hall's daily religious services, at which attendance had been mandatory. Then he also made Sunday services voluntary, saying that everyone was free to pray on his own. Personally, he said, he preferred a good walk on Sunday morning.

As for Bessels, he largely stayed to himself, spending much of his time in the Observatory and conducting various measurements and observations, although most of his scientific agenda would have to await better weather in spring and summer.

Late in the afternoon of November 28 the barometer started to fall, usually a sign of a pending storm. Early that evening a snowstorm with a stiff gale set in from the south. Huge pieces of ice were driven by the wind toward Providence Berg. The immense pressure was too great for the berg, and it broke into two parts, between which ice was blown until the two halves were separated by a distance of eight feet. This demonstration, providing undeniable proof as to what the shifting ice floe might do to the hull of a wooden ship, caused considerable anxiety. The dogs were taken aboard, and preparations made for an approaching crisis.

At eleven o'clock, the berg was found to be in motion, heading squarely for the vessel. The smaller part of the berg moved more rapidly than the other, pushing the cracking ice floe before it. In the interval before the berg reached the ship, even the bravest and most experienced Arctic hands held their breath, for it seemed that the vessel must be crushed in the onslaught.

Ice pushed against the ship, and she bore the great pressure without yielding, although groaning under the strain. Several times it was thought that the ice had been forced through her side. Though the ship was standing the pressure heroically, everyone knew that no vessel afloat could hold together for long in such a position. The wind at the time was blowing at forty-seven miles per hour, and the air was filled with swirling snow. The berg was moving in toward the shore, shoving the ship before it, until the tide turned and the berg ceased its threatening movement.

Soon a new danger presented itself. In the raging winds
Polaris
swung to her anchors, but she was soon forced upon the foot of the berg. At ebb tide, she keeled over, and lay nearly on her beam ends—careening so much that it was difficult for anyone to keep his footing on deck. The force of the ice floe had pushed the foot of the iceberg
under
the ship, raising the stern nearly four feet, shaking and straining the vessel badly.

With the ship in imminent danger of being torn apart by the berg, the Eskimo women and children were sent to the Observatory until the storm abated. Also sent ashore were additional stores in the event the ship had to be abandoned.

Evaluating the situation, Tyson thought there was a possibility that the vessel could be hauled off the berg. He urgently recommended to Buddington that they try. If she was left in her present position, there was a threat of the ship being pushed farther onto the spur of the berg. Such a strain could set her to leaking.

Buddington fretted about the situation but refused to give the order.

When the tide rose, the ship came to an even keel. There, on the berg,
Polaris,
having escaped two great dangers, remained ignobly stuck.

Thanksgiving arrived, and dinner was the highlight of the day. The cook and steward went to special lengths to prepare the fare: oyster soup, lobster, turkey, different kinds of meats, vegetables (the favorite being green peas), a fine plum sauce, apple
and cherry pies, nuts, raisins, and wine punch. Dinner was set for all hands in the lower cabin, and much time was spent at the table. Chaplain R. W. D. Bryan said a few brief words.

Privately, Bryan was dismayed that daily religious services were not being held for the crew, and that attendance at the Sunday services had dwindled to only a handful of worshipers. But he said little about the situation. He was, by nature, a kind and true gentleman, and wished only to get along with everyone, including the new captain.

On the Saturday and Sunday following the holiday, there was a
paraselene
—an illusion of multiple moons showing beside the true one, arranged so as to form an eerie but beautiful cross. The true moon was surrounded by a halo, which also embraced two of the false ones, while the other mock moons had a separate halo, making a large circle concentric with the first. The two false moons nearest to the true moon showed the colors of the prism. It was a beautiful and curious sight—a strange phenomenon, sort of a double refraction—that brought the entire crew on deck to see for themselves.