Two Captains (32 page)

In this surprising manner all my doubts were cleared up: we were on Cape Mary Harmsworth, the south-western tip of Alexandra Land. Tomorrow we intend to go to the southern shore of the island and make for Cape Flora where this famous Englishman Jackson had his base.

Wednesday, July 15. Broke camp. We had the choice of either going all together across the glacier and dragging our baggage along or breaking up into two parties, one of which would go across the ice on skis while the other, consisting of five men, would sail along the icefield in the kayaks.

We chose the latter method.

Thursday, July 16. In the morning Maxim and Nils started to bring the kayaks closer in to where we had halted, and Nils was carried out so far by the current that two men had to be sent to his aid. I looked through my binoculars and saw Nils ship his paddle and look at the approaching rescue craft with a helpless air. Nils must be very sick; it's the only way I can account for his behaviour. He acts rather strange-walks unsteadily and sits apart all the time. Today, for supper, we cooked two pochards and an eider.

Friday, July 17. Dirty weather. Still sitting on Cape Grant, waiting for the shore party. Weather cleared up at night. E.N.-E. ahead, seemingly quite near, we can see a rocky island across the icefield.

Can this be Northbrook, where Cape Flora is? We shall soon know whether I was right in trying to make this cape. Twenty years is a long time. There may be nothing left of Jackson's log houses. But what else could we do? Make a wide detour? Would my wretched, sick companions have stood it, their clothes, soaked in blubber oil, all in rags and full of vermin?

Saturday, July 18. Tomorrow, weather permitting, we will push on. I cannot wait any longer. Nils can hardly walk and Korolkov is almost as bad.

Dunayev complains of pains in his legs, too, but he does not show signs of that apathy and exhaustion which frightens me in Nils and Korolkov. What can be delaying the walking party? In any case we cannot stay here any longer-it spells death.

Monday, July 20. Bell Island. When we stepped out of the kayaks we saw that Nils could not walk any more. He fell down and tried to crawl forward on all fours. We put up a tent of sorts, carried Nils into it and wrapped him up in our only blanket. He kept trying to crawl away, but then quieted down. Nils is a Dane. During his two years' service aboard the St. Maria he learned to speak Russian well. But since yesterday he has forgotten his Russian. What strikes me most of all is the blank, fear-stunned look in his eyes, the eyes of a man who has lost his reason. We boiled some broth and gave him half a cupful. He drank it and lay down. I feel sorry for him. He is a good sailor, a sensible, hard-working man. All went to sleep, but I took my rifle and went to look at Cape Flora from the cliffs.

Tuesday, July 21. Nils died in the night. He had not even thrown off the blanket we had wrapped him in. His face was serene, undis-torted by death agonies. Within a couple of hours we carried out our dead comrade and laid him on a sledge. The grave was a shallow one, as the earth was frozen hard. No one shed a tear over this solitary, remote grave. His death did not come as a surprise to us and we took it as a matter of course. This was not callousness or heartlessness on our part. It was the abnormal torpor one feels in the face of death, a sense of irrevocable doom that haunted every one of us. It was with something akin to animosity that we now kept glancing at the next "candidate", Dunayev, trying to guess whether he would "make it or not". One of his mates even shouted at him angrily: "What are you sitting there like a wet hen? Want to go after Nils? Come on, get some driftwood, stir your stumps!" When Dunayev humbly rose to go, they shouted after him:

"Now, no buckling, mind!" There was no resentment against Dunayev. Even the driftwood was of no importance now. It was resentment against the sickness which had claimed their comrade, it was a call to fight death to one's last breath. Buckling, when your legs give way under you as though paralysed, is very characteristic. After that your tongue refuses to obey you. The sick man articulates his words carefully, then gives it up in some confusion when he sees that nothing comes of it.

Wednesday, July 22. At three o'clock we started out for Cape Flora. My thoughts again were with Captain Tatarinov. I have no further doubt now that he was somewhat obsessed with this new land we had discovered. Lately he kept reproaching himself for not having sent out a party to explore it. He spoke about it also in Ms farewell speech to us. I shall never forget that leavetaking. That pale, inspired face with its inward look! How different from that once ruddy-faced, cheerful man with his fund of yarns and funny stories, the idol of his crew, a man who always came to his task, however difficult, with a joke on his lips! Nobody moved after his speech. He stood there with closed eyes, as though nerving himself for the last word of farewell. But instead of words, a low moan broke from his lips and tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. He began jerkily, then continued more calmly: "We all find it hard to say goodbye to friends with whom we have lived through two years of struggle and work. But we must remember that, although the expedition's main task has not been accomplished, we have done a good deal. By the labours of Russian men, some very important pages have been written in the history of the North, and Russia can be proud of them.

It is up to us to show ourselves worthy successors of the Russian explorers of the North. And if we perish, our discovery must not perish with us. So let our friends report that through the efforts of our expedition an extensive territory, which we have named Maria Land, has been added to Russia." He stopped, then embraced each of us in turn and said: "I want to say to you not 'goodbye', but 'till we meet again'."

Thursday, July 30. There are only eight of us left now-four in the kayaks and four somewhere on Alexandra Land.

Saturday, August 1. This is what happened today: we were within two or three miles of Cape Flora when a strong Northeaster rose, which quickly built up to gale force and whipped up a heavy swell. Before we knew it we lost the second kayak in the mist, the one with Dunayev and Korolkov in it.

It was impossible to battle against the wind and current in this swell, so we sought the protection on one of the larger icebergs, climbed up it and dragged our kayak on to it. We planted a mast at the top of the iceberg and hoisted a flag in the hope that Dunayev would see it and follow our example.

It was pretty cold, and, being rather tired, we decided to get some sleep.

We put on our parkas and lay down on the top of the iceberg head-to-toe, so that Maxim's feet were in my parka, behind my back, and my feet were in Maxim's parka, behind his back. We slept soundly for some 7 or 8 hours. Our awakening was frightful. We were wakened by a terrific crash and found ourselves hurtling down. The next moment our improvised double sleeping-bag was full of water; we were submerged and making desperate efforts to get out of this treacherous bag by trying to kick each other away. We were like cats thrown into the water to be drowned. I don't remember how many seconds we threshed about in the water, but it seemed a dreadfully long time to me.

Together with thoughts of rescue and death, a kaleidoscope of scenes from our voyage whirled through my head-the death of Morev, Nils and the four who had set out on foot. Now it was our turn and nobody would ever know what had happened to us. At that moment my feet found Maxim's and we kicked each other free. The next moment found us standing drenched to the skin on the under-water foot of the iceberg, fishing out of the water our boots, caps, blanket and mittens which were floating round us in the water. Our parkas were so heavy that we had to lift each one out together, and the blanket sank before we could get to it. I cudgelled my brain what to do now. We would surely freeze to death! As if in answer to our question, our kayak dropped down into the water from the top of the iceberg: either the wind had blown it down or the ice had given way under it as it had under us. Now we knew what to do. We wrung out our socks and jackets, and put them on again, threw everything we had left into the kayak, got in and started paddling away. My God, how furiously we worked those paddles! It was this, I think, that saved us. In about six hours we approached Cape Flora...

Among the earlier entries made soon after the navigating officer had left the ship, I found an interesting chart. It had an old-fashioned look about it, and I thought it resembled the chart that was appended to Nansen's account of the voyage of the Fram.

But what surprised me was this: there was a chart of the drift of the St. Maria from October 1912 to April 1914, and the drift was shown as having taken place in the area of what was known as Peter-mann's Land. Who nowadays does not know that this land does not exist? But who knows that this fact was first established by Captain Tatarinov in the schooner St. Maria'.

What then did he accomplish, this Captain, whose name appears in no book of geography? He discovered Severnaya Zemlya and proved that Petermann's Land does not exist. He changed the map of the Arctic, yet he considered his expedition a failure.

But the most important thing was this: reading the diary for the fifth, sixth and seventh time from my own copy (with nothing now to interfere with the actual process of reading), my attention was drawn to the entries dealing with the Captain's attitude to this discovery:

"Lately he kept reproaching himself for not having sent out a party to explore it" (i.e. Severnaya Zemlya).

"If we perish, our discovery must not perish with us. So let our friends report that through the efforts of our expedition an extensive territory, which we have named Maria Land, has been added to Russia."

"Should desperate circumstances compel me to abandon ship I shall make for the land which we have discovered."

And the navigating officer called this idea childish and foolhardy.

Childish and foolhardy! The Captain's last letter which Aunt Dasha once read to me contained those two words.

"Willy-nilly, we had to abandon our original plan of making Vladivostok along the coast of Siberia. But this proved to be a blessing in disguise. It had given me quite a new idea. I hope it does not strike you, as it does some of my companions, as childish and foolhardy."

The page had ended with those words and the next sheet was missing. Now I knew what that idea was: he wanted to leave ship and head for that land.

The expedition, which had been the principal aim of his life, had been a failure. He could not return home "empty-handed". His one desire was to reach that land, and it was clear to me that if any trace of the expedition were to be found anywhere, then it was in that land that it had to be sought.

Would I ever find out what had happened to this man, who had entrusted me, as it were, with the task of telling the story of his life and death?

Had he left the ship to explore the land he had discovered, or had he died from hunger along with his men, leaving his schooner, icebound off the coast of Yamal, to drift for years along Nansen's route to Greenland with a dead crew? Or, one cold stormy night, when stars, moon and Northern Lights were blotted out, had the ship been crushed in the ice, her masts, topmasts and yards crushing to the deck, killing the men there, while the hull groaned and creaked in its death throes, and in some two hours the blizzard had cloaked the scene of the disaster in snow?

Or were men from the St. Maria still alive somewhere, on some Arctic desert island, men who could tell the story of the ship's fate and the fate of her Captain? Had not six Russian sailors lived for several years in an uninhabited corner of Spitzbergen, hunting bears and seals, eating their flesh, wearing their skins and using them to cover the floor of their hut, which they had built from ice and snow?

But how could they? Twenty years had passed since that "childish",

"foolhardy" idea of abandoning ship and striking out for Maria Land had been voiced. Had they made for this land? Had they reached it?

Volodya, the doctor's son, called for me at seven in the morning. Half awake, I heard him down below scolding his dogs Buska and Toga. We had arranged the day before to visit the local fur-breeding farm and he had suggested making the trip by dog-sledge.

When we had settled in the sledge he shouted briskly, like your true Nenets, "mush, mush!", and the dogs started off at a spanking speed. The snow dust struck my face, stinging my eyes and taking my breath away. When the sledge bounced over a snowdrift I clutched Volodya, who looked round in surprise. I let go of him and started to bounce up and down in my straps, which, I thought, were not drawn tight enough.

Woosh! Without warning the dogs stopped dead in their tracks, all but catapulting me out of the sledge. Nothing alarming. It appeared that we had to turn off here, and Volodya had stopped the dogs to change direction. His dogs had one fault-they couldn't take a turning on the run.

We continued down the new track and after a while the dogs spurted forward and began to bark. Hark!-what was that? All of a sudden, as if in answer to the dogs a chorus of barks came from behind a clump of trees, first remote, then nearer and nearer. It was a long-drawn-out, wild, confused barking, which sent a chill up your spine.

"Volodya, why are there so many dogs here?"

"They're not dogs, they're foxes."

"Why do they bark?"

"They're cannies!" Volodya shouted over his shoulder. "They bark!"

I had, of course, seen ordinary foxes, but Volodya explained that this farm was breeding silvery-black foxes, and this was something quite different. There were no foxes like it anywhere else in the world. A white-tipped tail was considered beautiful, but here they were trying to breed a fox without a single white hair.