A boy's-eye view of the Arctic

by Kennett Longley Rawson

“Yes, sir,” I said, and I went out. He had forgotten all about the slip!

If I worked hard, I had a chance of getting exempt from my examinations at the end of the term. That meant I could go home seven days earlier than otherwise. When I had calmed down, I made up my mind that no dust was going to collect on my books from then on. Too much depended on my plugging; so I tried to put away the thoughts of nice arctic coolness on a hot June night and bury myself in my books.

The days went quickly by. They were happy days filled with hard work between which came rosy dreams of the future—the prelude to the great adventure. But at last came the important day—the day on which the list of exemptions from examinations was to be posted. I parked myself outside the Dean’s office anxiously awaiting that list. No vacation ever had seemed so far away, and the minutes were ninety seconds long. At last a figure appeared from within, armed with the list and a handful of thumbtacks. There was a wild mob there by that time, but I was in the front row. I ran my eye down the alphabet. My fate was before me. It was there—my name. Exempt in everything! With a yelp of joy I rushed for my room feeling for my trunk key on the way. Somehow I got my trunk packed, did the things that had to be done before leaving, and that night at dinner I had everything ready for an early departure in the morning.

The next day, amid the good wishes of my somewhat envious school friends, I bade farewell to The Hill and started for home. There I would have a few days with my family and plenty of time to select my outfit before going on to Wiscasset, Maine, to join the expedition. On the train I did not buy any magazines. I just sat there and shot polar bears and dodged icebergs; and what a grand and glorious feeling it was!

The family were at the train to meet me, and we all had so much to say that nobody could wait for the other person to finish. Mother was so happy that I could go and so unhappy because I would not be home for the vacation, that she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Father was so enthusiastic that he wanted to go himself.

I had about a week before joining the expedition; this time I employed in getting my equipment ready. I needed all manner of things, and without a list which the Commander had furnished, we should not have known what to get. Oilskins and rubber boots for wet weather were very necessary, as were all sorts of warm things such as knit socks, heavy underwear, flannel shirts, woolen trousers and a sheepskin coat, to name but a few of the items. I also laid in a big stock of five-and-ten-cent-store trinkets for trading with the Eskimos. The Commander had suggested rings, necklaces, beads, perfume, soap and various novelties, most of which certainly went like hot cakes with the Eskimos.

At last the day arrived on which I must leave home for the last time until my return from the north, probably in a few months, but very possibly not for several years, maybe never. The Arctic keeps one guessing if it does nothing else. One never can tell what successes or disasters the next day holds.

The family were not coming east with me now, as it was necessary for me to go on a few days early to help in the work of preparation. The family, however, were coming on for the official farewell which was not to be until a week later. On my way to Wiscasset, where the Bowdoin was being outfitted, I stopped in New York and joined forces with Dick Salmon, another member of the expedition. We continued our journey by steamer to Portland and there we caught a local to Wiscasset. The afternoon of the fifteenth, the day on which we were supposed to arrive, found us bumping along and wishing that the train would make more speed. But after what seemed years, the end of our trip hove in sight as we suddenly rounded a curve. With beating hearts we gathered our luggage and prepared to disembark. The train halted just opposite where the Bowdoin was anchored, and we stared with interest and admiration at our new home, for such she proved to be for the next four months. We hailed a passing launch and her skipper put us aboard our ship. We at once reported for duty to the mate, Mr. Robinson, who was in charge of the loading. He seemed rather surprised when he saw me, and he said, “Why, I was told you were a great, big fellow weighing a hundred and sixty pounds.” As I fell some pounds short of his expectation, I told him that somebody must have been kidding him. I think we both knew who it was. I had strong suspicions, anyway. He at last decided that if I could work, that would help matters quite a bit. So he told me to be ready for work early next morning and meanwhile to make myself at home and get acquainted with the members of the expedition who already had arrived.

I took a look around. The deck was piled high with boxes and barrels; the running rigging was all askew on the deck—in short, chaos reigned everywhere. This was far different from what I had pictured, and I decided right then and there that when it comes to actual work, getting the ship north was no more of a job than loading it. I also saw several dishevelled workmen busily engaged in stowing the cargo in various parts of the ship. I inquired from the mate who they were, and my disillusionment was complete when he told me they were two scientific experts with national reputations. I had always thought of scientists as not quite human, people who sat around looking into instruments and writing elaborate reports. But seeing them pitch in and work like normal human beings did much to restore my confidence that they were real he-men.

I looked the ship over from stem to stern. She certainly is a beauty with lines almost as clean-cut as a yacht. But her timbering would make a yacht’s look like a melon crate. She has the most massive timbers of any ship I ever saw, and I think I may safely say that she is the strongest small vessel in existence. Another very excellent feature for Arctic work is the way the hull is shaped. It is so rounded that the ship rises when squeezed by the ice. This is the only way that an Arctic vessel should be built; as no matter how strong the vessel may be, she cannot withstand the pressure of heavy ice unless she is made to rise. The bow also is sloping, so that she may rise a short way on a cake of ice and crush it with her weight. At the point of impact it is armored with a heavy iron plate to give additional strength. A rather unusual feature for Arctic vessels is also incorporated in the Bowdoin, namely, having the vessel reach its full beam a short way abaft the mainmast which, in a schooner, is quite near the stern. This serves to shunt the ice away from the propeller, and anything to protect the propeller is very helpful, as the breaking of a propeller in the ice is a disaster second only to having the ship crushed; without strong means of propulsion one cannot get very far, and sails are a poor substitute for a propeller. She has a semi-Diesel engine which will run on anything from whale oil to kerosene. If we ran out of fuel in the north, we would literally “harpoon our way home,” to quote the Commander. In spite of all these features, she is only a small vessel, eighty-eight feet over all, fifteen tons net. She is, I believe, the smallest vessel ever to enter the Arctic.