* Petermann Land and King Oscar Land had been reported by an Austrian expedition in 1873, whose crew claimed to have seen the distant islands far to the north of the northernmost point of Franz Josef Land. Both landmasses turned out to be mirages. Albanov’s failure to find these lands would prove a crucial step in debunking them.
† The sky takes on a different color when it is reflecting open water rather than ice.
It is true that in January, when the noonday sky began to glow with a faint rosy hue, some of us, including myself, saw something in the far distance that stood out like land against this pinkish background, but it remained visible for only a few hours. Then, the colorful glow suddenly faded into darkness, and a pack of white foxes trotted by, not far from the ship. Perhaps it was Cape Fligely or Prince Rudolf Island that we had seen. Since then, however, many months have gone by, and we have had no additional sightings of land. Whether the land we saw was real or imagined, since then we have been drifting ever farther away from it, on a relentless northerly course.
On clear sunny days, prompted by the vague hope of discovering a distant landmass, I often climbed up the mainmast to the crow’s nest, about eighty feet above sea level. I searched the horizon in vain. I could see nothing but a rugged expanse of ice, which toward the south, in the direction of our goal, took the shape of an immense, impassable barrier. It seemed to block the way to freedom for our sledges, which, in aggregate, would be heavily loaded with over 2,400 pounds. But it was certainly only an illusion: We always found a passage, although we had yet to discover the superhuman effort it would require. At that point in time we still imagined that we would cover at least seven miles a day.
——
When the sun was shining, it was exhilarating to be up there in the crow’s nest, with only the slightest breeze stirring in the ice-covered rigging. The Saint Anna seemed to be dreaming under her sparkling white carapace, as if a masterly hand had adorned her with exquisite crystals of hoarfrost and robed her hull in snowflakes. From time to time garlands of snow would come loose from the rigging and drop softly like flowers onto the dormant ship, which looks narrower and longer from aloft. The slender, towering yards seem elegant, almost fragile. Bathed in dazzling rays of light, the tackle throws a magical reflection onto the slumbering vessel, motionless in her icy prison for now a year and a half. What will be her fate? How long will it be before she stirs on her frozen bed—this ice floe from the Kara Sea that trapped her off the coast of the Yamal Peninsula? Will it be somewhere between Svalbard and Greenland, far from her current prison? And when she finally awakens, will she then glide unhindered into her own element, hoist her greatsails, and turn away from the realm of “white death” toward the sunlit blue waters of the south, where her wounds will heal, and everything she has suffered will seem like a terrible dream?
Or during a bitter night, when the snow is whipped through the sky by the storm, and the moon and stars are engulfed by a fearful blackness, will she be rudely awakened in the midst of the tempest by the splintering of spars and the cracking of planks, heralding her annihilation? The hull, then, will shudder in agony and her wooden sides will shatter. After some time only heaps of debris and a new mound of ice will mark her grave. The storm will sing her eulogy and strew the site of the disaster with fresh snow. And by the nearest pressure ridge a handful of desperate men will try to save what they can of their belongings in the dark, still clinging to life, still hoping to escape death.
What is your destiny, proud ship? Your slow destruction has already begun, although even the smallest planks have never been torn willingly from your hull. But the men you have carried this far are struggling, like you, filled with a desperate courage inspired by the treachery of the elements. Their only concern is how to stretch their supplies as long as possible.
Already the second hard winter on the ice has passed. Endless polar nights and their terrifying darkness are giving way to the first timid rays of a triumphant sun, which traces an ever-higher arc each day, awakening life all around us. The crew has also come back to life. From morning ’til night men bustle about carrying myriad tools as they swarm to and fro between the ship and a fleet of strange craft lined up on the ice nearby. Each of these odd vessels consists of a long sledge set on high trestles, with a light sailcloth kayak placed on soft cushions between the rails of the sledge, as if resting in a shallow basket. With their bows and sterns jutting well beyond the lengths of the sledges that bear them, and wearing fresh coats of black paint, the kayaks look quite formidable. This somber impression is brightened somewhat by the wide strips of white canvas that attach each kayak firmly to the body of its sledge so that they form a single craft. Ropes run diagonally from one strip of canvas to the next over the kayaks, which help secure the boats to the sledges, and also protect them against jagged blocks of ice.
On board ship and all around is a hive of industry. The final preparations for our departure are being tended to; those who are staying behind are eager to help. Everyone has a great deal to do. Those who are craftsmen by trade make use of their skills; others lend a hand by stowing baggage and supplies. Denisov, our wonderful harpooner, is rushing around more than anybody, even though he is among those who will be staying behind. The only ones absent are Lieutenant Brusilov, Miss Zhdanko, and the harpooner Shlensky, all of whom, for over a week now from morning until night, have been writing the letters we shall deliver to people who live in the present—unlike those of us on the ship, who live only in the past and the future, awaiting our deliverance from the polar ice.
There was little variety in our provisions. The ship’s biscuits, before they were packed, were thoroughly dried, then placed in twenty-pound sacks and hermetically sewn closed. We took one of the three tents included in the Saint Anna’s inventory. It was large, round, and—compared with Nansen’s—very heavy (about sixty pounds). Later, when it became wet and frozen, it was too awkward to carry and we had to leave it behind. But during the first half of our journey by sledge we were very glad to have its protection against the cold and snowstorms. By way of firearms, we carried two repeating rifles, three seal-hunting rifles, and one double-barreled shotgun, with about 120 pounds of ammunition. In addition to all this we had two harpoons, the usual warm clothing, instruments and equipment such as axes, skis, dishes, all sorts of repair material, and so on. Over and above the actual weight of the kayaks and sledges, we had to haul about 2,600 pounds.
To start with, two men were assigned to pull each kayak/sledge combination. Each of us had a sailcloth hauling strap to which a rope was fastened. The strap was worn over one shoulder and across the chest, and the end of the rope was fastened to one of the forward uprights of the sledge, allowing the man pulling to steady the bow of the attached kayak with one hand and thereby steer the sledge where he wanted, while he held a ski pole in the other. There was one man on each side of the sledge, which would have made it easy to pull, had the route not been blocked at every step by ice hummocks, and had we not been constantly sinking into the snow up to our knees. Alas, we soon had to face the fact that it was practically impossible for only two men to pull each sledge.
I have already mentioned that there were no maps on board that were of any use to us, and that I had copied our only existing map out of Nansen’s book. Other than that volume and Kolchak’s* The Ice of the Siberian Sea, we had no other relevant works. Although Lieutenant Brusilov had bought a small library for hundreds of rubles before our departure, it contained only novels, stories, and old journals—not a single book of any use to us except Nansen’s Farthest North. Nansen was our only guide, and provided everything we knew about Franz Josef Land. For example, almost twenty years earlier (1895 to 1896), Nansen and Johansen had crossed the archipelago and wintered in a gloomy hut at a place they christened Jackson Island. The following year, on Northbrook Island near Cape Flora, they met up with Jackson himself,† who had spent several winters there. A small group of buildings had been erected. Perhaps they were still standing,
with their store of supplies? Who could say? All we knew was that Nansen spoke highly of the hunting at Cape Flora and Franz Josef Land, and we counted on finding walruses there that we could take by surprise while they slept, and shoot without danger. Drawing all our knowledge from Nansen’s experiences, we treated his book like a precious treasure. I had reread it so often that I could cite entire passages from memory. I had noted all the details in my notebook, particularly those which could help me out of a tight spot, if need be. But what purpose would all this information serve if we could not find this unknown land? I had also copied down the altitude of the sun and astronomy charts for the coming year and a half. I had found these figures in an English technical journal I had come across by chance in the ship’s supplies, along with a stock of old marine charts and logbooks, dating from the purchase of the Saint Anna.
* Aleksandr Vasilyevich Kolchak: Arctic explorer and naval officer who was recognized from 1919 to 1920 by the “Whites” as supreme ruler of Russia; after his downfall he was put to death by the Bolsheviks.
† Frederick Jackson’s expedition on board the Windward took place from 1894 to 1897.
From Franz Josef Land we would still have to reach Svalbard, and we knew even less about that archipelago.* In the same English journal, I found quite by chance ten or twelve navigational coordinates that approximately matched the latitude and longitude of Svalbard. I copied these coordinates onto a chart that I had sketched with meridians and parallels, but I had no idea what they might mean. Did they indicate an island, a cape, a mountain, or a bay? In short, they were on my chart, and my imagination could draw totally arbitrary lines to link them all together.
* Albanov could not count on being rescued from rarely visited Franz Josef Land. Svalbard, however, was are gular stop for exploring and hunting expeditions.
We also knew, regarding Franz Josef Land, that the Stella Polare, belonging to the Duke of Abruzzi, had sailed through the British Channel as far as the Bay of Teplitz, and that in 1912 the Russian lieutenant Sedov had intended to disembark on one of the islands. After sending his ship back to Arkhangel’sk, Sedov had planned to spend the winter there before attempting to reach the North Pole the following spring.
On the eve of our departure Brusilov summoned me to read the draft of an order he wanted to copy and give to me. This document, dated April 10, ordered us to set out right away, with our homemade boats and sledges, carrying provisions for two months, on a journey which we would pursue until we reached land. Then, depending on circumstances, we were to try to reach the British Channel and Cape Flora, where we would be sure to find some huts and winter stores. Temperatures permitting, we were then to head for Svalbard, but without losing sight of the coast of Franz Josef Land. To the extreme south of the archipelago we might come across inhabitants and, offshore, perhaps some seal hunters. These were the directives, so to speak, for our southward trek. At the same time, the document set out the up-to-date calculation of the wages owed to each of us by the owner of the Saint Anna, Boris Alexeyevich Brusilov,* a retired general and landowner in Moscow, who had financed the expedition. Our signatures confirmed that the amount was correct.
* Lieutenant Brusilov’s uncle.
Late in the evening the lieutenant called me once more into his cabin to give me a list of items we would be taking with us and which I must, if possible, return to him at a later date. Here is that list as it was entered into the ship’s record: 2 Remington rifles, 1 Norwegian hunting rifle, 1 double-barreled shotgun, 2 repeating rifles, 1 ship’s log transformed into a pedometer for measuring distances covered, 2 harpoons, 2 axes, 1 saw, 2 compasses, 14 pairs of skis, 1 first-quality malitsa, 12 second-quality malitsi,† 1 sleeping bag, 1 chronometer, 1 sextant, 14 rucksacks, and 1 small pair of binoculars.
† Malitsi are heavy, sacklike, Samoyed garments sewn from reindeer hide, with the fur on the inside. Slipped over the head, they have crude openings to accommodate the arms and the face. Thirteen of the men in Albanov’s party used malitsi in lieu of sleeping bags at night.
Brusilov asked me if he had forgotten to list anything. His pettiness astounded me. It was as if he thought there were horses waiting at the gangway to take those of us who would be leaving to the nearest railway station or steamship terminal. Had the lieutenant forgotten that we were about to set off on foot on a daunting trek across drifting ice, in order to search for an unknown landmass, and this under worse conditions than any men who had gone before us? Did he have no greater concerns on this last evening than toting up rucksacks, axes, a defective ship’s log, a saw, and harpoons? If truth be told, even as he read the list to me, I felt myself succumbing to a familiar rage. I experienced the sensation of strangling as my throat constricted in anger. But I controlled myself and reminded Brusilov that he had forgotten to list the tent, the kayaks, the sledges, a mug, cups, and a galvanized bucket. He immediately wrote down the tent, but decided not to mention the dishes. “I will not list the kayaks or sledges, either,” he offered. “In all probability they will be badly damaged by the end of your trip, and the freight to ship them from Svalbard would cost more than they are worth. But if you succeed in getting them to Alexandrovsk, deliver them to the local police for safekeeping.” I told Brusilov I was in agreement with this.
I left the lieutenant’s cabin very upset, and went below. On the way to my cabin, Denisov stopped me to ask where I would open the packet of ship’s mail and post the letters—in Norway or Russia? That was the last straw, and I could not contain my emotions any longer. I exploded and threatened to dump not only the mail, but also the rucksacks, the cups, and the mugs into the first open lead we came to, because I had serious doubts that we would ever reach a mail train in Norway, Russia, or anywhere else. But then I quickly regained my composure and promised Denisov that, wherever we landed, I would make every effort to see that the ship’s mail reached its destination.
Denisov went on his way, reassured. The ship was dark. Everyone had gone to bed. I was dismayed and depressed. It was as if I were already wandering across the endless, icy wastes, without any hope of returning to the ship, and with only the unknown lying ahead.
On that gloomy, decisive night prior to my departure from the Saint Anna, filled with anxiety, I wondered about each of the men who would be accompanying me. I already possessed grave doubts about their health and stamina. One was fifty-six years old and all of them complained of sore feet; not one of them was really fit. One man had open sores on his legs, another had a hernia, a third had been suffering from pains in his chest for a long time, and all, without exception, had asthma and palpitations.
In short, these were the dark thoughts that assailed and disheartened me that evening. Was this a premonition of some great misfortune that I was heading for, with no hope of escape?
LAST DAY ON BOARD THE SAINT ANNA
When the long-awaited day finally arrived, and only a few hours remained before our departure, a slight regret came to trouble my thoughts: I was leaving behind the ship and its crew. Now they would be left to themselves and to the vagaries of an uncertain fate. I had become very fond of the Saint Anna during our long voyage; so often, in dangerous situations, she had provided us with shelter and safety. And had I not also enjoyed pleasant experiences here, particularly at the beginning of our journey? At that time we lived in complete harmony and knew how to put up a good front even at difficult moments, accepting misfortune cheerfully and bravely. We had spent many lively evenings together playing dominoes in the pleasant saloon, by the ruddy light of a good fire. Water would bubble in the samovar, ready for tea. There was kerosene to spare then, and our lamps gave enough light for any activity. The men were in high spirits, and enlivened the conversation with all sorts of amusing stories; everyone freely voiced his expectations about the future. Good humor reigned.
When we embarked on our voyage, most mariners and oceanographers familiar with the Arctic were of the opinion that the ice in the southern reaches of the Kara Sea was not subject to the gene
ral movements of the polar ice pack. Once we became icebound, we thought the Saint Anna would drift to and fro a little, but that we would remain in these southerly waters until the spring thaw set us free and opened up the mouth of the Yenisei River. From there, Brusilov planned to travel upriver to Krasnoyarsk in order to purchase fresh supplies and fetch the mail. At the same time, we would stock up on coal and fit out the ship so that we could continue on our way. The Saint Anna seemed certain to withstand the difficult ordeal ahead, for she was in every way superior to the two Norwegian ships, Nimrod and Saint Foka, that had initially been equipped for seal hunting and later bought for the purpose of expeditions. The cabins were a little chilly on our ship, to be sure, but we would soon take care of this inconvenience.
While we were taking on more coal at Dikson Island, Brusilov would go directly to Krasnoyarsk in the motor launch so that he would not have to wait for the regularly scheduled steamer, and thus gain more time. In this way we hoped eventually to reach Vladivostok, even if it took a year. What did it matter! A hunting expedition must primarily pursue its hunting objectives, and this we would do since the sea to the north of Siberia was teeming with walruses. Those were the plans we discussed every evening around the samovar as we drank our tea. Miss Yerminiya Zhdanko played the role of the perfect hostess, and showed a lively interest in our projects. She never blamed us for getting her into “an unholy mess,” as we were in the habit of saying; in fact she would get quite annoyed when we said this, for she shared all our problems with extraordinary courage. At first the role of hostess often proved terribly embarrassing for Miss Zhdanko. If someone so much as asked her to pour the tea, she would instantly blush to the roots of her hair, mortified that she had not first suggested it herself. This charming trait provoked much teasing from others on board the ship. For instance, when Brusilov wanted tea, he would first hold his breath for a while, trying to make it look like he was blushing. After this effort had caused his face to turn thoroughly red, he would shyly turn to Miss Zhdanko and say, “Lady of the house, please be so good as to pour me a glass of tea.” At the sight of the lieutenant’s shy, blushing countenance, she would immediately blush furiously herself, prompting everybody to laugh and shout, “She’s on fire!” and inspiring someone to run for water.
In the Land of White Death Page 3
