The following day, the limit of patience was reached—a world’s record made—Nansen found himself in 86° 13.6´ N., about 95° east longitude; a distance of one hundred and twenty-one geographical miles from the Fram, with two hundred and thirty-five miles between himself and the Pole. Twenty-three days had passed; Nansen and Johannesen turned their backs upon a veritable chaos of ice-blocks, stretching as far as the horizon, and prepared for their retreat to Cape Fligely.
On this remarkable journey southward, confidently expected by Nansen to extend over not more than three months, but which in reality lengthened to one hundred and fifty-three days, the courage and ability of these men was tested to the utmost. Frightful gales, which disrupted the pack, and thick fogs, which made advance almost impossible, added to their discomforts and privations. The dogs reduced in strength from exhaustion and lack of food, died one by one or were killed and fed to the survivors. The work of hauling became heavier and heavier, as their numbers diminished. The men had the misfortune to allow their watches to run down, thereby making their longitude observations uncertain, the result of which was that they travelled far out of their course in search of the land, which persistently remained hidden.
Early in June it became necessary to curtail the rations, and although they steadfastly kept to weights, in order that their remaining provisions would last, they were reduced, June 18, to a frugal supper of two ounces aleuronic bread and one ounce butter per man—and crept into their sleeping-bags hungry and exhausted.
The capture of a seal relieved a situation that threatened to become very serious. At last, on July 24, the tired eyes of the travellers rested upon something rising above the never-ending white line of the horizon, and the joyful cry was raised of “Land! Land!” Progress to the happy hunting-ground was exasperatingly slow and not without its startling adventures. Johannesen was attacked by a bear, and without the prompt action on the part of Nansen would doubtless have proved its victim.
Open water was reached August 6, 1895, and, by dint of paddling and hauling up on the floes to advance by sledge, on August 16 they stood on the dry land of Houen Island. Continuing on their journey they soon realized that the rapid approach of winter would make the effort to reach Spitzbergen impossible, so they encamped on one of the outlying islands off Franz Josef Land and, building themselves a stone hut covered with walrus hides, prepared to spend the winter. Bears and walrus were plentiful and supplied them with abundant food; other game was occasionally shot. The cold Arctic night found them, on the whole, quite comfortable in their hut. The train-oil lamps kept the temperature in the middle of the room about freezing. For nine months Nansen and Johannesen hibernated thus, with no variation to their existence but the taking of the most necessary meteorological observations.
DIFFICULTIES OF TRAVEL
With the return of spring the two “wild men” made every preparation for their journey to Spitzbergen. This was no easy matter, considering they lacked everything, and the few reserve stores of flour and chocolate had mildewed and spoiled during the winter. On May 19, 1896, the sledges stood loaded and lashed and after leaving inside the hut a short report of their journey and adventures, Nansen and Johannesen started for Spitzbergen. Though the winter had been long and monotonous, adventure greeted them frequently in their advance. Nansen nearly lost his life by falling into a water-hole. They were delayed by a gale, during which they nearly lost their kayaks. Seeing these frail crafts, with all they possessed on board, drifting rapidly away from their moorings, Nansen sprang into the icy water and made a desperate attempt at rescue. Meanwhile, Johannesen paced restlessly up and down the ice in an agony of suspense. With strokes growing more and more feeble, the swimmer realized the desperate situation and, putting forth his last benumbed energies in a final stroke, grasped a snow-shoe which lay across the end. All but frozen, Nansen had great difficulty in getting into the kayak and still more trouble in paddling to land. Numb and shivering, the wind biting his very marrow, he yet had courage to fire at two auks which he secured for a warm and welcome supper.
In the meantime, their meat was nearly gone. The outlook was anything but promising. In these frail, weather-worn, canvas-covered kayaks, twelve feet long, about two and one half feet wide and hardly more than one and one fourth feet deep, there was yet a journey of two hundred miles of ocean, more or less encumbered by ice, which intervened between them and Spitzbergen, where their only hope lay in being taken aboard one of the small vessels, which visit these shores every summer. The future for Nansen and Johannesen was indeed desperate, but a happy chance brought them timely deliverance, and the dramatic meeting with Frederick G. Jackson, June 17, 1896, in the isolated regions of Franz Josef Land terminated one of the most brilliant retreats in Arctic history.
Mr. Jackson and his companions, who for two years had been making most valuable scientific observations and collecting specimens in all departments of natural science which the islands and surroundings seas afforded, welcomed the wanderers with open arms, brought them to the house, fed, and warmed them, and, best of all, gave them news from home and letters. It was not surprising that the first night was spent in reading home letters, which Jackson had faithfully carried for them into these desolate regions, and in talking over the strange adventures now so happily ended. For at last their work was done, and, as Nansen said, “he didn’t want to sleep, he felt so happy.”
So the days passed rapidly until the Windward came, which brought yearly supplies to Jackson and carried home the adventurous explorers. They reached Vardo Haven, August 13. All that was needed to complete the happiness of the home-coming was news of the Fram, and this was not long withheld. On August 20, 1896, the joyful tidings of the arrival of the Fram reached Nansen in a brief telegram sent from Skyaervo, Kraenangem Fiord.