In the Land of White Death: An Epic Story of Survival in the Siberian Arctic (5 page)

I have already mentioned that there were no maps on board that were of any use to us, and that I had copied our only existing map out of Nansen’s book. Other than that volume and Kolchak’s*
The Ice of the Siberian Sea,
we had no other relevant works. Although Lieutenant Brusilov had bought a small library for hundreds of rubles before our departure, it contained only novels, stories, and old journals—not a single book of any use to us except Nansen’s
Farthest North.
Nansen was our only guide, and provided everything we knew about Franz Josef Land. For example, almost twenty years earlier (1895 to 1896), Nansen and Johansen had crossed the archipelago and wintered in a gloomy hut at a place they christened Jackson Island. The following year, on Northbrook Island near Cape Flora, they met up with Jackson himself,
^†
who had spent several winters there. A small group of buildings had been erected. Perhaps they were still standing, with their store of supplies? Who could say? All we knew was that Nansen spoke highly of the hunting at Cape Flora and Franz Josef Land, and we counted on finding walruses there that we could take by surprise while they slept, and shoot without danger. Drawing all our knowledge from Nansen’s experiences, we treated his book like a precious treasure. I had reread it so often that I could cite entire passages from memory. I had noted all the details in my notebook, particularly those which could help me out of a tight spot, if need be. But what purpose would all this information serve if we could not find this unknown land? I had also copied down the altitude of the sun and astronomy charts for the coming year and a half. I had found these figures in an English technical journal I had come across by chance in the ship’s supplies, along with a stock of old marine charts and logbooks, dating from the purchase of the
Saint Anna.

From Franz Josef Land we would still have to reach Svalbard, and we knew even less about that archipelago.* In the same English journal, I found quite by chance ten or twelve navigational coordinates that approximately matched the latitude and longitude of Svalbard. I copied these coordinates onto a chart that I had sketched with meridians and parallels, but I had no idea what they might mean. Did they indicate an island, a cape, a mountain, or a bay? In short, they were on my chart, and my imagination could draw totally arbitrary lines to link them all together.

We also knew, regarding Franz Josef Land, that the
Stella Polare,
belonging to the Duke of Abruzzi, had sailed through the British Channel as far as the Bay of Teplitz, and that in 1912 the Russian lieutenant Sedov had intended to disembark on one of the islands. After sending his ship back to Arkhangel’sk, Sedov had planned to spend the winter there before attempting to reach the North Pole the following spring.

On the eve of our departure Brusilov summoned me to read the draft of an order he wanted to copy and give to me. This document, dated April 10, ordered us to set out right away, with our homemade boats and sledges, carrying provisions for two months, on a journey which we would pursue until we reached land. Then, depending on circumstances, we were to try to reach the British Channel and Cape Flora, where we would be sure to find some huts and winter stores. Temperatures permitting, we were then to head for Svalbard, but without losing sight of the coast of Franz Josef Land. To the extreme south of the archipelago we might come across inhabitants and, offshore, perhaps some seal hunters. These were the directives, so to speak, for our southward trek. At the same time, the document set out the up-to-date calculation of the wages owed to each of us by the owner of the
Saint
Anna,
Boris Alexeyevich Brusilov,* a retired general and landowner in Moscow, who had financed the expedition. Our signatures confirmed that the amount was correct.

Late in the evening the lieutenant called me once more into his cabin to give me a list of items we would be taking with us and which I must, if possible, return to him at a later date. Here is that list as it was entered into the ship’s record: 2 Remington rifles, 1 Norwegian hunting rifle, 1 double-barreled shotgun, 2 repeating rifles, 1 ship’s log transformed into a pedometer for measuring distances covered, 2 harpoons, 2 axes, 1 saw, 2 compasses, 14 pairs of skis, 1 first-quality malitsa, 12 second-quality malitsi,
^†
1 sleeping bag, 1 chronometer, 1 sextant, 14 rucksacks, and 1 small pair of binoculars.

Brusilov asked me if he had forgotten to list anything. His pettiness astounded me. It was as if he thought there were horses waiting at the gangway to take those of us who would be leaving to the nearest railway station or steamship terminal. Had the lieutenant forgotten that we were about to set off on foot on a daunting trek across drifting ice, in order to search for an unknown landmass, and this under worse conditions than any men who had gone before us? Did he have no greater concerns on this last evening than toting up rucksacks, axes, a defective ship’s log, a saw, and harpoons? If truth be told, even as he read the list to me, I felt myself succumbing to a familiar rage. I experienced the sensation of strangling as my throat constricted in anger. But I controlled myself and reminded Brusilov that he had forgotten to list the tent, the kayaks, the sledges, a mug, cups, and a galvanized bucket. He immediately wrote down the tent, but decided not to mention the dishes. “I will not list the kayaks or sledges, either,” he offered. “In all probability they will be badly damaged by the end of your trip, and the freight to ship them from Svalbard would cost more than they are worth. But if you succeed in getting them to Alexandrovsk, deliver them to the local police for safekeeping.” I told Brusilov I was in agreement with this.

I left the lieutenant’s cabin very upset, and went below. On the way to my cabin, Denisov stopped me to ask where I would open the packet of ship’s mail and post the letters—in Norway or Russia? That was the last straw, and I could not contain my emotions any longer. I exploded and threatened to dump not only the mail, but also the rucksacks, the cups, and the mugs into the first open lead we came to, because I had serious doubts that we would ever reach a mail train in Norway, Russia, or anywhere else. But then I quickly regained my composure and promised Denisov that, wherever we landed, I would make every effort to see that the ship’s mail reached its destination.

Denisov went on his way, reassured. The ship was dark. Everyone had gone to bed. I was dismayed and depressed. It was as if I were already wandering across the endless, icy wastes, without any hope of returning to the ship, and with only the unknown lying ahead.

On that gloomy, decisive night prior to my departure from the
Saint Anna,
filled with anxiety, I wondered about each of the men who would be accompanying me. I already possessed grave doubts about their health and stamina. One was fifty-six years old and all of them complained of sore feet; not one of them was really fit. One man had open sores on his legs, another had a hernia, a third had been suffering from pains in his chest for a long time, and all, without exception, had asthma and palpitations.

In short, these were the dark thoughts that assailed and disheartened me that evening. Was this a premonition of some great misfortune that I was heading for, with no hope of escape?

 

When the long-awaited day finally arrived, and only a few hours remained before our departure, a slight regret came to trouble my thoughts: I was leaving behind the ship and its crew. Now they would be left to themselves and to the vagaries of an uncertain fate. I had become very fond of the
Saint Anna
during our long voyage; so often, in dangerous situations, she had provided us with shelter and safety. And had I not also enjoyed pleasant experiences here, particularly at the beginning of our journey? At that time we lived in complete harmony and knew how to put up a good front even at difficult moments, accepting misfortune cheerfully and bravely. We had spent many lively evenings together playing dominoes in the pleasant saloon, by the ruddy light of a good fire. Water would bubble in the samovar, ready for tea. There was kerosene to spare then, and our lamps gave enough light for any activity. The men were in high spirits, and enlivened the conversation with all sorts of amusing stories; everyone freely voiced his expectations about the future. Good humor reigned.

When we embarked on our voyage, most mariners and oceanographers familiar with the Arctic were of the opinion that the ice in the southern reaches of the Kara Sea was not subject to the general movements of the polar ice pack. Once we became icebound, we thought the
Saint Anna
would drift to and fro a little, but that we would remain in these southerly waters until the spring thaw set us free and opened up the mouth of the Yenisei River. From there, Brusilov planned to travel upriver to Krasnoyarsk in order to purchase fresh supplies and fetch the mail. At the same time, we would stock up on coal and fit out the ship so that we could continue on our way. The
Saint Anna
seemed certain to withstand the difficult ordeal ahead, for she was in every way superior to the two Norwegian ships,
Nimrod
and
Saint Foka,
that had initially been equipped for seal hunting and later bought for the purpose of expeditions. The cabins were a little chilly on our ship, to be sure, but we would soon take care of this inconvenience.

While we were taking on more coal at Dikson Island, Brusilov would go directly to Krasnoyarsk in the motor launch so that he would not have to wait for the regularly scheduled steamer, and thus gain more time. In this way we hoped eventually to reach Vladivostok, even if it took a year. What did it matter! A hunting expedition must primarily pursue its hunting objectives, and this we would do since the sea to the north of Siberia was teeming with walruses. Those were the plans we discussed every evening around the samovar as we drank our tea. Miss Yerminiya Zhdanko played the role of the perfect hostess, and showed a lively interest in our projects. She never blamed us for getting her into “an unholy mess,” as we were in the habit of saying; in fact she would get quite annoyed when we said this, for she shared all our problems with extraordinary courage. At first the role of hostess often proved terribly embarrassing for Miss Zhdanko. If someone so much as asked her to pour the tea, she would instantly blush to the roots of her hair, mortified that she had not first suggested it herself. This charming trait provoked much teasing from others on board the ship. For instance, when Brusilov wanted tea, he would first hold his breath for a while, trying to make it look like he was blushing. After this effort had caused his face to turn thoroughly red, he would shyly turn to Miss Zhdanko and say, “Lady of the house, please be so good as to pour me a glass of tea.” At the sight of the lieutenant’s shy, blushing countenance, she would immediately blush furiously herself, prompting everybody to laugh and shout, “She’s on fire!” and inspiring someone to run for water.

But those happier times—in the first half of the first winter, now in the distant past—occurred before we had begun to drift northward. The
Saint Anna
was then as trim and shipshape as she had been in the harbor on the Neva in St. Petersburg, near the Nicholas Bridge, and interested people were being invited to take a little trip along the coast in “Nordenskiöld’s* footsteps.” The white paint was still fresh on her hull and decks, the mahogany furnishings in the saloon gleamed like mirrors, magnificent carpets covered the floors. The hold and storeroom were overflowing with supplies and every delicacy that might tempt the palate. But these irreplaceable luxuries had disappeared at an alarming rate. We were soon forced to nail boards over the skylights and portholes, and pull our bunks away from the hull, so that our pillows and blankets did not freeze to the walls at night. We also had to cover the ceilings and floors with boards, sailcloth, layers of cardboard and felt, and finally hang small basins in numerous places to catch the water that dripped incessantly from the ceilings and walls. Our kerosene had all been burned, and for a long time we had been using lamps fashioned from tin cans containing a mixture of bear fat and seal blubber, the wicks of which gave off more smoke than light. In winter, the temperature belowdecks hovered between 28° and 23° Fahrenheit, and the “smoke pots” scarcely brightened the dense gloom. Several of these lamps placed on a table gave only a faint circle of light: Their tiny, trembling flames cast a vague reddish glow, and this dim lighting gave those around the table a shadowy, spectral look—the one and only advantage of these “smoke pots,” since our faces were as filthy as our worn clothing. Our soap had been used up long ago, and our attempts to manufacture some had failed miserably: It stuck to one’s face like a greasy glue and was nearly impossible to wash off. Our poor Miss Zhdanko! Now if she blushed, one would not even notice it beneath the layer of soot covering her face. In the saloon, the walls and ceiling were covered with a crust of ice. The layer grew thinner near the center of the room, which remained virtually the only place where it could not form. The ever-trickling water had taken the varnish off the wood, and it now hung from the walls in long, dirty, water-sodden strips. Wherever the woodwork had been stripped and saturated with humidity, mildew and mold were rampant.