CHAPTER XIX
International circumpolar stations.—Failure of Dutch expedition.—Greely expedition reaches Lady Franklin Bay.—Life at Fort Conger.—Sledge journey of Brainard and Lockwood.—Farthest north.—Greely’s journey to interior of Grinnell Land.—Lake Hazen.—Failure of relief ship Neptune to reach Conger in 1882.—Official plans for Greely’s relief in 1883.—Proteus crushed in ice.—Garlington’s retreat.—Greely’s abandonment of Fort Conger.—Greely reaches Cape Sabine.—The beginning of a hard winter.—Death of members of the party from starvation and cold.—Schley’s brilliant rescue of the remnant of the Lady Franklin Bay expedition in 1884.
The plan for establishing International Circumpolar Stations within or near the Arctic Circle, for the purpose of recording a complete series of synchronous meteorological and magnetic observations, was outlined in a well-thought-out paper delivered by Lieutenant Karl Weyprecht, A. H. Navy, before the German Scientific and Medical Association of Gratz in September, 1875, soon after the return from his remarkable journey in the Tegetthof.
Though Lieutenant Weyprecht did not live to see his splendid scheme carried into effect, the coöperation of Prince Bismarck and the hearty indorsement of the plan by a commission of eminent scientists, as well as the decision of the International Meteorological Congress, which reported “that these observations will be of the highest importance in developing meteorology and in extending our knowledge of terrestrial magnetism,” resulted in the International Polar Conference, at Hamburg, October 1, 1879, in which eleven nations were represented, and a second conference at Berne, August 7, 1880, at which it was decided that each nation should establish one or more stations where synchronous observations should be taken from August, 1882.
With the exception of the Dutch expedition, the scheme was successfully carried out and the stations established without accident.
| Norwegians— | Bosekof, Allen Fjord, Norway, under direction of M. Aksel S. Steen. |
| Swedes— | Ice Fjord, Spitzbergen, under direction of Mr. Ekholm. |
| Russians— | Sagastyr Island, mouth of Lena, Siberia, under Lieutenant Jürgens. |
| Möller Bay, Nova Zembla, under Lieutenant Andreief. | |
| Americans— | Point Barrow, North America, under Lieutenant Ray, U. S. A. |
| Lady Franklin Bay, 81° 44´ N., under Lieutenant A. W. Greely, U. S. A. | |
| English— | Great Slave Lake, Dominion of Canada, under Lieutenant Dawson. |
| German— | Cumberland Bay—west side of Davis Strait, under Dr. Giese. |
| Danes— | Godthaab, Greenland, under A. Paulsen. |
| Austrian— | Jan Mayen, North Atlantic, 71° N., under Lieutenant Wohlgemuth, A. H. Navy. |
FAILURE OF DUTCH EXPEDITION
As to the unsuccessful Dutch expedition, the Varna sailed from Amsterdam July 5, 1882, bound for Dickson Harbor, but was beset in the Kara Sea in September; she was crushed in December, 1882, when the crew took refuge on board Lieutenant Hovgaard’s vessel, the Dymphna, which had also been forced to winter in the pack. Nevertheless, Dr. Snellen did his utmost to procure regular observations from their besetment until the following August, when they started by boat and sledge for the coast of Nova Zembla. By August 25, they reached the south point of Waigat Island, where they met the Nordenskjöld and were safely landed in Hammerfest, September 1, 1883.
The inestimable value of the combined and systematic record of the scientific observations secured by the International Circumpolar Stations is a matter of public record. The success was complete, and all but the American nation might well be proud of the management and protection offered to the fearless men detailed to the splendid work.
The unparalleled disaster which overtook the Lady Franklin Bay expedition under Lieutenant Greely and his brave companions, through no fault of their own, but by a series of mismanaged accidents for which there was neither excuse nor condonation, leaves a blot upon the American records which the centuries cannot obliterate.
“If the simple and necessary precaution had been taken,” writes Markham, brother of the famous explorer, “of stationing a depot-ship in a good harbour at the entrance of Smith Sound, in annual communication with Greely on one side and with America on the other, there would have been no disaster”; and he continues, “If precautions proved to be necessary by experience are taken, there is no undue risk or danger in polar enterprises. There is no question as to the value and importance of polar discovery, and as to the principles on which expeditions should be sent out. Their objects are explorations for scientific purposes and the encouragement of maritime enterprise.”
Lieutenant Greely’s party consisted of three officers besides the commander, nineteen men of the army, including an astronomer, a photographer, and meteorologist, and two Eskimos. Sailing from St. John’s, Newfoundland, July 7, 1881, they were conveyed in the sealer, Proteus, to Littleton Island, where they hunted up the mail of the Alert and Discovery, then proceeded in open water to Cape Lieber, 81° 37´ N. There the ship was delayed by encountering ice in Hall Basin. By August 11, she had pushed through and safely landed the party at the old winter quarters of the Discovery in 1875-1876. Immediate preparations were made for building a house, and after all supplies were landed, the Proteus sailed home, leaving Lieutenant Greely and his party at “Fort Conger.” Indications of approaching winter appeared as early as August 27, and the season proved one of unusual severity. Sledge journeys, hunting parties, and exploring trips, combined with regular duties, scientific observations, exercise and moderate amusements, insured the party a season of successful labour and good health.
Travelling in one instance a week, in another ten days, in frightful temperatures averaging 73° below freezing, Lieutenant Lockwood and Dr. O. Pavy, surgeon of the expedition, with their companions, endured the severity with surprising energy. The ice conditions of Robeson Channel were ascertained and depots established at Cape Sumner for use in the following spring.
Colonel David Legge Brainard, U.S.A.
From a painting in the possession of A. Operti, Esq.
The sun left on October 15, and was absent one hundred and thirty-five days. The curious effect upon the mind produced by the long Arctic night is recorded in December. “About the 10th,” writes Lieutenant Greely in his Report, “a few of the men gave indications of being affected by the continual darkness, but such signs soon disappeared and cheerful spirits returned. The Eskimos appeared to be the most affected. On the 13th, Jens Edward disappeared, leaving the station in early morning, without mittens and without breakfast. Sending two parties with lanterns to describe a half-mile circle around the station, his tracks were soon found, leading towards the straits. He was at once pursued, and was overtaken about ten miles from the station, near Cape Murchison. He returned to the station without objection, and in time recovered his spirits. No cause for his action in this respect could be ascertained.”
Dr. Pavy, who had spent the previous year among the Eskimos, said that this state of mind was not infrequent among the natives of lower Greenland, and often resulted in the wandering off of the subjects of it, and, if not followed, by their perishing in the cold.
SLEDGE JOURNEY OF BRAINARD AND LOCKWOOD
As early as February 19, 1882, Lockwood and Brainard made a dog-sledge trip to one of the depots, deposited the previous autumn, a journey over the foot-ice of twenty miles. On the 29th of February, Lieutenant Lockwood, accompanied by Brainard, four other men, and two dog teams, made an experimental trip to Thank God Harbor preparatory to his proposed grand expedition along the coast to northern Greenland. Visiting the grave of Charles Francis Hall, Lockwood wrote in his journal the following touching tribute:—
“The head-board erected by his comrades, as also the metallic one left by the English, still stands. How mournful to me the scene, made more so by the howling of the winds and the thick atmosphere! It was doubtless best that he died where he did. I have come to regard him as a visionary and an enthusiast, who was indebted more to fortune than to those practical abilities which Kane possessed. Yet he gave his life to the cause, and that must always go far toward redeeming the shortcomings of any man. The concluding lines of the inscription on the English tablet, I think good. ‘To Captain Hall, who sacrificed his life in the advancement of science, November 8, 1871. This tablet has been erected by the British polar expedition of 1875, which followed in his footsteps and profited by his experience.’”
Dr. Pavy, accompanied by Sergeant Rice and Eskimo Jens with a dog-sledge, started March 19, 1882, for the north of Grinnell Land. A supporting sledge under Sergeant Jewell accompanied him as far as Lincoln Bay. On April 1, an unfortunate accident to a sledge runner caused a five days’ delay at Cape Union. Sergeant Rice and Eskimo Jens made a forced march back to Fort Conger and secured a new runner. Storms retarded their advance, but in spite of the rough condition of the ice, all supplies were brought up to Cape Joseph Henry and left there April 20. Two days later a violent storm set in, and after it subsided, the party pushed on toward Cape Hecla. A lane of open water was seen extending from Crozier Island round Cape Hecla. As this channel rapidly increased in width, a retreat was decided on, but to his consternation, before land could be reached, Dr. Pavy found himself adrift on a floe in the Polar Ocean. Fortunately the floe was driven against the land near Cape Henry, and after abandoning all articles not absolutely indispensable, he escaped to the mainland, but was obliged to give up further explorations.
In the meantime, Lieutenant Lockwood had completed his preparations, and the advance party, consisting of Sergeant Brainard and nine men dragging four Hudson Bay sledges, left Fort Conger April 3, 1882, to be followed the next day by Lieutenant Lockwood with two men and one dog-sledge, under instructions to explore the coast of Greenland near Cape Britannia “in such direction as (he) thought best to carry out the objects of the (main) expedition,—the extension of knowledge regarding lands within the Arctic Circle.”
The 5th of April, Lockwood joined the advance party at Depot A. On the afternoon of the 8th, they reached Cape Sumner. Bags of pemmican were added to the sledge loads for dog food. The parties encountered violent gales and extreme cold (81° below freezing) as they pushed on to Newman Bay. The hard experience of sledge travel was already telling upon the men, and at this point four were sent back, being unfit for continued field work. Pushing on for Repulse Harbor, with three hundred rations and eight men, Lockwood advanced in the face of storms, rough ice, and broken sledges, at the average rate of nine miles per day. The men suffered much from snow-blindness, and the unwonted fatigue of dragging the heavy sledges through areas of soft, deep snow. At Cape Bryant, which was reached April 27, a rest of two days was taken, during which Brainard, with two companions, visited the highest point of Cape Tulford.
On the 29th of May, Lieutenant Lockwood sent back the supporting sledge-men and, with Brainard and the Eskimo Christensen, the dog-sledge and twenty-five days’ rations, pursued his journey north across the Polar Ocean to Cape Britannia, which was reached May 5, after six journeys, the last a very short one.
“From the top of the mountain, 2050 feet,” writes Lockwood, “which forms Cape Britannia, I got a good view all around. Towards the northeast lay a succession of headlands and inlets as far as I could see—some 15 or 20 miles—and this was the character of the coast beyond as far as I got.”
FARTHEST NORTH
They had followed out the letter of their instructions and had reached the destination mentioned therein, but finding it possible to continue their explorations, they pushed on over land never before explored by man, crossing the frozen ocean and reaching Mary Murray Island the 10th of May. The party were now suffering from cold and insufficient food. To husband their rations, they had eaten very little of late.
“The dogs were ravenous for food, and when feeding time came, it was amid blows from the men and fights among the dogs that the distribution was made.”
In spite of serious delays by violent wind and storms, by floes so high that the sledge was lowered by dog-traces; by ice so rough as to necessitate the use of the axe before they could advance, and by widening water cracks which delayed their progress, these men pushed boldly on, and on May 15, 1882, made a world’s record, reaching on that day Lockwood Island, 83° 24´ north latitude, 42° 46´ west longitude. Gaining a considerable elevation, Lockwood unfurled Mrs. Greely’s pretty little silken flag and “for the first time in two hundred and seventy-five years another nation than England claimed the honors of the farthest north, and the Union Jack gave way to the Stars and Stripes.”
From this point the most northerly land seen was Cape Washington; beyond to the north “lay an unbroken expanse of ice, interrupted only by the horizon.” Haven Coast trended to the northeast, in a succession of high, rocky, and precipitous promontories.
Evidences of vegetation and game were found in this high latitude. Lemmings, ptarmigan, foxes, and hares found their way to these desolate shores, and small plants struggled for a foothold in the uncongenial soil.
“As we think of Lockwood,” writes Charles Lanman, his biographer, “at the end of his journey, with only two companions, in that land of utter desolation, we are struck with admiration at the courage and manly spirit by which he was inspired. Biting cold, fearful storms, gloomy darkness, the dangers of starvation and sickness, all combined to block his ice pathway, and yet he persevered and accomplished his heroic purpose, thereby winning a place in history of which his countrymen may well, and will, be proud to the end of time.”[1]
The return was even more arduous than the advance, and as they pursued their weary trail, thoughts wandered to home and creature comforts. “What thoughts one has when thus plodding along!” writes Lockwood in his journal. “Home and everything there, and the scenes and incidents of early youth! Home again, when this Arctic experience shall be a thing of the past! But it must be confessed, and lamentable it is, as well as true, that the reminiscences to which my thoughts oftenest recur on these occasions are connected with eating,—the favourite dishes I have enjoyed,—while in dreams of the future, my thoughts turn from other contemplations to the discussion of beefsteak, and, equally absurd, to whether the stew and tea at our next supper will be hot or cold.”
LAKE HAZEN
Joining the supporting party at Cape Sumner, the entire party, suffering from exhaustion and snow-blindness, reached Fort Conger, June 1, 1882. During the absence of Lockwood, Lieutenant Greely had left Fort Conger, April 26, 1882, and penetrated Grinnell Land, reaching Lake Hazen, a glacial lake, some five hundred square miles in area. Lake Hazen was again visited by Greely in June. “Following up Very River to its source, the farthest reached was 175 miles from the home station, between Mount C. A. Arthur and Mount C. S. Smith, which evidently form the divide of Grinnell Land,—between Kennedy Channel to the east and the Polar Ocean to the west.” Ascending Mount C. A. Arthur, the highest peak of Grinnell Land, Greely stood 4500 feet above the sea, and saw to the north of Lake Hazen snow-clad mountains, and distant country to the southwest was also covered with eternal snows. Lieutenant Lockwood subsequently supplemented Greely’s discoveries of the interior of Grinnell Land with the result that jointly 6000 square miles of territory was examined, an accomplishment which “determines the remarkable physical conditions of North Grinnell Land. It brought to light fertile valleys, supporting herds of musk-oxen, an extensive ice-cap, rivers of considerable size, and a glacial lake (Hazen) of extensive area....”
Traces of Eskimos having wintered at Lake Hazen, as shown by permanent huts, were a source of surprise to the explorers.
“Successful to such a degree as were these geographical explorations,” writes Greely, “they were strictly subordinated to the obligatory observations in the interests of the physical sciences. Systematic and unremitting magnetic observations served to round out knowledge by enabling scientists to calculate the secular variation of the magnetic declination of the Smith Sound region. Apart from the general value of the meteorological series, it has most fully determined the climatic conditions of Grinnell Land.
“The tidal observations were so complete at the station and so amply supplemented by outlying stations, that scientists have determined not only the co-tidal lines of the Polar Ocean with satisfactory results, but also learned from them that the diurnal inequality of the tidal wave conforms at Fort Conger to the sidereal day. The pendulum observations have been classed as ‘far the best that have ever been made within the Arctic Circle’ and the ‘determination of gravity (therefrom) has been singularly successful.’ Botanical, zoölogical, and anthropological researches were pursued with similar unremitting attention, so that the scientific work of the expedition may be considered as satisfactory and complete,—especially in view of the high latitude of the station.”
Summer had passed, and though the men had scanned the horizon long and earnestly for promised relief, no ship reached them. A second winter passed in the slow monotony characteristic of the Arctic night.
In order to facilitate his retreat in case the relief vessel of 1883 failed to reach him, Greely laid down stores at Cape Baird before the sun returned in February, 1883. Under his orders, Lieutenant Greely was to abandon Fort Conger not later than September 1 and retreat southward by boat, until he met the relief vessel, or Littleton Island was reached, where he would find a fresh party with fresh stores awaiting him.
FAILURE OF RELIEF SHIP “NEPTUNE”
As early as December 2, 1881, active steps were taken at the War Department in Washington for the relief vessel of 1882, estimates for an appropriation of $33,000 asked for, and negotiations for supplies opened with firms at St. John’s and with the Danish government for stores to be delivered in Greenland. In May, 1882, a board of officers attached to the Signal Service met at Washington to consider plans for the relief expedition. And the ultimate result was the sailing from St. John’s, Newfoundland, on July 8, 1882, of the sealing vessel Neptune, with Mr. William M. Beebe, Jr., a private in general service, and formerly Secretary to the Chief Signal Officer, in charge of the relief work.
The Neptune touched at Godhaven on the 17th and took on supplies; then directing her course slowly and with difficulty across Melville Bay, she came in sight of Cape York on the 25th; Littleton Island was reached on the 29th, where she was blocked by ice and obliged to return and anchor in Pandora Harbor. The next forty days the Neptune made fruitless efforts to enter Kane Sea. In the course of her many failures to penetrate to the north, she found anchorage between Cape Sabine, Brevoort Island, where Beebe examined the English cache made by the Discovery in 1875. This cache, of so much importance to Greely’s men later, was found to contain one barrel of canned beef, two tins (forty pounds each) of bacon, one barrel (one hundred and ten pounds) dog-biscuit, two barrels (one hundred and twenty rations each) biscuit, all in good condition; two hundred and forty rations, consisting of chocolate and sugar, tea and sugar, potatoes, wicks, tobacco, salt, stearin, onion powder, and matches, in fairly good condition. Beebe failed to leave any provisions of his own.
On August 25, after a fourth trial to penetrate the pack, the Neptune returned to Littleton Island with the intention of making depots. Natives being in the vicinity, who in all probability would steal any deposits left, Beebe concluded to postpone making the cache and proceeded to Cape Sabine. Here he deposited, according to his orders, two hundred and fifty rations, one-eighth of a cord of birch wood, and a whale-boat. The Neptune then made a fifth attempt to penetrate the pack, and again on September 2, her sixth and final effort. Finding it impossible to advance, she returned to Littleton Island, and a second depot of two hundred and fifty rations was cached. She now started on her homeward voyage, September 5, 1882. Beebe, having carried out to the letter his instructions from the signal office, for the relief of the Lady Franklin Bay expedition, and left two depots of two hundred and fifty rations, or ten days’ supply, returned to St. John’s, carrying safely from the barren shores of the Arctic two thousand rations, or a full supply for three months.
OFFICIAL PLANS FOR GREELY’S RELIEF IN 1883
The return of the relief party of 1882 made the expedition that was to follow the next summer one of grave importance. In the course of official communication on the subject between the Chief Signal Officer and the Secretary of War, General Hazen stated that “it is most desirable that the officer and the enlisted men who are to go next year, be detailed as early as practicable, in order that they may be trained and have experience in rowing and managing boats, and in the use of boat compasses.... It is desirable that men be selected whose service has been in the northwest, and it is also important that the entire party, before going, should be familiar with boats and their management under all conditions.”
Lieutenant James B. Lockwood, U.S.A.
From a portrait in the possession of A. Operti, Esq.
In the Secretary’s reply, the suggestion is volunteered, “It seems that it would be much more desirable to endeavour to procure from the Navy the persons who are needed for this relief party.” To this General Hazen made answer:—
“To change the full control of this duty now would be swapping horses while crossing the stream, and when in the middle of the stream. To manage it with mixed control, or even with mixed arms of the service under a single control, would be hazardous, and such action is strongly advised against by the many persons of both Army and Navy I have discussed the subject with. The ready knowledge of boats and instruments is but a very small part of the indispensable requisites in this case. This whole work has required a great deal of attention and study from the first, and I have not a doubt but any transfer of control now would result in failure to convey all the threads of this half-finished work, and that it would work disastrously in many ways. In view of these facts, I would consider the transfer now of any part of this work to any other control as very hazardous and without any apparent promise of advantage.”
First Lieutenant Ernest A. Garlington of the 7th Cavalry, having volunteered his services, was ordered, February 6, 1883, to report at Washington. Since his graduation from the Military Academy in 1876, he had served with his regiment at Fort Buford, Dakota Territory. Four enlisted men who had volunteered were also ordered from Dakota.
The Proteus was chartered and made ready for her voyage. A request was made by the Chief Signal Officer on the 14th of May that a Navy vessel should be detailed for service in connection with the expedition, “as escort to bring back information, render assistance, and take such other steps as might be necessary in case of unforeseen emergencies.” The Yantic, under Commander Frank Wildes, was selected, and underwent such preparation as the limited time permitted.
Garlington was instructed to examine, if possible, all depots of provisions and replace any damaged articles of food, and if the Proteus could not get through, the party and stores should be landed at Life-Boat Cove, the vessel sent back, and the party should remain. The Yantic was to accompany the Proteus as far as Littleton Island and render such assistance as might become necessary. Lieutenant J. C. Colwell of the Navy, having volunteered his services, was detailed to accompany Garlington. The Proteus and the Yantic left St. John’s the 29th of June, 1883, and were soon out of sight of each other.
“PROTEUS” CRUSHED IN ICE
The Proteus encountered ice in Melville Bay. Garlington examined the Nares cache of eighteen hundred rations on Southeast Gary Island, 60 per cent of the rations proving to be in good condition. There is no record that the 40 per cent were replaced from the Proteus’s stores.
Littleton Island was passed without a cache being left there. The ice prevented an advance, and Garlington thereupon decided to go to Cape Sabine “to examine cache there, leave records, and await further developments.” “At half-past three the Proteus came to anchor at Payer Harbor,” writes Schley. “She remained at her anchorage from 3:30 to 8 P.M. This stay of four hours and a half at Cape Sabine was a turning-point in the history of the relief expedition. It was made up of golden moments. It is true that no one could predict that by that time next day the Proteus would be at the bottom of the Kane Sea. It is also true that Garlington’s instructions had been officially construed as not including the formation of depots on the way north, and that the importance of reaching Lady Franklin Bay had been impressed upon his mind as the main purpose of his enterprise. At the same time it was known with tolerable certainty that two months later Greely would be at that point, if he carried out his intentions; and the commander of the relief expedition, although not expressly directed to land anywhere, had been instructed that if landings should be made at points where caches of provisions were located, he was, if possible, to examine them, and replace any damaged articles of food.
“Now there were two caches at or near Cape Sabine. One of them, left by Beebe the year before, was around the point of the cape. The other, left by Nares in 1875, was on Stalknecht Island, a long, low rock in the harbour itself, due west from Brevoort Island, and close to it. The position of the cache was well known. Beebe had visited it in 1882. The Proteus was now at Payer Harbor, probably within half a mile of Stalknecht Island; and on board the vessel were the four depots of provisions, of two hundred and fifty rations each, that had been arranged at Disco to be in readiness for landing at some tune and at any time.”
Garlington ordered two privates to land and take a set of observations, while he went with a party of men to examine the caches. The repair of a cache and the set of observations are all the work reported as having been done at Cape Sabine on the way north.
Garlington then put to sea, and followed the open leads of water to the northward. After an advance of twenty miles, the ship was stopped by the pack near Cape Albert. The following day she was crushed, and the crew and relief party took to the floe, throwing overboard such stores and provisions as came to hand. Lieutenant Colwell was the last man to leave the ship. Garlington and his party of fifteen men, two whale-boats, and provisions for forty days reached Cape Sabine in safety. He now followed the “Wildes-Garlington agreement,” which said “Should Proteus be lost, push a boat with party south to Yantic.”
GARLINGTON’S RETREAT
Garlington’s record left by him on Brevoort Island read in part:—
“Depot landed ... 500 rations of bread, tea, and a lot of canned goods. Cache of 250 rations; left by expedition of 1882, visited by me, and found in good condition. English depot in damaged condition, not visited by me. Cache on Littleton Island; boat at Isabella. U.S.S. Yantic on her way to Littleton Island, with orders not to enter ice ... I will endeavour to communicate with these vessels at once. Everything in power of man will be done to rescue the (Greely’s) brave men.”
“It transpired,” writes Greely, “that there was no boat at Isabella; that Garlington’s orders to replace damaged caches were imperative and disobeyed; that he had no knowledge that the Littleton Island cache was safe; that at Sabine he took every pound of food he could reach, though told that Greely was provisioned only to August, 1883; and that after Colwell’s skill had brought Garlington safe to the Yantic, he did not even ask Wilde to go north and lay down food for Greely, otherwise doomed to starvation.”
On September 13, 1883, Garlington wrote from St. John’s, Newfoundland, to the Chief Signal Officer, U.S.A., Washington:—
“It is my painful duty to report total failure of the expedition. The Proteus was crushed in pack in latitude 70° 52´, longitude 74° 25´, and sunk on the afternoon of the 23d July. My party and crew all saved. Made my way across Smith Sound and along eastern shore of Cape York; thence across Melville Bay to Upernavik, arriving there on 24th Aug. The Yantic reached Upernavik 2d Sept. and left same day, bringing entire party here to-day. All well.”
To telegraphic inquiries from the Signal Office asking what stores had been left for Greely, came answer:—
“No stores landed before sinking of ship. About five hundred rations from those saved, cached at Cape Sabine; also large cache of clothing. By the time suitable vessels could be procured, filled, provisioned, etc., it would be too late in the season to accomplish anything this year.”
We leave to the imagination the alarm aroused by the sudden realization of what this failure meant to our fellow-countrymen at Fort Conger. From July, 1882, to August, 1883, not less than 50,000 rations were taken in the steamers Neptune, Yantic, and Proteus, up to or beyond Littleton Island, and of that number about 1000 were left in that vicinity, the remainder being returned to the United States or sunk with the Proteus.
General A. W. Greely, U.S.A.
Courtesy of Clinedinst
The date of Garlington’s letter read “September 13.” With what horror did it dawn upon the public mind that the abandonment of the well-supplied station at Fort Conger was ordered “not later than” September 1. Even now Greely and his men, leaving behind them a scant year’s army rations, and carrying with them every pound of food possible, were making their hazardous retreat in “heavily laden boats through water-ways crowded with ice, acted on by strong currents and high winds, the recurring heavy gales, keeping the pack in constant motion, to and fro against the precipitous and rockbound coast.”
“Time and again,” writes Greely, “only the most desperate efforts and measures secured the safety of the specially strengthened launch, while the whale-boat escaped destruction only by speedy unloading and drawing-up on floes. Every cache, however small, was taken up, ending with damaged, mouldy bread, etc., at Cape Hawks.”
GREELY’S ABANDONMENT OF FORT CONGER
Fort Conger had been abandoned August 9, 1883; on September 13, the whale-boat had been left behind (afterward recovered), and the men were fighting their desperate way across the pack to the shore. The following day Greely made this entry in his journal:—
“The absence of sufficient light to cast a shadow has had very unfortunate results, as several of the men in the past few days have been sadly bruised or strained. When no shadows form and the light is feeble and blended, there is the same uncertainty about one’s walk as if the deepest darkness prevailed. The most careful observation fails to advise you as to whether the next step is to be on a level, up an incline, or over a precipice. These conditions are perhaps the most trying to Sergeant Brainard, who, being in advance selecting our road, finds it necessary to travel as rapidly as possible. A few bad falls quite demoralize a man, and make him more than ever doubtful of his senses. Travelling slowly, with our heavily laden sledges, we rarely suffer much from this trouble, as our steps are slow and uncertain at the best, but when a jar does come on a man pulling his best, it gives his system a great shock and strain.”
On September 17, all articles that were not of vital importance were abandoned, and yet the men were hauling about six thousand pounds. At the end of a weary day Sergeant Brainard wrote in his journal:—
“Turned in at 11 P.M., after ten hours of the severest physical strain. As the sleeping-bags (of those of us in the tepee) are protected from the ice by only one thickness of canvas, our comfort can be imagined.”
Three days later he adds:—
“We are now carrying burdens which would crush ordinary men, but the texture of the party is of the right sort, and adversity will have very little effect on our spirits.”
On September 29, 1883, Greely made a landing at a point midway between Cape Sabine and Isabella, after fifty-one days of the most arduous travel.
“The retreat from Conger to Cape Sabine,” writes Greely, “involved over four hundred miles’ travel by boats, and fully a hundred with sledge and boat; the greater part of which was made under circumstances of such great peril or imminence of danger as to test to the utmost the courage, coolness, and endurance of any party, and the capacity of any commander. As to my officers and men, it is but scant justice to say that they faced resolutely every danger, endured cheerfully every hardship, and were fully equal to every emergency (and they were many) of our eventful retreat.”
On October 5, Lieutenant Lockwood says:—
“We have now three chances for our lives: First, finding American cache sufficient at Sabine or at Isabella; second, of crossing the straits when our present rations are gone; third, of shooting sufficient seal and walrus near by here to last during the winter. Our situation is certainly alarming in the extreme.”
These men were shelterless, with but a small food supply, with impassable barriers of ice north and south. “Some hunted on land, others on ice; some put up stone huts, others searched for cairns and records.” The Arctic night had settled upon them before their huts were barely finished, these huts of heavy granite stones, dug from the snow and ice, lifted with swollen and bleeding hands, put in place with back-breaking efforts, by enfeebled, weary men, and into them they crawled with torn clothing, hand and footgear in holes, covering shivering, aching bodies.
GREELY REACHES CAPE SABINE
In this desperate plight, scouts returned with news of the sinking of the Proteus and with the notice from Lieutenant Garlington, describing the disaster, his plans and his retreat, and the caches of provisions at Cape Sabine. Relying on the expressed promise that “everything within the power of man will be done to rescue the brave men at Fort Conger from their perilous position,” Greely at once endeavoured to move his party near that point. “Camp Clay” was established on Bedford Pim Island, which was reached October 15, with forty days’ rations to tide over two hundred and fifty days of darkness and misery until help could come. Another hut was erected by the same arduous methods employed in building former huts. The rock walls were about two feet thick and three feet high; outside this wall was an embankment of snow at first four feet thick, but as the season advanced the winter gales buried the hut entirely in snow.
“The whale-boat just caught on the end walls, and under that boat was the only place in which a man could even get on his knees and hold himself erect. Sitting in our bags, the heads of the tall men touched the roof.” “Compared to our previous quarters,” writes Greely, “the house is warm, but we are so huddled and crowded together that the confinement is almost intolerable. The men, though wretched from cold, hard work, and hunger, yet retain their spirits wonderfully.”
It now behooved the party to gather in the stores from all the caches, and this was done under the most trying conditions. The news of the loss of the Jeannette was learned by a newspaper found among the stores and brought in with other articles. Records and instruments of the Lady Franklin Bay expedition were safely cached early in October on Stalknecht Island.
During the few remaining days of light, the hunter, Long, with the Eskimo, remained out of the floe in the intense cold, ill fed, without shelter, for the purpose of securing seals or other game that might be seen. A seal was all that was secured under the most trying circumstances.
When certain of the stores were examined to ascertain their condition, the dog biscuits were evidently bad, but “When this bread, thoroughly rotten and covered with green mould, was thrown on the ground, the half-famished men sprang to it as wild animals would.” October 26, 1883, marked the last day of sunlight for one hundred and ten days. The hunters still pursued their labours, but without success. However, on the last day of the month, “Bender was fortunate enough to kill a blue fox with his fist; it was caught with its head in a meat-can.”
All rations had been collected except one hundred and forty-four pounds of beef cached by Nares in 1875, forty miles distant at Cape Isabella. A further reduction of the quantity of food served to each man was inaugurated November 1. The following day Rice, Frederick, Elison, and Lynn started in the Arctic night for Cape Isabella; on the fifth day out they reached their destination after the most hazardous travel in temperatures ranging from -20° to -25° with only sixteen ounces of food per day to each man. Taking up their cache of meat, they started on the return journey. On reaching their first camp after fourteen hours of hard travel, Elison, who had done this day’s work on a cup of tea and no food, was found to have frozen both his hands and feet. “Our sleeping-bag was no more nor less than a sheet of ice,” writes Frederick in his journal. “I placed one of Elison’s hands between my thighs, and Rice took the other, and in this way we drew the frost from his poor frozen limbs. This poor fellow cried all night from pain. This was one of the worst nights I ever spent in the Arctic.”
Continuing the next two days with their half-frozen comrade, they reached Eskimo Point. Here they cut up an abandoned ice-boat for fuel, and endeavoured to thaw out Elison’s limbs and dry his clothing. “When the poor fellow’s face, feet, and hands commenced to thaw from the artificial heat,” says Frederick, “his sufferings were such that it was enough to bring the strongest to tears.”
After labouring nineteen hours for the welfare of their suffering comrade, Rice and Frederick attempted to advance.—“We tried to keep Elison in front of us, but to no avail. He would stagger off to one side, and it seemed every moment that the frost was striking deeper into the poor man’s flesh. We fastened a rope to his arm and the sledge, as it now took three men to haul our load, but every few rods the poor fellow would fall, and then sometimes he was dragged several feet. No person can imagine how that poor man suffered.”
Unable to haul Elison any farther, in the face of a gale and the piercing temperature of -20°, it was decided that Rice should start for Camp Clay for assistance. With only a bit of frozen meat for food, he started alone in the Arctic darkness and travelled twenty-five miles in sixteen hours, reaching the camp at midnight. Immediate relief was started, Sergeant Brainard and Christiansen leading the advance, to be followed two hours later by Lieutenant Lockwood, the doctor, and four of the men.
The fearful night spent by Frederick, Lynn, and their frozen companion can hardly be pictured. “We tried to warm him,” says Frederick, “but as we lay helpless and shivering with the cold, and poor Elison groaning with hunger (his frozen lips did not permit him to gnaw the frozen meat) and pain, you can imagine how we felt. Lynn was a strong, able-bodied man, but the mental strain caused by Elison’s sufferings made him weak and helpless. In fact, I was afraid that his mind would be impaired at one time. We were but a few hours in the bag when it became frozen so hard that we could not turn over, and we had to lay in one position eighteen hours; until, to our great relief, we heard Brainard’s cheering voice at our side. There was nothing more welcome than the presence of that noble man, who had come in advance with brandy for Elison and food for all.”
The rescue party, although weak and half-starved themselves, reached Elison with all despatch to find him in a very critical condition; his hands and feet were frozen solid; his face frozen to such an extent that there was little semblance of humanity.
THE BEGINNING OF A HARD WINTER
If November was ushered in with such misfortune, the succeeding months record a history of unparalleled misery and suffering. The hunters were ever on the alert, and the occasional game brought in was the only cheer that surrounded these famishing outcasts. A seal, a bear, a few foxes, dovekies, and ptarmigan were all that the desolate land gave forth to the unremitting vigilance of the hunters, and, reduced to the last extremities of famine, shrimps, seaweed, reindeer-moss, saxifrage, and lichens were diligently sought for and devoured.
On Thanksgiving Day,—what irony in the mere name,—these men celebrated by a little extra allowance of food—and Greely wrote in his journal:—
“To-day we have been almost happy, and had almost enough to eat.”
On December 9, there is rejoicing because Brainard and Long shot two blue foxes.
“We are all very weak,” writes Lieutenant Lockwood, ten days later, “and I feel an apathy and cloudiness impossible to shake off. It is a great difficulty to know each night just how much bread to save for breakfast on the morrow,—hunger to-night fights hunger to-morrow morning. I always eat my bread regretfully. If I eat it before tea, I regret that I did not keep it; and if I wait until tea comes, and then eat it, I drink my tea hastily and do not get the satisfaction I otherwise would. What a miserable life, when a few crumbs of bread weigh so on one’s mind! It seems to be so with all the rest. All sorts of expedients are tried to cheat one’s stomach, but with about the same result.”
On December 21, Lieutenant Greely says:—
“Sergeant Brainard is twenty-seven to-day. I gave him half a gill of rum extra on that account, regretting my inability to do more for him. He has worked exceedingly hard for us this winter; and, while all have done their best, his endurance, unusual equanimity of temper, and impartial justice in connection with the food have been of invaluable service to me.”
“Mouldy hard bread and two cans of soup make a dinner for twelve,” says Brainard. “At Fort Conger ten cans of soup were needed to begin dinner. But even the dire calamity which now confronts us is insufficient to repress the great flow of good nature in our party generally.”
“A terrible scene occurred in our wretched hut during the morning,” writes Brainard, March 24, 1884. “While preparing breakfast (tea) the cooks had forgotten to remove the bundle of rags from the ventilators in the roof, and the fumes thrown off by the alcohol lamps, being confined to the small breathing space, soon produced asphyxia. Biederbick, one of the cooks, was the first to succumb to its effects, and Israel immediately afterwards became insensible. At the suggestion of Gardiner, all the rest of us rushed for the door, and the plugs were at once removed from the roof and the lamps extinguished. By prompt attention, Dr. Pavy succeeded in reviving Israel and Biederbick. Those who went outside were less fortunate than those who fainted in their bags. As soon as they came in contact with the pure outside air, all strength departed, and they fell down on the snow in an unconscious state. In consequence of the absence of all animation, many of us were frost-bitten—Lieutenant Greely and myself quite severely. The lives of several of the men were probably saved through the noble efforts of Gardiner, who, though weak and sick, did all in his power to get us in the hut.... During the excitement of the hour about half a pound of bacon was stolen from Lieutenant Greely’s mess, and as soon as the fact became known, great indignation was expressed that in our midst lived a man with nature so vile and corrupt—so utterly devoid of all feelings of humanity—as to steal from his starving companions when they were thought to be dying. A deed so contemptible and heartless could not long remain concealed from those who had been injured. We were not disappointed in the discovery that Henry was the thief. He had literally bolted the bacon, and his stomach was overloaded to such a degree that, in its enfeebled state, it could not retain this unusual quantity of food, and his crime was thus detected. Jens afterwards reported having seen him commit the theft, and illustrated by signs his manner of doing it.”
“Poor suffering Elison!” he writes a few days later. “This morning he turned to the doctor and said, ‘My toes are burning dreadfully, and the soles of my feet are itching in a very uncomfortable manner; can you not do something to relieve this irritation?’ He little dreams that he has neither toes nor feet: they having sloughed off in January.”
On March 21, Greely makes this entry:—
“A storm prevents hunting.... It is surprising with what calmness we view death, which, strongly as we may hope, seems now inevitable.”
DEATH FROM STARVATION
As the gaunt and ghostly form of Death laid its fatal touch upon the weakest one by one, a strong man stole food from comrades, and stole again, and justly forfeited his right to live. Then one by one they died, the Eskimo, Christiansen, from exhaustion, and Lynn. “He asked for water just before dying; and we had none to give.”
Then Rice sacrificed his life for others, dying in the arms of his comrade, Frederick, near Baird Inlet, where he had gone in search of a hundred pounds of English beef abandoned in November, that Elison might be brought to camp alive. Then Lockwood died and Jewell failed—and soon joined his sleeping comrades, and yet in face of horror crowding upon horror, there is an entry:—
“On Easter Sunday we heard on our roof a snow-bird chirping loudly—the first harbinger of spring.”
In the meantime, the chief dependence of this rapidly diminishing party was derived from the gathering of shrimps—or sea-lice; the small crustacea were from one-eighth to one-half of an inch in length, consisting of about four-fifths shell and one-fifth meat, and about seven hundred of them were required to weigh an ounce.
“Dr. Pavy says,” writes Brainard in his journal, May 20, 1884, “that our food must be something more substantial than these shrimps, or none of us can live long. I caught twelve pounds of these animals to-day, and one pound of marine vegetation. Returned very much exhausted from this trip. Cannot last much longer.”
“Caterpillars are now quite numerous on the bare spots of Cemetery Bridge,” he writes a day or two later. “Yesterday Bender saw one of these animals crawling over a rock near the tent, and after watching it intently for a moment he hastily transferred it to his mouth, remarking as he did so, ‘This is too much meat to lose.’”
On May 29 there was a southeast gale and drifting snow. Brainard and Long returned from their day’s hunting with a few pounds of shrimps and a dovekie. “On returning to the tent,” writes Brainard, “Dr. Pavy and Lalor refused to admit me to their sleeping-bag, in which I occupied a place. Physically I could not enforce my rights in this matter, my condition bordering on extreme exhaustion, and wishing to avoid any unpleasantness, I crawled into one of the abandoned bags lying outside, as the only alternative. This bag was frozen and filled with snow. Can my sufferings be imagined? They certainly cannot be described.
“Suffering with rheumatism, and smarting under the sense of wrong done me by my sleeping-bag companions, mental agony was added to physical torture.
“To-day I caught six pounds of shrimps. This evening (June 6) dinner consisted of a stew composed of two boot-soles, a handful of reindeer moss, and a few rock lichens. The small quantity of shrimps which I furnish daily are sufficient only for the morning meal.
“Wednesday, June 11, 1884. Long returned at 1:30 A.M. from the open water, bringing with him two fine guillemots which he had killed. One of these was given to the general mess, and the other will be divided among those who are doing the heavy work for their weaker companions. This evening a great misfortune befell me. The spring tides have broken out the ice at the shrimping place, and my nets have been carried away and lost; my baits, poor and miserable as they were, are gone also. It is anything but pleasant to reflect that to-morrow morning we will have no breakfast except a cup of tea. It was quite late when I returned this evening from shrimping, and everybody had retired. I did not have the heart to awaken the poor fellows, but I let them sleep on quietly under the delusion that breakfast would await them at the usual hour in the morning. How I pity them!
“I made a flag, or distress signal, as it might be more properly termed, which I intend placing on the high, rocky point just north of our tent, where it may be seen by any vessel passing Cape Sabine.”
SCHLEY’S BRILLIANT RESCUE
Ten days later the whistle of the Thetis blown by Captain Schley’s orders to recall his searching parties fell lightly on the ears of the dying Commander of the Lady Franklin Bay expedition.
“I feebly asked Brainard and Long if they had strength to go out,” writes Greely, “and they answered, as always, that they would do their best.”
From the cutter, as it entered the cove, Lieutenant Colwell, straining his eyes, recognized the familiar landmarks of the year before.
“There, on the top of a little ridge, fifty or sixty yards above the ice-foot, was plainly outlined the figure of a man. Instantly the coxswain caught up the boat-hook and waved the flag. The man on the ridge had seen them, for he stooped, picked up a signal flag from the rock, and waved it in reply. Then he was seen coming slowly and cautiously down the steep, rocky slope. Twice he fell down before he reached the foot. As he approached, still walking feebly and with difficulty, Colwell hailed him from the bow of the boat:—
“‘Who all are there left?’
“‘Seven left.’”
“As the cutter struck the ice,” continues Schley, “Colwell jumped off and went up to him. He was a ghastly sight. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes wild, his hair and beard long and matted. His army blouse, covering several thicknesses of shirts and jackets, was ragged and dirty. He wore a little fur cap and rough moccasins of untanned leather tied around the leg. As he spoke, his utterance was thick and mumbling, and in his agitation his jaws worked in convulsive twitches. As the two met, the man, with a sudden impulse, took off his glove and shook Colwell’s hand.
“‘Where are they?’ asked Colwell, briefly.
“‘In the tent,’ said the man, pointing over his shoulder, ‘over the hill—the tent is down.’
“‘Is Mr. Greely alive?’
“‘Yes, Greely’s alive.’
“‘Any other officers?’
“‘No.’ Then he repeated absently, ‘The tent is down.’
“‘Who are you?’
“‘Long.’
“Before this colloquy was over, Lowe and Norman had started up the hill. Hastily filling his pockets with bread, and taking the two cans of pemmican, Colwell told the coxswain to take Long into the cutter, and started after the others with Ash. Reaching the crest of the ridge and looking southward, they saw spread out before them a desolate expanse of rocky ground, sloping gradually from a ridge on the east to the ice-covered shore, which at the west made in and formed a cove. Back of the level space was a range of hills rising up eight hundred feet, with a precipitous face, broken in two by a gorge, through which the wind was blowing furiously. On a little elevation directly in front was the tent. Hurrying on across the intervening hollow, Colwell came up with Lowe and Norman, just as they were greeting a soldierly-looking man, who had come out from the tent.
“As Colwell approached, Norman was saying to the man,—
“‘There is the Lieutenant.’
“And he added to Colwell,—
“‘This is Sergeant Brainard.’
“Brainard immediately drew himself up to the ‘Position of the soldier,’ and was about to salute, when Colwell took his hand.
“At this moment there was a confused murmur within the tent, and a voice said,—
“‘Who’s there?’
“Norman answered, ‘It’s Norman—Norman who was in the Proteus.’
“This was followed by cries of ‘Oh, it’s Norman!’ and a sound like a feeble cheer.
“Meanwhile one of the relief party, who in his agitation and excitement was crying like a child, was down on his hands and knees trying to roll away the stones that held down the flapping tent cloth.... There was no entrance, except under the flap opening, which was held down by stones. Colwell called for a knife, cut a slit in the tent cover, and looked in.”
“It was a sight of horror,” continues Schley. “On one side, close to the opening, with his head toward the outside, lay what was apparently a dead man. His jaw had dropped, his eyes were open, but fixed and glassy, his limbs were motionless. On the opposite side was a poor fellow, alive, to be sure, but without hands or feet, and with a spoon tied to the stump of his right arm. Two others, seated on the ground, in the middle, had just got down a rubber bottle that hung on the tent pole, and were pouring from it in a tin can. Directly opposite, on his hands and knees, was a dark man with a long matted beard, in a dirty and tattered dressing-gown, with a little red skull cap on his head, and brilliant, staring eyes. As Colwell appeared, he raised himself a little, and put on a pair of eye-glasses.
“‘Who are you?’ asked Colwell.
“The man made no answer, staring at him vacantly.
“‘Who are you?’ again.
“One of the men spoke up,—
“‘That’s the Major—Major Greely.’
“Colwell crawled in and took him by the hand, saying to him,—
“‘Greely, is this you?’
“‘Yes,’ said Greely, in a faint, broken voice, hesitating and shuffling with his words; ‘yes—seven of us left—here we are—dying—like men. Did what I came to do—beat the best record.’
“The scene, as Colwell looked around, was one of misery and squalor. The rocky floor was covered with cast-off clothes, and among them were huddled together the sleeping-bags in which the party had spent most of their time during the last few months. There was no food left in the tent, but two or three cans of a thin, repulsive-looking jelly, made by boiling strips cut from the sealskin clothing. The bottle on the tent-pole still held a few teaspoonfuls of brandy, but it was their last, and they were sharing it as Colwell entered. It was evident that most of them had not long to live.
“Colwell immediately sent Chief Engineer Lowe back to the cutter to put off to the Bear with Long to report and to bring the surgeon with stimulants, while he fed the dying men with bits of the food he had with him. As their hunger returned, they cried piteously for more; fearing too much at one time would injure them, Colwell wisely dissuaded them, but ‘when Greely found that he was refused, he took a can of the boiled sealskin, which he had carefully husbanded, and which he said he had a right to eat, as it was his own.’
“The weaker ones were like children, petulant, rambling, and fitful in their talk, absent, and sometimes a little incoherent.”
The Bear having by this time arrived, Sergeant Long was lifted from the cutter aboard, and there told his pitiful tale; all were dead except Greely and five others, and they were on shore in “Sore distress—sore distress”; it had been “a hard winter,” and “the wonder was how in God’s name they had pulled through.”
“No words,” says Schley, “can describe the pathos of this man’s broken and enfeebled utterance, as he said over and over, ‘a hard winter—a hard winter’; and the officers who were gathered about him in the ward room felt an emotion which most of them were at little pains to conceal.”
Soon after the Thetis came in sight, and her officers, including brave Melville, whose last sad offices for De Long had been but lately finished, went ashore and aided those from the Bear in the care and succour of the forlorn party.
As soon as possible the men were carefully moved on stretchers and carried in boats to the ships, but not before a hurricane had broken upon them, which made the labour hazardous and difficult.
Meanwhile, Lieutenant Emory of the Bear was making a careful collection of all articles belonging to the camp. Near the sleeping-bags were found little packages of cherished valuables, carefully rolled up, and addressed to friends and relatives at home; the survivors, too, had already done up and addressed their own, and, strange as it may seem, a pocket-book was found containing a large roll of bills carried by the owner for some unaccountable reason to the barren shores of Lady Franklin Bay. It was not difficult to move the bodies of the dead; there was only a thin covering of sand above the mounds that formed the graves.
Looking out from the side of the hut to the ice-foot, Colwell’s attention was fixed by a dark object on the snow. Following a path which led to it from where he stood, he found the mutilated remains of a man’s body.
“It was afterward identified from a bullet hole,” writes Schley, “as that of Private Henry, who had been executed on the sixth of June.”
Wrapping it in a blanket, Colwell carried it to the landing-place, where a seaman took the bundle on his shoulder. Presently the boat came off, and all who had remained on shore were taken on board the Bear. The ships returned to Payer Harbor.
The next day, June 23, Lieutenant Emory, accompanied by Sebree and Melville, and a number of men made a second search at Camp Clay, which lasted several hours; everything was gathered up and brought away.
The officers of the Thetis meanwhile had secured from Stalknecht Island Greely’s tin boxes containing his scientific records and standard pendulum.
The relief squadron in 1884 under Captain W. S. Schley and Commander W. H. Emory, and fitted out under the personal orders of the Hon. W. E. Chandler, Secretary of the Navy, had brilliantly executed its commission and had out-rivalled the early Scotch whalers, to whom a bounty had been offered by Congress for the speedy rescue of Greely, in pushing boldly through the “middle ice.” “No relief or expeditionary vessels ever ventured at so early a date into the dangers of Melville Bay,” writes Greely.
“That the United States Navy won in the race for Sabine is an illustration of the wonderful adaptability and abundant resources of the representative American seaman, which so well fits him for coping successfully with new and untried dangers and makes him a worthy rival of our kin across the sea.”
In triumph they bore the remnant of the Lady Franklin Bay expedition home to relatives and friends. Only six reached America alive (brave, pitiful Elison had died at Godhaven, July 8), six soldiers out of a company of twenty-five, broken in health, yet courageous in spirit, and loyal to a nation that through “a hard winter—a hard winter—in sore distress—” had left them to their fate!
Rear Admiral Schley, U.S.N.
Courtesy of Clinedinst