McKinlay had dreamed of the moment when he would first set foot on the polar ice pack, and he was shaking with excitement as he stepped off the ship. He ran and danced with the rest of the men, leaping from one floe to another, scrambling to the tops of the ice hills, slipping and falling and sliding everywhere. It was exhilarating and liberating to be off the ship and running, momentarily free.
By August 5, however, the men of the Karluk were beginning to feel trapped and restless. Frolicking on the ice pack had lost its novelty. They had explored the ice, had reveled in their first taste of Arctic winter, but now they were ready to push forward. There was plenty of scientific and preparatory work to be done, but it was not enough to keep them from feeling claustrophobic. McKinlay made an attempt to retrieve his thermometers from the hold, but was unable to dig his way through the mountain of boxes to reach the instruments. He was anxious to begin working, but now it seemed he would have to wait until the stores could be rearranged and organized.
Later, young Mamen wrote in his diary, “. . . it begins to28 be monotonous and tedious to stay here, and I long to proceed north, but when? Who knows.”
Then, miraculously, the ice drifted out on the sixth, and the Karluk broke free and steamed toward Cape Smythe. Their coveted freedom was short-lived, however. Suddenly, the tiller smashed and the steering gear broke; and they had to stop once again for repairs. It was maddening, this stopping and starting, and no matter how many times they fixed it, the steering gear never worked for long.
On one occasion, it had nearly led them to disaster, steering them toward a narrow passage between two enormous, treacherous reefs. The first mate, fortunately, saw the danger just in time and was able to alter her course, but otherwise the ship and all aboard would have been crushed against the rocks.
The engine, too, needed a good tightening up, because the rough seas had damaged it extensively. Bartlett was as vocal as ever about his displeasure at Stefansson’s choice of vessel. “Our skipper has29 some strong things to say about the ship and her shortcomings,” McKinlay observed. “It is unfortunate that he himself was not asked to buy the ship, as he might have made a better job of it.”
Repairs made, they were on their way again two hours later, steaming within a mile of the beach of Cape Smythe before running up against more ice. Knocked about by the immense, churning floes, the ship took a beating.
ON THE EVENING of August 6, as the Karluk waited offshore of Cape Smythe, an Eskimo family came aboard. The father, Kuraluk, was rumored to be one of the greatest hunters in Alaska. He had been hired to hunt for the expedition while his wife, Kiruk, was commissioned by Stefansson as seamstress. She was a stout young woman, raw-boned and strong, and would sew the winter clothes and skin boots for the staff and crew. It was Eskimo tradition that when a married man was hired, his family came with him, so they had brought their two young children, eight-year-old Helen, and three-year-old Mugpi. Helen was a solemn child, serious and quiet, and Mugpi seemed a cheery little girl, all adorable curiosity and wide brown eyes.
Another Eskimo also came aboard that day. He was nineteen-year-old Claude Kataktovik, a widower with a baby daughter. He had left his daughter with his family when Stefansson invited him to join the expedition as a hunter, an opportunity he felt he could not refuse. After all, Stefansson had promised him a great deal of money for his services—twenty thousand dollars, according to Kataktovik, for a year’s work. Stefansson also gave him twenty dollars and a rifle.
Signs of unrest stirred in the crew, who had not been outfitted with winter clothing, even though their orders had promised that they would be. Bring nothing, their orders had dictated. You will be taken care of. But they were still waiting and, it seemed, winter had already arrived. Meanwhile, the Eskimos were fitted out immediately and extensively by Stefansson, with mukluks—or boots made of animal skins—parkas, and sheepskin coats. Now some members of the crew were threatening mutiny if they weren’t taken care of accordingly.
There had been trouble already between the crew and the first Eskimos hired by Stefansson—Pauyuraq and Asecaq, who went by “Jerry” and “Jimmy,” respectively. In their early twenties, they spoke good English and had been assigned to bunk with the crew in the fo’c’sle. But the crew kicked them out and went together to Bartlett to voice their grievances. They were not going to room with any Eskimos, they said. In the end, of course, Bartlett got his way, and—in his presence, at least—not another word was said.
On the evening of August 6, Stefansson arrived shortly after the Eskimo family and Kataktovik with fifty-seven-year-old John “Jack” Hadley. He was an irascible-looking old salt, grizzled and weathered, with a trim white beard. His narrow eyes peered from a taut, finely lined face, burned by years in the sun and wind. He was an Englishman, from Canterbury, who had lived as a trapper, trader, and whaler in the far American north for over twenty years. No one on the staff or crew had any idea what his position was to be in the expedition, or what he had been hired to do, and Stefansson did not enlighten them on this matter. But Hadley immediately moved his belongings into Stefansson’s cabin, which he was to share. Molly, his pet dog and traveling companion, moved in with the other dogs.
As the days wore on, the staff and crew received clues to the mystery of Hadley. He had a sharp tongue and he didn’t mince words. He was forthright and ornery and growled when he talked.
He was on his way to a new trading post and seemed, from what they could tell, to be merely hitching a ride with the Karluk. He was an old friend of Stefansson’s and had recently lost his Eskimo wife. In search of new surroundings, and a way to forget, he had decided to move on.
Hadley had a lifetime of experience, and he treated his shipmates to tales of being adrift on an ice floe for fifty-three days with only fourteen days provisions. When these ran out, he had survived by chewing his mukluks and sealskin coat. He had been a tramp in Australia, an officer in the Chilean Navy, and a soldier on a Chinese ship in the Chinese-Japanese War. He was also aboard the first United States revenue cutter to sail to the Arctic in 1889. Ernest Shackleton had three polar winters to his credit, Bartlett had spent four, Peary had endured nine, and Stefansson ten in all. But Hadley had survived at least twenty, and he was a good man to have around.
Later that night, after Hadley and the Eskimos had settled in, Stefansson stood by and watched as the staff and crew cleared the deck on the port side of the lab to make a house for the Eskimo family. Sandy gave the orders; the coal, lumber, and casks of goods were removed from the alleyway beside the lab, and the alleyway turned into a shelter. The work took hours, and the scientists were irritated by the way their leader stood on the sidelines and refused to help. Tempers flared. There weren’t enough men to do the job, and they felt that the least Stefansson could have done was lend a hand.
Beuchat hated doing any kind of physical labor and snapped at Mamen, who called him a “pup.” Mamen was not one to let things pass, and he would always speak his mind when he felt the need to defend himself or set someone straight. Now, he set Beuchat straight, calling him the “laziest man I30 have ever seen in all my life.”
STEFANSSON HAD MADE his scientific staff pose for one last picture before they climbed aboard ship on June 17. The docks were lined with strangers, gathered to send the adventurers off. The entire Canadian Pacific Fleet had come to cheer them onward. Men of the fleet sounded their sirens, blew their whistles, dipped their flags, and hoisted good luck signals while the crowds of strangers—thousands of them—cheered and applauded.
For days, the scientists and crewmen had searched the docks for a cat to bring aboard as their mascot. According to maritime superstition, a feline presence aboard ship would bring them luck, but Stefansson put his foot down, saying that as soon as he hired sled dogs in Nome, the dogs would kill the cat. Just before pulling away from the dock, one of the engineers smuggled aboard a thin black kitten, which lived in the shipyard. They dubbed her Nigeraurak, or “Little Black One.” Fireman Fred Maurer quickly
came to think of her as his own.
On their first night at sea, geologist George Malloch had organized the members of the staff as lots were drawn for their quarters. Photographer George Wilkins and Chief Engineer John Munro would share the engineer’s cabin; the decidedly unsociable Dr. Mackay ended up with a cabin to himself next door to Bartlett’s cabin; and the remaining scientists drew the Cabin DeLuxe, as they called it, so named for its great size, at least four to five times larger than any of the other cabins. This cabin was to be shared by Malloch, Scottish school teacher McKinlay, the youthful and athletic Mamen, anthropologist Diamond Jenness, Stefansson’s secretary Burt McConnell, and Beuchat, the well-mannered Frenchman.
From the beginning, the Karluk’s crew and staff were divided. “Bloody scientists” was what the crew took to calling their more educated colleagues, with nothing but the most adamant disgust. Scientists and crew would live separately but in close quarters at the outset of the voyage, because the Karluk alone had to convey all men, equipment, and supplies as far as Nome, Alaska, where a second ship would be added to the Northern Party’s expedition.
The crew’s quarters were located in the bow of the ship. Fred Maurer’s fellow fireman, or stoker, was a freckled, outspoken, cheeky Welshman named George Breddy. The A.B., or able-bodied, seamen were just as colorful, but the one who stood out most—and fit in least—was Hugh Williams, also from Wales. He was a tall, dark, sturdy fellow with a rough, handsome face; hooded eyes; a quiet humor; and a disarming smile. He had long ago earned the nickname “Clam” because he rarely spoke. While his comrades sat around and swore and cursed and bantered with one another, he would sit back quietly and observe them. He didn’t swear and he didn’t talk when he had nothing to say. When he did speak, it was with none of the profanity of his fellow crewmen.
Cook Robert Templeman and Ernest F. Chafe, the mess room boy and assistant steward, roomed in the steward’s cabin, just next to the galley. Chafe, or “Charlie,” as he was called, was the youngest crewman. Impressionable and athletic, he had a love of the outdoors and was an expert marksman. To prove it, he brought aboard the Karluk his most cherished possessions, two armloads of trophies and prizes he had won for marksmanship in his native Canada.
Second engineer Robert Williamson bunked with Sandy and the second mate, a Victoria, British Columbia, native who had been promoted when Sandy was made first officer. Meanwhile, the diminutive McKinlay took the upper bunk on the inside wall of the impressive Cabin DeLuxe, continually bumping his head against the berth or missing his footing and landing directly on the broad-shouldered, long-legged Malloch, who had the misfortune of sleeping below him. There were eight berths and the cabin itself was stacked full of boxes, books, magazines, and other paraphernalia. A major cleanup had to be performed before the men could sleep, and they spent a good while reorganizing and throwing things away.
The Karluk had soon left the Southern Party’s Alaska behind, loaded with twice as many provisions as she could carry, and not long afterward, Stefansson purchased the Mary Sachs, a forty-one-ton gasoline schooner, to take the overflow of supplies. Not only was the expedition racking up more expenses than either the government or Stefansson had originally anticipated, it was beginning to look as impressive as it sounded. One of the scientists wrote, “The Canadian Arctic31 Expedition Navy now consists of the Karluk, Alaska, Mary Sachs, five whale boats (one with power), two other motor boats, three canoes, two dories, one dinghy and several skin boats.”
ON AUGUST 8, Bartlett gave orders to push through the ice. They were expected to rendezvous with the Southern Party at Herschel Island in less than a week, and they hoped to reach the island in two or three days. Slivers of water, called “leads,” occasionally opened in the ice around the ship, and the captain, navigating from the crow’s nest, scanned the approaching ice for the farthest and most open of these, “at the same32 time trying to keep the ship on its course as straight as possible,” observed mess room boy Chafe. The ice had loosened a bit, and the ship took advantage, steaming through to the east.
At times, the Karluk would pass between two mountainous ice floes that would scrape her on either side, creating such a violent shiver throughout the ship that the men expected her to be crushed. The lookout in the crow’s nest—most often Bartlett, who was always on duty and never seemed to sleep—would send out continuous updates and commands: “Starboard—steady—Port33—steady—go astern—go ahead.” The commands were repeated by the officer on the bridge, and then from the man at the wheel, to confirm the path he was to follow.
Because of the perilous and unpredictable ice conditions, the ship could not rely upon her compass and traveled in a haphazard, vagabond path. When a floe crossed her bow, the men would direct her astern and ahead, in an attempt to break up the ice. Because she was forced to follow the spidery veins of open leads, the ship waltzed in a zigzag, moving two or three miles for every one advanced in the desired direction. The result was that the Karluk’s route was continually changing and the ship often went round in circles.
As the ice began to crush around the ship, the fine white cakes dissolving into powder, the men forgot their previous irritations. McKinlay, Mamen, and the others were drawn by the sight of it—the ice, alive and grinding against the ship, floes crashing against floes. The sound of it was a grisly, bone-chilling roar, continuous and deafening. The men were terrified, but fascinated. Afterward, when the din had faded to a distant rumble, there were signs of open water to the east of Point Barrow.
Stefansson immediately wanted to send members of the Southern Party ashore to await the Mary Sachs and the Alaska, which had traveled a separate route and had hopefully avoided the encroaching ice. McKinlay, James Murray, Wilkins, Jenness, and Beuchat should join their party as soon as possible, but it would be quite an undertaking. The equipment they would need for the journey would be cumbersome and the ice conditions were precarious at best. Bartlett and Hadley at once denounced the plan as “absurd & suicidal34.” Furthermore, they said, the Karluk would probably work her way free in a few days, and then she would be on her way again.
MCKINLAY, AS A MEMBER of the Southern Party, wasn’t even supposed to sail on the Karluk. In fact, in the haste of their departure, hardly anyone wound up on the ship where he was supposed to be stationed. The idea was that they would sort it all out at Herschel Island, where the Karluk was to rendezvous with the Alaska and the Mary Sachs. This confused, arbitrary strategy was symptomatic of how the whole expedition was run.
Because the Karluk had more passenger room, Beuchat, Jenness, Wilkins, Murray, and McKinlay sailed on her when they should have been on the Alaska with the rest of their party. Most of their scientific equipment, meanwhile, sailed aboard the Alaska.
For two weeks, they waited in Port Clarence while Stefansson remained in Nome, supervising the outfitting of the Alaska, the Mary Sachs, and his latest purchase, the thirteen-ton North Star.
The scientists had demanded a conference with Stefansson on July 10. They were alarmed by the disorganization of the supplies and their equipment. They could find guns, but could not find the ammunition. Several boxes of provisions were packed badly, and some of them were half empty. The men were provided with only one towel each, and the smaller members of the company—including McKinlay—had to make do with drawers and shirts that were too big for them. Stefansson had also purchased some secondhand parkas in Nome, which were horrible to look at, diseased and thin. He handed them to Dr. Mackay to disinfect, but the doctor pronounced the job impossible; so the men had to make do.
Stefansson seemed unconcerned about the chaos of the Karluk’s decks and the confused order of the supplies. “We’ll sort it out at Herschel Island,” became his favorite response.
The staff of his expedition was also astounded to learn that their private diaries would be property of the Canadian government and that their rights to grant interviews or supply news to the outside world had been signed away, without their knowledge, by Stefansson.
At the conference, spokesman James Murray demanded to know the plans of the Northern Party, which had never been officially presented to any of the scientists. Stefansson bristled at their questions and, according to McKinlay, “seemed to resent36 our attitude in endeavouring to obtain details as to provisions for food, clothing, facilities for work, etc., & he went the length of telling Murray, when he asked what provision was being made for fur clothing, that the question was impertinent.” Furthermore, Stefansson “told us that he thought our whole conduct in calling for a meeting seemed to imply a lack of confidence in our leader, and altogether failed to recognise that we all had an undeniable right to assure ourselves that every regard was being had for our protection.”
It was only then that the men learned that Stefansson planned for the Karluk to proceed along the 141st meridian to search for new land. If no land was discovered, the Northern Party would form a base at Prince Patrick Island, which would leave the men free to explore the area from there. The ship and her crew would then return to Nome immediately for provisions.
Stefansson had said far more about his plans in press conferences than he had communicated to the men themselves. He also made a frightening prophecy—that the Karluk would no doubt be frozen in at some point and afterward would “certainly be crushed37 & sink.”
Kenneth Chipman, botanist for the Southern Party, recorded an equally ominous fact in his diary: “V.S. in a38 signed statement has said that lives are secondary to attainment of objects and on several occasions has strongly intimated that he expected to put the Karluk into the ice. It is certain that if she goes into the ice she’ll not come out.. . .”
The Ice Master Page 4
