As a final gesture, Anaukaq came up to me before boarding and handed me an official red-and-white Greenlandic flag, the recently inaugurated first flag of his nation. “This is a gift for you, Allen, from me and my family, and Kali and his family, to show you how much we appreciate what you have done for us. We hope you will come back to us in Greenland. Kooyounah, Allen, my friend.”
“Iddigdoo Anaukaq, my friend.”
We embraced and said good-bye.
Left to right: Kali Peary, S. Allen Counter, Anaukaq Henson, and Kali’s son, Talilanquaq, in the village of Moriussaq, Greenland, in 1986.
Ajako Henson leads his sled dogs through Moriussaq on the way to the hunting grounds.
A Polar Eskimo family at a hunting camp in northwest Greenland (c. 1900). Though it is no longer a common practice, Polar Eskimo families traditionally traveled together during the hunting season, moving by dogsled from camp to camp across hundreds of miles of ice and frozen terrain. Courtesy of the Explorers Club
Ussarkaq Henson, Matthew Henson’s grandson, hurls his harpoon at a narwhal. While most Polar Eskimos now hunt with rifles, many still resort to more traditional methods.
Ole Peary, great-grandson of Robert E. Peary, hunts for seals off the coast of northwest Greenland. The apparatus attached to his rifle is a white cloth blind, designed to conceal the hunter as he approaches his prey.
Avataq Henson and his son Massanguaq pack their dogsled for a hunt.
Returning from the hunt, Avataq Henson displays the tusks from a large walrus he killed. The ivory tusks will be sold to the government of Greenland, with all proceeds shared by the community of Moriussaq. The walrus meat will also be distributed among the villagers, although the best portions will be reserved for Avataq and his family.
Puto, wife of Ajako Henson, teaches her niece, Malina, to scrape the fat from the skin of a polar bear with a utility knife called an ulu.
After dipping the bear skin in icy water and then covering it with snow, Ajako and Puto beat it with a stick to remove the ice. The skin will later be stretched and made into trousers for their son, Nukka, whose slaying of the bear entitles him to wear this traditional hunter’s attire.
The late Peter Peary, Kali’s oldest son, and his wife (c. 1960).
Mikkisuk Minge, Anaukaq’s sister-in-law and close friend, who provided the author with an account of life in Moriussaq in the early decades of the century.
Kali and Anaukaq aboard the helicopter that will take them to Thule air base. From there they will fly by military transport to the United States (May 1987).
Anaukaq, Kali, and their families gather in Harvard Yard, May 1987. Left to right: Ole (foreground), Vittus (background), Ajako, Talilanguaq, Ussarkaq, Massauna, Malina, Avataq. Kali (left) and Anaukaq, wearing traditional Polar Eskimo anorak, sit in the front row.
Robert E. Peary, Jr., and his half brother Kali meet for the first time at Peary’s home in Augusta, Maine (May 1987). In the center is Robert E. Peary III; to the left, the author.
Harvard’s president Derek C. Bok (second from left) welcomes Anaukaq (standing, center) and Kali (seated at far right) at a banquet held in their honor. Seated between Anaukaq and Kali is translator Navarana Qavigaq Harper. Publisher John H. Johnson (far left), who co-sponsored the North Pole Family Reunion, and the author (standing, right) join in the applause. The banquet was attended by some 200 guests, including American members of the Henson and Peary families. Photo by Hans P. Biemann
Olive Henson Fulton displays a gift from Anaukaq at the Henson family picnic in suburban Boston (May 1987).
The Reverend Dr. Samuel Proctor welcomes Anaukaq, Kali, and their families to Abyssinian Baptist Church in Harlem.
Anaukaq Henson acknowledges the applause of the Abyssinian congregation. Seated to his right are Kali Peary and other members of the Amer-Eskimo Henson and Peary families.
Anaukaq Henson with Allen Counter at the grave site of Matthew Henson in Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx. When this photograph was taken, Anaukaq was telling the author that he had fulfilled his life’s ambition and could now go home and join his wife, who had died several years earlier.
Accompanied by his wife Lucy and friends, Matthew Henson prepares to lay a wreath at the grave of Robert E. Peary in Arlington National Cemetery in 1954. Henson regularly visited the tomb of his longtime Arctic companion. Courtesy of Virginia Carter Brannum
Members of the Henson family join friends and officials at formal ceremonies marking the reinterment of Matthew Henson at Arlington National Cemetery on April 6, 1988. James P. Blair, courtesy of National Geographic Society
Matthew Henson’s niece, Virginia Carter Brannum, poses near her uncle’s newly installed monument in Arlington National Cemetery, adjacent to the grave site of Robert E. Peary.
U.S. postage stamp issued in 1986 to commemorate the conquest of the North Pole by Peary and Henson. Copyright © 1986, U.S. Postal Service, Dennis Lyall, Designer
Anaukaq Henson and his “cousin” Kali Peary in Moriussaq, Greenland (1986).
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Back Home in Greenland
The miracle of modern transportation again bridged two worlds in one day. Ten hours from the time they left America, Anaukaq, Kali, and their families were back in remote northwest Greenland. I did not relax until I received word that they had arrived safely.
They returned to families eagerly awaiting a full accounting of the American adventure, not to mention the distribution of all the gifts brought back from the United States. Avataq brought Magssanguaq a leather pilot’s jacket. Kitdlaq brought his wife some jewelry. Ussarkaq and Ajako brought their wives dresses. Aviaq brought her mother a pair of sunglasses, and so on.
But they had also returned to the reality of their world, which even in modern times is a harsh one. They had many vital chores awaiting them: taking care of their dogs, hunting for seals, and, in this season, kahlayleewah to feed their families, readying themselves for the approaching fall and winter.
The Eskimos quickly readjusted to their customary way of life. Anaukaq went about Moriussaq as he had always done, visiting friends, eating fresh seal, drinking tea and coffee, and sharing stories, although they were now of his visit to America. His sons successfully hunted seals and birds, while Malina and Aviaq collected eider-duck down and eggs. The down would be sold to the government for communal income. The eggs would be consumed.
After a brief visit with other family members in Qaanaaq, Kali, Talilanguaq, and Ole returned to Qeqertarsaaq. Within a week, Ole had gone out to sea and slain his first narwhal of the season.
When I contacted Navarana, my former translator, a few weeks later, I learned that everyone was doing well.
One morning, about three weeks after returning to Moriussaq, Anaukaq got up, ate, did a few chores about the igloo, and followed his usual routine. Sometime later, he told his son that he felt like getting some fresh air. He put on his heavy coat, went outside, and walked around the entire settlement. He walked to the sea to look at Avataq’s boat. He went to Ajako’s little general store. He saw his grandchildren Malina, Aviaq, and Magssanguaq.
He returned to his igloo, walked up to Avataq, and told him that he had done everything that he wanted to do in his life and was now ready to sleep next to his wife, Aviaq. Anaukaq lay down on his bed. A few hours later he died of complications from prostate cancer.
The translator reached me at four o’clock in the morning to tell me the news. All telephone rings at 4 A.M. signal bad news. One reaches for the receiver with a numbing apprehension, knowing that something tragic has taken place. As I lifted the phone, I was prepared to receive sad tidings about someone in my own family. When I learned it was Anaukaq, the effect was the same.
I got up and started making arrangements to travel to Greenland. I had received the call on Thursday. The earliest available air force flight to Thule would leave the following Monday. I confirmed my reservations and made plans to travel to McGuire. But on Friday night, I learned that Anaukaq�
�s family and friends had decided on an earlier burial. They would bury him the next day. I canceled my plans.
In a combination of traditional Eskimo and Christian funeral ceremonies, Anaukaq Henson was laid to rest under a white Christian cross next to his wife, Aviaq, in the little cemetery where he and I had stood just a few months earlier. Covering him was the African-American flag that I had given him and that he cherished so dearly. He had asked his sons that the flag be draped over him when he died.
The weather in Moriussaq that day was extraordinarily beautiful, and the sun shone brighter than anyone could ever remember, the family said. After the ceremony, family and friends gathered outdoors to celebrate Anaukaq’s life. They all felt he had lived a long, happy life, and they wanted no sadness because Anaukaq had rarely been sad.
At Woodlawn Cemetery, he had told us that he was going back home to die and join Aviaq. We hadn’t believed him. Yet the Danish physician who had treated him in the past and Dr. Brown, the reunion committee’s consulting physician, both said they were surprised he had lived as long as he had, given the advanced state of his prostate cancer. They shared with others a belief that the hope of fulfilling his lifelong dream had sustained him in recent months.
His sons said that Anaukaq had not shown any signs of illness before his death. In fact, he was actively looking after his dogs and doing other chores around the settlement. Had he been visibly ill, they said, they would have taken him to the nearby infirmary at Qaanaaq, but no one noticed any change in him. One Eskimo woman who had seen him back home in Greenland put it another way. “When I looked in Anaukaq’s face, I could see that he was ready to go,” she said. “I have seen that look before on the faces of the old ones who have done what they wanted to do in life and wanted nothing more than the final rest.”
Anaukaq was not forgotten in the United States. The obituary pages of several American newspapers carried the announcement of his passing under the heading “Anaukaq Henson dies in Greenland.”
Anaukaq’s sons had anticipated his death. They asked Navarana to convey a special message to me from all of them: “Thank you for bringing all five of us together with our father for one last time.”
“It was my privilege,” I responded. “I am honored to have known Anaukaq.”
A few weeks after his death, I received a somewhat unsettling message from some of the Eskimo Hensons. Anaukaq, they said, had come back to them. At first I did not understand. Then I was told that Anaukaq’s twenty-five-year-old granddaughter Equilana had just given birth to a boy and named him Anaukaq. In the Polar Eskimo tradition, Anaukaq had truly returned to them.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Welcome Home, Matthew Henson
Why did Peeuree have an impressive tomb in Arlington National Cemetery and Mahri-Pahluk a simple grave in New York? I had the difficult task of explaining to my Eskimo friends the nature of American racial prejudice and the disparate treatment of their respective fathers. Rarely has a man given so much of his life to the honor of his country and received so little in return as had Matthew Henson. Rising from the lowly background of a sharecropper with only six grades of schooling, he had become one of the most accomplished explorers of all time. He deserved a permanent place of honor in recognition of his achievements.
Before our final parting, I told Anaukaq that I had written to President Reagan and requested permission to transfer Matthew Henson’s remains to Arlington National Cemetery. I promised that even if I were at first turned down, I would continue to petition until I succeeded.
“If you do move him, I want my children to see it,” Anaukaq said.
Several weeks after I sent my first letter to President Reagan, I received a reply from the office of the secretary of the army. The letter explained that the White House had passed along my request to those military officials responsible for burials in Arlington National Cemetery. An extensive discussion of the regulations governing burials at Arlington followed. Then came the verdict:
Although Mr. Henson rendered great service to this country, I regret that the established criteria preclude me from granting your request. I am sorry that my response cannot be more positive. It is no reflection on Mr. Henson to say that to make an exception in his case would be unfair to the many others who have been denied burial at Arlington under today’s restrictive criteria. Undoubtedly, he contributed much to the nation, but the Army is obliged to administer the rules of eligibility strictly and consistently. We do appreciate your bringing this matter to our attention.
Unwilling to accept this routine response, I continued my campaign by sending letters to cabinet members, prominent members of Congress, and even the First Lady. But the outcome did not change.
In the meantime, my efforts attracted the attention of the Boston Globe, which printed an excellent story, “Seeking Honor for an Explorer,” on the treatment of Matthew Henson (April 22, 1987). This article stimulated so much interest that people of all races wrote me to offer their support. On April 27, 1987 the Globe also followed up with a lead editorial on the subject, “An Explorer’s Overdue Tribute,” suggesting that the president should make a special effort to reinter Henson’s remains in Arlington. Several other newspapers ran similar stories as well.
In response to this spate of publicity, officials at Woodlawn Cemetery contacted me to express their displeasure at what they perceived to be my “complaints” about Matthew Henson’s present grave site. Understandably, the Woodlawn staff took great pride in having Matthew Henson in their cemetery and, indeed, took care that the plot remained tidy and had flowers planted around it. I assured the Woodlawn people that I had not intended to belittle their cemetery or the condition of Henson’s grave. But I also told them that I thought it only fair to try to have him buried in our most prestigious national cemetery. They seemed to understand.
My research on the proposed reinterment revealed several interesting things. I learned, for example, that some people had been working to have Matthew Henson buried in Arlington ever since Peary was buried there in 1920. After his death in 1955, a number of people had recommended that he be buried in Arlington instead of Woodlawn. But, then as now, some people in the military opposed reinterment because Henson had never officially served in the armed forces of the United States. Others objected because they did not believe that Peary had ever reached the North Pole and consequently felt that neither he nor Henson deserved to be buried at Arlington. Still others seemed to have had no other reason for opposing Henson’s reinterment except considerations of race.
As I pointed out in my letters to the White House, to disqualify Matthew Henson from burial at Arlington because he had never served in the military was to perpetuate a past injustice in the guise of a bureaucratic technicality. During the period that Henson worked for Commander Peary (1887–1909), the U.S. Navy severely restricted, as a matter of official policy, the jobs and ranks that African Americans could hold. As someone who had served as a valet for a naval officer in the field and as a messenger at the Philadelphia Navy Yard, Henson had filled two of the few roles reserved for blacks in the navy at that time. Moreover, he had served his nation no less courageously than Peary and had brought it honor.
Whether such reasoning proved persuasive, I will never know. But in October 1987 I finally received word from the Department of the Army that President Reagan had granted my request to move Henson’s remains to Arlington. I immediately wrote the president to thank him.
My joy was tempered only by the fact that Anaukaq would not be there to see it. Nevertheless, I was determined to fulfill my promise and bring his children back to America to witness the reinterment. I notified the Greenlandic and American Hensons of the good news. We all found it hard to believe.
I now had to deal with a host of problems raised by the prospect of the reinterment. First, I was told that the expense of the reinterment would not be handled by the government. I would have to pay the costs of disinterment and reinterment. Second, I had to go through the courts to obt
ain legal permission to disinter the remains from Woodlawn Cemetery. Third, I would have to recommend a burial site. Fourth, there were regulation caskets to be obtained. And so on.
I began by contacting Superintendent Raymond Costanzo at Arlington. As always, he was cordial and encouraging. He agreed to meet with me to discuss a burial site and headstone.
In the interim, I set in motion the legal proceedings for Henson’s disinterment. New York law requires special permits from the city’s Department of Health and the local court before any disinterment can take place. While the staff of Woodlawn Cemetery understood that I had the president’s permission to transfer Henson’s remains, they informed me that they would contest the disinterment in court. This, they explained, was simply a matter of policy, something they did with all disinterment cases, to protect the cemetery. I was left with the impression that they would not strenuously oppose the removal.
When I arrived at Arlington, I met Costanzo and his assistants at the marble administration building just inside the gates. I requested that Matthew Henson be buried with full military honors, his civilian status notwithstanding. I also asked that Matthew and Lucy Ross Henson be buried next to Peary and his wife, Josephine. This site, I felt, would give them equality in their resting places. Anaukaq and Kali too had said that “the old friends should be together.”
I wanted to erect a fitting headstone, one that would make all Americans knowledgeable and proud of Matthew Henson. Costanzo and his staff listened carefully to my proposals but pointed out that there were new rules governing the size of all headstones in the cemetery. No longer were grave sites permitted to have the giant monuments of the past, such as the one the National Geographic Society had erected for Peary. All new monuments were restricted to a height of five feet, a width of four feet, and a thickness of one foot. Moreover, he noted, the cemetery preferred that the new headstones be even smaller.
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