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  On the North Pole expedition, Joe would serve as hunter and dog driver, Hannah as seamstress.

  The rest of the crew that stood on deck for Sunday services were a capable lot. At the time, the U.S. Navy and Merchant Marine both relied heavily on recruiting immigrants to run their ships, since the most adventurous Americans were going West rather than to sea.

  Emil Schuman, a German national, had been appointed chief engineer of Polaris. A handsome, well-groomed man with a mustache, side whiskers, and slicked-back hair, Schuman was well educated in engineering principles and had spent years at sea, most recently as assistance engineer in the service of Lloyds Steamship Company. An excellent engineer and machinist, it would be his job to keep the ship, its boiler, engine, and mechanical gears running in the world’s coldest, most adverse seas.

  Alvin Odell, from Connecticut, was assistant engineer. A Civil War veteran who had fought for the Union, he was a good machinist and blacksmith, and a practical man. Rail-thin and stoic, he displayed an inborn Yankee shrewdness toward money and possessions.

  Frederick Meyer, military academy graduate and former lieutenant in the Prussian army, would serve as meteorologist. Before he left Germany, he had held an appointment in Maximilian’s army and had been destined for Mexico in support of the Austrian archduke’s effort to rule that country. Upon reaching the United States, however, Meyer decided to stay and entered the U.S. Army. His was a fortunate decision, as within two years Maximilian was in disgrace in Mexico, court-martialed and executed. Detailed as a signal observer at St. Louis, Meyer had distinguished himself as a sergeant in the Signal Corps. The tallest member of the crew at well over six feet, Meyer was in his early forties, with a receding hairline and bushy mustache. He could be downright dapper in appearance, favoring a gold watch and chain in his vest pocket. Meyer was a natural at telling others what to do, and he had a disturbing tendency to believe that he was always right, even in the face of evidence to the contrary.

  The ship’s carpenter, Nathaniel Coffin, was the oldest member of the crew, a neat, natty little fellow of more than fifty summers. He was talented with saw and hammer, but at heart he was a poet and songwriter, and would often amuse his shipmates with his latest verses and renditions about life on the sea.

  Of the ten common seamen who formed the deck crew, one was a Swede, one a Dane, and seven were German, several having fled their native country to escape nearly a decade of war in the name of German unification since Bismarck’s rise to power in Prussia. Only one deckhand was American-born: Noah Hayes, twenty-six, a wide-eyed Indiana farm boy who had never been to sea. The remaining crew were two firemen—one American and one English—to work below deck in the boiler room, an English steward to help prepare and serve food, and a sad-eyed mulatto cook from New York named William Jackson. In all, the eleven Americans in the crew were outnumbered by fourteen immigrants, ten of them Germans.

  After the services Hall, resplendent in his finest uniform, rose to speak. With sunlight dancing off his polished brass buttons, he introduced the ship’s officers and thanked the Baptists for their presence. As he spoke, his preacher-like voice gathered strength and spread across the deck of the ship, carrying out over the harbor.

  “I believe firmly that I was born to discover the North Pole,” he said. “That is my purpose. Once I have set my right foot on the Pole, I shall be perfectly willing to die.”

  Most of the men cheered, although a few officers exchanged glances. The ladies of the congregation smiled shyly under their bonnets, unsure what to make of such bold talk.

  That day Charles Francis Hall heard only the cheers and saw only the smiles.

  3

  “Icebergs Dead Ahead!”

  4:00 P.M., JUNE 29, 1871

  BROOKLYN NAVY YARD

  In the midst of a summer thunderstorm, with the U.S. flag he had been presented days earlier by the American Geographical Society hoisted at the fore, Charles Francis Hall stood on the bridge as the lines securing Polaris to the pier were released and she nudged away from the dock, where scattered onlookers stood under umbrellas waving good-bye.

  At last the expedition was under way, sailing with a set of official orders addressed to Hall and signed by Navy Secretary George Robeson:

  Having been appointed by the President of the United States, commander of the North Polar Expedition, and the steamer Polaris having been fitted, equipped, provisioned, and assigned for the purpose, you are placed in command of the said vessel, her officers, and crew, for the purposes of the said expedition ... the main objective attaining the position of the North Pole. All persons attached to the expedition are under your command, and shall, under every circumstance and condition, be subject to the rules, regulations, and laws governing the discipline of the Navy, to be modified, but not increased, by you as the circumstances may in your judgment require.

  Near the end of the official orders, which seemed to provide for every possible contingency, was a paragraph addressing what would happen in the event of the death of the Expedition’s commander:

  In case of your death or disability—a contingency we sincerely trust may not arise—sailing master of the expedition, S. O. Buddington, and chief scientist, Dr. Emil Bessels, shall consult as to the propriety and manner of carrying into further effect the foregoing instructions, which I here urge must, if possible, be done. In any event, Mr. Buddington shall, in case of your death or disability, continue as the sailing master, and control and direct the movements of the vessel; Dr. Bessels shall continue as chief of the scientific department, directing all sledge-journeys and scientific operations.

  It was a curiously worded clause that allowed for a kind of split command, unprecedented in U.S. Navy command structure, in which no loopholes were ever allowed for insubordination to creep, no way in which more than one person could assume authority at the same time. This tradition made good military sense, since divided authority led to unclear orders and weakened discipline. Most emphatically, the Navy had always followed the policy that command at sea, and all the life-and-death responsibilities that came with it, must fall to one individual.

  With Polaris, however, the Navy could not make up its mind to trust anybody with full command of the expedition in the case of Hall’s demise. It seemed as though the wintertime—when the ship would be stuck in the ice—was to be handed over to the physician-scientist, and the summer would belong to the sailing master.

  Polaris pulled out of the Navy Yard and steamed past the bustling, vibrant waterfront of New York. As they headed south, where they would hook east around Long Island and head for the open sea, George Tyson felt strange having nothing to do with directing the ship. While serving as sailing master for his last five voyages, he had learned to withdraw, once the bow and stern lines were off, from any thoughts of shore and concentrate on the business of getting under way. Feeling the early morning sun in his face, putting everyone on deck to work, and taking charge as they headed for sea, more of a home to him than any he had ever known on dry land—he doubted there was anything better in the world.

  But now he found himself sailing toward unknown seas without any duties on the bridge or even a clearly defined position. He still had not received his official commission papers. They were to be sent from Washington on a supply ship that was to rendezvous with them in Greenland. Tyson had no idea what an assistant navigator was supposed to do. Hall had simply wanted him along on the trip and said they would work out the details later. Tyson had agreed because the adventure would be high—of that he was certain—the pay was good, and he would be at sea, where he loved to be.

  Tyson gave himself up to the novelty of observing others performing their tasks instead of commanding them, and enjoying the view as though a mere passenger. They passed down the East River with the great city of Brooklyn, fourth largest in the country with over 400,000 souls, on his left, and to their stern, the island of Manhattan, with nearly a million residents.

  This was the Brooklyn of Walt Whitman—a cit
y with a distinct seagoing and farming character to it, but one that was rapidly turning to manufacturing and becoming a bedroom community for people working in Manhattan. Numerous ferries plied the waters of the river, back and forth, an endless stream of cargo and humanity that even the future completion of the Brooklyn Bridge and a network of elevated railways wouldn’t put out of business. Off in the distance Tyson recognized the tallest building on the skyline, Trinity Church, which dominated Wall Street.

  He wondered how many of these residents would concern themselves the next few years with reports of the expedition. The North Pole was a long way off, and meant nothing at all to their daily lives. He surmised that a good number of those who did think about the expedition considered the Polaris crew a wild and reckless bunch willfully going to their own destruction.

  Some of his own friends thought that he was undertaking a wild goose chase, and he wasn’t so sure if his wife, Emmaline, didn’t silently agree. To anyone who asked, he had been saying that with “good leadership and management” he thought Polaris had a chance to get farther north than any ship before. He believed it was worth the try.

  So many people in Washington, New York, and elsewhere had supported the expedition and bade them Godspeed. They had been able to look past the obvious danger to the honor of having an American be first at the Pole. They understood the mysterious attraction that had long drawn explorers to seek the unknown.

  Tyson, as a youth, had been gripped by a longing to see the frozen north. His imagination had been stoked by published accounts of leading Arctic explorers of the day—Parry, Ross, Franklin—and he had wanted to follow in their tracks. Two decades of whaling had not diminished that flame—to gaze on unknown lands, enter mysterious, mist-shrouded channels, touch shorelines where no man had trod before, to witness novel scenes, and to share in the dangers of Arctic discovery.

  On they steamed, until the blood-orange sunset was behind them. The bright summer night carried the cleansing scent of fresh rain and beckoned them toward open sea.

  Off the coast of Newfoundland a week later, Polaris was enshrouded in fog, as it had been for three days and nights. The lookout in the crow’s nest perched high up the forward masthead could not see more than a hundred feet beyond the bow. Then, as if someone had drawn back a giant curtain, the veil lifted.

  That evening a great change came over the sky. Dark clouds, turning every moment to a deeper blackness, massed above the horizon to the southwest. In an instant, the entire sky was blanketed. A sudden rain squall burst with violent, rolling thunder and brilliant lightning that seemed almost continuous, so incessant were the flashes. The very firmament was ablaze from horizon to zenith, while peal after peal of deep, reverberating thunder echoed and reechoed across the sky like the cannonading of contending armies.

  Not just the weather had turned. Already, there were signs of crew unrest.

  George Tyson noticed trouble brewing around the time of their arrival at St. Johns, Newfoundland, where the ship was coaled, and sledge dogs and skins for winter clothing were purchased. (Woolen clothing could keep out cold but was little protection against the subzero Arctic winds. Hall had hoped to procure highly sought deer skins, but none was available. He settled for seal and dog skins, which Hannah would sew together for winter clothing.) Although unaware of the dispute that had long simmered between Hall and the scientific advisers concerning the expedition’s main priority, Tyson did recognize the strain. At this stage, he noticed little more than glances, gestures, and attitudes, but Dr. Emil Bessels and meteorologist Frederick Meyer were clearly acting as though they had a higher standing than anyone else aboard, including their commander. It was none of Tyson’s business, for he had no official standing among the officers, but he was sorry to see early seeds of discontent.

  Trouble was also fomenting on the bridge.

  Two days out of St. Johns, Tyson was walking the deck alone one evening, admiring the stars and listening to the squeals of Newfoundland dogs in a makeshift kennel—a partially overturned lifeboat. Thus occupied, he nearly ran into Sidney Buddington as the sailing master burst forth from a hatchway, cursing a blue streak.

  “Tyson, we are being led by a damned fool!”

  Tyson glanced at some crewmen on deck nearby, and saw that they had heard the sailing master’s complaint. He took Buddington’s arm and guided him away.

  “I will likely be going ashore at Disco,” Buddington said, shaking his head.

  Tyson knew that Disco, Greenland, would in all likelihood be their last stop before setting a straight course for the Arctic. He could not imagine what had happened to cause such vexation. He had known the sailing master for years. Buddington had been mate of the vessel on Tyson’s very first voyage to sea twenty years earlier—which had ended in his first shipwreck, too. But they hadn’t sailed together since, and only occasionally over the years had run into each other in one port or another.

  “The worst part is,” Buddington went on, “we’re being led by a man not of the sea.”

  The sailing master spat it out as the worst form of insult.

  Being in command was never easy, but Tyson saw what a precarious position Hall was in as expedition commander. The scientists looked down on him because he did not have their education, and so did an old salt like Buddington because Hall was not a sailor.

  “That’s why you’re here, Bud,” Tyson said, smiling, trying to defuse the charge.

  “Not likely I’ll be on this blasted ship much longer.”

  In the next few minutes it became clear what had happened, and Tyson had all he could do not to laugh. Buddington, it seemed, had been caught by Hall with his hand in the larder—helping himself to some extra sugar and chocolate. By nature a disciplined and parsimonious man, Hall had taken offense and severely upbraided Buddington.

  An hour later, Tyson was summoned to Hall’s cabin. The commander explained the situation, and asked Tyson what he thought should be done with Buddington.

  If Buddington was put off the ship, Tyson knew he would take over as sailing master. Yet that was not what Tyson wanted. He knew a last-minute switch could cause disruption among the crew, and he wanted no part of it.

  “It was a careless trick, sir,” Tyson said. “He’ll probably do better in the future.”

  Privately, Tyson was more troubled by Buddington’s conduct in front of the men. To maintain discipline, a sailing master should never lower himself to complain in front of the men, particularly about other officers, and also not consort with ordinary seamen but maintain an officer’s distance. Foul-mouthed, ill-mannered Buddington had a disturbing tendency to do both, Tyson had observed, and that he found inexcusable. But of these concerns he said nothing; after all, Hall had known Buddington for ten years, sailed with him previously, and hired him as master of the ship. Also, Tyson continued to feel awkward about his status aboard Polaris. Still without his commission papers and lacking any official post, he remained more passenger than crew.

  Not long after spotting the island of Greenland, they saw their first icebergs.

  “Icebergs dead ahead!” cried the lookout aloft.

  About fifteen came in sight at one time, great bergs flashing in the sunlight across the green and dappled sea. Many were from a hundred fifty to two hundred feet high, and those seeing the formations for the first time were most impressed by their sheer size. Their cold and mysterious beauty, suggesting they were the handiwork of a supreme sculptor, held the gaze of even the most experienced Arctic sailors, though to a man they knew well the danger icebergs posed to any vessel afloat.

  They reached the island of Disco, halfway up the rugged western coast of Greenland, but did not find the Navy supply ship due to meet them in the small harbor of Godhavn, a Danish settlement nestled beneath two-thousand-foot treeless slopes.Hall decided to await the anticipated rendezvous even though with each passing day of summer, the season for Arctic travel was shortening.

  No sooner had the vessel been secured than Hall found hims
elf faced with a blatant challenge to his authority. In his tiny cabin aft, he was confronted by Frederick Meyer, the Prussian-born meteorologist whom Hall had enlisted days earlier to help him keep his journal of the expedition. Meyer now told his commander that the clerical chore was interfering with his scientific duties.

  At heart a fair-minded man, Hall considered the problem for a moment. In that case, he said, Meyer should stop making meteorological observations for the time being to concentrate entirely on the journal and to assist with other matters on the ship. Hall’s reasoning was that meteorological records would not become critical until they were farther north. At that point, he would reevaluate Meyer’s work schedule.

  Journal writing was considered so vital to the record of the expedition that it had been spelled out in the orders from the Secretary of the Navy; every man aboard ship who could read and write was directed to keep a journal and turn it in at the end of the trip. That was in addition to the official ship’s log. Virtually every movement of the ship and every finding of the expedition were to be documented. From Meyer, Hall had sought assistance in keeping up with some of this workload.

  Although Meyer, as a sergeant in the United States Signal Corps, was accustomed to following orders, he refused, telling Hall that his scientific duties were more important than the captain’s journal.

  Hall was astonished. “Sergeant Meyer, this is not a request. This is an order.”

  “I have my orders from headquarters,” Meyer retorted.

  “You have your orders from headquarters?” Hall said. “Produce them, sir.”

  Meyer turned beet red. “My duty is taking meteorological observations. You are telling me to cease my observations to keep your journal. It is an order I cannot obey.”

  “Need I remind you,” Hall sputtered, “that you and every member of this expedition are under my command and will follow my orders.”