CHAPTER XVIII
The Jeannette expedition, 1879-1881.—In command of Captain George W. De Long.—Leaves San Francisco, touches at Ounalaska, August 2, reaches Lawrence Bay, East Siberia, August 15.—Last seen by whale bark Sea Breeze near Herald Island, September 2.—The Jeannette beset in ice-pack, September 5, never again released.—Daily routine of officers and crew.—Ship springs a leak.—A frozen summer.—Sight of new land.—A second winter in the pack.—The Jeannette crushed.—Abandonment.—The retreat.—The fate of the three boats.—Death of De Long’s party.—Melville’s search.
The American Arctic expedition of 1879, commanded by Lieutenant George W. De Long of the United States Navy, was equipped and financed by Mr. James Gordon Bennett, proprietor of the New York Herald. The object of the expedition was to reach the North Pole by way of Behring Strait.
THE “JEANNETTE” EXPEDITION, 1879-1881
The bark-rigged steam yacht of four hundred twenty tons, Pandora, which had already seen considerable service in Arctic water, was purchased from Sir Allen Young. By special act of Congress she was allowed to sail under American colours, be navigated by officers of the United States Navy, and to change her name from Pandora to Jeannette. The Jeannette was reënforced and refitted for the arduous service expected of her, and her officers and crew, thirty-three in number, carefully selected for their especial fitness for the undertaking.
Among the number, Lieutenant De Long and Lieutenant Chipp, the executive officer, had seen Arctic service while attached to the U. S. steamer Juanita, which had been sent by the government in search of the Polaris in 1873; Engineer Melville had been attached to the Tigress, while that ship had been on the same errand, and Seaman Wm. F. C. Nindemann had sailed on the Polaris and been a member of the ice-drift party.
Lieutenant John W. Danenhower, U. S. N., was appointed navigator; Dr. J. M. Ambler, surgeon; Jerome J. Collins, meteorologist; Raymond L. Newcomb, naturalist; and William M. Dunbar, ice pilot.
The Jeannette left San Francisco July 8, and moved slowly toward the Golden Gate amid the cheers and waving of handkerchiefs from thousands of spectators on the wharves and on Telegraph Hill. A salute of ten guns was fired from Fort Point, while a convoy of white-sailed craft of the San Francisco Yacht Club escorted her out to the broad Pacific. Pursuing her course, the Jeannette made for Ounalaska, one of the Aleutian Islands, which she reached August 2. There additional stores were taken aboard, and four days later she pursued her course, to St. Michaels, Alaska, where she anchored the 12th of August. Dogs and fur clothing were purchased, and two Alaskans, Anequin and Alexai, were hired to accompany the expedition as dog drivers. By the 25th of August, she had reached St. Lawrence Bay, East Siberia, where Lieutenant De Long learned that a ship supposed to be the Vega had gone south in June. She then rounded East Cape and touched at Cape Serdze, from which point Lieutenant De Long sent his last letter home.
Captain Barnes of the American whale bark Sea Breeze saw the Jeannette under full sail and steam, on the 2d of September, 1879, about fifty miles south of Herald Island; on the 3d of September she was sighted by Captain Kelley of the bark Dawn; and at about the same time Captain Bauldry of the Helen Mar and several other whalers saw smoke from the Jeannette’s smoke-stack in range of Herald Island. She was standing north. These were the last tidings heard of the expedition by the outside world for over two years.
On the 5th of September, the Jeannette, having boldly entered the ice in an attempt to push through and winter at Herald Island or Wrangell Land, was beset and never again left the ice-pack, but drifted at the mercy of this formidable foe, until she was crushed, and finally sank many months afterward.
Hoping against hope that a release would come, first in the fall with the promise of Indian summer, then in the spring with the breaking up of the ice-pack, Captain De Long saw the weeks and months glide by, and followed the complicated drift of the Jeannette, as she coquetted with her jailer, turning and twisting in her course, suffering the constant pressure of her enemy, that hourly threatened her destruction and pursuing an uneven drift north and eastward.
The daily routine during the long imprisonment was practically as follows:—
This programme was varied only as contingencies arose; by threatening disaster from ice pressure; by the chase of bears; the capture of walrus and seals; or by hunting parties who travelled over the ice in search of game, or took a daily run with the dogs.
CAPTAIN GEORGE W. DE LONG
“Wintering in the pack,” comments De Long, “may be a thrilling thing to read about alongside a warm fire in a comfortable home, but the actual thing is sufficient to make any man prematurely old.”
On January 19, 1880, owing to serious convulsions of the ice, the Jeannette sprung a leak. The deck pumps were at once rigged and manned, and steam raised on the port boiler to run the steam pumps. This last caused great difficulty and delay, owing to the temperature in the fire-room being -29°, the sea-cocks being frozen, which necessitated pouring buckets of water through the man-hole plates, before the pumps could be operated. Through Melville’s indomitable energy, the pumps were effective by afternoon. Though all hands worked until midnight, the serious situation was only partially controlled, the men working knee-deep in ice water, Nindemann standing down in the fore-peak, stuffing oakum and tallow in every place from which water came. Under the direction of Lieutenant Chipp, a bulkhead was built forward of the foremast, which partially confined the water. In the meantime, Melville, working night and day, rigged an economical pump with the Baxter boiler, with which the ship was pumped for nearly eighteen months.
Lieutenant Danenhower, who had been suffering for some time with his eyes, had become totally incapacitated for service, and on the 22d of January submitted to an operation performed by Dr. Ambler. Two days later, De Long comments on the gravity of his own responsibilities:—
“My anxieties are beginning to crowd on me. A disabled and leaking ship, a seriously sick officer, and an uneasy and terrible pack, with constantly diminishing coal pile, and at a distance of 200 miles to the nearest Siberian settlement—these are enough to think of for a lifetime.”
The drift of the Jeannette for the first five months had covered an immense area; she had approached and receded from the one hundred eightieth meridian, drifting back to within fifty miles from where she had entered the pack. By the 3d of May, however, fresh southeast winds began, and the ship took up a rapid and uniform drift to the northwest. Hope for release, which had been buoyant in May, was deferred until June, and when that month glided by with no signs of liberation, it passed to July and gradually faded with the brief passage of a frozen summer. The Jeannette, again uncertain in her drift, added to the general disappointment of the commander. The ring of despair and realization of failure are voiced in an entry August 12:—
“Observations to-day show a drift since the 9th of five and a half miles to S. 38° E. The irony of fate! How long, O Lord, how long?”
On September 1, the Jeannette for the first time since her imprisonment stood on an even keel; but four days later, one year from the time she flung her fortunes to the enemy, she was again held fast in its frozen grip. During the month she was put in winter quarters for the second time. The approach of the long night with its added anxieties brought little change to the members of the expedition. The question of fuel was the most serious problem, and the amount used was figured to the most economical basis. Weary days dragged along without novelty or change. “So far as I know,” writes De Long in January, 1881, “never has an Arctic expedition been so unprofitable as this. People beset in the pack before have always drifted somewhere to some land, but we are drifting about like modern Flying Dutchmen, never getting anywhere, but always restless and on the move. Coals are burning up, food being consumed, the pumps are still going, and thirty-three people are wearing out their hearts and souls like men doomed to imprisonment for life. If this next summer comes and goes like the last without any result, what reasonable mind can be patient in contemplation of the future?”
Four long weary months were to elapse before a relief came to break the monotonous situation. On May 16, 1881, the Jeannette stood in latitude 76° 43´ 20´´ N., longitude 161° 53´ 45´´ E., land was sighted to the westward, which proved to be an island (later named Jeannette Island), the first that had greeted the weary eyes of officers and men since March 24, 1880, when the ship had been in sight of Wrangell Land. On May 24, a second island was seen. On the 31st, Melville, Dunbar, Nindemann, and three others started with a dog sledge and provisions, for an investigation of the newly discovered island. The party landed on June 3, hoisted the American flag, and formally took possession of the land in the name of the United States and giving it the name of Henrietta Island. They built a cairn and deposited a record. The journey had been fraught with great danger and hardship. “The ice between the ship and the island had been something frightful,” writes De Long. “After digging, ferrying and its attendant loading and unloading, arm-breaking hauls, and panic-stricken dogs made their journey a terribly severe one. Near the island the ice was all alive, and Melville left his boat and supplies, and, carrying only a day’s provisions and his instruments, at the risk of his life went through the terrible mass, actually dragging the dogs, which from fear refused to follow their human leaders. If this persistence in landing upon this island, in spite of the superhuman difficulties he encountered, is not reckoned a brave and meritorious action, it will not be from any failure on my part to make it known.”
The approach of spring had revealed to Dr. Ambler a pale and stricken crew. Danenhower had long been a sufferer; Lieutenant Chipp was ill; Mr. Collins was recuperating slowly from a severe illness; Alexai, the Alaskan, was suffering from ulcers, and others of the crew showed incipient signs of scurvy.
THE “JEANNETTE” SINKS
On the 12th of June, 1881, while in 77° 15´ north latitude, and 155° east longitude, the Jeannette experienced a final pressure from the ice, from which she sank within a few hours. As soon as it was realized that her fate was sealed, orders were issued that all provisions, boats, etc., should be transported to a safe distance upon the ice; this was done without confusion or excitement. “When the order was given to abandon the ship,” writes one of the officers, “her hold was full of water, and as she was keeling twenty-three degrees to starboard at the time the watch was on the lower side of the spar deck.”
The men encamped upon the ice, and by four o’clock on the morning of the 13th, “amid the rattling and banging of her timbers and iron work, the ship righted and stood almost upright, the floes that had come in and crushed her slowly backed off, and she sank with slightly accelerated velocity; the yard arms were stripped and broken upward parallel to the masts; and so, like a great, gaunt skeleton clapping its hands above its head, she plunged out of sight. Those of us who saw her go down,” adds Chief Engineer Melville, “did so with mingled feelings of sadness and relief. We were now utterly isolated, beyond any rational hope of aid; with our proper means of escape, to which so many pleasant associations attached, destroyed before our eyes; and hence it was no wonder we felt lonely, and in a sense that few can appreciate. But we were satisfied, since we knew full well that the ship’s usefulness had long ago passed away, and we could now start at once, the sooner the better, on our long march to the south.”
The following week was spent in preparations for the retreat; the route was laid due south, it being the intention of Captain De Long to make for the Lena River, after a brief stop at the New Siberian Island. The day’s march was accomplished under the most trying circumstances, the lateness of the season and the ruggedness of the ice necessitating road-making, bridging, and rafting, or dragging the loads through slush and water that lay knee-deep in the path. The foot-gear of the men became practically useless as a result of constant wettings, and every device was resorted to to keep the bare feet from contact with the ice. “A large number,” writes Melville, “marched with their toes protruding through their moccasins; some with the ‘uppers’ full of holes, out of which the water and slush spurted at every step. Yet no one murmured so long as his feet were clear of ice, and I have here to say that no ship’s company ever endured such severe toil with such little complaint. Another crew, perhaps, may be found to do as well; but better, never!”
Captain G. W. De Long
From a portrait in the possession of A. Operti, Esq.
DAILY ROUTINE OF OFFICERS AND CREW
Nine loaded sledges and five boats carrying sixty days’ provisions, had to be hauled across the moving floes in the course of the day. The road had to be travelled no less than thirteen times, seven times with loads and six times empty handed, thus walking twenty-six miles in making an advance of two. The sick, with the hospital stores and tents, were under the care of Dr. Ambler. Thus the march over the frozen ocean was continued for several weeks when, to the consternation and dismay of Captain De Long, he found upon taking observations, that by the northerly drift of the pack they were losing ground daily and had drifted some twenty-four miles to the northwest. This disheartening intelligence was kept from the men, with the exception of Melville and Dr. Ambler. Changing their course to south-southwest, the party continued their slow and wearisome progress until the 11th or 12th of July, when the mountainous peaks of an island gladdened the eyes of the shipwrecked crew. Inspired to renewed effort, the men pushed on, finally landed, and Captain De Long took possession in the name of God and the United States, naming this new territory Bennett Island. Nine days were spent on this island, during which the boats were repaired. A cairn was built and a record left. The final departure from Bennett Island took place August 6. In the meantime, the brief summer had gone; already young ice was forming, and the streams and rivulets that had gladdened the men’s eyes upon their arrival had disappeared as the cold grasp of winter prepared to hold them fast.
It had been decided by Captain De Long to divide the party into three sections, and to proceed by boats; to this end Lieutenant Chipp was assigned to the second cutter in command of nine men; Chief Engineer Melville to the whale-boat in command of nine men, De Long reserving the command of the first cutter and twelve men. Instructions to Chipp and Melville directed that they should keep close to the captain’s boat, but if through accident they should become separated, to make their way south to the coast of Siberia and follow it to the Lena River, then ascend the Lena to a Russian settlement.
For the next eighteen days, the retreat was made by working through leads, hauling the boats out, and making portages across floe pieces that barred their progress; and occasionally as much as ten miles was made a day to the southwest. Vexatious delays were caused by the fast approaching winter, and, upon reaching Thadeouiski, one of the New Siberian Islands, the pinch of diminishing rations began sorely to be felt. Game, which had been occasionally secured during the early part of the retreat, had been scarce of late, and the outlook began to take on the gray aspect of a desperate future.
CHIEF ENGINEER MELVILLE
From now on, the retreat was one long, desperate struggle against famine and gales and piercing cold. Describing the experiences of September 7, Melville writes:—
“Standing to the southward, we shortly came up with a large floe alive with small running hummocks and stream ice. It was blowing stiffly, the sea was lumpy, and our boats careering at a lively rate. Pumping and bailing to keep afloat, we suddenly came unawares upon the weather side of a great floe piece, over which the sea was breaking so terribly that for us to come in contact with it meant certain destruction. It was floating from four to six feet above water, its sides either perpendicular or undershot by the action of the waves, which dashed madly over it, the surf flying in the air to a height of twenty feet; and, where the sea had honeycombed it and eaten holes upward through its thickness, a thousand waterspouts cast forth spray like a school of whales. Round about, down sail, and away we pulled for our lives. De Long, being fifty or a hundred yards in advance of me, and so much nearer danger, hailed me to take him in tow, which I did, and together we barely managed to hold our precarious position. The second cutter was away behind again, but upon coming up seized the whale-boat’s painter; and so we struggled in line, and at last succeeded in clearing the weather edge of the floe. It was a long pull and a hard pull. The sea roared and thundered against the cold, bleak mass of ice, flying away from it like snowflakes and freezing as it flew; the sailors, blinded by the wind and spray, pulled manfully at the oars, their bare hands frozen and bleeding; and the boats tossed capriciously about with the wild waves and the unequal strain of the tow-line. Drenched to the skin by the cruel icy seas which poured in and nigh filled the boats, the overtaxed men, as they faced the dreadful, death-dealing sea and murderous ice-edge, found new life and strength and performed wonders....
“Our boats were well bunched together, and although it was now pitch dark, we could yet for a while discern each other looming up out of the black water like spectres, and plunging over the crests of the waves. Presently the second cutter faded away, but as mine was the fastest boat of the three, I experienced no difficulty in following De Long. Indeed, in my anxiety to obey the order ‘Keep within hail,’ I at times barely escaped running the first cutter down....”
“Toward midnight,” continues Melville, “we approached the weather edge of the pack, the roar of the surf reaching our ears long before we could see the ice. I involuntarily hauled the whale-boat closer on the wind, and by so doing lost sight of the first cutter, but the terrible noise and confusion of the sea warned me beyond doubt of the death that lay under our lee. Presently out of the darkness there appeared the horrid white wall of ice and foam. Not a second too soon. ‘Ready about, and out with the two lee oars if she misses stays.’ This, of course, from the heavy sea, she did; and quick as thought my orders were obeyed. As we turned slowly round, a wave swept across our starboard quarter filling the boats to the seats. Ye Gods! what a cold bath! And now we were in the midst of small streaming ice, broken and triturated into posh by the sea and grinding floes, and this was hurled back upon us by the reflex water and eddying current in the rear of the pack, which was rapidly moving before the wind. With bailers, buckets, and pumps doing their utmost, the two lee oars brought us around in good time, and we filed away on the other tack, the waves still leaping playfully in as though to keep us busy and spice our misery with the zest of danger.
“When day broke, neither of our companion boats was in sight. The wind had moderated greatly, and we were now in quiet water among the loose pack,—perhaps the most miserable looking collection of mortals that ever crowded shivering together in a heap. We looked, indeed, so utterly forlorn and wretched that just to revive and thaw, as it were, my drowned and frozen wits, I burst forth into frenzied song. Of a truth, as we sat shaking there, our situation was nigh desperate; we were down to an allowance of a pint of water to each man per day, now that De Long was separated from us; but upon the suggestion of some one in the boat, I set up the fire-pot and made hot tea. We were thus breakfasting when the first cutter hove in view. I at once joined company, and shortly after the second cutter made her appearance and we were again together. The sea soon calmed, les misérables thawed out, the morning became as pleasant as the memorable May mornings at home, and we again were bright and alive with hope.”
A SECOND WINTER IN THE PACK
The following day, September 12, after a night’s encampment upon a floe, the party landed in Semenovski, and the hunters had the good fortune to secure a deer, which provided them for the first time in many months a full and delicious meal. Cape Barkin, the point of destination, was found to be only ninety miles distant, and, after a day’s rest and depositing a record at Semenovski Island, the party embarked once more full of hope and courage that Cape Barkin might be reached after one more night at sea.
The three boats sped forward to the southwest in a rising sea, the gale increased, and the heavy seas grew hourly more formidable and threatening. De Long and Chipp were experiencing great difficulty in the management of their overloaded boats. Melville, in his endeavour to obey the order to keep within hail, was all but swamped by the fury of the waves as they broke over the whale-boat.
In an endeavour to answer signals from De Long, Melville shouted down the wind that he must run or swamp—De Long waved back, motioning him onward. Melville hoisted sail, shook out one reef, and the whale-boat shot forward like an arrow. De Long then signalled Chipp; for an instant the second cutter was seen in the dim twilight to rise on the crest of a wave, then sink out of sight; once more she appeared; a tremendous sea broke over her; a man was seen striving to free the sail; she sank again from view, and, though seas rose and fell, one after another, the second cutter with all on board was never seen again.
The whale-boat plunged on at a spanking rate and was soon out of sight of De Long. The question now was whether she would outlive the gale—and to insure greater safety Melville ordered a drag anchor to be made of tent poles weighted with such available material as came to hand.
What a night, lying anchored at the mercy of the gale, bailing out with pumps, buckets, and pans the heavy seas as they broke over the boat; hungry and thirsty men, soaked to the skin with repeated ice-cold baths, half frozen from exposure to the icy blasts. A little whiskey was all they had during that fearful night, and in the morning a quarter of a pound of pemmican served as breakfast to the wretched crew. The gale still raged about them with unabated fury. But by afternoon it had abated sufficiently for them to get under way, and the morning of the 14th found them sailing through young ice, and in shoal waters, which they avoided by steering to the eastward all day. Short rations of a quarter of a pound of pemmican three times a day, without water, was all they had, and another miserable night settled upon the toilers, as they bailed the water-logged whale-boat, the water turning to slush the minute it was in the boat.
The men were now undergoing severe sufferings from thirst. The following day they were fortunate in reaching one mouth of the Lena River, and, proceeding up this stream, they disembarked for the first time, after five days of misery. Taking shelter in a deserted hut, lately vacated by natives, they thawed their aching bodies around a cheering camp fire, brewed a pot of tea, and ate of a stew made of a few birds shot at Semenovski Island. But their swollen limbs, blistered and cracked hands, gave them excruciating pain, and another sleepless night added to their misery. Two more toilsome days were spent pulling up the river and encamping at night under a cold and cheerless sky.
On the 19th of September, 1881, Melville’s party had the good fortune to fall in with natives, who treated the forlorn men with great kindness and generosity, and on the 26th of September they reached the Russian village of Geemovialocke, where they subsisted until they were able to communicate with the commandant at Belun.
Upon the separation of the boats already described, De Long experienced the same threatened destruction of the first cutter that had caused Melville so much anxiety in the whale-boat. After three miserable days and nights of exposure to the merciless seas, he decided to make a landing by wading ashore September 17, at a point 73° 25´ north latitude, 26° 30´ east longitude. Owing to the shallow water, it was found necessary to abandon the boat, and the wretched, enfeebled party, destitute, save for four days’ scant provisions, began their fatal march on the inhospitable tundra of northern Siberia, in search of a settlement ninety-five miles distant. De Long’s record of this weary tramp is one long agony of a slowly perishing party. Everything was abandoned that was not absolutely necessary, but in spite of lightened loads, the half-frozen men limped and hobbled slowly along, falling in their tracks, the weaker assisted by the stronger, but even then the ground covered was inconsiderable, so that on September 21, upon reaching some deserted huts, De Long records:—
“According to my accounts we are now thirty-seven miles away from the next station! and eighty-seven from a probable settlement. We have two days’ rations after to-morrow morning’s breakfast, and we have three lame men who cannot make more than five or six miles a day; of course, I cannot leave them, and they certainly cannot keep up with the pace necessary to take.”
The hunters were fortunate in securing occasional deer, but the unfortunate condition of Erickson, whose frozen feet necessitated the amputation of his toes, retarded their progress, and October came in cold and blustery to find the miserable party still far away from human aid. For nine days more they struggled along the barren shores of the Lena; game failed, and their food was exhausted. Erickson died and was buried in the river. Nindemann and Noros started on a forced march for assistance from the nearest settlement at Ku Mark Surka; they carried their blankets, one rifle, forty rounds of ammunition, and two ounces of alcohol—but no food!
On October 10, De Long makes the following entry:—
“One hundred and twentieth day. Last half ounce alcohol at 5.30; at 6.30 send Alexey off to look for ptarmigan. Eat deerskin scraps. Yesterday morning ate my deerskin foot-nips. Light S.S.E. airs. Not very cold. Under way at eight. In crossing creek three of us got wet. Built fire and dried out. Ahead again until eleven. Used up. Built fire. Made a drink out of the tea-leaves from alcohol bottle. On again at noon. Fresh S.S.W. wind, drifting snow. Very hard going. Lee begging to be left. Some little beach, and then long stretches of high bank. Ptarmigan tracks plentiful. Following Nindemann’s tracks. At three halted, used up; crawled into a hole in the bank, collected wood, and built fire. Alexey away in quest of game. Nothing for supper except a spoonful of glycerine. All hands weak and feeble but cheerful—God help us.”
Three days later there is an entry, “We are in the hands of God, and unless He intervenes we are lost.”
On October 16, the faithful hunter, Alexey, broke down, and the next day he died. On the 21st Kaack was found dead between the captain and Dr. Ambler, and about noon Lee died, and on October 22 De Long writes:—
“One hundred and thirty-second day. Too weak to carry the bodies of Lee and Kaack out on the ice. The doctor, Collins, and I carried them around the corner out of sight; then my eye closed up.”
On Monday, October 24, there is the simple entry: “One hundred and thirty-fourth day. A hard night.” And three days later, “Iversen broken down,” and the next day, “Iversen died during early morning.” On October 29, “One hundred and thirty-ninth day, Dressler died during night.” On October 30, Sunday, the last record of the brave De Long was written: “One hundred and fortieth day. Boyd and Görtz died during night. Mr. Collins dying.”
The forced march of Nindemann and Noros is one of the most remarkable tests of human suffering and endurance in the annals of Arctic history. It is a record of travelling across the wilderness without food except as they brought down an occasional ptarmigan and lemming; sighting with the eyes of starving men a herd of deer which fled before they could approach sufficiently near to fire at them; struggling through wretched days to crawl into a snow hole at night, where they lay the night through wet to the waist, alternately sleeping for five-minute intervals, one man rousing the other that he might knock his feet together to keep them from freezing and taking up the march upon the strength of an infusion of Arctic willow tea and boot-sole. Crossing a couple of streams they sought shelter from a raging gale in a wretched hut where a refuse pile of deer bones were burned and eaten. Near another hut was found a little rotten fish—this eked out with strips cut from seal-skin clothing was all that stayed the pangs of hunger as they marched on. The 16th of October found their strength fast waning. Noros was complaining of illness and spitting blood. Two days later they reached a place set down on later maps as Bulcour; it consisted of three deserted huts.
“Near by was a half kayak with something in it. Noros tasted it. It was blue moulded and tasteless to them, but it was fish, and they took it with them to the other huts. They found nothing more, and after gathering some drift-wood they made a fire and tried to find some food in the mouldy fish.”
On Friday, October 21, they were too weak to push on, but spent the day in careful husbanding of their resources. Measuring their fish, they found that by taking each two tin cupfuls a day they had enough for ten days. Sewing up the fish in their foot-nips and skull caps, they arranged straps to these bundles for carrying.
The next day, while still too weak to proceed, they heard a noise outside the hut, like a flock of geese sweeping by, and Nindemann, seizing his gun looked through the crack of the door. Seeing something moving which he thought were reindeer, Nindemann advanced, when the door suddenly opened and a man stood on the threshold. Seeing the rifle, the man fell upon his knees, but when Nindemann reassured him by throwing the weapon to one side, friendly communication was established between the stranger and the forlorn men. Sympathizing with their desperate plight, he let them know by signs that he would return in three or four hours, or days, they could not tell which.
About six o’clock the same evening, the stranger, accompanied by two other natives, returned, bringing with them a frozen fish, which they skinned and sliced, and while Nindemann and Noros were devouring the first real food that they had had for many a day, the men brought in deer-skin coats and boots for them. Assisting them into the sleighs, they drove off with them along the river to the westward for a distance of about fifteen miles to where some other natives were located in two tents. These treated the sailors with great kindness. By signs and pantomime Noros and Nindemann tried in every possible way to explain to these natives about De Long and the remainder of the first cutter’s party, but they failed to understand, and two days later, after reaching Ku Mark Surka, the same efforts were renewed without success. In despair of securing assistance, the men implored to be conveyed to Belun, which they reached October 26.
ABANDONMENT
An interview with the commandant at Belun left the men still uncertain if they were understood, or the plight of De Long’s forlorn party made clear to the official, who, however, repeated that he would take a paper to the “Captain,” who Nindemann supposed to be his superior officer. Sick and weak from dysentery, scantily clothed, and insufficiently fed, the men were located in a miserable hut which had been assigned to them, when on the evening of November 2, 1881, the door opened and a man dressed in fur entered. As he came forward, Noros exclaimed, “My God! Mr. Melville! Are you alive? We thought that the whale-boats were all dead!”
The official, having already knowledge of the safety of the whale-boat’s party, had immediately communicated with Melville, who in all haste came to Belun. The whale-boat party were now on their road from Geemovialocke to Belun. The intrepid Melville was now determined upon an immediate search for De Long’s party, and to this end hastened back, meeting Danenhower at Burulak, where he gave him instructions to proceed with the entire party to Yakutsk, a distance of twelve hundred miles, and to communicate with the Russian government and the United States minister.
Melville was by no means recovered from his long exposure, and his frozen limbs caused him great suffering, but nevertheless he went back over the track of Nindemann and Noros step by step. On November 10, the natives who had accompanied him announced they must return as the provisions were exhausted, but Melville commanded them to go on, declaring they would eat dog as long as the twenty-two lasted, and when these gave out he should eat them. Such determination won the day, and they proceeded to the settlement of North Belun. Here a native brought him one of De Long’s records, left on the march. From these natives he learned in which direction the records had been found, and pressing on, in spite of his frozen feet, which were in such a condition he could no longer wear his moccasins, he reached, November 13, the hut where De Long’s first record had been left, a distance from North Belun of thirty-three miles. Could De Long’s chart but have shown the native settlement of North Belun, the whole party would doubtless have been saved.
On November 14 following the northeast bank of the river he came to the shores of the Arctic Ocean and found the flag-staff where articles from the first cutter had been cached. Loading his sled with all the articles found there, including logbook, chronometer and navigation box, he returned to North Belun. With fresh dog teams he set out again November 17, in an endeavour to find the hut where Erickson died. Fierce storms and lack of food forced Melville to take refuge in a snow-hole dug about six feet square and three or four feet deep.
“The storm continued to blow,” writes Melville, “the whole of that night, the next day and the next night. It was impossible to move until the next day morning, when it cleared up a little, but in the mean time, we had nothing to eat. It was too stormy to make a fire to make tea, and the venison bones which the natives had dug out were full of maggots. We chopped this up in little cubes and swallowed it whole, which made me so sick after it warmed up in my stomach that I vomited it all out again.”
Melville reached Ku Mark Surka November 24, and at Belun three days later, after an absence of twenty-three days, in which he travelled no less than six hundred and sixty-three miles over the tundra of Northern Siberia in the face of an Arctic winter. Upon reaching Yakutsk December 30, 1881, where Danenhower and his party had preceded him, Melville retained Nindemann and Bartlett to assist him in the spring search, and instructed Danenhower to proceed with the other nine men to Irkutsk, distant over nineteen hundred miles, from thence to America.
The spring search was made under the following instructions from the Navy Department at Washington:—
“Omit no effort, spare no expense in securing safety of men in second cutter. Let the sick and the frozen of those already rescued have every attention, and as soon as practicable have them transferred to a milder climate. Department will supply necessary funds.”
In the meantime J. P. Jackson, special correspondent of the New York Herald, had arrived at Irkutsk, on his way to the Lena Delta. The Navy Department detailed L. P. Noros to accompany him. Lieutenant Giles B. Harber, U. S. N., accompanied by Master W. H. Schuetze, had been sent to search for Lieutenant Chipp and his party.
MELVILLE’S SEARCH
Melville, with Nindemann and Bartlett as assistants, engaged three interpreters and reached Belun the second week in February. A month was spent in collecting dogs and provisions and establishing depots of supplies at Mat Vai and Kas Karta. On March 16, 1882, accompanied by Nindemann, Melville proceeded to a place called Usterda, where Captain De Long had crossed the river to the westward. A search was now made for the hut where Erickson had died.
Snow covered the country and effectively obliterated all traces of previous travellers. Storms forced their return to Kas Karta, and a fresh start was made. The party divided to insure a more thorough search.
“We followed the bay,” says Mr. Melville in his narrative, “until late in the evening, having visited all the headlands; finally we came up to the large river with the broken ice. I jumped upon the headland or point of land making down in the bay and found where an immense fire had been made. The fire bed was probably six feet in diameter, large drift-logs hove into it, and a large fire made, such as a signal fire. I then hailed Nindemann and the natives, saying ‘Here they are!’ They thought that I had found the place where the De Long party had been. Nindemann came upon the point of land, and said that neither he nor Noros had made a fire of that kind, only a small fire in the cleft of a bank; but he was sure that this was the point of land they had turned going to the westward, and that this was the river along which he and Noros had come....”
“It is the custom of the people here,” continues Melville, “in making a search to go facing the river and when they see anything to attract them, drop off the sled and examine it, or pick it up and go on. In this manner, about five hundred yards from the point where the fire had been, I saw the points of four sticks standing up out of the snow about eighteen inches, and lashed together with a piece of rope. Seeing this, I dropped off the sled, and going up to the place on the snow bank, I found a Remington rifle slung across the points of the sticks, and the muzzle about eight inches out of the snow. The dog-driver, seeing I had found something, came back with the sled, and I sent him to Nindemann to tell him to come back, he having gone as far up the river as the flat-boat. When they returned I started the natives to digging out the snow-bank underneath the tent-poles. I supposed that the party had got tired of carrying their books and papers, and had made a deposit of them at this place, and erected these poles over the papers and books as a landmark, that they might return and secure them in case they arrived at a place of safety. Nindemann and I stood around a little while, got upon the bank, and took a look at the river. Nindemann said he would go to the northward, and see if he could discover anything of the track and find the way to Erickson’s hut. I took the compass and proceeded to the southward to get the bearings of Stolbovoi and Mat Vai, so I might return there that night in case it came on to blow.
“In proceeding to a point to set up the compass, I saw a tea-kettle partially buried in the snow. One of the natives had followed me, and I pointed out to him the kettle, and advancing to pick it up, I came upon the bodies of three men, partially buried in the snow, one hand reaching out with the left arm of the man raised way above the surface of the snow—his whole left arm. I immediately recognized them as Captain De Long, Dr. Ambler, and Ah Sam, the cook. The captain and the doctor were lying with their heads to the northward, face to the west, and Ah Sam was lying at right angles to the other two, with his head about the Doctor’s middle, and feet in the fire, or where the fire had been. This fireplace was surrounded by drift-wood, immense trunks of trees, and they had their fire in the crotch of a large tree. They had carried the tea-kettle up there, and got a lot of Arctic willow which they used for tea, and some ice to make water for their tea, and had a fire. They apparently had attempted to carry their books and papers up there on this high point, because they carried the chart case up there, and I suppose the fatigue of going up on the high land prevented their returning to get the rest of their books and papers. No doubt they saw that if they died on the river bed, where the water runs, the spring freshets would carry them off to sea.
“I gathered up all the small articles lying around in the vicinity of the dead. I found the ice journal about three or four feet in the rear of De Long; that is, it looked as though he had been lying down, and with his left hand tossed the book over his shoulder to the rear, or to the eastward of him.”
“Referring to the journal,” continues Melville, “I found that the whole of the people were now in the lee of the bank, in a distance of about five hundred yards. In the meantime, the native that had gone for Nindemann had brought him back.”
“The three bodies were all frozen fast to the snow, so fast that it was necessary to pry them loose with a stick of timber. In turning over Dr. Ambler, I was surprised to find De Long’s pistol in his right hand, and then, observing the blood-stained mouth, beard, and snow, I at first thought that he had put a violent end to his misery. A careful examination, however, of the mouth and head revealed no wound, and, releasing the pistol from its tenacious death-grasp, I saw that only three of its chambers contained cartridges, which were all loaded, and then knew, of course, that he could not have harmed himself, else one or more of the capsules would be empty.... I believe him to have been the last of the unfortunate party to perish. When Ah Sam had been stretched out and his hands crossed upon his breast, De Long apparently crawled away and died. Then, solitary and famishing, in that desolate scene of death, Dr. Ambler seems to have taken the pistol from the corpse of De Long, doubtless in the hope that some bird or beast might come to prey upon the bodies and afford him food,—perhaps alone to protect his dead comrades from molestation,—in either case, or both, there he kept his lone watch to the last, on duty, on guard, under arms.”
It now remained but to find the other bodies and bury the dead. In due time this was accomplished. Melville writes of the spot chosen as follows:—
“The burial ground is on a bold promontory with a perpendicular face overlooking the frozen polar sea. The rocky head of the mountain, cold, austere as the Sphinx, frowns upon the spot where the party perished; and considering its weather-beaten and time-worn aspect, it is altogether fitting that here they should rest. I attained the crest of the promontory by making a detour of several miles to the southward of its majestic front, and then toiling slowly to the top. Here I laid out by compass a due north and south line, and one due east and west, and where they intersected, I planted the cross which marks the tomb of my comrades.”
“There in sight of the spot where they fell, the scene of their suffering and heroic endeavor, where the everlasting snows would be their winding sheet and the fierce polar blasts which pierced their poor unclad bodies in life, would wail their wild dirge through all time,—there we buried them, and surely heroes never found a fitter resting place.”
Lieutenant Harber was also in the field, as was Mr. Jackson, correspondent of the New York Herald. A thorough search was made of the Delta for Chipp’s party, without avail.
Congress having appropriated $25,000 for the expense of bringing home to America the bodies of De Long and his unfortunate party, Lieutenant Harber and Master Schuetze of the relief ship Rogers, which had been burned off the coast of Siberia in December, 1881, left the Lena in 1883 after a year’s search, bringing with them the remains.
Rear Admiral George W. Melville, U.S.N.
By permission of Clinedinst, Washington, D.C.