Fatal North (6 page)

Some of his own friends thought that he was undertaking a wild goose chase, and he wasn't so sure if his wife, Emmaline, didn't silently agree. To anyone who asked, he had been saying that with “good leadership and management” he thought
Polaris
had a chance to get farther north than any ship before. He believed it was worth the try.

So many people in Washington, New York, and elsewhere had supported the expedition and bade them Godspeed. They had been able to look past the obvious danger to the honor of having an American be first at the Pole. They understood the mysterious attraction that had long drawn explorers to seek the unknown.

Tyson, as a youth, had been gripped by a longing to see the frozen north. His imagination had been stoked by published accounts of leading Arctic explorers of the day—Parry, Ross, Franklin—and he had wanted to follow in their tracks. Two decades of whaling had not diminished that flame—to gaze on unknown lands, enter mysterious, mist-shrouded channels, touch shorelines where no man had trod before, to witness novel scenes, and to share in the dangers of Arctic discovery.

On they steamed, until the blood-orange sunset was behind them. The bright summer night carried the cleansing scent of fresh rain and beckoned them toward open sea.

 

Off the coast of Newfoundland a week later,
Polaris
was enshrouded in fog, as it had been for three days and nights.
The lookout in the crow's nest perched high up the forward masthead could not see more than a hundred feet beyond the bow. Then, as if someone had drawn back a giant curtain, the veil lifted.

That evening a great change came over the sky. Dark clouds, turning every moment to a deeper blackness, massed above the horizon to the southwest. In an instant, the entire sky was blanketed. A sudden rain squall burst with violent, rolling thunder and brilliant lightning that seemed almost continuous, so incessant were the flashes. The very firmament was ablaze from horizon to zenith, while peal after peal of deep, reverberating thunder echoed and reechoed across the sky like the cannonading of contending armies.

Not just the weather had turned. Already, there were signs of crew unrest.

George Tyson noticed trouble brewing around the time of their arrival at St. Johns, Newfoundland, where the ship was coaled, and sledge dogs and skins for winter clothing were purchased. (Woolen clothing could keep out cold but was little protection against the subzero Arctic winds. Hall had hoped to procure highly sought deer skins, but none was available. He settled for seal and dog skins, which Hannah would sew together for winter clothing.) Although unaware of the dispute that had long simmered between Hall and the scientific advisers concerning the expedition's main priority, Tyson did recognize the strain. At this stage, he noticed little more than glances, gestures, and attitudes, but Dr. Emil Bessels and meteorologist Frederick Meyer were clearly acting as though they had a higher standing than anyone else aboard, including their commander. It was none of Tyson's business, for he had no official standing among the officers, but he was sorry to see early seeds of discontent.

Trouble was also fomenting on the bridge.

Two days out of St. Johns, Tyson was walking the deck alone one evening, admiring the stars and listening to the squeals of Newfoundland dogs in a makeshift kennel—a
partially overturned lifeboat. Thus occupied, he nearly ran into Sidney Buddington as the sailing master burst forth from a hatchway, cursing a blue streak.

“Tyson, we are being led by a damned fool!”

Tyson glanced at some crewmen on deck nearby, and saw that they had heard the sailing master's complaint. He took Buddington's arm and guided him away.

“I will likely be going ashore at Disco,” Buddington said, shaking his head.

Tyson knew that Disco, Greenland, would in all likelihood be their last stop before setting a straight course for the Arctic. He could not imagine what had happened to cause such vexation. He had known the sailing master for years. Buddington had been mate of the vessel on Tyson's very first voyage to sea twenty years earlier—which had ended in his first shipwreck, too. But they hadn't sailed together since, and only occasionally over the years had run into each other in one port or another.

“The worst part is,” Buddington went on, “we're being led by a man not of the sea.”

The sailing master spat it out as the worst form of insult.

Being in command was never easy, but Tyson saw what a precarious position Hall was in as expedition commander. The scientists looked down on him because he did not have their education, and so did an old salt like Buddington because Hall was not a sailor.

“That's why you're here, Bud,” Tyson said, smiling, trying to defuse the charge.

“Not likely I'll be on this blasted ship much longer.”

In the next few minutes it became clear what had happened, and Tyson had all he could do not to laugh. Buddington, it seemed, had been caught by Hall with his hand in the larder—helping himself to some extra sugar and chocolate. By nature a disciplined and parsimonious man, Hall had taken offense and severely upbraided Buddington.

An hour later, Tyson was summoned to Hall's cabin. The
commander explained the situation, and asked Tyson what he thought should be done with Buddington.

If Buddington was put off the ship, Tyson knew he would take over as sailing master. Yet that was not what Tyson wanted. He knew a last-minute switch could cause disruption among the crew, and he wanted no part of it.

“It was a careless trick, sir,” Tyson said. “He'll probably do better in the future.”

Privately, Tyson was more troubled by Buddington's conduct in front of the men. To maintain discipline, a sailing master should never lower himself to complain in front of the men, particularly about other officers, and also not consort with ordinary seamen but maintain an officer's distance. Foul-mouthed, ill-mannered Buddington had a disturbing tendency to do both, Tyson had observed, and
that
he found inexcusable. But of these concerns he said nothing; after all, Hall had known Buddington for ten years, sailed with him previously, and hired him as master of the ship. Also, Tyson continued to feel awkward about his status aboard
Polaris.
Still without his commission papers and lacking any official post, he remained more passenger than crew.

Not long after spotting the island of Greenland, they saw their first icebergs.

“Icebergs dead ahead!” cried the lookout aloft.

About fifteen came in sight at one time, great bergs flashing in the sunlight across the green and dappled sea. Many were from a hundred fifty to two hundred feet high, and those seeing the formations for the first time were most impressed by their sheer size. Their cold and mysterious beauty, suggesting they were the handiwork of a supreme sculptor, held the gaze of even the most experienced Arctic sailors, though to a man they knew well the danger icebergs posed to any vessel afloat.

They reached the island of Disco, halfway up the rugged western coast of Greenland, but did not find the Navy supply ship due to meet them in the small harbor of Godhavn, a Danish settlement nestled beneath two-thousand-foot treeless slopes.
Hall decided to await the anticipated rendezvous even though with each passing day of summer, the season for Arctic travel was shortening.

No sooner had the vessel been secured than Hall found himself faced with a blatant challenge to his authority. In his tiny cabin aft, he was confronted by Frederick Meyer, the Prussian-born meteorologist whom Hall had enlisted days earlier to help him keep his journal of the expedition. Meyer now told his commander that the clerical chore was interfering with his scientific duties.

At heart a fair-minded man, Hall considered the problem for a moment. In that case, he said, Meyer should stop making meteorological observations for the time being to concentrate entirely on the journal and to assist with other matters on the ship. Hall's reasoning was that meteorological records would not become critical until they were farther north. At that point, he would reevaluate Meyer's work schedule.

Journal writing was considered so vital to the record of the expedition that it had been spelled out in the orders from the Secretary of the Navy; every man aboard ship who could read and write was directed to keep a journal and turn it in at the end of the trip. That was in addition to the official ship's log. Virtually every movement of the ship and every finding of the expedition were to be documented. From Meyer, Hall had sought assistance in keeping up with some of this workload.

Although Meyer, as a sergeant in the United States Signal Corps, was accustomed to following orders, he refused, telling Hall that his scientific duties were more important than the captain's journal.

Hall was astonished. “Sergeant Meyer, this is not a request. This is an order.”

“I have my orders from headquarters,” Meyer retorted.

“You have your orders from headquarters?” Hall said. “Produce them, sir.”

Meyer turned beet red. “My duty is taking meteorological observations. You are telling me to cease my observations to keep your journal. It is an order I cannot obey.”

“Need I remind you,” Hall sputtered, “that you and every member of this expedition are under my command and will follow my orders.”

Meyer stood silent but defiant.

That evening, Dr. Emil Bessels asked to speak to Hall. He said that Meyer's scientific duties were so pressing that he could not be spared for other work.

Hall started at the audacious little German. Who did he think he was?

“If the sergeant is put off the ship,” Bessels went on, “I will leave, too.”

Word of the quarrel spread among the crew that night. The Germans were particularly alarmed, and after loudly discussing the situation with Bessels in their native tongue, they decided to a man that they would quit, too, should Bessels and Meyer leave the ship.

Hall was stunned by the depth of the plot Bessels was stirring up to defy his authority. This was no longer just one crewman's complaint about his duties. Hall understood it had turned into a test of his ability to command.

If the Germans left, Hall knew the expedition would be over before it started. He could not possibly go on, as there would be no way to replace at the last minute the chief engineer, two of the three scientists, and seven of the ten ordinary seamen. After all the support the expedition had received at home, and the ceremonious sendoffs, they would limp back in defeat with only a partial crew. They would be a laughingstock, his reputation as Arctic explorer surely ruined.

Hall spent the night brooding.

He knew the face of insubordination; he had seen it before. In the summer of 1868, after four long years in the Arctic, tempers had flared between him and some of the seamen who had accompanied him to Repulse Bay in search of the lost Franklin expedition. Tension in the camp had been rising for days, and at one point several of his men were in a mutinous state. Their leader, Patrick Coleman, an American, planted himself in front
of Hall and delivered a rebellious ultimatum. Trying to reason with Coleman, Hall placed a hand on his shoulder, but Coleman, a powerful, muscular man, squared off against his commander. Hall ran to his tent, picked up his revolver, and returned, demanding that the men end their insolence. When Coleman became more threatening, Hall snapped and impulsively pulled the trigger. Coleman staggered and fell. Hall, realizing what he had done, handed an Eskimo his revolver and helped the wounded man to his tent. Coleman did not die immediately, but lived on for a horrifying fortnight before succumbing to his wounds. During that time a remorseful and shaken Hall stayed at the man's side, struggling vainly to save his life. Hall was never questioned by authorities about the shooting death; no one could determine under whose jurisdiction that remote region of the Arctic lay, and no one was much interested in finding out.

In the morning, Hall, bleary-eyed and exhausted from worry and lack of sleep, felt he had no choice but to capitulate to Meyer. Hall summoned the meteorologist and told him he could continue taking observations; he'd find someone else to keep his journal.

In a week, the Navy supply ship, USS
Congress,
arrived from New York with final provisions for
Polaris,
enough to restock her coal and food supplies before she continued her journey north. Arriving on
Congress
was the third and final member of the ship's scientific corps, Richard W. D. Bryan, who assumed his dual role aboard
Polaris
as astronomer and chaplain. Bryan had been employed as an astronomer at an observatory in Michigan since his recent graduation from Lafayette College in Easton, Pennsylvania. Recommended for the
Polaris
appointment by his alma mater, Byran had a freshly scrubbed look and youthful appeal, and his eagerness to do the right thing was irresistible even to the most hardened seaman. In addition, Byran was a young man of superior talent and intelligence who caught on very quickly.

When Captain H. K. Davenport, the skipper of the
Congress,
stepped aboard
Polaris
in full uniform, regal and patrician, he
was shocked to find officers openly at odds with their angry and mortified commander, and to learn that the long-planned and well-outfitted polar expedition had nearly been scuttled by mass desertion.

Hall sought Davenport's advice. After reviewing the Navy Department's orders under which
Polaris
sailed, Davenport said that since the crew was subject to Navy discipline, he was prepared to arrest Meyer for insolence and return him to the U.S. in irons, adding that this example might go far to repairing Hall's authority.

Hall appreciated the offer but declined. He explained that the mission was more important than any one man. All he wanted to do was to get on his way to the Pole.

At Davenport's suggestion, Hall called Meyer into his cabin. The commander wrote out a paragraph from the navy's official orders: “As a member of the United States naval North Polar Expedition, I do hereby solemnly promise and agree to conform to all the instructions as herein set forth by the Secretary of the United States Navy to the commander.” Hall asked Meyer to sign the statement, which the meteorologist did.