Chapter X.
Meeting with Jackson.—Return to Norway on the Windward.—Fram Returns to Norway.—Royal Welcome Home.
It was June 17, Henrik Wergeland’s[1] birthday. Nansen had been down to the edge of the ice to fetch some salt water, and had got up on a hummock in order to have a good look about. A brisk breeze was blowing off land, bearing with it the confused sound of bird-cries from the distant rocks. As he stood listening to these sounds of life in that wild desert, which he thought no human eye had ever seen, or human foot trodden before, a noise like the bark of a dog fell on his ear. He started with amazement.
Could there be dogs here? Impossible! He must have been mistaken. It must have been the bird-cries! But no—there it was again! First a single bark, then the full cry of a whole pack. There was a deep bark, succeeded by a sharper one. There could be no doubt about it! Then he remembered that only the day before he had heard a couple of reports resembling gunshots, but had thought it was only the ice splitting and cracking. He now called to Johansen, who was in the tent.
“I can hear dogs over yonder!” he said.
Johansen, who was lying asleep, jumped up and bundled out of the tent. “Dogs?” No! he could not take that in; but all the same went up and stood beside Nansen to listen. “It must be your imagination!” he said. He certainly had on one or two occasions, he said, heard sounds like the barking of a dog, but they had been so drowned in the bird-cries that he did not think much of it. To which Nansen replied that he might think what he liked, but that for his part he intended to set out as soon as they had had breakfast.
So it was arranged that Johansen should stay there to see to the kayaks, while Nansen set out on this expedition.
Before finally starting, Nansen once more got up on the hummock and listened, but could hear nothing. However, off he started, though he felt some doubts in his own mind. What if it were a delusion after all?
Meeting of Nansen and Jackson.
By Permission of Harper & Brothers.
After proceeding some distance he came on the tracks of an animal. They were too large to be those of a fox, and too small for a wolf. They must be dog tracks, then! A distant bark at that moment fell on his ear, more distinct than ever, and off he set at full speed in the direction of the sound, so that the snow dust whirled up in clouds behind him, every nerve and muscle of his body quivering with excitement. He passed a great many tracks, with foxes’ tracks interspersed among them. A long time now elapsed during which he could hear nothing, as he went zigzagging in among the hummocks, and his heart began to sink at every step he took. Suddenly, however, he thought he could hear the sound of a human voice—a strange voice—the first for three years! His heart beat, the blood flew to his brain, and springing up on the top of a hummock, he hallooed with all the strength of his lungs. Behind that human voice in the midst of this desert of ice stood home, and she who was waiting there!
An answering shout came back far, far off, dying away in the distance, and before long he discerned some dark form among the hummocks farther ahead. It was a dog! But behind it another form was visible—a man’s form!
Nansen remained where he was, rooted to the spot, straining eyes and ears as the form gradually drew near, and then set off once more to meet it, as if it were a matter of life and death.
They approached each other. Nansen waved his hat; the stranger did the same.
They met.
That stranger was the English arctic traveller, Mr. Jackson.
They shook hands; and Jackson said,—
“I am delighted to meet you!”
N. “Thanks; so am I.”
J. “Is your ship here?”
N. “No.”
J. “How many are you?”
N. “I have a companion out yonder by the edge of the ice.”
As they walked along together, Jackson, who had been eyeing Nansen all the while intently, all at once halted, and staring his companion full in the face said,—
“Are not you Nansen?”
“Yes, I am.”
“By Jove! I am glad to meet you!”
And he shook Nansen by the hand so heartily as well nigh to dislocate his wrist, his dark eyes beaming with delight. Endless questions and answers took place between them till they reached Jackson’s camp, where some of the men were at once despatched to fetch Johansen.
Life with Jackson was for our two northmen a life of uninterrupted comfort and delight. First of all they were photographed in their “wild man’s attire;” then they washed, put on fresh clothes, had their hair cut, enjoyed the luxury of a shave; undergoing all the changes from savage to civilized life—changes that to them were inexpressibly delightful. Once more they ate civilized food, lay in civilized beds, read books, newspapers, smoked, drank. What a change after fifteen months of Esquimau fare of blubber and bears’ flesh! And yet during all that time they had experienced scarcely a single day’s illness.
Jackson’s ship, the Windward, was expected to arrive shortly, and it was arranged that Nansen and Johansen should embark on her for Norway.
But our two travellers had to wait a longer time than they anticipated, for it was not till July 26 that the Windward arrived. On Aug. 7, however, they went on board the ship, and steered with a favorable wind for Vardö, where they arrived early in the morning of Aug. 13.
The pilot who came on board did not know Nansen; but when the captain mentioned his name, his old weather-beaten face brightened up, and assumed an appearance of mingled joy and petrified amazement.
Seizing Nansen by the hand, he bade him a thousand welcomes. “Everybody,” he said, “had thought him long dead, as nothing had been heard of the Fram.”
Nansen assured him he felt no doubt of the safety of the ship, and that he placed as much confidence in the Fram as he did in himself. Otto Sverdrup was in command, and they would soon hear tidings of her.
No sooner had the Windward anchored in Vardö harbor than Nansen and Johansen rowed ashore, and at once repaired to the telegraph office. No one knew them as they entered it. Nansen, thereon, threw down a bundle of telegrams—several hundred in number—on the counter, and begged they might be despatched without delay. The telegraph official eyed the visitors rather curiously as he took up the bundle. When his eye lighted on the word “Nansen,” which was on the one lying uppermost, he changed color, and took the messages to the lady at the desk, returning at once, his face beaming with delight, and bade him welcome. “The telegrams should be despatched as quickly as possible, but it would take several days to send them all.” A minute later the telegraph apparatus began to tick from Vardö, and thence round the whole world, the announcement of the successful issue of the expedition to the North Pole; and in a few hours’ time Nansen’s name was on the lips of a hundred millions of people, whose hearts glowed at the thought of his marvellous achievement.
But away yonder in Svartebugta there sat a woman, who would not on that day have exchanged the anguish she had undergone, and the sacrifices she had made, for all the kingdoms of the world.
By an extraordinary coincidence, Nansen met his friend Professor Mohn in Vardö—the man who had all along placed implicit reliance on his theory. On seeing him Mohn burst into tears, as he said, “Thank God, you are alive.”
By another equally extraordinary coincidence, Nansen met his English friend and patron, Sir George Baden Powell, in Hammerfest, on his yacht the Ontario, which he placed at Nansen’s disposal, an offer which was gratefully accepted. Sir Baden Powell had been very anxious about Nansen, and was, in fact, on the point of setting out on an expedition to search for him, when he thus met him.
That same evening Nansen’s wife and his secretary, Christophersen, arrived in Hammerfest, and the whole place was en fête to celebrate the event. Telegrams kept pouring in from all quarters of the globe, and invitations from every town on the coast of Norway to visit them en route.
But the Fram? The only dark spot amid all their joy was that no tidings had been heard of her; and in the homes of those brave fellows left behind there was sadness and anxiety. Even Nansen himself, who had felt so sure that all was well with her, began to feel anxious.
One morning, it was Aug. 20, Nansen was awakened by Sir Baden Powell knocking at his door with the announcement that there was a man outside who wanted to speak to him.
Nansen replied that he was not dressed, but would come presently.
“Come just as you are,” answered Sir Baden.
Who could it be?
Hurriedly putting on his clothes, Nansen went down into the saloon. A man was standing there, a telegram in his hand; it was the director of the telegraph office.
He had a telegram, he said, which he thought would interest him, and had brought it himself.
Interest him! There was only one thing in the world that could interest Nansen now, and that was the Fram’s fate.
With trembling fingers he tore open the paper, and read,—
Fram arrived in good condition. All well on board. Am going to Tromsö. Welcome home.
O. S.
Nansen felt as if he must fall on the floor; and all he could do was to stammer out, “Fram—arrived!”
Sir Baden Powell, who was standing beside him, shouted aloud with joy, while Johansen’s face beamed like the sun, and Christophersen kept walking to and fro; and to complete the tableau, the telegraph director stood between them all, thoroughly enjoying the scene, as he looked from one to the other of the party.
All Hammerfest was en fête, and universal joy was felt the whole world through, when the tidings of the Fram’s home-coming were made known.
The great work was ended—ended in the happiest manner, without the loss of a single human life! The whole thing sounded indeed like a miracle. And a miracle the Nansen lads thought it to be when they met Nansen and Johansen in Tromsö; and when all the brave participators in the expedition were once more assembled, theirs was a joy so overwhelming that words fail to describe it.
Yes, the great work was ended!
The voyage along the coast began in sunshine and fête. At last, on Sept. 9, the Fram steamed up the Christiania Fjord, which literally teemed with vessels and boats of all sorts, sizes, and descriptions. It was as if some old viking had returned home from a successful enterprise abroad. The ships of war fired salutes, the guns of the fortress thundered out their welcome; while the hurrahs and shouts of thousands rent the air, flags and handkerchiefs waving in a flood of joyful acclamation!
But when with bared head Nansen set foot on land, and the grand old hymn—
“VOR GUD HAN ER SAA FAST EN BORG”[2]
was sung in one mighty chorus by the assembled multitude, thousands and thousands of men and women felt that the love of their fatherland had grown in their hearts during those three long years,—from the time when this man had set out to the icy deserts of the north, to the moment when he once more planted his foot on his native soil,—a feeling which the whole country shared with them.
To the youth of Norway Fridtjof Nansen’s character and achievements stand out as a bright model, a glorious pattern for imitation. For he it is that has recalled to life the hero-life of the saga times among us; he it is that has shown our youth the road to manhood.
That is his greatest achievement!
[1] Henrik Wergeland, Norwegian poet and patriot, born 1808, died 1845.
[2] “A mighty fortress is our God.”