Sunday, July 17. A dull, foggy day. The mosquitos are so thick that it is all but impossible to venture out.
Wednesday, July 20. Yesterday at noon the sun was shining brightly, and there was a light southeast wind, enough to keep the mosquitos quiet, so I decided to start for the cache back of Tooktoo Camp, in which I wished to deposit a note and some canned goods. I knew it would be a long tramp around the intervening lake, but I would be amply repaid if my husband were to return while I was still here, and find the note, assuring him of a welcome a few miles beyond. When we reached the mouth of the glacial stream which discharges into the head of the bay, it was low tide, and we made an effort to ford it, thinking thereby to save a walk of five miles. Matt stepped in and I followed. The water felt intensely cold; it was above my kamik-tops, but not above my knees, and we went on. When we came to a rock about one fourth of the way over I was compelled to climb on it and beat my feet and legs; I could not control them any longer. Then we again plunged into the icy water, which now reached above my knees. It took us fifteen minutes to cross, and the temperature of the water was certainly not over 35°, for large and small pieces of ice were floating about us. The current was in places very strong, and had it not been for the boathook I had taken with me, on which to hoist a flag over the cache, I should have been swept off my feet many times. Once across, and our wet stockings changed for dry ones, I did not regret having come. We found the cache after some little trouble, and I deposited the note, also a can of milk, a can of fruit, some biscuit, and a small flask of brandy, and then put up the flag.
We retraced our steps past old Tooktoo Camp to the mouth of the river. Here we found that the tide had already risen a foot, and we continued our walk along the river-bank toward the head of the lake. On reaching it we found that it communicated with a second lake by a deep, roaring torrent, which, although narrower than the river below, was still too wide and deep to be crossed; so on we went till we reached the end of the second lake, and here it seemed as if we might walk around it by climbing along the lower edge of two glaciers, although we were by no means sure that a raging stream did not sweep down on the other side. Great rocks were continually rolling from the top of the glaciers, and I did not think it safe to venture. The scene was an impressive one. Black cliffs raise their heads over four great white glaciers, smooth as marble, and at their feet roars a furious torrent, till it merges into a broad lake, which looks as calm and unruffled as if this stream were only a drop in its depths. On each side of this stretch of water the valley is carpeted with soft green moss and yellow poppies, and fairly alive with the chirping and flitting of birds. We tarried here quite a while. I could not make up my mind to leave so beautiful a scene; besides, the only thing left for us to do now was to wait for low tide, which would be about one A. M., and then ford the river where we had crossed it in the morning. It was 8.45 P. M. when we again reached the mouth of the stream. The tide was high, but falling. Had we had something to eat we should not have minded the waiting. We kept moving in order to keep warm, until we thought that the tide had reached its ebb. As we neared the shore we could see no familiar line of rocks which indicated low tide, and on closer examination we were horrified to find a “high low tide.” Still we felt we must attempt to cross, and Matt started in, while I followed at his heels. The first step was over our knees, the next came mid-thigh on Matt, and then I backed out, for I knew that we were not near the deepest part yet; besides, the current was so strong that I could hardly keep my footing. We tried lower down, but with the same result. Even had we made up our minds to bear the cold water, we could not possibly have stood up against the current. We then determined to try it in the lake, but were baffled there as well. By this time we were pretty well drenched, almost to our waists, and yet the only thing for us to do was to wait for the noon low tide of the morrow. We sat down on a rock, took off our stockings and kamiks, and wrung the water out as best we could, then put them on again. I knew it would never do for us to sleep, or even sit still in our wet clothes, for there is always a cool breeze blowing, and the night temperatures average about 40°; yet the prospect of twelve hours more of tramping, when we had already tramped twelve and a half hours, with nothing to eat—we had only had coffee and a cracker before starting—and a cold fog settling down upon us, was anything but encouraging. I suggested that we go to the cache, where we had left the brandy and milk for the inland ice-party, and mix a drink of some of it, and then begin the climb to Nunatak Cache. This we did. I had my old enemy, the sick-headache, brought on by lack of food and the excitement, and consequently every step was agony, yet I knew I must keep on. Thoughts came crowding in upon me of my husband and my mother. We walked and walked until almost ready to drop with hunger, fatigue, and lack of sleep; then, as we climbed above the fog into the warm sunshine, we would sit down a few minutes, wrapping our heads in our handkerchiefs to keep off the mosquitos, which swarmed about us. As soon as one of us saw the other dozing we pushed on again. In this way we climbed through the ravine and in sight of Nunatak Cache, but it was impossible for me to go farther; my limbs trembled under me, and refused to act at my bidding. We returned to the river. At 11.30 this morning the welcome line of rocks indicating low tide made its appearance, and, to our great relief, we found that we were able to cross the stream. Two more thankful creatures never were than we when we found ourselves on dry land on our side of the “kook” (river) again. We were perfectly numb with cold from mid-thigh down, and so ran and pounded our feet and limbs for the three miles that intervened between the river and the tent, which we reached in an hour. Thus far we feel no ill results from our icy adventure.
Saturday, July 23. The bay, which has been perfectly clear of ice, except for a few small bergs near the glacier, is filled again, as a result of the tide-wind. The white whales, which have been sporting about for a number of days, are shut out from their playground. I tramped about nearly all day, but did not get near any game. I never weary of Tooktoo Valley. To me it is a beautiful spot, with its river and lakes, its glaciers and mountains, its carpet of soft green moss, its wealth of flowers, and its busy birds and insects. I have not heard from Redcliffe since I left there, over a week ago; no information of any kind has come to me.
CHAPTER XVI
“OOMIAKSOAK TIGALAY!”—THE SHIP HAS COME!
An Eskimo Messenger—“Oomiaksoak Tigalay” (the Ship has come)—Letters from Home—A Visit from Professor Heilprin—Distressing Possibilities—The “Kite” leaves for Smith Sound—Return of the “Kite”—Domestic Disturbances among the Natives—An Eskimo Woman and Girl disappear.
Sunday, July 24. At five o’clock this morning, before I was really awake, I heard a sharp, shrill whistle, different from the notes of the birds that usually awake me, and before I could quite satisfy myself that it was not a bird I heard it again, close to the tent, and also a footstep. “Kiny-ah-una” (who is there), I called. “Awangah, oomiaksoak tigalay” (me, the ship has come), was the answer. “Angwo” (not so), I replied. “Shagloo nahme awangah” (me not lie), he said, and with this a shaggy, black head was thrust into the tent, and a bundle of mail tossed to me. The next few hours are a blank to me, for I was devouring my mother’s letter, which took the shape of a journal that she had kept for me. A few words from Professor Heilprin tell me that he is at Redcliffe with a party and the old “Kite,” but he does not say who are in the party. Now if Mr. Peary only gets back safe I shall indeed be happy. All those dear to me have been spared, while there has been a great deal of sickness and death everywhere.
ROBERT E. PEARY, U. S. N.
Monday, July 25. This morning the sun came out bright, and he has shone all day. After looking in vain for the inland ice-party, and also for a party from the “Kite,” until two P. M., I retired to the tent to escape the mosquitos. I told Matt he might go down to Redcliffe and see the “Kite” party if he chose, but he said he did not care for the walk, and would take the gun and go for a stroll. At 3.30, feeling hungry, I went out to see if I could see anything of him, in order to know whether I should cook for one or for two. Away off near the foot of the cliffs I saw a lone figure, which did not look like Matt, slowly making its way in the direction of the tent. I soon made out Professor Heilprin. He had walked fifteen miles to pay me a visit, and we chatted for hours. It did seem so good to talk with some one again who had been in touch with civilization. I feel as though I had been in another world. Both mother and brother urge me to come home, even if Mr. Peary has not returned from the inland ice by the time the “Kite” is obliged to set sail again for the sunny south, and the professor says his orders are to “bring Mrs. Peary back under any circumstances.” While I do not think there is the slightest doubt that my husband will be here before the latter part of August, and while I fully believe that if he is not here then he will never come, yet I could never leave while there was the faintest chance of his being alive. I told the professor just how I felt about the matter, and he said, “Well, we will see when the time comes.” My brother Emil writes that I should have “some consideration for my friends and relatives.” And what of my husband? He says further, “What good can you do Bert on the coast while he is on the ice?” Does he suppose that if Mr. Peary is alive he will stay on the ice the whole year round? And when he returns and finds he is too late for the “Kite,” will that not be disappointment enough, without finding that I, too, have deserted him? I know just how my dear ones at home feel, and I know, too, that they cannot long for me any more than I long for them. It will go hard to remain—harder for me than for them, for they will know that I am well and comfortable; and besides, they have friends and acquaintances, and intelligent and interesting employments and amusements with which to occupy their minds and time, while I have only a few white men and some uncivilized people, together with three months of darkness, to make my life pleasant. Not a very enviable existence, I am sure. As for cold, hardship, and hunger, that is nonsense. Of course, if I feel so inclined, I can go out and sit on an iceberg until I freeze to it, and let the wind and snow beat upon me, even starve myself; but my tastes do not run in that direction.