The Pole (10 page)

I took a mukluk from the larger of the two pairs and shoved in my foot. It was a bit small, but small and dry was better than soaked and fitting. I pulled on the second and then grabbed my parka and threw it back on top just as the dog team pulled to a stop beside me. It was Oatah!

He gave me a questioning look. Obviously he had seen me getting dressed but didn't know what to make of it.

“I fell through the ice and had to change clothes,” I said, pointing to the soaked clothing lying at my feet.

“Aahhh,” he said, nodding in agreement.

I wanted to go down to the campsite but I had to spike down the dogs first. I grabbed the first bag, loosened the drawstrings, and looked inside. Right on top was a large wooden mallet. Beneath it were long metal spikes. I pulled out the mallet and one of the spikes.

Oatah looked over my shoulder. “Smart. Care for dogs and dogs care for you.”

I was going to tell him it wasn't my idea, but I liked him thinking I was smart about some things. Since it always seemed like I was the student and he was the teacher, I felt like I must have looked pretty stupid most of the time. Things about the animals,
and the ice, and of course the language, things that even little Eskimo kids knew, I didn't. Although I was learning.

“Do you want me to stake down your dogs after?” I asked.

He nodded.

I looped the harness of the lead dog around the stake. I pushed it into the ground. The first few inches went in effortlessly and then it came to a dead stop. It would have to be driven the rest of the way. I tapped the mallet against the head of the stake. It sank a little bit lower. I gave it another tap and it sank in lower.Then I hit it a third time and it didn't budge. The ground was a little more solid. I drew back the mallet and gave it a big smash. Vibrations shot back up through my arm and the stake hardly budged. It was like I had hit a big rock … then I remembered. No rock, just ground, solid, frozen ground. The earth, just a foot or so below the surface, was permanently frozen. Even in the middle of summer—if that's what you could call July up here—only the top layer of soil ever unfroze.

I took the mallet with both hands and drew it back over my head. I swung it down with all my might and the stake slipped in a couple more inches. I swung again and again, and slowly the stake went in until only the top five or six inches were showing. That would be solid enough to hold the team in place.

Oatah had been unloading his sledge and I walked over, taking another stake with me.

“Lots of stuff,” I said.

He gave me a questioning look.

“Stuff, things, supplies … lots of things we'll need.”

“Stuff.” He had a large canvas bag slung over his shoulder and he started walking toward the campsite.

I went to grab the harness of his lead dog and it snarled and tried to bite me! Instinctively I jumped back, but at the same time I brought the stake down over the dog's head. The dog yelped and jumped back. I really didn't like hitting a dog, but I'd learned that with some of them you just had to. If they didn't know you were in charge of them, they thought they were in charge of you. The dog laid down on the ground, its tail wagging nervously. As I brought the mallet down on the spike the dog winced—it must have thought I was going to hit it again.That made me feel bad—but not as bad as being bitten. I finished banging the stake in and I was free to go down to the camp.

I started off and then skidded to a stop.There was no point in going down there empty-handed. I grabbed a box from the sledge and started down again.

The ground at the camp was littered with boxes and bags, things that had been brought off the ship.

The men were all occupied moving the large wooden crates. I didn't like the crates. They reminded me of just one thing—coffins. They were just about the right size. They were stacking them on top of each other, four tall. Why would they do that? It wasn't like there wasn't enough space. It was an enormous empty field on a gigantic empty island.There wasn't anybody other than us around for thousands of miles.

That thought reverberated around in my head. The people of the
Roosevelt
were the only people for thousands and thousands of miles.We were going to be alone up here, isolated from the entire world by a thick layer of ice locking the ship in and the world out, covered by a layer of snow, battling temperatures that would be unbelievably, indescribably bitter, trying to survive the winter, waiting for spring to make a run for the Pole. What had I gotten myself into?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SEPTEMBER 21, 1908

I STOPPED AT THE DOOR
of the Captain's cabin. I could hear music. I didn't know what it was but it was beautiful. Lush, full, beautiful. I raised my hand to knock but stopped myself. It didn't seem right to interrupt music as fine as that. It just didn't seem respectful. Maybe I should wait or come back later … but it would have to be a whole lot later. The Captain almost always had something playing on his gramophone.

Besides, it wasn't so much the music that was stopping me as the feeling in the pit of my stomach.Why had the Captain ordered me to leave the campsite and come to speak to him on the
Roosevelt
, in his cabin? What was it that he had to say to me that he didn't want to say in front of the other crew members? Was it about something that I'd done wrong? I knew I wasn't picking up all the lessons I
was supposed to be learning about being a seaman but I was trying and—the music stopped.

I knocked.

“Enter!” the Captain's voice called through the closed door.

I opened it and peeked inside. “It's me, sir.”

“Yes, yes, come in.”

He was leaning over his gramophone. His back was to me.

“Take a seat, Danny,” he said, gesturing to three chairs around a table. I went over and sat.

I watched as, with two hands, he removed the record. He returned it to a paper sleeve and then put that sleeve into another, leather sleeve. He handled the record delicately, like it was a baby. I guess it was pretty fragile.

“Bach,” he said.

“Yes, always good ta put things back where they belong,” I agreed.

He turned around with an amused look on his face. “Not
back,
Bach. This is a symphony composed by Johann Sebastian Bach.”

“That name sounds familiar, it does.”

“Born in Germany in 1685. He was an organist of great talent, but his legacy is as one of the greatest composers of all time.”

“It sounded pretty,” I said, “the little bit I heard through the door.”

“Have you never heard his music before?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Mostly fiddle music where I come from.”

“And in church … when you used to go to church?” “Hymns and things mostly.”

“Did your church not have an organ?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Not big enough.”

“That's sad. Music, especially the power of the organ, can elevate and exalt the spirit of our Lord. If there had been an organ ya would 'ave heard some Bach. He wrote a lot of music for church. He was a church organist. Here, let me put on another of his symphonies.”

As he looked through the record albums I looked around the room. Aside from the records and the gramophone, the most dominant things were the gigantic wooden desk, papers scattered about, and the walls—nothing but shelves filled with books. There were hundreds—no, thousands! I didn't think there were that many books anywhere in the world.

“I think this will appeal ta your ear,” Captain Bartlett said.

He placed the record on the turntable and it started spinning around. Carefully, his eye level with it, he placed the arm of the gramophone down, the needle touching the disc with a soft, staticky sound. It hissed for a few seconds and then the sound of a whole orchestra came charging out of the gigantic
bell of the gramophone. He fiddled with a dial on the front of the machine and the sound soared, filling the cabin! Captain Bartlett stood, his eyes closed, a joyful look on his face, and waved his arms gently in the air like he was some sort of conductor. Finally he reached out and turned that same dial and the music became softer, lower.

“Ever seen a gramophone this fine before?” he asked.

“No sir, she's a beauty.” Actually, other than this one I'd never seen any gramophone before. I'd heard about them, and even seen a picture, but I'd never actually laid eyes on one.

“Got it in Boston. Top of the line. I'm goin' ta miss it.”

“Miss it?” I asked, feeling confused.

“It will, of course, stay 'ere on the
Roosevelt
, and I'll be leaving with the rest of the expedition.”

I guess that made sense, but somehow I didn't see him leaving the ship … that just seemed so un-Captain-like.

“Do ya know what's goin' ta be happenin' now?” he asked.

“I know we've finished unloadin' the ship.”

“Should be done just after first light. Once everything is safely ashore, we're goin' to be movin' everything, overland to Cape Columbia, on the north coast.”

“I thought we were on the north coast.”

“Not north enough,” Captain Bartlett explained. “Cape Columbia is about ninety miles northwest, and that's where we're going to be setting up base and wintering.”

“I didn't know it would all 'appen right away.” “No choice.Today we have close to fourteen hours of daylight. By November seventh the sun will set and not rise until February.” He paused. “That was what I wanted to talk to you about.”

I waited for him to continue, not knowing what I had to do with any of these plans.

“Most of the crew, under the command of my first mate, will be stayin' aboard the
Roosevelt
. They'll be safeguardin' the ship.”

“Safeguardin' it from what?” I asked.

“The ice. Could be nothing, but the ice could raft up, shift, could even scuttle the ship.”

“Scuttle … you mean sink her?”

“It's a long winter and the ice is alive.”

“And if she did sink?” I asked.

“The crew would winter on shore.”

“An' then we'd 'ave to sledge home, right?” I asked.

“No choice.” He paused. “But that's not somethin' we can predict or control. It's all in the hands of the Good Lord. I want to talk to you about somethin' you
can
control.”Again he paused. “I always expected you'd be spending the winter aboard ship.”
That was what I'd expected, too.

“But the Commander 'as said that he would like ta offer you the choice of comin' with the expedition, to Cape Columbia.”

“And to the Pole?”

He laughed. “The run to the Pole is going to be just the Commander, myself, and a couple of the Eskimos. You would be comin' at least as far as the Cape and probably partway to the Pole, but not to the Pole itself. If you stay aboard ship you'll be warmer, better fed, and safer.”

“Unless the ice sinks the ship.”

“Not likely, but possible.You'll have time for your studies as a seaman under the tutelage of my first mate, and in your general schooling by other members of the crew. Mostly, though, you'll be playin' cards, sittin' around the stove in the mess with Cookie, and waitin' for us to return sometime late in April.”

“An' if I come with you and the expedition?”

“I can only promise you that you'll work harder, eat less well, be cold most of the time and frozen some of it, and experience some things that will put your back to the wall and your soul and sanity in question.” He paused again. “I think it would be better for a lad of your age to be stayin' aboard ship, but the Commander has asked that it be your choice. Well?”

I didn't answer right away. I didn't know what answer to give. I knew which choice was safer and easier. I just didn't know which was right.

“And just so you know, if you travel with us you'll still be studyin' and learnin'. The Eskimos, particularly Oatah, will school you in the ways of the north, in the ways of survival. Matthew has volunteered to work with me to school you in the more formal things … philosophy, Shakespeare, the Bible. Do not think that your lessons will be any less in the skin and snow and wood shelters ashore than they would be in the cabins of the ship. So?”

“Could I ask you a question, Cap'n?” I asked.

“Certainly.”

“If it was you and not me … what would you do?”

He laughed. “I think ya know the answer to that question.You're not even fourteen and you're bein' offered the adventure of a lifetime.”

“I'll pack my bag and be ready to leave at first light.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

NOVEMBER 25, 1908

I OPENED THE DOOR
and was propelled in by a burst of wind and snow, causing me to tumble over! Before I'd even hit the floor of the shelter I was bombarded by voices yelling angrily about the cold that I was letting in! I scrambled to my feet and put my shoulder to the door. For a split second the wind seemed to be winning the battle and I dug in deeper, straining, struggling, finally winning and pushing the door closed.

I stamped my feet and brushed off my coat so I wouldn't trail snow across the room and get anybody any madder at me.

The room was lit by three oil lamps. As well there was a glow coming from the little stove that provided the feeble feelers of warmth that crept throughout the shelter. It was far from warm—you always needed to wear your coat and mukluks—
but it was a tropical paradise compared to outside. I had no idea what the temperature was, but I knew that if you ventured out without your face and hands covered they'd be frostbitten in less than a minute.

The shelter was made out of those crates we'd been moving, with their lids facing inwards to make the walls—that explained why the men had been stacking them high.