Free Fatal North by Bruce Henderson Page A

before anchoring behind some icebergs for protection from a blowing gale.
    Hall convened a council of his top officers. “Gentlemen, the turn of the season is close at hand,” he said. “Do we seek a safe harbor at once and go into winter quarters, or do we attempt to proceed farther north?”
    He gave no outward sign as to which option he favored.
    Buddington weighed in first, strongly urging, not surprisingly, to take immediate refuge. On their way they had passed what appeared to be the entrance to a large bay some miles south of their present position. He pressed Hall to turn around and secure a winter anchorage there without delay.
    Hall turned to Tyson, who was thinking that Buddington ought to have stayed home given his fears. The sailing master’s highly praised seagoing experience—although he had never been farther north than 76 degrees—bore no relation to his courage and enthusiasm, both sadly lacking.
    â€œSir, we have not come all this way to seek refuge at firstopportunity,” Tyson said, directing his comments to Hall and purposefully ignoring the sailing master. “Our mission is to get as far north as possible.”
    â€œThat it is, Mr. Tyson,” Hall agreed enthusiastically. “How might we do that?”
    â€œI have just come from aloft,” Tyson said.
    From the deck of
Polaris,
the radius of sight was limited—no more than seven miles on a clear day. This morning it had not been possible to see any open water from the deck. Observing from a perch fifty feet up the main masthead, though, had provided Tyson a clear picture of what lay ahead for fifteen or twenty miles. He and first mate Hubbard Chester were the only ones who regularly climbed to the crow’s nest.
    â€œThe channel is closed on the west side, where we are now, and up the middle,” Tyson said. “But the wind has opened up the northeast. I saw an opening. We can go that direction.”
    North
—the right direction.
    â€œI urge you, sir, to return to the north,” Tyson went on. “Add another two or three degrees to your record. Get us a hundred or two hundred miles closer to the Pole.”
    Hall’s eyes lit up at the prospect, but he had obviously not yet made his decision.
    The other assembled officers gave their opinions. Dr. Emil Bessels thought they should look for a harbor near their present location, on the west side of the channel. The two other scientists, Frederick Meyer and Richard Bryan, agreed.
    Hall asked Hubbard Chester for his opinion. The experienced first mate, strong in spirit as in body, did not waver. “North, sir,” Chester said without hesitation. “I agree with Mr. Tyson, there is an opening on the east side. I can’t say we’ll make it, but we should try to get over there and then as far north as we can.”
    Buddington turned his back, muttering between clenched teeth. “I’ll be damned if we’ll move from here.” He stamped from the cabin.
    Hall followed him and stood some time talking to him on deck.
    When the commander returned, he told Tyson and Chester to see to the landing of some provisions ashore in case something happened during the night. That was all—nothing as to what decision, if any, had been reached concerning the ship’s course.
    Later that afternoon, Hall approached Tyson on deck and asked him more about going north. While every sign indicated he personally favored it, Hall seemed worried. Tyson could only guess he wished to avoid offending his sailing master.
    â€œSir, I should gain nothing by our going another two or three degrees,” Tyson said, “but it will be a great credit to you to do so.”
    Since he had received his commission papers in Disco, Tyson had felt a stronger sense of responsibility for the expedition. At the same time, he wasn’t entirely comfortable speaking his mind about Buddington, so soured had he become on the sailing master, who