Chapter III

Those of my readers who have not deserted during the cataloguing of our supplies may be interested in knowing something of our route. The lines of approach to the Pole are, of course, infinite in number. Let me illustrate this fact in a simple way.

A direct projection of the northern hemisphere would resemble a pie with the Equator at its rim and the Pole at its center. Now imagine our pie cut into four quarters. We have, obviously, four ways to the Pole. But now suppose the arrival of unexpected company, four in number; a less generous distribution of our pie becomes necessary. The scientific housewife would at once solve the difficulty by cutting the pie on intervening lines. We now have eight pieces to our pie and, consequently, eight ways to our pole. If we have eight we may have sixteen, if sixteen, thirty-two, and so on, by subdivision, to infinity. Q.E.D.[5]

THE BIG HUNTING

As soon as the early August frosts warn the Eskimo huntsman that
winter is nigh, he begins to think about his food-supply. In fact
this is a thing he thinks about most of the time. Food is the
paramount consideration in polar-regions. It is the standard of
value, the source of warmth, the unit of measure it is everything.

There are in reality but two seasons, Winter and Summer, in the
regions immediately surrounding the Pole. Hunting is impossible in
the one because of the intense cold. But between the two periods come
a few days, a week at most, of intermediate temperature, too short to
be called Spring or Autumn, but too valuable to be lost. It is during
these short spells that the native must lay in his winter or summer
supply of meat, skins, etc. Consequently he is always in a hurry.

The photograph shows Makuik at his favorite sport of
seal-slaughtering. Dr. Traprock tells us that owing to the amazing
abundance of game in these remote regions it was possible for the
mighty hunter to pursue his prey for four days without stopping for
rest or food save for an occasional hunk of flesh or fat torn from
one of his victims _en passant_.

"Makuik's elation," says the intrepid author, "became almost
unpleasant." As the herds of seal, walrus and otary accumulated about
him their blood seemed to go to his head. Uttering a low crooning cry
which rose to a wild screech at every thrust of his raktok (trident)
he leaped about the floe with the soft agility of a Mordkin. An
extraordinary sight was to see him hurl his weapon into a passing
flock of pemmican, spearing a fine bird on each of its prongs. But
his favorite game was seals because of their comparative inability to
escape and their rich food-value. Incidentally the skins would make
excellent gifts for his wives during the approaching Yule-tide season
(Kryptok-Boknik-lok or Feast of Food). Makuik evidently believed in
"doing his Christmas stabbing early."

At the close of the "big hunting," Makuik had to his credit, besides
countless other game, four hundred and seventy seals. The photograph
pictures him making three holes in one, a feat which no golf-player
can ever hope to rival.

The question immediately arose as to which route I should select. I decided on the straightest, just as I had decided, in Cambridge, to take the Kawa to the North Pole instead of the South because it was nearer. Obviously I must reach the polar ice-pack before making my beeline as my ship was adapted for but two elements, ice and water. Travel over bare ground was not contemplated. Wheels had never entered my head. How nearly this fact cost us our lives makes a thrilling story but one which comes later.

Thus, our object was to round Cape Race and pick our way through Davis Strait which runs due north through Baffin Bay, well beyond the Arctic Circle. This is the most direct water route from New York.

Our last glimpse of the homeland was the white water over Sow-and-Pigs Ledge off Cuttyhunk, from which we set a course North by slightly East to pick up the gas-beacon at mouth of St. John's Harbor. As we swashed along outside of Cuttyhunk I saw through my glasses a signal flag waved from the piazza of the old fishing club which I recalled having visited as a small boy in '88 when the last sea-bass was hauled from those waters. A moment later a small boat put off from the beach near the lighthouse and rowed in our direction. It was a hard pull for the sturdy islanders but we stood by and finally took their helmsman aboard who handed me a letter marked "Rush" which proved to be a notice from the Westchester Lighting Company informing me that there was still a payment due on my gas range. As I had opened this missive in the privacy of my cabin I was able to go on deck and tell the messenger, rather curtly, that there was "no answer" and the good fellows rowed away, giving us a hearty cheer as we turned our nose to the open sea.

St. John's was our first port-of-call for I had to redeem my promise to Triplett to pick up the woman, "Sausalito," as he called her. I think the old man was inspired by the thought of seeing her, for he gave us an exhibition of navigation that was an eye-opener. After leaving Cuttyhunk we ran into a dense fog. For forty-eight hours this continued, thick and impenetrable. Once we heard the distant sound of the cod-fishers on the Banks singing their morning song--an unspeakable chantey about a dissolute person named Mary Brown--but we saw no gleam of binnacle, sun or shorelight. Yet through this murk, with the magnetic pull on our bowsprit tending always to veer us from our course, Triplett led us with such accuracy that at exactly the appointed time we caught the distant flash of the beacon and knew that our first leg had been completed.

My followers knew nothing of my plan to take Sausalito aboard and my instructions to Triplett were to keep silent. The lady's first appearance was not reassuring. She was standing on a dilapidated pier head, valiantly defending herself from volleys of stones hurled by native village lads. Crouching behind a rusty try-out kettle she responded in kind, directing her missiles with vicious speed and accuracy. A curious morning picture.

"That's her," chuckled Triplett. "She allus were a speritted female."

The others looked on wonderingly as the Captain dropped over the stern into our cockle-boat, pulled toward the dock and took the bulky figure aboard.

"Who the devil is this?" asked Plock, scowling darkly, as they neared our counter.

"My sewing woman," I said briefly. "Lend a hand, man."

He did so with an ill grace, and a moment later I saw him whispering to Wigmore and Sloff with every evidence of displeasure. I myself was not a little upset at the over-exuberance of Triplett's manner toward this strange woman. She was a dark, unkempt creature with bright gray-blue eyes which contrasted strangely with her brown cheeks. Her hair, what we could see of it, under her man's cap, was nondescript; teeth irregular. Two extraordinary qualities, however, she had--a smile which vivified her oddness with an unearthly beauty, a brilliant, mocking irradiation that made her look magically youthful, a crone metamorphosed into a little girl, and a voice--O, a mystery of still waters!--such a voice!--a deep resonant contralto, at once caressing and vibrant, with strange breaks and husky notes, melting softnesses and brazen clangor! The Captain was delighted with the reunion.

"My leetle apple!" he cried, patting her, and, indeed, the term was not inexact as her dusky cheeks flashed with pleasure 'neath his great paws.

"How you've grown, Ezra!" she laughed, pointing to his capacious girth.

"Ain't I, though," he assented; "mostly 'round the water-line!"

I felt that it was time I intervened.

"Gentlemen," I said to the group which had gathered in the waist, "this is Mrs. Sausalito, our sewing woman...."

Then Triplett fairly spiked my guns by adding,--

"And my wife!"

I could have killed the old fool! I hustled them both below and turned back to face an indignant ship's company.

Block bustled up officiously. "See here, Traprock," he blustered, "we don't like this. You know...."

"STOP!" I commanded in a voice that shook the Kawa to the place where her keel would have been had she had one. "To begin with, I want you, Plock, to know that I am not 'Traprock' to you or to any one else. I am '_Doctor_ Traprock, _Sir_'--do you understand?"

Plock growled an uneasy assent as I continued.

"I know perfectly well what is in your minds, namely, that the understanding was that there should be no wives on this voyage. This Sausalito woman was engaged by me as seamstress. If she is Triplett's wife, as he says, it is news to me. In any case I want it thoroughly understood that I am Boss on this ship. To your posts! Ready-about to wear ship. Triplett, take the helm." (He had come smirking out of the cabin.)

With surly "Aye, aye, sirs," they took up their duties, as I struck sharply on the table-bell which was screwed to the combing, the faithful Tatbury began its revolutions and once more the little Kawa slid gracefully through the long Atlantic swells.

It was a magnificent day but I was frankly depressed. Already a cloud of discord had arisen in the ranks. Already an ominous rift had opened. What might happen in the future only the future could tell. I was filled with disquieting memories of what had occurred to other Arctic explorers whose cohorts had been split by dissension and bitterness. I knew full well how they had separated, sometimes to perish under the very shadow of the Pole itself, sometimes to fight their way back to civilization in broken fragments which spent the remainder of their lives in vilifying each other. Little did I realize how much more tragic was to be the outcome of this apparently trivial incident.

In the meantime I was lulled into false security. Two weeks of glorious weather made our progress exceed even my sanguine schedules. Once clear of Cape Race our course lay almost due north and the full force of the magnetic pull on our bowsprit could be utilized. To this we added, in favoring weather, a mainsail forward and a jigger aft so that we were able to conserve our fuel supply most satisfactorily.

Our trip through Davis Strait into Baffin Bay was a sight-seeing trip new to most of my men and I was glad to be able to point out to them the objects of interest along either shore, on the left the cozy English hamlets of Mugford, Chislinghurst-on-Trent and Philpot Island, on the right the quaint Greenlandic fishing villages of Fiskernoes, Svartenhunk and Sükkertoppen, names eloquent of their respective origins.

The days grew steadily longer. We were approaching the long twilight. On a memorable Tuesday in June we crossed the Arctic Circle. This is always an exciting event but particularly so for those who experience it for the first time. Needless to say, we observed the ritual honored by mariners the world over. This follows closely the ceremony celebrated in the tropics when "crossing the line," with the variation that, instead of Neptune coming aboard, the aquatic visitor is the North King, a snowy potentate who is received with due honor by all the ship's company, especially the novices, who are forced to bring him presents and perform tricks at his behest. We hove-to in a narrow inlet on the Baffin shore known by the romantic name of Petty's Bight, where we spent a blithe two hours. Triplett played the kingly rôle while I acted as master of ceremonies. I must admit that this did not tend to calm the somewhat ruffled feelings of my following but it made a merry interlude in our routine.

During the long evenings Sausalito, laying aside her busy needle, would read to us books from her own library, "The Sheik" and the works of Ethel Dell, Harold Bell Wright and the Johnstons, Sir Harry and Owen. It was surprising how entertaining these things became to our little isolated band. Often after a particularly serious page the reader's sunlike smile would flood the main-deck and the whole company would burst into peals of laughter; then once more we would sit enthralled. It must have been her voice. Frissell, alone, absented himself from these readings and sat apart, lost in the perusal of "If Winter Comes" which he supposed was a work intended for polar novices.

At this juncture Whinney was having a most annoying time with his radio outfit upon which I had counted to keep the company amused. The best he could get was a series of noises which, in themselves, were interesting but scarcely entertaining. At times the magna-vox or "loud squeaker" as Frissell called it, would emit dismal cat-calls such as I have often heard from the upper gallery of theatres.

"That's Arlington!" Whinney would exclaim.

Again the sound would be that of penny-a-pack firecrackers such as one gives to children.

"Newark is calling us!" Whinney would say seriously. "Wait a minute."

A series of readjustments and Jimmy Valentine motions with the combination would result in a raucous scraping as if a discouraged Victrola had cut its throat.

"Pittsburgh!" would be the operator's triumphant comment. "Wait a minute!"

We waited many a minute and hour, patiently expectant, but nothing happened. The most trying thing was Whinney's explanation. He would fix us mournfully with his brown eyes, while at the same time trying to fix the machine and say solemnly:

"The length of the antennae is in direct relation to the wave length of the tuner. At the same time the vacuum tubes must be connected with or, at least, related by oscillation to the tuning circuit. When a ship is in motion the undue number of electric 'strays' disturbs the delicate filaments of the tickler and absolutely wrecks the radio activity."

"I had one of those Radio-Rex things," cried Swank. "My sweetie gave it to me for Xmas."

"I suppose you gave her a tickler," rumbled Triplett.

THE TWO BEARS

Ikik is solemn. Ikik is offended. Her tender heart is roused. Why?
In the answer lies the story of one of the most charming incidents
of the Kawa's entire polar-cruise. In another picture the reader
will see Makuik descending with murderous intent, on the back of a
large polar-bear. Shortly after the kill it was discovered that this
bear had just become a mother. Her offspring--there was but one--was
immediately adopted by Ikik. Mother-love, which flourishes even in
the high latitudes, surrounded the little cub with every protection.
First reared as a bottle-bear, the bearlet passed safely through
the teething period and soon became the regular attendant of his
foster-mother who fed him solicitously at every meal.

It was this devotion which brought about the disturbance recorded by
the camera. Warburton Plock seems to have developed an insatiable
fondness for toasted-blubber. Not content with his own share he
resorted to the cowardly practice of prigging from Toktok, as this
_ursus minimus_ was called. His method was characteristic of the man,
combining cunning with greed. Having privately constructed a small
cube of wood corresponding in size to the usual blubber-portion he
would attract Toktok's attention and ostentatiously bury the decoy
in the snow at some distance from the actual feeding ground. Then,
while the little chap was busily digging for the supposed dainty
Plock would swipe the real blubber which Makuik distributed with an
impartial hand.

Ikik was no match in logic for the wily scientist.

"You are robbing my baby!" she wailed in the present instance.

"Yes," agreed Plock, "and your baby is under the impression that he
is robbing me."

Needless to say Dr. Traprock settled this matter in his own direct
fashion. As he said in conversation with the writer, "It is
impossible to argue with such fellows. The only practical thing is to
crown them."

The whole business vastly amused the old salt. He could see nothing but foolishness in Whinney's maneuvers, "trying to git God-a'mighty on the 'phone," as he put it.

But the attempts whiled away many an idle moment, and day by day we were passing landmarks which told me clearly that our goal was nearer. The water became steadily colder, a fact which we verified by the usual scientific method of dipping out pailfuls from time to time and taking their temperature with a bath thermometer.

At the northern end of Kane Basin where Greenland makes out toward Ellesmere and Grant Land we began to encounter ice. My readers can perhaps imagine the thrill which was mine when I first heard the soft scrape of frozen lips against the Kawa's silky skin!

Ice at last! Ice! the vaunted terror of the north! Leaning over the garboard streak I watched anxiously to see how our gallant carrier would take to the element for which she was designed. It was a magical performance and a warm glow of satisfaction suffused my heart as I noted how she slipped through the glazed surface. Far beyond in the northern sky gleamed the "ice blink," that luminous brightness which told of frozen fields and floes in the great beyond. We could feel the chill of their vast bulk as we sat on deck of an evening.

We were now at the 82nd parallel and were passing through what is known as mulch ice, which is of about the same consistency and saltiness as ordinary brine. Wigmore made a number of interesting experiments with a small freezer, using corn starch and condensed milk from his own equipment and was able to produce a fair quality of ice cream which had a slightly oily flavor doubtless due to the presence of seals. From then on the ice developed into what is called squidge-ice, thicker and more lumpy than mulch, but still navigable. This, however, soon became a solid sheet, from four to ten inches in thickness, the Kawa's progress became slower and with something like acute anxiety I requested Whinney to switch on the thermal water line.

The effect surprised even Whinney whose inventive imagination had proven itself capable of foreseeing almost anything which might happen and many which might not. We were instantly surrounded by a dense fog of our own making!

The ice edges of the squidge coming in contact with the candescent copper vaporized immediately and the atmosphere on board became that of a Turkish steam-room. As is often the case it was not so much the heat as the humidity.[6] Our clothing was wringing wet and we were perspiring at every pore. It was easy to see what the fatal result would be when we shut off the electric spark and exposed our wide-open pores to the icy breath of the north. Pneumonia and consumption, if not worse, were almost certain.

Ordering all hands below for a rub-down we came to a standstill and for two days did nothing more than maintain our position by quarter-speed revolutions of the Tutbury. At the end of that time Whinney emerged from the main hatch, where he had been incubating his ideas, with a look of suppressed elation which told me that he had found a solution of our difficulty. Without a word he set about stringing wires from the storage batteries to two points on the forward rail on a line with the capstan. In less time than it takes to tell it he had lashed two electric fans to the projecting sides of the guide runners and screwed the wires into the poles after which he walked aft and came to attention.

"You may fire when ready, sir," he said, hand-at-visor.

I gave the signal and once more the throb of the engines shook our jelly-like sides, once more we heard the hiss and crackle of the squidge as it gave way before our burning zone but--a new sound! We also heard the blended sonority of the two fans as they pushed a powerful current of air along our water line. Dense and low, the fog streamed past us like parted rivers of milk, to rise in soft clouds far to the southward.

A spontaneous cheer burst from my anxious band and we gave Whinney three times three with a right good will. At Triplett's suggestion--for he was overjoyed at being able to see where he was going--I ordered "half holiday" and issued five plugs of solid alcohol in honor of our resumed motion. It was a happy evening we spent in the little cabin, Triplett, Sausalito and I, while the others sat on deck in the pale sunlight, crooning the old song which has been sung by polar explorers since viking days, "Nordenskold! Nordenskold! Tilig am poel."[7]

Triplett's adjustable yard-arm which controlled our conviviality was occasionally shifted to keep the low circling sun directly over it and many a toast was eaten as the cheery plug passed round. My last conscious memory after my fifth quid, was the sound of Frissell's ukelele above my head and beside me the unabashed endearments of Triplett talking to his "apple."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 5: Ekstrom illustrates the same point in his lectures by using a cake (usually chocolate) in place of a pie. The objection to this method is that the segmental walls have a tendency to crumble, confusing the illusion of polar travel. Otherwise his system follows mine.

W.E.T.]

[Footnote 6: In Taupol, the southernmost of the Maladive Islands, I lived for three months in a similar climate without injurious results but it must be borne in mind that I wore only a one-piece suit of Khitra (gobang leaves). T.]

[Footnote 7: "Northland! Northland! I for you am." Undoubtedly the fragment of an old Saga of Icelandic origin. A modern musical derivative was once popular in American folk song with the refrain, "Hip, Hooray, we're off for Baffin's Bay, etc." See W.J. Krehbiel's "Gems of Greenland," pp. 94-96.]

Chapter IV

_We reach the polar cap. The strange incident of the missing Orders.
Who stole the papers? The Arctic summer. A sportsman's Paradise.
Notes from my journal. Whinney's sad experience._