In the Land of White Death: An Epic Story of Survival in the Siberian Arctic (17 page)

After careful consideration, I no longer had any doubts that we were very close to the Jackson camp. I would soon find out whether my plan to head for Cape Flora was sensible, or whether all our trials and tribulations, all our efforts and losses, have been in vain. Twenty-two years is a long time.* What will remain of the camp? I was haunted by “ifs” and “buts.” What else could we do? Where else could we go? Toward Svalbard, perhaps? Not likely: From Cape Mary Harmsworth I had noted that loose pack ice stretched away to the west, and I knew that we had only two kayaks for ten men.

Would we be capable of such a lengthy detour? My companions no longer had the strength for such a journey, and at present our equipment could barely stand up to our most basic and urgent needs. No sooner had we left the
Saint Anna
than our sledges were already falling apart; now they consist only of fragment and splinters, held together with wire and string. Our clothes are nothing but filthy rags soaked in seal oil and swarming with lice. Our supplies consist of two pounds of salt.

No, absolutely not! There could be no question of heading for Svalbard, certainly not this year. What if we were to rest for a while at one of the capes, where there is shelter and an abundant food supply, as my men have so often suggested? But what would be the use? At best, we could winter over, but still without any hope of erecting a tolerable building or improving our equipment. It would be a form of suicide. And winter is so cruel in these latitudes! We would be living in the rocks, with a walrus pelt for a roof and a bearskin for a door! Such places are fine for men as strong as oxen with resolute souls and iron wills—the likes of Nansen and Johansen—but not for my sickly companions, with their sluggish souls, so easily disheartened, scarcely able to undertake a summer trek in relatively favorable conditions!

No, by instinct I had found the only possible solution. When we were on the Worcester Glacier, there was only one viable choice—head as quickly as possible for Cape Flora! The hopes we have for the future may not be fulfilled for us all; perhaps the huts we are counting on have been in ruins for years. But with what is left, we may be able to build a shelter, and we shall find provisions for the winter. If everything else runs out, at least we have some cartridges left. This can be the only practical way of spending the winter. We will make complete repairs of our sledges and kayaks; then we will still be able, if necessary, to consider traveling to Svalbard or Novaya Zemlya.

The snowstorm died down by evening. Konrad went duck hunting, while I climbed up the glacier with Lunayev to watch out for our four lagging comrades. We skied over four miles in the hope of meeting them, but other than those of a bear we found no tracks anywhere. We came back at ten o’clock and resolved, weather permitting, to go on to Bell Island the following day. I can no longer delay, out of consideration for Nilsen, who can hardly stand. Shpakovsky’s condition is scarcely more encouraging. And although his feet are also suffering, Lunayev can still stand and is much fitter than the other two.

The fate of our skiers worries me greatly. What can have happened to them this time? Have they not always lagged behind before? Have they not always expressed the desire to stop and linger for quite some time? It is a pity they only half expressed that desire, rather than making an outright decision, which no doubt they had already reached. So often they have put me in a difficult situation and forced me to waste time.

 

 

The weather had improved, so we set off for Bell Island at two in the morning. No sooner had we started than the storm picked up again and we were forced to paddle for ten hours through very choppy waves, rallying our last remaining strength. At noon we were still three miles from the island. Exhaustion forced us to halt on the edge of an ice floe. After we had rapidly cooked and eaten our ducks, we stretched out on the ice, wrapped in our reindeer hides and sheltering ourselves from the wind with the help of the sails. We awoke at four in the afternoon and saw to our horror that the ice on which we had paused to rest was not coastal ice, but a great floating ice floe that, in the meantime, had drifted at least six miles from the island. We had no choice other than to try to recover the lost ground by the effort of our paddles and the sweat of our brows. But during our rest the weather had cleared, and we quickly reached the island.

Nilsen is dying: He can hardly move, has lost the power of speech, and mumbles with great difficulty.

Quite near the island, on a huge block of floating ice, we spotted two large walruses and one small one, about the size of a cow. They were basking in the sun and scarcely gave us a glance as we drew near to attack. We lay in wait, hidden behind the ice. It was a very risky undertaking. We dragged our kayaks onto the ice with poor Nilsen in tow. It was the sight of the young walrus that spurred us on. Its flesh is said to be delicious and we wanted to taste it at least once in our lives. It was an unfair combat. Lunayev and I took aim very slowly and carefully, and fired at the same moment. The cub must have been shot on the spot, for where he lay, the ice turned red at once. It would have been a simple affair if we had been dealing only with him. But the other two old walruses immediately entered the fray: One threw himself at our kayak, panting and roaring, while the other, no doubt the mother, promptly pushed the injured calf into the water. In great danger, we retreated on the ice, constantly firing upon the furious animal pursuing us; we then watched them both splashing frantically around the baby, trying to keep him from sinking. The water, red with blood, boiled and foamed. One of the walruses, certainly the male, kept us in sight and again plunged forward to attack us, bellowing ferociously, so we ran farther away. The struggle lasted for five minutes, then suddenly both of them disappeared into the water. We had wasted fifteen rounds and had most foolishly put ourselves in great danger. As we began to paddle back toward the island after this humiliating “battle,” we constantly kept a good lookout, convinced that the two walruses would follow us to take revenge on our attack. We anxiously scanned the ocean’s surface, in case the monsters suddenly appeared.

We landed on the island at nine in the evening and immediately realized that Nilsen would not last much longer. He could not stand, and had to crawl on his hands and knees. His brain had already stopped functioning, for he no longer responded to us, only staring with a glassy look. We made a makeshift tent out of some sails for our poor, dying companion, and wrapped him in our only blanket. But we were quite aware that our efforts were useless. He would probably not last the night. Danish by birth, he was one of the first to embark on the
Saint Anna
when she was bought in England, even though he did not speak a word of Russian, but after two years on board he had acquired a good command of our language. Since yesterday he appears to have completely forgotten his Russian, but I believe he no longer understands anything at all. I was particularly shaken by his vacant, terrified eyes, the eyes of a man who has lost his reason. When we cooked some bouillon and gave him a cupful he drank half of it, then lay down again. We had no doubt that Nilsen would be dead by morning.

The loss of this brave man and fine sailor affected us all. Lunayev remarked that Nilsen had suffered the same kind of paralysis as Arhireyev and, in both cases, they must have been suffering from the same fatal illness. The others quickly fell asleep, and I took the rifle and climbed up the rocks to look out toward Cape Flora.

 

 

As we expected, Nilsen is no more than a corpse this morning; his sufferings are over and he seems to have died peacefully, without pain. His features were calm. Remarkably, he did not display that terrible yellow hue, that waxen death pallor that makes the face of a corpse so ghastly.

We wrapped the body in the blanket and carried it by sledge as far as the next terrace, roughly 900 feet from the shore, where we laid it in a grave made of stones. No one wept for this man who had accompanied us for months, sharing all our dangers, fatigue, and hardships. It seems we have become totally insensitive; we have seen death so often, it has been our unfailing companion and cannot frighten us anymore. Nilsen had suddenly disappeared. His hopes and everything he had lived for no longer meant a thing.

We, the survivors, had to leave his grave without delay and try to reach Northbrook Island, twelve miles distant, as soon as possible. We dared not succumb to our emotions, pressed as we were by the need for action and our battle against the elements. Had our entire voyage not been a perpetual struggle against death? It was not heartlessness that stifled our sadness; the conditions in which we had been living for so long had simply deadened our sensibilities.

We even regarded the next “candidate,” Shpakovsky, with some hostility, mentally assessing: “Will he make it, or will he snuff out first?” One of my companions even shouted at him almost angrily, “Now you lame duck, why are you sitting around? Do you want to join Nilsen? Go on! Get some driftwood! Get a move on!” When Shpakovsky obediently got up and went off, stumbling occasionally, the other man shouted after him, “Don’t you dare stumble! Don’t you dare!” This was not hostility toward Shpakovsky, who had never done anyone any harm, and the driftwood itself was unimportant. A healthier person was simply rebelling against the illness that had marked a comrade for its target. Those words were simply meant to kindle some energy and bring back the will to survive at any price. The mind must command the limbs and convert itself into a force that controls the body, even if part of that body refuses to obey. Those who let themselves go in these circumstances quickly fall prey to death. There is no way out, other than remaining master of one’s body, down to the last muscle. Every temptation must be repressed. When exhaustion tempts one to rest, the legs give up. It is vital not to give in. One must continually urge the mind to victory in its overwhelming struggle against the body. The seductions of lethargy gradually creep in, ready to take over, and that is where the danger lies. I never used to be too concerned with this sort of problem, attributing any inclination toward languor to such things as spending long hours in the kayak, sitting in an uncomfortable position with the legs bent double. After each long and tiring journey by boat, I could feel my blood stop circulating, which sometimes led to a sort of paralysis of the lower limbs. But as soon as I stepped out onto the ice, I would try to revive the feeling in my legs by doing gymnastic exercises, especially lying flat on my back. Even total exhaustion and profound weariness could not sway me from doing these exercises. Normally the exertion would restore the normal circulation, and my feet would obey me again. But for Shpakovsky and Nilsen, this state of fatigue had reached a chronic phase. The evil had spread and did not delay in attacking and affecting their brains, their speech, and their entire nervous systems. Poor Shpakovsky seems to be headed down the same path as Nilsen; his responses are already confused today, but he pretends that he is not aware that anything is wrong, and is undoubtedly speaking as little as possible on purpose.*

In the morning, small flocks of five to eight eiders flew toward the north of Bell Island. Hoping to find eider nests there and learn what we could about Eira Harbor,
^†
we set off in that direction. But we were disappointed and did not find any nests. It was very difficult, moreover, to walk along the shore, which was quite rocky and covered in snow. The eiders prefer building their nests on peaty soil, free of snow. The birds we had seen earlier had probably flown farther north. There was nothing interesting at the harbor. The straits between Bell Island and Mabel Island were packed with solid ice. When we returned to our kayaks we saw three walruses swimming nearby, surveying our small craft with particular attention, so we decided to move them as quickly as possible, for fear that the animals would come nearer. There is still no sign of our four companions who disappeared a few days ago. Of the eleven men who left the
Saint Anna,
only eight remain: my three comrades and I, and the four missing men who are no doubt wandering about somewhere on Prince George Land.

 

 

We left for Cape Flora at three in the morning. I was in the first kayak with Konrad, while Lunayev went with our ailing companion in the second, which was carrying a lot of equipment that had previously been in my kayak, such as cartridges, my books, and most of the diary notes. As the weather was exceptionally fine, we were counting on an easy crossing. In the beginning we had to zigzag among the ice floes, but later we were able to paddle vigorously and make good progress. Luckily, Mieres Channel, which is about ten miles wide, between Bell and Northbrook Islands (Cape Flora is on Northbrook) was free of ice. Without hesitation, we set a course straight for the cape, which lay clearly visible ahead of us. All we had in the way of food was one raw auk each. Fortunately we had eaten well on the island, since I had no inkling of what was in store for us.