The two adventurers left the Irene at Amsterdam, ran to Hamburg, where they remained over winter, and being joined by Oseba’s fellow-adventurers, they took a small steamer sent as a supply ship for a polar party “frozen up” in the seas north of Spitzbergen. Disembarking, they joined a party for the journey further north, intending to strike the open sea at a known point. As would be expected, “the cold was intense,” but the party was splendidly equipped, and progress, for polar travel, was rapid.
Mitre Peak, Milford Sound
“Oseba,” say the notes, “had recourse to a magazine he had supplied for the purpose on his outward journey. Here were supplies of condensed food, articles of raiment that bid defiance to cold, instruments which by reflection converted light into warmth, and various scientific appliances, some that practically rendered the party immune from cold, and others that aided them in meeting many dangers.”
Leo Bergin had not a reputation for underestimating the trials of any adventure in which he embarked, but taking all in all, it seems from his report that, under the lead of this wizard from “Symmes’ Hole,” a visit to the jumping-off place at the north could be made with little inconvenience or risk to life or health.
Only once in fifty pages of notes does Leo Bergin complain of hardship. Not once does he express any regrets, and he never once loses faith in his master. Only once does he say “the hardships are severe,” and then he adds, “but the genius of Oseba has made us so immune from Nature’s blasts, that, on the main point, we are almost comfortable.”
There were seven of the returning party, five of the nine friends, who, five years before, had crossed these frozen plains with Oseba, and the two “star” adventurers.
Considering the tales written by North Pole hunters, the incidents of this journey, from 80° over the “oval” or verge, to 60° inside, are hardly worthy of extensive comment. So I’ll throw the whole journey across these trackless fields of ice and snow into the waste-paper basket, or, better still, leave them here, consigned to more certain oblivion.
Had Leo Bergin been a jester, a thousand richer tales than were ever written by those who, in search of fame, have joined the throngs that left their bones in the unknown regions of the North, could have been found in these candid notes,