I was seriously debating sending Bartlett, the strongest member of our party, on to Bulun in the forlorn hope of getting us assistance, when on the night of October 29th, after thirteen days’ absence on his hazardous journey, Kusmah at last returned, bringing on his sledge some supplies, about forty pounds of bread mainly, and no clothes for us, but instead a letter in Russian from the Cossack commandant at Bulun stating that next day he would start for us from there with a reindeer caravan and clothes enough to bring us all safely over the mountains to Bulun.
This news heartened us considerably, and in broken Russian I profusely thanked Kusmah. Meanwhile my men, not waiting to thank anybody, were revelling in the bread of which we had seen none for nearly five months, breaking the loaves in huge chunks into which they sank their teeth hungrily. All smiles at my expressions of approbation, and happy at the way everyone seemed to appreciate what food he had brought us, Kusmah bowed, then pulled from inside his fur jacket a dirty scrap of paper which he tendered me. On it was a pencilled message. Pausing casually between two mouthfuls of bread, I glanced at it, noted in surprise that it was in English, and then as I read the first words, I stiffened as suddenly as if I had been shot.
“Arctic steamer Jeannette lost on the 11th June; landed on Siberia 25th September or thereabouts; want assistance to go for the CAPTAIN and DOCTOR and nine (9) other men.
William F. C. Nindemann,
Louis P. Noros,
Seamen U. S. N.
Reply in haste; want food and clothing.”
For a moment my heart stopped beating as I read, then I called out huskily,
“Men! De Long and the first cutter landed safely! They’re alive!”
All over the hut broken loaves of bread thudded to the floor as open-mouthed in astonishment at this startling declaration, my shipmates stared at me, then clustered round to read the note, while I turned abruptly to Kusmah, asked in my best Russian,
“That note, Kusmah! Where did you get it?”
With some difficulty, Kusmah explained to me his trip. To get to Bulun, he had to go fifty miles due west cross country over the mountains to Ku Mark Surk on the Lena River (where he was delayed a week waiting for the main stream to freeze over so he could cross) and then sixty miles due south along the west bank of the Lena to Bulun. On his way back to us from Bulun, coming again to Ku Mark Surk, he had met there a small reindeer caravan of Yakuts bound south for Bulun and with that caravan, clad only in tattered underwear and sick almost to death, he had come across two strangers feebly expostulating with the natives against going south and almost hysterical at their inability to make themselves understood.