The Ice Master (11 page)

The temperature was sinking steadily, dipping down to minus twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. The drift had now ceased, and the ice pack was unnervingly motionless. The
Karluk
was still held fast by the ice, at the mercy of the wind and the current. To make matters worse, the days were growing shorter, and soon the men were eating breakfast by lamplight at 9:00 in the morning, and lighting the lamps again by 3:00
P.M.
“I suppose the
²¹
sun will disappear entirely the first days of November,” Mamen wrote in his diary, “and when it is gone the long dark winter-night will come quickly, but so much the more welcome [the sun] will be when it returns in January . . ..”

At Bartlett's request, Hadley and second mate Charles Barker set up shop in the fore-hold, where they built Peary sleds. The captain wanted them ready by February, when they would leave the ship and set out for land, if they had not reached it before then.

In all his years in the Arctic, Hadley had never seen anything like it. He thought it the most ridiculous contraption he had ever come across. Peary had designed the sled himself, based on the experience he'd gleaned in his eight attempts on the North Pole. It measured thirteen feet overall, with each runner measuring three inches wide and one and a half inches thick. The runners were turned up at each end, as was the stern of the sled, making steering easier. Boards of soft wood composed the bed, filled in by pieces of oak, which were fastened by sealskin lashings. The design of the sled made it more flexible than the more conventional Nome model, allowing the driver to turn it around without lifting it. The Peary sled was also more adapted to travel over the rough and uneven Arctic ice.

Mamen was usually supportive of Bartlett, but even he couldn't understand what the captain saw in them. To him, they were cumbersome and strange and he knew they would never work. “I for my
²²
part think they are both too heavy and too frail, so I suppose we won't get any satisfaction from them if they are to be used on a sleigh trip. They are only good for being photographed, Mr. Hadley says, and perhaps he is right.”

M
C
K
INLAY WAS BEGINNING
to gain confidence. In addition to his meteorological work, he had taken up carpentry, something he had never attempted in his life. He constructed a rather crude-looking but functional medicine chest for Dr. Mackay, put up shelves in the library, and built a rough wooden table for the Cabin DeLuxe. He also repaired the gasoline lamp and sewed an entire suit of clothes for himself out of material and blanketing. He couldn't help but feel proud when he surveyed his work.

“There are some
²³
people who thought they could only teach school till they came on this trip,” Bartlett would shout at him, dropping an enormous bearlike paw onto McKinlay's shoulder. “This is better than teaching school, eh, boy? Just think, you would never have discovered what a fine fellow you are till you came here.”

Bartlett was right. It
was
better than teaching school. Before he had signed up to join Stefansson's Arctic expedition, McKinlay could only dream of the type of adventure he was now experiencing. Now here he was in the heart of it, living it. Granted, it wasn't exactly the adventure he had signed up for, but it was an adventure just the same and he was grateful for the experience and excited about what the future might hold.

McKinlay was also grateful to Bartlett, who had been especially generous with McKinlay, Mamen, and Malloch, as if to reward them for not joining the mutinous ranks of Mackay, Murray, and Beuchat. Lately, the captain had been making presents of material and lambskins, as well as knives, pipes, and other odds and ends, to McKinlay and the other two, a poignant gesture that McKinlay knew was Bartlett's way of reaching out. “I sense that
²⁴
he is feeling desperately lonely & conscious that part of the staff indulges in much criticism,” McKinlay observed. “At any rate, he is much freer in his relations with Mamen, Malloch & myself; he either knows, or feels, that we refuse to join in the criticism & indeed are prepared to back up whatever he plans.”

McKinlay felt for Bartlett and sympathized. He thought that the doctor and his two colleagues were behaving reprehensibly, and he was ashamed to be associated with them in any capacity. He was glad that they left him alone and knew that they did so because his loyalty to Bartlett was clear. He was resolved to stand by the captain and the ship until the end, whatever end that might be.

He just wished there was more he could do for Bartlett than offer his loyalty. He couldn't reach out to that formidable man, and he couldn't make the captain confide in him. Bartlett always kept up a robust, solid front, but lately his face was showing the strain and anxiety he was feeling. McKinlay found himself missing the captain's sharp tongue, hearty smile, and “free & easy
²⁵
, devil-may-care manner.”

“I wish to
²⁶
God, McKinlay, I had your even temper,” Bartlett told him one day, his usually steady voice uneven.

It was all he said on the matter. But it was all he needed to say. If McKinlay had hosted any doubts about how Bartlett was feeling, those few words painted a clear picture.

T
HEY HAD LEFT
E
SQUIMALT
four months ago. Daylight was further diminishing and the
Karluk,
still encased in the grip of the ice floe, was drifting steadily northward, sometimes twenty miles a day, sometimes more. By the time she passed Point Barrow, there were only five hours of sunlight each day.

Everyone was feeling the strain. Tempers were short, nerves were worn, and the daily tasks became more difficult to perform. Malloch, normally so cheerful, “the most good-natured
²⁷
chap in the world,” according to Mamen, had a tendency to lose control. It came out at odd times—a fierce flash of temper—followed by a return of good spirits.

McKinlay was in the Cabin DeLuxe one afternoon, absorbed in tearing down one of the beds to make more room. He was lost in thought, completely unaware of Malloch, who came into the cabin and stood watching him. McKinlay's back was to the geologist, so it was without warning that Wee Mac was, as Mamen described it, suddenly “encircled by the
²⁸
big bear's arms; to get loose was out of the question and the big bulky fellow went shear berserk on this little innocent man, but when his temper cooled down, he let go his hold and slunk shamefacedly away.”

It was a bizarre incident and left McKinlay understandably shaken and Malloch understandably embarrassed. The next day, when the cabin had been rearranged and the extra beds cleared out, the once again sunny Malloch was overjoyed at the change, as if he had thought of it himself. He was contrite, though, over his brutal treatment of McKinlay and crept around sheepishly, removing himself to his bed, embroidering the strips of fabric onto his old trousers. “We may see
²⁹
him early and late with the needle in his hand,” wrote Mamen, “singing, a comical figure, naturally good-natured and amiable, but when he gets mad one has to look out for him. It is best to keep at a respectable distance.”

While Malloch was becoming prone to violent shows of temper, Dr. Mackay retired to his cabin and began spending most of his days in bed, subsisting on regular doses of strychnine—several a week—to brace himself up. The drug was a tonic, a stimulant, which he had been taking for a while to boost his spirits and his energy, but now he was increasing the dosage. The doses were very large and after he had taken one, he was so weak that he had to stay in bed most of the next day. As days passed, he looked worse—pale and drawn, with dark circles shadowing his eyes and an unusual listlessness about him—until his colleagues worried openly about his well-being. His usual vivacity had disappeared except for fleeting, lightning-quick flashes when he couldn't resist tormenting his favorite target, second engineer Williamson. “For my part
³⁰
,” said Mamen, “I believe that he has not long to live, all the strychnine he takes ruins him completely.”

Even McKinlay sometimes sank into melancholy. Some days he would sit, book in hand, pipe in mouth, and think about home. His colleagues would catch him, staring into space, and tell him “What's the use?” It was true. There was no use in thinking of his loved ones while he was so far away. Inevitably then, his thoughts would turn to the work that had brought him to the Arctic, and the disturbing fact that, thus far, his choice to leave friends and family was unjustified. They had no leader now, and, even though he tried to stay busy, there was no real work to be done. So what, then, was he doing here?

Mamen confessed his fears only to his journal. He did not confide in anyone, did not burden his friends with his thoughts or worries, did not reveal his own apprehensions. In typical fashion, he tried to remain optimistic. They must take life as it comes. They must be patient. They must trust. Where there is life, there is hope. He believed this above all else, yet he struggled to retain his faith. “Our large ice
³¹
floe is getting frailer and frailer day after day,” he wrote in his journal. “Well, I hope it will be so frail that it will break so we can get out of here. I am now perfectly convinced that we will stay in the ice for a year. Who knows what next year will bring, whether it will be success or death and destruction for all. Yes, when and where this will end is hard to tell. It will probably be a miserable existence for most of us, and the end will be death . . . but perhaps it is the greatest benefit that can befall a starved, frozen, and worn-to-death man. No, this is too much. Fresh courage!”

T
HE FATE OF THE
K
ARLUK
seemed out of anyone's hands and now they had to wait just as the men of the
Jeannette
had had to wait. As shrewd and experienced as Bartlett was, there was little he could do. De Long himself had also known—perhaps better than anyone—the extreme helplessness of the situation. “No human power
³²
can keep the ice still, and no human ingenuity can prevent damage when it begins to grind and break up,” De Long wrote. “Held fast in a vise we cannot get away, so we have to trust in God and remain by the ship. If we are thrown out on the ice we must try to get to Siberia, if we can drag ourselves and food over the two hundred and fifty miles intervening; sleds are handy, dogs ready, provisions on deck, knapsacks packed, arms at hand, records encased. What more can we do? When trouble comes we hope to be able to deal with it, and survive it!”

Helpless and unable to do anything for themselves, the staff and crew of the Canadian Arctic Expedition focused their mounting frustration and anger on their absent leader. The men of the
Karluk
gave up hope of seeing him again that year—if ever—and speculated about his whereabouts. Stefansson, they all now realized, had never intended to come back. Perhaps he was at Point Barrow or Herschel Island with the other two expedition ships. Perhaps he was already on his way to wintering in Victoria Land with the Southern Party.

Members of the scientific staff still tried to voice their disgust in private and not in front of the crew. “I suppose there
³³
is nobody on board who is sorry for his absence,” Mamen wrote in his diary. “I for my part feel sorry for him, if I were in his position under such conditions I believe that I would spend a bullet on myself. He will, I should think, lose his good name and reputation and only be laughed at by the newspapers, yes by each and everybody, poor man, but so it goes when one cannot take care of one's own interests.”

Bartlett couldn't give in to criticizing Stefansson, and he didn't have time to waste on lamenting their situation. He left that to the scientists. Although officially in charge of them, he had little control over their avid late-nightdeliberations regarding the
Jeannette
or Dr. Mackay's plans for mutiny. He focused instead on keeping his crew busy and maintaining his composure.

O
N
O
CTOBER 30,
Mamen was lying in his bunk, again studying De Long's diaries, when night watchman Ned Golightly raced into the cabin. Seaman Golightly was usually a quiet boy, calm and reserved, but now he was agitated and breathless. He and the men in the fo'c'sle had heard a loud report at 7:00
P.M.
They examined the area around the ship but saw nothing, no sign of where the sound came from. After that, all was quiet. Then, an hour later, Golightly heard the most terrifying noise. It was the ice cracking within ten yards of the ship, surrounding her on all sides, pushing up and raftering, splintering into thin, jagged ribbons, threatening to squeeze
Karluk
like a vise and puncture her vulnerable walls.

Beuchat immediately fell to pieces, scared out of his wits. Mamen assured him that they were safe for the moment and ordered him to get hold of himself. Beuchat calmed somewhat and together he and Mamen raced up and out into the darkness, the bitter, bone-chilling cold, a fierce wind—a blizzard.

It was Sandy who first thought to go after the gear, which was stowed nearby on the ice. Mamen pitched in, and soon all hands were ordered to bring the gear back aboard. The cracks in the ice grew larger as they worked. All about them, the ice was grinding and pressing the ship, as the storm swelled in the darkness. After the supplies were stowed, they went after the dogs, which were reluctant to cross the open water to the ship. The huskies didn't mind ice and cold; they were used to sleeping burrowed in the snow, in the middle of blizzards, if need be. But they hated water. Every time, they refused to cross it. Now as the dark, glassy chasms opened in the ice, the dogs stood their ground and refused to move, or when the men came at them, they ran away, skittering across the ice, away from the open water and the ship.

There wasn't a restful eye in the house that sleepless night. Everyone—scientists, crewmen, Eskimos—suddenly realized quite fully the danger of their situation. It was a reality that Bartlett had been facing from the moment they became trapped in the ice.
Karluk
had survived this time, but would she be so lucky the next? They could no longer push aside the prospect of doom and tragedy. It wasn't a matter of
if
anymore, but
when
.