Trapped in Ice (15 page)

“Nope. Ya can go your own way an' all of us will be the worse for your decision. I was countin' on workin' all the dogs an' having the four of ya ta work the sleds. Can hardly afford ta lose men of your calibre.”

“We were not wanting to hinder your plan, Captain, but simply to pursue ours. We think what we are suggesting is a better gamble,” Mr. Beauchat declared.

“Gamble? Ha! Isn't any gamble about it. Those coming with me have a chance ta live. Those that don't ... are dead.”

Captain Bartlett spent most of the day trying to convince them it was better for everybody if they'd agree to be part of his plan. But they were as certain of their plan as he was of his. In the end they decided to leave. Dr. Murray, Dr. Mackay, Mr. Beauchat and Mr. Morrison would be heading out on their own, travelling towards Point Hope, Alaska. The Captain finally agreed they could take eight dogs—six healthy dogs and two of the others. They spent the remainder of the day packing up all
the food and fuel and gear the sled could hold. They would leave in the morning.

 

I
N THE DIM MORNING LIGHT
I peeked around one of the shelters and watched the four men make their final preparations. There were only six people standing around the sled, but I wasn't surprised there weren't more people. Mother couldn't bear to see them off; she said it was like watching somebody digging their own grave. Jonnie told me he didn't want to say goodbye to anybody “that was stealin' huskies we'd be needing.” He thought they were traitors for not following the Captain's orders and he intended to stay inside his shelter so he wouldn't say anything he shouldn't.

“Who's there?” asked Michael, peering around my shoulder.

“I'm not sure ... I can't tell under the parkas,” I answered. I knew what he wanted to know: was the Captain there. I didn't think so but I didn't want to say.

The men worked hooking up the dogs, loading the sled and checking the ties. The dogs snapped and snarled at each other, as if they were edgy or maybe realized what was going to soon begin. I was pleased to see Daisy wasn't amongst the dogs they were taking. Michael had assured me there was no way Kataktovick would let them take her but I needed to see it with my own eyes to believe it. On the ground, beside the sled, lay four backpacks.

I looked off into the dim, thin light in the distance. Somewhere beyond the horizon, a small dot on a map hundreds of miles away was their destination.

“Ya come ta see us off, have ya?”
I was startled to see Sandy Morrison standing directly in front of me.

I nodded my head, but found I couldn't look into his eyes. I stared down at the ice.

“Why don't you an' your brother come on over and say your goodbyes. I was 'oping the Cap'n would be 'ere ... but I guess not…. Can't blame 'im none,” Mr. Morrison said with reservation.

He walked back towards the sled and we followed behind him. As we walked I gazed off into the distance again. I stopped in my tracks and cupped my hands over my eyes. I thought I saw something out on the horizon. I rubbed my eyes. Sometimes the shadows hit the ice at strange angles and things seem to appear. It's like mirages in the desert.

I looked back, expecting it to be gone, but it was still there, just a tiny bit bigger. I watched, transfixed. The dot got bigger and bigger and became two dots and then three, and then a whole bunch. It was crazy but it looked like ... I could hardly bring myself to think the words ... a sled and team.

“He's coming back,” I said.

“What?” asked Michael.

I turned to him in shock. I hadn't even realized I'd spoken the words out loud. I pointed my hand and Michael's eyes followed my arm out into the distance.

“What?” he asked again.

I wanted to answer him. To tell him he was coming back for us. That Mr. Stefansson was coming to rescue us, but I said nothing, just kept pointing. It was just like in the dreams I still had at night—visions of him
returning for us ... that he hadn't really abandoned us ... that we'd all be safe …

“LOOK!” I heard Mr. Morrison yell, and all heads turned in the direction I was already pointing.

We all stood and stared as the dots became so large and clear there was no doubt. Two men were running and taking turns on the back of a sled pulled by more than a dozen huskies.

“It's him!” Mr. Morrison said. “It's the Cap'n.” “What?” I asked.

“Cap'n Bartlett an' somebody else,” Mr. Morrison said.

“Kataktovick,” Michael added. “I can tell by the way he lopes along as he runs.”

They closed the last two hundred yards quickly. The dogs knew their breakfast would be waiting when they stopped. Captain Bartlett pulled hard on the reins and brought the team to a stop. He climbed off the back of the sled and walked into our midst as Kataktovick led the sledge away.

“Good day, gentlemen ... young Helen and Michael.”

People returned greetings.

“I was hoping ta get here before ya started. I think ya won't be needin' them packs ta be so full,” he said, motioning to the ground.

“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Beauchat sharply. “We need every ounce we can carry!”

“You are not reneging on your word, are you, sir?” Dr. Murray's voice was filled with indignation.

“Ya can stop right now, ya can!” Mr. Morrison stated angrily. “The Cap'n is a man of his word. 'Ear 'im out!”

“Thank ya, Mr. Morrison. Ya won't be needin' ta fill your packs because a cache of supplies is waitin' for ya. Red flag, up on top of an ice shelter. Twenty ... maybe twenty-one miles along your route.”

“But ... how?” Dr. Murray asked.

“Me and Kataktovick marked a trail. Red flags, about every half-mile. Follow 'em. Had ta swing ta the north ta get around a big pressure ridge. Clear, fast ice. Took us longer ta blaze the trail. Faster ta get back. Ya should make the shelter in six ... maybe eight hours.”

“Captain, I don't know what to say …” Dr. Murray began.

“I do,” Mr. Morrison interjected. “Thanks, Cap'n.” “No need for thanks, Mr. Morrison. Words in the good book, ‘do unto others,' is all.”

Mr. Beauchat stepped forward. He pulled down his hood and removed his right glove, exposing his hand. He reached out his arm to the Captain. Captain Bartlett removed his glove and they shook hands. Dr. Murray and Dr. Mackay followed right after. When it came to Mr. Morrison, he and the Captain reached out their hands and then came together in a hug.

Mr. Morrison lingered beside the Captain, close to where Michael and I stood, while the other three returned to the sled.

“Cap'n, sir, I was hopin' ya could do me a favour.”

“Course, Mr. Morrison. What is it I can do?”

Mr. Morrison reached into the pocket of his parka and pulled something out. It was small and white and he pressed it quickly into the Captain's hands. Captain Bartlett brought it up to his face and I could see it was a letter.

“Could ya ... could ya make sure me mother gets this,” he asked.

Captain Bartlett nodded and placed the letter in his pocket. I looked at Michael. He looked as confused as I felt.

Within minutes they were standing beside the sled, their now partially unloaded packs on their backs. A light snow had started to fall and the wind was picking up. At least the wind was at their backs and it might push them along. A few other people had come out onto the ice. They gathered around where the Captain and Michael and I stood, and not too close to the four men and their sled. It was as though they were doing something personal, or private, and we didn't want to intrude.

Finally Dr. Murray looked at us and raised a hand to his head, almost in a salute.

“God be with ya!” Captain Bartlett yelled out.

They turned and started to move. One man took to the back of the sled while the other three started trudging beside it. We watched them get smaller and smaller and the yapping of the dogs faded away, captured by the falling snow. I could see them for a good five minutes, getting smaller and smaller until they vanished.

“Captain, why did Mr. Morrison give you a letter for his mother?” asked Michael.

I wanted to ask the same question, but didn't think it was polite to do so.

“'Cause he wants her ta know what became of him.” “I don't understand,” I said.

“He doesn't figure they're goin' ta make it, but figures we will.”

“Then why ... why did he go with them? Why didn't he stay with us?” Michael asked.

“'Cause he told 'em he'd go. They've been talkin' for awhile. He got himself all caught up in the plan an' he gave his word. A man who doesn't keep his word isn't much of a man ... and Mr. Morrison is a man of his word.”

“Even if it means dying?” Michael asked incredulously.

“Especially if it means dying. Anybody can keep his word if it doesn't cost him nothin'. Only a man of true honour will keep his word in the face of death. Not much more important than your honour. Ya'll learn that some day, Michael. Ya'll learn.”

 

 

Chapter Nineteen

January 15, 1914

Dear Diary,

The light snow which started to blow when the party set out on their own got stronger and stronger and stronger. It didn't stop the first day, or the next, or the next or the next. Kataktovick said they'd be okay if they just sat tight in the shelter he and the Captain had made for them. I just hoped they got there before the storm closed in.

For the past four days I couldn't even see the distance between our ice shelter and the next one, even though it's no more than two dozen paces between the two. It was only by keeping a hand on the lines linking the shelters we were even able to get around.

It seemed the longer the storm raged the smaller the shelters became. We had to stay inside except for short trips between the igloos, or outside to relieve ourselves ... always holding those lines tightly. Lose the line and you could lose your life.

The Captain had told us about a man who stumbled out into an Arctic storm and got lost. He described how panicked and confused he would have become; how he would have lost all sense of direction, unable to see beyond the tip of his nose in the driving snow; how he desperately would have stumbled around, falling to his knees and trying to feel his way back to his shelter; how they found him the next morning when the storm finally broke, frozen to death, curled up in a little ball, just five paces from his shelter.

He told us that story five different times. I'd never heard him repeat a story before. I think he was trying to scare us into staying inside or on the lines. For me, he was just wasting his time. I was already so scared the first time I heard the story that it kept on replaying in my mind, even haunting me in my sleep. What a terrible way to die.

Being forced to stay inside for so long, we found ways to pass the time. The chess games, which had been so much a part of life on the ship, continued. There was almost always a couple of games going on in the shelter where Cookie had set up his portable stove. I liked playing chess. When I first started playing, everybody was always willing to help me. Not now. I was winning sometimes, and they weren't so helpful.

Michael didn't like chess. He spent a lot of time playing a game that Kataktovick and the other Inuit played called Knuckle Bones. It's just like playing with a ball and jacks except they used bones, real knuckle bones. Most of the crew had started playing and gambling on the games, but the Captain put a stop to it. He said gambling was a sin against God and it wasn't wise to ever do anything to make God upset, but especially when you're marooned on the ice.

I was very glad when he stopped the gambling. Something about it seemed to bring out the worst in the men. Arguments were always breaking out, and on two occasions, these developed into shoving matches. Others had stepped in and stopped them before they got out of hand, but it was so distressing to witness. The Captain had threatened he wouldn't tolerate any more fisticuffs, and that we should all be saving our fight for the real enemy.

I knew the men weren't just upset about the matchsticks they lost in the gambling games. Ever since the ship had gone down tempers had flared. Good-natured humour was as hard to come by as warmth. People argued about almost anything and even close friends didn't seem as close. Mother said spirits would improve once we were moving again. I think she was right. The hardest part was waiting. It left too much time to think about what we had to do.

Mr. Hadley still spent a great deal of time playing Knuckle Bones. He was spending more and more time with the Inuit, especially Kataktovick. For somebody who said they were all “dirty, dishonest, lazy Indians,” he sure acted friendly and treated them well. Maybe he was seeing things differently now.

Anyway, I had thought it was pretty awful, playing with bones like that. Then Jonnie pointed out to me that my chess pieces, the ones the Captain gave me, are made of ivory. Elephant tusks are really just elephant bones.

Besides reading my books over and over again, I spent a great deal of time listening to the stories which continued to be told, now around a table in the biggest of the ice shelters. The Inuit stories are interesting but eerie and scary and confusing. I guess partly it's because of the language problems. Kataktovick's English is getting better all the time but lots of words are lost in the translation. The stories are all about the animals and the weather and ice. Hearing them tell these stories made the north seem less lonely. Even when there aren't any living things, there are still the spirits filling the air and ice. Unfortunately some of those spirits don't seem very nice.

Of course you can't just sit and listen to other people's stories without telling some of your own. I didn't think I had any stories to contribute until Michael suggested I retell the stories I'd read. Once I started to do that, and after I got over being so nervous, I had lots to tell. The men seemed to like my stories.