For the pine-apples grown in Alaska.”
(Editorial Apology. The foregoing chapter in its diction and in certain studied phases of construction will disturb the reader’s sense of congruity, perhaps. He will be inclined to doubt its authenticity as the exact narrative of Alfred Erickson. The suspicion is partly creditable to his literary acumen. The editor admits substantial emendations useful for the purpose of imparting a literary atmosphere.)
CHAPTER II
Point Barrow
We were all aboard the steam whaler “Astrum” in the spring of the next year, and with us a marvel of compact maritime construction, our naphtha launch “Pluto”. Hopkins suggested the name on the satisfactory ground that we were likely to have “a hell of a time.” We had worked ourselves up to the most supreme height of confidence and enthusiasm. The Professor was in a sort of demented state of expectation; Hopkins furiously asserted the name of Christopher Columbus would now be forgotten in the new fame to be allotted to us, “the Arctic Argonauts,” and finally Goritz and myself succumbed to a peculiar feeling of predestination.
Captain Coogan of the “Astrum” knew nothing of our proposed destination. It was a stipulation made by Hopkins that nothing on that point was to be discussed, until we reached Point Barrow—if we were to reach it—and the services of Captain Coogan and his selected crew—not the usual polyglot assemblage of ethnic odds and ends—were unconditionally ours up to that moment. The temptations of whaling were to be absolutely eschewed until we had vanished into the fogs and wilderness of the ice pack, beyond whose trackless waste lay Krocker Land. Of course a sea dog like Captain Coogan, a clever and hardy mate like Isaac Stanwix, a pertinacious thinker like the engineer Bell Phillips, and such an experienced and avaricious reader as the carpenter Jack Spent (he had made ten trips to Point Barrow) could make pretty shrewd guesses as to our intentions. The stores and supplies, the sledges and kayaks, splendid vehicles of travel made under Goritz’s supervision, were informing enough, had it not been for the disconcerting secrecy of the actors in this strange new ice-drama. I think we were regarded as a “parcel of wild devils or fools,” though I think too, with the exception of perhaps the Professor, our physical constants were impressive.
Our departure did not escape public notice. We were besieged by reporters, but we were impenetrable, and yet we were genially communicative too. It was the Arctic or bowhead whale we were interested in; we were naturalists, the Professor was hoping to introduce the bowhead whale into European waters; just now a preliminary study of its habits, habitat, food, breeding grounds, and commercial availability was indispensable. That fiction sufficed. The remarkable launch prepared for us was made into a skillful adjunct to our investigations. We were honored by several columns of interviews in the dailies, and the splash of our adventure spread its circle of disturbance even to Washington, whence official offers of assistance and participation were received which—were never answered. Among our visitors, for we did not escape the invasion of sightseers, was that Goliah, Carlos Huerta, from whose branding iron you saved me.
(Erickson spoke this measuredly and calmly to be sure, but his hands covered his face, and I saw his body sway, convulsed by his emotion.)
“This man somehow appealed to me; perhaps it was his herculean dimensions. He was familiar with launches and machinery, and was very intelligent; forceful, too. His suavity disarmed suspicion, and his robust, seemingly ingenuous interest pleased me. Almost his last words, before we sailed, invited me to come to see him—he handed me his card—and to tell him “all about it.” It was a curious, inexplicable divination on his part that I should have much to tell. That man, Mr. Link, was the most ruthless scoundrel I ever met; he was my first scoundrel; because I had never met a scoundrel before I fell into his net.
(Again a pause. It lasted so long that I feared some complication of feeling had robbed him of his memory. I said “And Mr. Erickson, you left San Francisco?” His consciousness returned, and he turned to me smiling.)