The Ice Master (7 page)

Bartlett had good reasons for following the lanes of open water—aside from running aground, the ship was at risk from crushing ice pressure, which was always greater and more dangerous near land. But it turned out to be a controversial decision, which would alter their course irrevocably. They quickly lost sight of land. Every now and then, a lead would bring them back toward the coast, but then, once again, they would be led away from it.

It was a no-win situation. To stay close to land meant to sacrifice the chance to move forward, which Stefansson insisted upon doing. But to follow the open leads meant to separate the ship from the relative safety of the nearby land mass, and to risk being carried off course.

Both Stefansson and Bartlett were strong personalities who harbored their own strong opinions about what to do. Stefansson did not seem to understand—or care about—the deficiencies of his ship or the risks involved with pressing onward. A frustrated Bartlett, tired of running aground, steered the ship into the open water and ignored Stefansson's warnings.

Later on, looking back, Bartlett felt he had done what was best at the time, navigating the ship as he had done with the ships under Peary's command. Stefansson had demanded they keep going, and Bartlett had complied the only way he could. Whether he would have done it over again, or whether or not it was the best decision is harder to say. It was a chance call based on his desire to get Stefansson where he wanted to go.

On August 11, Bartlett took a nap, his first sleep in two days. Afterward, he returned to the crow's nest to keep watch and continue his search for a passageway through the ice.

M
AMEN SPENT THE MORNING
of August 11 writing a letter to his beloved fiancée, Ellen, and then climbed up to the barrel to keep the captain company. They were treated to sunshine and snow that day, and in the afternoon the ship was able to buck the ice for several miles. The
Karluk
jumped and twisted as she rammed through the pack, and the crow's nest was shaking so violently that Mamen was sure they would be catapulted to the deck.

Finally, the
Karluk
rammed against the edge of a field of old, thick ice and was brought to a sudden halt. The young, or newer, ice was relatively easy to break, but the old ice was solid and impenetrable, especially for a ship like the
Karluk
.

The following day, Murray and Wilkins took out the umiak—a large, open wooden boat covered with walrus skins—and dropped Murray's dredge into a patch of open water, five fathoms deep. One of Murray's primary concerns as oceanographer was to study and document the sea life in different regions. The result from this dredging was a variety of interesting specimens, which Murray promptly spirited away to his makeshift laboratory, where he spent the rest of the day, cigarette dangling from his hand, studying them through his microscope.

Meanwhile, Mamen taught members of the staff and crew how to ski, and noted that most of his pupils were stiff as matches. Dr. Mackay and McKinlay were good students, but Beuchat, as expected, was awkward and extremely comical. Afterward, they held a football match on the ice, and although Mamen's team won, he injured his knee, the same one he had injured long ago in a skiing accident back home. Ever since that initial injury, it had been a little tender, and now it hurt like the devil. He turned in earlier than usual, worn out from the day and discouraged by the pain. He hated physical weakness of any kind, especially in himself.

O
N AUGUST 13,
with the mountains of Flaxman Island appearing off the ship's beam, the
Karluk
was listing to starboard at a worrisome degree, due to the overloading of coal in her starboard bunker. To protect the port bilges, which could easily be harmed, Bartlett had the men transfer a large part of the deck cargo to the port side to balance her out.

The following day was a wholly cheerless one for everyone on board. The only exception was the irascible old trapper Hadley, who was “playing guitar and
⁵⁰
singing so that we cannot hear ourselves think,” wrote a disgusted Mamen. Mamen was already in a foul mood that day, his knee aching, the monotony of the ice draining him. The worst of it, though, was that August 14 was Ellen's birthday and the anniversary of their engagement. Mamen could not believe he was stuck in the ice, so very far way from her, going nowhere.

The following day dawned brighter, as it was Bartlett's thirty-seventh birthday. Freshly barbered and in a splendid humor, the captain was treated to a real celebration that evening. Templeman laid the mess room table with a white linen cloth, which alone created quite a sensation, and everyone gathered at 9:30
P.M.
Templeman was an unambitious, rotten cook. But now everyone congratulated him on the feast he had prepared—cold roast beef; tongue; salads; and a variety of cakes, tarts, and fruit desserts. There was so much good food that he was unable to find room for all of it on the table.

There was lemonade and lime juice for the teetotalers—Bartlett, McKinlay, and Malloch—and whiskey for the rest. They raised their glasses and toasted the health of their captain, and afterward Stefansson gave him a box of cigars. These were passed around the table until all were puffing on them “as if we
⁵¹
had been in the most fashionable restaurant in London or New York,” wrote McKinlay.

After dinner Dr. Mackay sang a variety of Scottish songs, followed by Murray, and then McKinlay and Wilkins, who performed a duet. Hadley, of course, played the guitar and sang, Stefansson regaled them with stories, and secretary Burt McConnell gave a concert on the Victrola. Everyone's spirits seemed brighter, even the typically surly doctor's, whose mood was magically improved, as usual, by several drinks of whiskey. They turned in that night, close to 3:00
A.M.
, weary but refreshed, the celebration having given them a much-needed lift.

F
OR DAYS AFTERWARD,
they sat frozen into the ice pack, pelted by rain and wind. An oppressive, stifling fog rolled in, covering the ship in a blanket of mist, and Bartlett expected winter in full force at any time.

“The nights are
⁵²
beginning to show a little darkness which carries a warning of approaching winter,” McKinlay worried. “Each morning now we rise, asking ‘How is the weather today?'; each evening we lie down asking ‘Will it come tomorrow?' It is here one learns what discipline means; the North is a hard school. What worries us most is that we may get no farther & may thus be deprived of opportunity to work; it is not prospect of danger, for there is none.”

And then the rain changed to snow, which froze everything it fell upon, creating thick layers of frost. The temperature dropped and the pools of water on the nearby ice froze solid.

There were breathtaking evenings when the haloed moon shone silver in the dark blue sky and the stars burned brightly. McKinlay wanted to linger on deck; but there was a dangerous chill in the air, and it was too cold to stand for very long. But he gazed with wonder at the frost-covered rigging, the bejeweled mast and railings. The ship rose from the icy depths like a magical, majestic statue, her edges softened and blurred by the shimmering white and the starry frost that covered her. She looked, he decided, as if she were enchanted.

A
LL ON BOARD WERE RESTLESS,
especially their leader. Stefansson knew now that the chances of the
Karluk
breaking free and being able to continue on her journey were slim. “It is distressing
⁵³
to think that the winter already has come, and here we are, unable to go either back or forth, in the poorest part of the Arctic regions,” wrote Mamen. “I am beginning to get restless and only long to go further north and then home, but . . . the chances are small, yes, infinitely small.”

The outlook was black, and at Flaxman Island, the Southern Party began to wonder where their
Karluk
comrades were. They knew all too well the
Karluk
's shortcomings and feared she would not be able to make it through the ice. Chipman wrote about Stefansson, “He may be
⁵⁴
good ‘copy' but I wish he had paid more attention to the Expedition itself both publicly and personally.”

T
HE KARLUK WAS DRIFTING
now without power. She was trapped in a floe of old ice, easily half a mile wide, and suddenly found herself being carried with the current. Bartlett would not leave the crow's nest and thought that he could see in the distance signs that the ice was loosening. But he couldn't be sure anymore, and they were held fast in the viselike grip of the shifting ice pack.

Murray had never gotten over his dislike or distrust of Stefansson and had maintained a guarded distance from the leader ever since the July showdown in Nome where the scientists had confronted their leader. Now they were all stranded in the ice, and as far as Murray was concerned, it was Stefansson's fault. Stefansson was, in Murray's opinion, nothing more than “a self-seeking adventurer
⁵⁵
who deliberately intended to put the ‘
Karluk
' into the pack ice for the sake of notoriety and personal glorification.” It would be the surest way for Stefansson to get his name in the papers, to be known as the gallant leader of a lost expedition.

D
AY AFTER DAY,
there was no change in the ice. The ship remained a prisoner, helpless to dictate her own course or break free. Bartlett noted Stefansson's restlessness, as did the members of the crew and staff. Stefansson was a man who hated sitting still. On August 22 he suddenly called the scientists who were supposed to be part of the Southern Party into his cabin and announced again that he intended to send them ashore. Murray, though, was quickly eliminated from the group, because his equipment was too heavy to make the trip. Then it was decided that McKinlay could just as well do his work on the
Karluk,
and Wilkins would also remain for similar reasons. That left Jenness and Beuchat, who had no equipment and no purpose for being on the ship, since their work was to live with and study the Eskimos.

The plan was for Jenness and Beuchat to head over the ice to Flaxman Island to seek word of the
Mary Sachs
and the
Alaska
, and then continue over the now solid ice by foot and dogsled to Herschel Island, if it turned out the Southern Party had gone ahead. Everyone pitched in to ready the expedition, but it was impossible to locate the equipment and stores they needed for travel because nothing was where it was supposed to be.

Even though the scientists had tried to establish some sense of order, the
Karluk
's stores were still a mess, without any sense of organization or supervision. Templeman always helped himself to whatever he needed from the food supplies and never bothered to document it. The expedition clothing worked in much the same way. It had never been officially issued to the men, as it should have been, upon their arrival to the ship. Instead, it had been handed out sporadically, first to some, then to others at a much later time, and anyone overlooked had to put in a request or help himself.

It was, thought McKinlay, indicative of the way the expedition was being run. The only clothing he had been issued thus far was a pair of mukluks and some slippers. His government-issued clothing was aboard the
Alaska,
as was the trunk containing his own clothing and personal items, which he had brought from home. “That was all
⁵⁶
right,” he said, “in the ordinary course of affairs; but no thought has so far been taken of the change in prospects. I do not intend to ask for anything until I need it & then I shall demand it.”

A
UGUST 24
was the most promising morning they had seen for a long time. The ice showed signs of breaking, there was a sprawling open lead to the east, and the ship was abuzz with nervous excitement. The men were hopeful of getting free, but by the end of the day, the wind shifted to the west and killed all possibility of escape.

By the next morning, the ice had completely closed up again, and there was no sign of open water anywhere. Dr. Mackay had crafted an instrument that determined the speed and direction of the drift, and now they knew that the
Karluk
was drifting west at one mile per hour.

If they had been closer to shore, their prospects might have been better for breaking free. As it was, the snow was falling again, land was sighted far in the distance, and adverse winds blew in from the north. The
Karluk
's drift shifted daily, and by August 28, she was drifting southeast at a rate of twelve miles a day.

Meanwhile, unrest was brewing in the engine room over more than just the boiler tanks. Before being recommended for his post on the
Karluk,
Chief Engineer John Munro had been a junior officer on the British warship
Rainbow
. A Scot, he had emigrated to Canada and become a Canadian citizen. He was a towering man with a wide puttyish face, a rather soft chin, deep-set eyes, and a high forehead often in a crease when his brows were particularly furrowed, as they usually were.

Second Engineer Robert Williamson begrudged Munro his position as chief engineer. Munro was fond of shirking his work and putting much of it on Williamson, and Williamson soured at being ordered about by this man, whom he regarded as his inferior. Williamson was thirty-six years old, already weathered from over a decade of a seaman's life. Tall, brawny, and as sharply angled as a hawk, he had served in the North Atlantic, the Mediterranean, and the Baltic. On June 16, the day before the
Karluk
had sailed from Esquimalt, he introduced himself to Bartlett aboard a local streetcar and by the time the streetcar reached Esquimalt, he had a job as second engineer. Even with the last-minute hiring, he had hoped to join
Karluk
as chief engineer himself and had been bitterly disappointed over being given the second post.

S
TEFANSSON GAVE
J
ENNESS
and Beuchat final instructions for their journey, along with a check for two hundred dollars and a letter that gave them full authority to act independently of the expedition should the need arise. They were to attach themselves to the Southern Party as soon as possible, and Jenness was to telegraph any pertinent news to the
New York Times
on Stefansson's behalf.