Chapter IV: "Men, it is the Ice."

These words rang with a portentous solemnity as I delivered them to the entire ship's company.

We had reached the solid floe. About us, white and interminable, stretched the polar pack, with here and there inky streaks, the open "leads" which often yawn between the very feet of unwary travellers. But for us, the way lay straight. Glancing at the compass and adjusting my gesture parallel to its needle, I pointed.

"Yonder lies the Pole!"

The seriousness of the moment imposed a silence broken only by the screams of distant flocks of pemmican and the yooping of seals--for we were in the land of prolific game. The second leg of our journey was accomplished. The great test still remained, the long tug over the rough floor to the Main Post itself.

"Men of the Traprock Expedition," I continued, "you have served me long and faithfully. The reward of our efforts lies close at hand. Yonder, I repeat, lies the Pole. Captain Triplett's last observation shows that we are at 86° 13´ 6-7/8´´, fifteen miles better than all previous records, Nansen's, Steffanson's and Peary's excepted. We are running ahead of schedule time. From now on our progress will be slower. But, though we will not be dragging light sledges over the ice, remember that we carry our base of supplies with us. 'Tis an arduous task, lads, but with fair weather and good luck we'll win through yet!"

THE NINE O'CLOCK BOTTLE

Here we have a typical scene in Camp Traprock during the late days
of the Arctic-Indian-Summer. Bartholomew Dane, the Egyptologist
and Sausalito are busily engaged nursing the expeditionary mascot,
Toktok, a tiny bear-cub which was adopted by Ikik after the demise
of its parent. The picture can give no idea of the painstaking care
which was lavished upon the little pet. As in the case of many
infants it was extremely difficult to find a food upon which he
would gain his orthodox ounce a day. Various forms of nourishment
were tried, the happy formula being finally found in a four-ounce
bottle administered every four hours, the meal consisting of modified
whale's-milk to which was added minute particles of "wheat-whiskers,"
a cereal-diluent to the perfection of which Dr. Traprock has devoted
many years of study.

Ikik, to whom credit must be given for the capture of the cub, was
hopelessly ignorant of how it should be cared for. Her idea was that
common to most primitive mothers, namely, that the infant should be
immediately put upon a meat or fat diet. The result of this treatment
was loss of weight and incessant crying on the part of Toktok.
Fortunately the ship's library contained a copy of Holt's "Care and
Feeding of Infants," a book which Dr. Traprock says he never feels
safe without.

Both Dane and Sausalito are wearing the summer costumes which are
practically a necessity during the heated term. Dane's tropic helmet
with its deeply overhanging cornice undoubtedly saved him from the
dreaded snow-blindness which so fatally attacked his companion
Whinney. The attractive dress worn by Sausalito is part of a wardrobe
assembled by her as she passed through Canada on her way to join
the expedition. The fur-edged chemisette and roll-down buskins are
similar to the parade uniform of the O'Howese Toboggan Club.

The cheer which greeted this announcement surprised me by its feebleness. I had felt that I was doing rather well. Plainly a number of voices were silent. Puzzled and apprehensive I glanced toward my men. Warburton Plock, oily and deferential, stood slightly in advance of the others.

"Have you read your orders?" he asked.

"My orders?" I replied,--"my orders from whom?"

"Your sealed orders," he repeated, smiling craftily, "the ones Waxman handed you when we left."

I did not like his tone. I detested the familiar way in which he spoke of the aged president of the Explorers Union. His manner was that of veiled bravado. The air was highly charged as before a coming storm.

"My brief-case ... cabin ... Swank.... Fetch."

I was excited and spoke monosyllabically, but Swank, like a faithful dog, disappeared at the word "fetch" down the companion-way. In the interval of his absence a thousand black thoughts whirled through my brain. These mysterious orders, what were they? A plot ... something was afoot, some deadly blow aimed to dash the cup of accomplishment from my grasp as I raised it to my lips. To my credit I can say that, even in this agonizing moment, I absolved Dr. Waxman of any share in this dastardly work. I seemed to see his benevolent sheep-like face smiling a good-bye, while before me, glowered Plock, palpably gloating at my discomfiture. But orders were orders and duty was duty. Traprock must be true! With a hand that trembled in spite of my best efforts, I grasped the brief-case which Swank proffered and, turning it so that all might see, I opened it.

It was empty!

I stood like a conjurer surprised by his own trick.

A threatening growl rose from the group huddled about Plock who now came forward boldly, his face distorted with passion. The mask was off.

"This is buncomb, Traprock," he shouted. "You have done away with those orders! Where are they? You know perfectly well that your instructions are to...."

What he was about to divulge will never be known. Whipping up my left arm I caught his heel with my right foot and the back of his head struck the ice with a crack that roused the distant pemmican to renewed screaming.[8]

"Stow that dunnage," I said quietly, and the limp carcass was tossed aboard where it lolled grotesquely over the hatch-combing.

"To your places, you others...."

A slow, straining heave at the traces brought the Kawa up on her guide-runners and she moved gracefully across the ice.

Pondering mournfully on the strange turn of events, wondering who could have purloined the fateful packet, but taking care to show no exterior sign of my perplexity, I trudged on, occasionally breaking the silence with a single word of command.

"Mush."

* * * * *

Day succeeded day, days scarcely marked by any change, and yet there was no sign of the missing document. The most rigid search was fruitless and, gradually, the incident was forgotten.

So unbroken was the sunlight that it was only by exercising great care in keeping our watches wound that we were able to know definitely just what day it was. As time wore on, confusion arose. Miskin insisted that it was Wednesday, Swank held out for Thursday and so on. But it mattered little. They were all days of accomplishment and of glorious Arctic summer, growing steadily hotter as we climbed up the glacial coverlet. We were now beyond the latitude of my previous "farthest" (87° 21' 22") which I had reached with the Royal Geographic Expedition which met such a tragic fate on its return trip to England.[9]

The insect pests began to be very troublesome and I thanked the high Gods for the green veils and mosquito-bars which made life tolerable. A part of every man's equipment was an atomizer containing four fluid ounces of oil-of-citronella, and a fly-swatter attached to his wrist by a thong of reindeer sinew.[10]

I was amazed at the tropic temperature of these high latitudes. At noon the thermometer frequently stood around 90° Fahr. in the shade and it must be remembered that there _was_ no shade. Our thinnest garments were none too comfortable nor were we able to say, as is usual, that the nights were cool, for again it should be borne in mind that there were no nights. Hour after hour the brazen disc of the sun circled round the heavens, staring pitilessly at the moon which, strange phenomenon! shone palely above the opposite horizon as if the two great planets were balancing to partners in a stately astronomical dance.

At definite periods sleep was the order of the day, an enforced regulation. During our waking hours we struggled on, at times wading through mulch and squidge, at times sailing through seas of melted ice. Yet, though the sun's rays were hot, there still remained the solid pack below, too vast to be more than touched on the surface by this fleeting summer.

Though we were surrounded by animal life it was much too warm for hunting. In fact the very thought of such things as blubber and fur was nauseating. Our civilized diet and clothing were better suited to our stomachs both inside and out. But how quickly the warm polar weather passed none knew better than I and from my place in the bow I urged my men on until even Swank and Whinney cast reproachful glances at me over their streaming shoulders.

"You aren't taking the Kawa to the Pole, she's taking you," they complained.

"Mush," I replied.

A fact which was the cause of surprised comment by several members of the expedition was that we had thus far encountered no Eskimos on our journey. I confess that I myself was somewhat perplexed. In a country in which game abounded it seemed strange to find no hunting parties. I could account for this phenomenon by two courses of reasoning; either the natives had gone south to escape the intolerable weather which we were experiencing--for it will be remembered that these simple folk have practically no way of combating heat--or their hunters might possibly have fallen victims to the mistake so common to nimrods the world over, of leading their bands into localities in which there was no game whatever. Upon consideration the latter conclusion seemed the more probable for it follows a great general law of humanity. Each of my readers doubtless numbers among his acquaintance a sportsman who makes an annual pilgrimage into inaccessible regions in search of caribou, deer, salmon or big-horn and who invariably returns with a tale of disappointment. "It has been a very poor year for caribou." "There was too little water--or too much." These excuses are familiar to any one who holds converse with the disciples of rifle and rod.

Our case was different. We were a scientific group, not occupied with the capture of animal trophies and so we naturally saw a great deal of game.

It is difficult for me to set down the amazing amount of interesting live stock which flourished about us at every stage of our journey. In the lower latitudes these were the more familiar caribou, rabbits, wolves, and deer.

A sight I shall never forget was one which confronted us shortly after clearing the westernmost point of Wrangel Island. This was in the earlier stages of our journey while we still enjoyed a few hours of restful darkness. Through the murky night I heard a low muttering sound with an occasional note of complaint or discontent. The noise was not single and distinct but vast and widespread as if a large area of land had become vocal. "What do you suppose is wrong?" I asked Triplett with whom I was keeping watch. "There's allus somethin' wrong on Wrangel," said that worthy imperturbably. But I could see that he was interested for he kept his good-eye alternately on our compass and the dim bulk of land that loomed on our quarter.

Dawn came on apace and a marvellous picture lay before us. Far into the interior, on the snowy slopes, were millions of reindeer feeding on the Christmas trees which do so well in this locality. The noise I had heard was the swishing of great branches and the guttural grunts of these picturesque mammals as they devoured their provender. Others of my men had stolen on deck and stood silently watching. Frissell was greatly excited.

"Who said there wasn't any Santa Claus!" he cried, and at the sound of his voice the huge herd tossed its broad-leaved antlers and rushed madly toward the distant horizon while Frizzie urged them on with cries of "Now, Vixen, now, Dasher!" It was an odd but interesting scene.

The Arctic hares were not as numerous as I have seen them on my previous northern trips and those I observed through my glasses were of poor quality and sickly physique. Evidently the gradual dying out of the lapland lark-spurs, which are the natural cover of the hares, has worked havoc among these charming creatures.[11]

But now, beyond eighty-six, we had left behind us these semi-domestic creatures and were among the truly Arctic animals, those weird denizens of berg and floe which civilization sees only in zoological gardens or vaudeville performances. From my station near the forepeak I swept the horizon hourly with my glasses cataloguing the myriad species of Arctic life and entering them in my journal with notes as to quantity, quality and other attributes which had a bearing on the commercial or scientific value of the type referred to. I can give no better idea of this sportsman's paradise than by quoting a few extracts from the volume.

INTENSIVE OPTIMISM

As long as brave deeds are recognized and heroic fortitude receives
its just due the name of Reginald Whinney will shine forth in
letters of gold. Reference is made in the text to his tragic attack
of snow-blindness on the very eve of the arrival of Dr. Traprock
(and party) at the Pole. This untoward visitation (by which we mean
Whinney's affliction, not the Traprock Expedition), would in itself
have been enough to break the heart of any ordinary man, but not the
heart of a Whinney. To such as he adversity is as the sunshine to
the flower or the flower to the bee, a new source of inspiration and
sweetness.

In the early days of his blindness he was, of course, greatly
depressed. "I am put out but not crushed" was his simple comment.
Having recourse to his typewriter he recorded that touching
paraphrase of Milton ending with the line, "They also serve who
only sit and type." Then came the magnificent "Ode to the Aurora,"
after which the sun of his vision seemed to burst through the walls
of his temporary night. Full of sparkling wit and joyous laughter
he fully earned his soubriquet of "Sunbeam-of-the-North." Even
before breakfast he was mirth personified; in the evening, he was
irrepressible. The Eskimos found in him a source of inexhaustible
wonder. To a race living far beyond the sound of a songbird his
carollings were nothing short of a miracle.

Dr. Traprock has confessed that at times his friend's gaiety was
trying. During the frightful sufferings of the return journey, for
instance, it was upsetting to face starvation and death to the
accompaniment of "I love a lassie," warbled by the stricken scientist
from the forepeak. But as the Doctor acutely remarks, "How unjust
to condemn a man who was doing the only thing left for him to do,
namely, trying to cheer us up. Moreover I knew that his optimism was
but blind. Incessant cheerfulness, when sincere, is impossible to
stand; I can enjoy it when I know that it masks a broken heart."

For instance, under date of June 18th, I find the following:

"June 18th. 86° 12' 5". Bright and fair. Going good. For two hours in fore-noon passed three large seal schools, mainly phoca vitulina and mitrata, probably about one thousand per school. Each group lay taking its mid-day siesta near the open lead with sentinel seals carefully posted at regular intervals. They maintained this position until we were within approx. 100 yds. when they slid noiselessly into the sea where I watched them at play for sometime, diving over and under each other and emitting their throaty mating cry of 'Ook, ook.' Peron says (See Mammi-feres, Livraison, Sept., 1819, p. 2) that the phoca vitulina are monogamous but close observation of a large bull seal in the second group convinces me that he is in error."

"June 20th. Slightly cooler, a blessed relief. More seals today (Leopardina and Stemmatopus). Passed one group at feeding time and watched them chase the smaller otaries into shallow ice pools where possession of the fish was disputed by large flocks of pemmican. The smaller fragments, otary-eyes, fins, etc., were in turn made-off with by snow-buntings."

"June 21st. Climbed to main truck at noon and found three pemmican eggs in crow's-nest. Must have been laid during rest period. Left them for observation and posted order on main and jigger to leave nest strictly alone. Whales spouting to leeward, evidently genus bone-head, in large quantity. Memo. Report to United Corset Mfrs. and Umbrella Makers."[12]

"June 28th. Showers. Vast quantities of seals (Hirsutus) the true fur-bearing or sack seal. Called the entire company before the mast and warned them against shooting. Rough going today over raftered ice. Made only six miles. Mother pemmican sitting on crow's-nest. Polar bears becoming more numerous, also large numbers of white foxes. Disturbed during rest period by snorting of walruses. Memo. Look up sealing-wax, source of supply, market, etc. Another week should see us at the Pole! Hold fast and strike hard."

The reader can imagine with what difficulty I restrained my companions from wholesale slaughter of the thousands of friendly creatures among whom we were making our slow but steady progress. We were individually armed and equipped for any event which might befall us, but many considerations urged me to be firm in this regard and my posted notices, "No hunting or fishing under penalty of the law," were sternly enforced. Primarily I wished to save time, knowing full well what delay would be caused by the pursuit and what inconvenience by the capture of any of the hulking carcasses which surrounded us. Secondly I was anxious to conserve ammunition for a time when it might be needed. Our own food supply was ample and it seemed wise to defer experiments with eskimo diet until absolutely necessary.

How fortunate this caution proved will be related in its proper place. That we should ever be thrown entirely upon our own resources naked and stripped in this far land, seemed totally unlikely. But who knows the design of an inscrutable providence! Not I, for one.

Two days from the Pole a tragic misfortune befell one of our little group, none other than my faithful friend, Reginald Whinney.

He had come to me in the morning and asked for a two hours leave from the traces to take up work which he said was more scientific, namely, the study of the snow algæ which blossomed about us in rare profusion. As it was my custom to let my men out of harness, two at a time, to pursue their various specialties, I readily assented.

"Whinney, botanist and Dane, Egyptologist, on leave" was the order of the day.

They departed in opposite directions. Scientists in general avoid each other's company when making discoveries and these were no exception. It was the last Whinney saw of us for many weeks.

At seven-and-a-half-bells Dane came aboard and went below to file his data. Eight-bells sounded and still no Whinney. With my glasses I scanned the expanse about us. Far away on our starboard bow I glimpsed for an instant a moving black speck, lost it in the quivering lens, found it again and held it. Was it a bear? No, it was too black. A seal?--too tall!

In an instant I had given the order, "Cease mushing!"

"Swank, Wigmore, come with me. Triplett, you are in command."

We were off in a trice. As we drew near the distant figure I saw that it was indeed Whinney. But what was he doing?

He was tottering about in vague circles like a man distraught. Just as I came up to him he fell forward on his knees with a despairing cry, covering his face with his hands. Gently holding him by the wrists, I lifted him up; his arms dropped to his side and I knew the awful truth.

I mentioned, when Whinney left the ship, that he would see no more of us for many weeks. It was true, for though we could see him, the poor fellow could not see us.

"Blind! Blind!" he shrieked, sinking down in despair and beating his head against the ice.

Again we raised him and, soothing him as best I could, I rubbed his inflamed lids with a sharp piece of snow crust, a native cure in such cases. But we were too late to effect a cure. Wearied by gazing at the minute flower-forms of the algæ, dazzled by the glaring snow crystals, my friend's eyes had fallen an easy prey to acute snow-blindness.

"Let this be a lesson to you, men," I said after we had led our patient back to the ship. "If any man, in the future, leaves this deck without his goggles, let him take the consequences. This expedition cannot be allowed to develop into a game of blind man's buff."

Whinney sat whimpering on the port rail, a pathetic sight. Though I spoke sternly I could but grieve in my heart for the tragic irony of his fate.

Many brave adventurers have struggled and died in vain efforts to reach the top of the world. To Reginald Whinney remains the sad distinction of being the only man in the world who has been to the North Pole and back without seeing it!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 8: The trick is one I learned from an old limehouse "pug" whom I befriended in the east-end of London. He could only show me his gratitude by teaching me the secrets of his trade, which have served me on many an occasion.]

[Footnote 9: The entire party on H.M.S. Daffodil, were sunk by a German submarine off St. Jean deLuz. I escaped, having disembarked at Brigus, N.F., in order to join my regiment at Derby, Conn.]

[Footnote 10: The Arctic mosquito differs from his southern brothers, the common _stegomia muflans_, in that he does not strike and get away. Like the Canadian "wingle," where he bites he burrows, and that with such rapidity that one must be swift of stroke indeed who would escape his attack. Within a few seconds he disappears beneath the cuticle and dire illness is the result. It is not commonly known but I am convinced that the Arctic variety is the carrier of the scurvy germ, that dreaded terror of travellers. (See Windenborg's treatise "Die Arbeiten Stegomanische und Fleibeiten von dem Nord-deutsches Landes," which, while making many absurd claims as to German supremacy in polar regions, contains at the same time much solid information). T.]

[Footnote 11: The ever-watchful Canadian game commission has taken up this matter (which vitally affects the mitten industry) and is conducting at the Govt. Laboratory in Ottawa a series of experiments with various hare-restorers. W.E.T.]

[Footnote 12: Since his return to New York, Dr. Traprock has formulated a bill to be introduced at the next session of Congress. The bill is aimed directly at the Fordney tariff-schedule, which imposes the highest duties on whale-bone since whales were first discovered. This, according to Dr. Traprock, is accountable for the corsetless flapperism of today. "The higher the whale-bone the lower the corset," is his trenchant comment.--Ed.]

Chapter V

_The last ten miles. A mental observation. We lose our magnetic
bowsprit. The Big Peg at last! "The Lady, first!" We celebrate our
arrival. I glimpse a vision._