The modernist art of queer survival

Bateman
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i

The Modernist Art of Queer Survival

ii

Modernist Literature & Culture

Kevin J. H. Dettmar & Mark Wollaeger, Series Editors

Consuming Traditions At the Violet Hour

Elizabeth Outka Sarah Cole
Machine Age Comedy Fictions of Autonomy
Michael North Andrew Goldstone

The Art of Scandal The Great American Songbooks

Sean Latham T. Austin Graham

The Hypothetical Mandarin Without Copyrights

Eric Hayot Robert Spoo

Nations of Nothing But Poetry The Degenerate Muse

Matthew Hart Robin Schulze

Modernism & Copyright Commonwealth of Letters

Paul K. Saint-​Amour Peter J. Kalliney

Accented America Modernism and Melancholia

Joshua L. Miller Sanja Bahun

Criminal Ingenuity Digital Modernism

Ellen Levy Jessica Pressman
Modernism’s Mythic Pose In a Strange Room
Carrie J. Preston David Sherman

Pragmatic Modernism Epic Negation

Lisa Schoenbach C.D. Blanton

Unseasonable Youth Modernist Informatics

Jed Esty James Purdon
World Views Blasphemous Modernism
Jon Hegglund Steven Pinkerton

Americanizing Britain The Poetry of the Americas

Genevieve Abravanel Harris Feinsod

Modernism and the New Spain The Modernist Art of Queer

Gayle Rogers Survival
Benjamin Bateman
iii

The Modernist
Art of Queer
Survival

Benjamin Bateman

1
iv

1
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers
the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education
by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University
Press in the UK and certain other countries.
Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press
198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America.
© Oxford University Press 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the
prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted
by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction
rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the
above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the
address above.
You must not circulate this work in any other form
and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Bateman, Benjamin, author.
Title: The modernist art of queer survival / Benjamin Bateman.
Description: New York, NY : Oxford University Press, 2018. |
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017006765 (print) | LCCN 2017025591 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780190676544 (pdf) | ISBN 9780190676551 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780190676568 (online course) | ISBN 9780190676537 (cloth : acid-free paper)
Subjects: LCSH: English literature—20th century—History and criticism. |
Modernism (Literature)—England. | Modernism (Literature)—United States. |
Homosexuality and literature. | Survival in literature. | Collective memory and literature. |
Literature and society—England—History—20th century.
Classification: LCC PR478.M6 (ebook) | LCC PR478.M6 B38 2018 (print) |
DDC 820.9/112—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017006765
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed by Sheridan Books, Inc., United States of America
v

Contents

Foreword vii
Acknowledgments xi

Introduction 1
1. James’s Animal Encounters 22
2. Wilde’s Messy Messianism 45
3. Forster’s Queer Invitation 64
4. The Invitation’s Success 85
5. Cather’s Survival by Suicide 114
Coda: Queerness’s Bloody Narration 140

Master List of Works Cited 145

Index 153

v
vi
vi

Foreword

At the heart of Benjamin Bateman’s The Modernist Art of Queer Survival stands
a temporal paradox that is fundamental as well to modernism more broadly—​
that study (“-​ism”) of the “just now” (“modo”) is doomed, always, to belated-
ness. Bateman, a canny reader of queer theory and a formidable theorist in his
own right, puts some of this century’s most influential queer theory (as well as
the psychoanalytic writing of Michael Eigen) into productive conversation with
unmarked queer writing of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. What
results is what one always hopes for from such intellectual alchemy: both the the-
ory and the objects of analysis are enriched.
The HIV/​AIDS crisis of the 1980s made manifest in a blunt and brutally public
way the precarity that has always haunted queer lives. Queerness “is always under
threat,” Bateman writes, and “its survival cannot be taken for granted.” In the cold
light of this stark truth, and under the tyranny of what he famously dubbed “repro-
ductive futurism,” no less a thinker than Lee Edelman advised queers to “reject the
future and to ‘accede’ to their ‘figuration’ as the death drive.” Bateman is not the
first thinker to resist the inevitability of this conclusion, of course, but his rejoin-
der is utterly novel. For Bateman sends us back to the untimely and proleptic work
of Oscar Wilde, Henry James, E. M. Forster, and Willa Cather, which, once our
postmodernity has taught us how to read them, turn out to contain wisdom for
these times, to provide a transatlantic archive of “alternatives to conventional pro-
tocols of survival”—​to teach us, in short, what Bateman calls (in a formulation
both precise and unforgettable) “the modernist art of queer survival.”
An important part of what Bateman takes from Eigen is an understanding of
the sovereign self—​a self, as Bateman memorably evokes it, that is “composed,

vii
vi

viii Foreword

controlled, driven, productive, proprietary, ambitious, acquisitive, intentional,

aware, responsible (for itself), competitive, upwardly mobile, future-​oriented,
and vertically inclined.” This is the very self performed by the android voice on
Radiohead’s OK Computer (1997):

Fitter, happier, more productive,

comfortable,
not drinking too much,
regular exercise at the gym
(3 days a week),
getting on better with your associate employee contemporaries
…
a pig in a cage on antibiotics.

Bateman’s modernist quartet, in contrast, intuit and anticipate Lauren Berlant’s

notion of “lateral agency” in the willfully nonteleological, nonproductive “dissi-
pation” of their writing practice—​something akin to Walt Whitman’s “loafing,”
perhaps—​tarrying with a de-​instrumentalized relationship to self, to others, to
time. In this version of lateral agency, Bateman writes, “the indefinite arrest of
individual momentum permits sideways attention to adjacent entities and to sim-
ilarly precarious agencies whose supportive energies and possibilities otherwise
risk going unnoticed.”
This is the hard-​won lesson of queer survival: that what lies next to one is as
important as (or more important than) what lies ahead. Reading Bateman’s take on
lateral agency, I was reminded of, and dug to find, an observation from queer post-
modern American composer and artist John Cage: “Our intention is to affirm this
life, not to bring order out of a chaos or to suggest improvements in creation, but
simply to wake up to the very life we’re living, which is so excellent once one gets
one’s mind and one’s desires out of its way and lets it act of its own accord.” Cage
gets here via Zen Buddhism rather than modernist fiction, but his insight lines up
perfectly with Bateman’s: “Survival is less a matter of opening a future chance than
it is of sensing an overdetermined present, a multidimensional moment of mutual
permeability—​the stroke not merely of time but also of the other—​irreducible to
an immediate impression.” In the library scene of James Joyce’s Ulysses, Stephen
Dedalus praises Shakespeare’s life and writing in terms that Joyce surely hoped
would stick to his own novel: “His life was rich. His art, more than the art of feu-
dalism as Walt Whitman called it, is the art of surfeit.” This is perhaps one version
of the modernist art of queer (or “quare”) survival.
ix

Foreword  ix

Among other provocative interventions, Bateman’s notion of queer survival—​

emphasizing the “sur” of survival such that it confers a richness to a concept of
baseline getting-​by—​carries important implications for the recent resurgence in
scholarship on the modernist Bildungsroman (as in Jed Esty’s book in this series,
Unseasonable Youth: Modernism, Colonialism, and the Fiction of Development). As
Bateman tantalizingly suggests in his introduction, when looked at from the per-
spective of queer survival, the “constitutive failure” of the genre “demonstrates not
the disappointingly stubborn inability of protagonists to achieve the ‘full’ biologi-
cal, cognitive, and creative capacity of the sovereign individual . . . but, rather, the
disappointingly limited and limiting versions of life foisted onto the protagonists.”
Versions such as nationality, language, religion—​“nets” that a younger Stephen
Dedalus (in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man), notorious lazy, idle little
schemer that he was, vowed to “fly by.”
The Modernist Art of Queer Survival is as conceptually rich and original and
challenging as anything we’ve published in the Modernist Literature & Culture
series. It promises a salutary swift kick both to modernist fiction studies and queer
theory, and we think it makes good on that double threat. We’re pleased to be able
to bring Benjamin Bateman’s careful work to you.

Kevin J. H. Dettmar and Mark Wollaeger

x
xi

Acknowledgments

This project could not have survived without the intellectual influence, generosity,
and comradeship of some very special people. Will Schroeder helped me con-
ceptualize the “queer invitation” many years ago, and I am indebted to him for
countless conversations on the topic. John Havard has been a continuing source
of support and critical feedback, and Elizabeth Adan has collaborated with me on
other projects whose theoretical currents animate this one. Andrew Knighton has
been my colleague in arms at Cal State Los Angeles and an embodiment of the
teacher-​scholar ideal. I am lucky to call these four my peers and dear friends.
The completion of this book was made possible by a sabbatical and by fellow-
ships from the American Communities Program and the Barry Munitz Fund at
Cal State Los Angeles. I had the good fortune of being able to write the early chap-
ters at the Estación de Biología Tropical Los Tuxtlas (near Catemaco, Veracruz)
and the final chapters in Paris, and I had the even better fortune of writing all the
chapters in the company of my intellectually inspirational partner and co-​survivor
of thick and thin, J. P. Drury.
Boundless gratitude goes to Rita Felski, who introduced me to queer theory,
encouraged my doctoral study, and then became my dissertation director and
mentor at the University of Virginia. Other intellectual support and camarade-
rie at UVA, Cal State Los Angeles, and elsewhere came from Kristen Taylor (the
most fabulous roommate and confidante anyone could ever have, anywhere), Walt
Hunter, Maria Karafilis, Anna Carastathis, Marlon Ross, Eric Lott, Lawrie Balfour,
Jim Garrett, Dionne Espinoza, Ruben Quintero, Michael Calabrese, Stewart Pillow,
Helen Dunn, Matthew Morrison, Robert Mendoza, Jennifer Geraci, Efren Lopez,
Cyndi Donelan, Jason Coats, Eric Lewitus, Brian Roberts, Justin Zelikovitz, Rob

xi
xi

xii Acknowledgments

Stilling, Marnella Stout, Warren Arbogast, Holly Evans, and Steph Brown. The hot
yoga community in Charlottesville helped keep me sane during graduate school
and yielded the invaluable friendships of Severine Bertret, Tricia Neumann, Lizzie
Clark, and Michaela Curran Grubbs.
A special place is reserved for Jennifer Wicke, who influences every page of
this book. Jennifer taught and keeps teaching me, quite simply, how to read. The
roots of every chapter lead back to seminars and one-​on-​one conversations with
Jennifer, and for over a decade she has been showing me, as the fiercest of friends,
how to pair close textual analysis with global political, environmental, and ethical
awareness. My sense of modernism is hers, and for a reason I cannot fully explain
I will always consider Lucy Gayheart our most precious gift to one another.
An earlier and abbreviated version of ­chapter 1 appeared in Modern Fiction
Studies as “Species Performance, Or, Henry James’s Beastly Sense,” and an ear-
lier version of ­chapter 3 appeared in Twentieth Century Literature as “Beyond
Interpellation: E. M. Forster, Connection, and the Queer Invitation.” Much appre-
ciation goes to these journals for their generous permissions. For including the
book in a series that has taught me so much about modernism, The Modernist
Literature and Culture Series, additional appreciation goes to Kevin Dettmar and
Mark Wollaeger, as well as to the reviewers who gave the manuscript serious and
thoughtful attention.
Finishing this book about survival was made both difficult and urgent by the
death of my brother Thomas from complications of aplastic anemia. He would
have detested a sentimental tribute, and so I dedicate this book, no matter how
bizarre they will find it, to my entire family. My parents, Bob and Gail Bateman,
have offered unstinting support of so many kinds. Seeing my grandparents survive
in them brings relief.
xi

The Modernist Art of Queer Survival

vxi
1

Introduction

In a recent essay, Dana Luciano and Mel Y. Chen write that the “primary catalyst
for queer thought” is a “desire to persist in the face of precarity” (193).1 Whether we
speak of queer bodies targeted with harassment or forcible medical intervention,
queer sensibilities derided as dangerous or immature, or queer intimacies denied
respect and legitimacy, we admit of a close companionship between queerness and
precariousness. We acknowledge, that is, that queerness is always under threat and
that its survival cannot be taken for granted. Sometimes these threats to survival
are vivid and immediate—​for example, the AIDS crisis and its attendant crises of
ignorance and neglect—​and other times they are subtle and entrenched, as in the
various micro-​aggressions that wear queer people down and out. Eve Sedgwick’s
foundational “Queer and Now” commences with the sobering thought that “eve-
ryone who does gay and lesbian studies is haunted by the suicides of adolescents”
(1). Many queer lives, to be sure, end prematurely. But not all end in the physi-
cal expiration of life. Some terminate gradually and even unconsciously in the
countless concessions to normativity demanded by dominant cultures that per-
ceive, through a perverse set of projective identifications, their own survival as
imperiled by queerness.
Survival as competition, violent assertion, self-​preservation—​this is the loose
legacy of evolutionary thinking as it has been and continues to be hijacked by
ideologies of capitalism, heteronormativity, and rugged individualism.2 Grouped

1
2

2 The Modernist Art of Queer Survival

loosely under the heading of “survival of the fittest,” these ideologies distort the
writings of Darwin and others to put a scientific, and therefore naturalizing,
veneer on social inequalities of various stripes.3 As we know from Foucault, these
discourses also, in their manic pursuit of a “normal” humanity, proliferate new
inequalities by generating a staggering array of racial and sexual deviancies. In
other words, “fittest” comes to mean the best fit with rapidly emerging norms of
development (including somatic shape and size), desire, and deportment. And
even as the regulation of these norms happens at a population level—​giving rise to
the biopolitical era—​conforming to them becomes a matter of individual distinc-
tion and specialness, producing a competitive struggle over who does normativity
best. The most important units of analysis for this biopolitical management are
the individual and the species, where the former aspires to embody the norms of
the latter and the latter’s future is guaranteed by the former’s strength, selfishness,
and self-​possession.
Cast as survival’s foe, queerness encounters an almost impossible dilemma:
remain queer and risk extermination; or conform as best as possible and extin-
guish itself. Either approach leaves queerness in close proximity to death, but
it is the latter that has won the day in mainstream gay and lesbian politics
and representation. “Homonormativity,” Lisa Duggan explains, is a “politics
that does not contest dominant heteronormative assumptions and institutions,
but upholds and sustains them, while promising the possibility of a demobi-
lized gay constituency and a privatized, depoliticized gay culture anchored in
domesticity and consumption” (179). Duggan’s definition describes the con-
temporary, neoliberal moment—​in which conservative values of marriage,
childrearing, military service, and commercial acquisition have become the
priorities of many LGBT people and organizations—​but it also names an
assimilative impulse that has a long life in gay and lesbian history and that
has always promised protection and longevity in exchange for annihilation.
Homonormativity is a privileged survival strategy; it helps privileged queers
survive with their privilege intact. But what remains of their queerness is often
quite threadbare.
The stubborn persistence of those high suicide rates among LGBT persons
noted by Sedgwick, the continued failure of hetero-​and homonormativity to sup-
ply the senses of fulfillment they promise, and the gathering evidence of possessive
individualism’s inducement of both economic and environmental precarity form
a forceful indictment, at once ethical and political, of normative survival’s appeal,
accessibility, and sustainability. As many scientists and philosophers have argued,
Darwin’s discoveries need not have contributed to this destructive situation. In
3

Introduction  3

his journal of 1837, for example, Darwin writes, “if we choose to let conjecture run
wild, then animals … may partake of our origin in one common ancestor—​we
may be all melted together” (qtd. in Degler 7). While Darwin cannot be exon-
erated of imperial racism and human exceptionalism, as he prefers to keep his
conjecture on a shorter leash than “melt” promises, his theory of natural selec-
tion does in fact rob the human of its specialness. Man is no longer the intelli-
gent design of a creator who bestows upon him absolute dominion over all other
life; instead, he is merely another life form created by the impersonal and random
forces of natural selection. Destined for and to be nothing, man has no guarantee
of his futurity or viability. And since he came from nowhere special, he is headed
for nowhere special—​no golden-​avenued heaven to compensate for life’s constitu-
tive suffering.4
But once the notion of the afterlife and its concomitant immortality vanishes,
Adam Phillips argues, man must necessarily become oriented, lest he descend into
nihilism, to getting more out of life on earth (xv). Thus the “more” previously
reserved for eternal life becomes internal to life itself; it becomes the “sur” of sur-
vival. And this turn of events for Phillips is an invitation to invent and improvise
a future, to supply new directions and purposes to a life given none by nature.5
Elizabeth Grosz—​who writes trenchantly against the ideological conflation of
Darwin and biological essentialism that has made Darwin a persona non grata for
feminists and queer theorists alike—​argues that Darwin’s radical contribution is
“an anti-​humanist … understanding of biological dynamics that refuses to assume
that the temporal movement forward can be equated with development or prog-
ress” (28). Darwin’s work thus anticipates contemporary queer scholarship arguing
that developmental narratives insisting bodies arrive at particular places at par-
ticular times—​conventional life trajectories—​are social constructions, not natu-
ral formations, that leave queers suspended in a state of “extended adolescence”
(Halberstam, In a Queer 175). What has happened in evolution’s history speaks
little of what ought to happen in the future. Indeed, there is little way to predict,
at least by the terms of natural selection, which variations and adaptations extant
today will persist generations from now. An oddball mutation of the present may
turn out to be tomorrow’s lifesaver, or it may not.
Echoing Phillips’s emphasis on the creative opportunities afforded by the after-
life’s attenuation and by the incorporation of survival’s “sur” into terrestrial exist-
ence, Grosz queries, “What kind of new understanding of the humanities would it
take to adequately map this [Darwinian] decentering that places man back within
the animal, within nature, and within a space and time that man does not reg-
ulate, understand, or control? What new kinds of science does this entail? And
4

4 The Modernist Art of Queer Survival

what new kinds of art?” (25). This book answers Grosz not with the “new” art she
imagines does not yet exist but with a modernist literary archive underappreci-
ated for its alternatives to conventional protocols of survival. The early twentieth
century, after all, was the time when Darwin’s ideas, no longer totally doomed by
their atheistic implications, were taking firmer root and translating more audi-
bly into the social, tendentious, and teleological Darwinisms with which Grosz
takes issue. Their distortion contributes to and coincides with the medical sci-
ences’ production of normative sexuality via the specification, anatomization,
and categorization of “abnormal” bodies, pleasures, and desires. Recall Foucault’s
memorable observation from The History of Sexuality that whereas the sodomite
of the pre-​sexological era “had been a temporary aberration, the homosexual was
now a species” (43). Although Foucault brings a pejorative tone to homosexuality’s
speciation, his rhetoric invites consideration of how this novel species, unfit for
the procreative imperatives of normative personhood, might survive and imagine
its survival differently. The writers assembled here—​Henry James, Oscar Wilde,
E. M. Forster, and Willa Cather—​are all now recognized, to varying degrees and
always with an ounce or two of anachronism, as LGBT thinkers and artists who
struggled with and against the gender and sexual binaries of their time. While the
approach of this book is not primarily biographical, its premise is that the lived queer-
ness of these authors animates their different but also provocatively resonant efforts
to detach futurity from conventional scripts, to loosen the grip of biological deter-
minism, and to widen the experiential and affective parameters of individual lives.
Queer survival for these authors, I will show, means not the extension of an
individual life into the future but the distension of life, and feelings of aliveness,
across personal, species, imperial, and generational boundaries. The individual
does not disappear entirely in this reconceptualization, but it loses its status as
the privileged locus of drama, animation, intention, and uniqueness. The “more”
of life is to be found not in more of (and more time for) one’s own self but in the
lives of others. Getting closer to these lives—​physically, intellectually, affectively—​
produces a different kind of aliveness that is at one and the same time swelling
and shrinking, enlarging and miniaturizing, invigorating and enervating. It is a
survival in which the self expands by losing and lives by dying. If what appears
is a fragile vision of collective and interanimate survival, then what disappears
is the certainty of individual distinctness and possession, and the desirability of
placing national, racial, sexual, and creaturely limits on what counts as (my and
our) life.6 Roy Scranton’s widely circulated essay “Learning How to Die in the
Anthropocene” observes, “if homo sapiens survives the next millenniums, it will
be survival in a world unrecognizably different from the one we have inhabited.”
5

Introduction  5

Concluding that we must learn to die as a civilization if we are to adapt to a rap-

idly destabilizing world, Scranton asks, “What does my life mean in the face of
death? What does human existence mean against 10,000 years of climate change?
What does one life mean in the face of species death or the collapse of global
civilization?” Although the modernists assembled here predate the discovery of
global warming, they anticipate Scranton’s call for a philosophical inquiry into
how the relinquishment of individual importance and isolation may be, curiously
enough, the individual’s only hope of surviving. Scranton finds his own arsenal of
diminished survival strategies in his military service—​strategies not unknown to
modernist war poets such as Owen and Sassoon—​which taught him how to live
at death’s door, and his use of that precarious situation invites us to consider how
other historical experiences of precariousness, such as queerness, have produced
their own slantwise views of and alternatives to the strong, productive, and regen-
erative self of normative survival.
And so queer survival for this modernist ensemble is not only the survival
of explicitly queer persons, ideas, and sensibilities. It is also a queer approach to
survival in which weakness, frangibility, uncertainty, dispossession, senescence,
indistinction, and even morbidity play a vital role. The sex sciences of the late
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries associated same-​sex desire and gender
nonconformity with “dissipation,” a polysemic word conveying both an excessive
preoccupation with pleasure and a “process of slowly disappearing or becoming
less.”7 The infamously effeminate and extravagant protagonist of Cather’s “Paul’s
Case”—​where “case” insinuates Cather’s engagement and entanglement with a
medical paradigm of sexuality—​is urged by family and businessmen alike to fol-
low the example of a previously “dissipated” bachelor who “in order to curb his
appetites and save the loss of time and strength that a sowing of wild oats might
have entailed … at twenty-​one had married the first woman he could persuade
to share his fortunes” (259). Cather’s description of this couple and the brood of
four children they produce as “near-​sighted” (259) evinces both her sympathy for
the incorrigible Paul, who is content to spend the rest of his life working as an
usher and soaking up the theater’s luscious fictions, and her critical distance from
the social Darwinism and compulsory productivity of Progressive-​era cultural life.
Paul’s suicide stems not only from his stigmatized queerness, expressed corporeally
in a skinny body with a mincing gait and behaviorally in a predilection for truth-​
stretching flamboyance, but also from his unfitness for the tightly buckled mascu-
linity touted by his teachers and banking employers. At story’s end, Paul throws
himself in front of a train, destroying even the possibility of his body remain-
ing intact for sentimental memorialization, not because he faces punishment for
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 During our fitting-out period all this machinery was carefully
overhauled, four extra blades for our propeller were provided; and at
my request, two new slide valves for the main engines were fitted, in
order to change the cutoff and give the engines a greater expansion,
which by increasing the economy of steam consumption would
conserve to the utmost our precious coal.
Aside from the above there were many minor items—the addition
of another auxiliary pump (a No. 4 Sewell and Cameron); the
installation of a complete distillation plant to provide us with fresh
water; and the fitting on deck of a hoisting and warping winch made
of a pair of steam-launch engines rigged out with the necessary
gearing and drums for handling lines.
Not in my department, but of interest to all hands who were going
to live aboard, were the changes made to the ship itself to increase
its habitability in the north. Material for a portable deck house to
cover our main deck over the forecastle was furnished us, and all
exposed iron work throughout the vessel was felted over. An
entrance porch was built over the forward end of the poop, leading to
the officers’ quarters, and given to us in a knocked-down state, while
the insides of both the forecastle and the wardroom were thickly
covered with felt for insulation.
The thousand and one details in fitting out that we had to go into, I
will pass over. De Long was in Washington, smoothing out
difficulties, financial and otherwise, with the Navy Department, and
obtaining all information on previous polar expeditions, both foreign
and domestic, on which he could possibly lay a hand. Consequently
all through the spring, on Chipp, on Danenhower, and on myself at
Mare Island fell the task of following up the repairs and alterations; of
getting the most we could done to the ship at the least expense; and
as every naval officer who has ever taken his ship through an
overhaul period well knows, of battling through the daily squabbles
between ship’s officers and navy yard personnel as to who knew
better what ought to be done and how best to do it. We did our
utmost to tread on no one’s toes, but from the beginning the officers
at the Navy Yard regarded the Jeannette herself as unsuitable for a
serious polar voyage, and this hardly led to complete harmony
between them and us; an unfortunate situation which I think may
have also been aggravated somewhat by doubts on their part about
what the Jeannette Expedition was really intended for—a newspaper
stunt for the glorification of James Gordon Bennett, or a bona fide
attempt to add to the scientific knowledge of the world? But whatever
their feelings, they did a thorough job on the ship, even though the
cost, about $50,000, must have been something of a shock to Mr.
Bennett, who, after paying for the repairs previously made to the
Jeannette in England, probably felt the vessel ready to proceed to
the Pole with only a perfunctory stop at Mare Island to take aboard
stores and crew. And I know, especially in the beginning of this
fitting-out period, that De Long himself was on tenter-hooks for fear
that the cost of all these unexpected repairs and replacements would
cause Bennett to abandon the enterprise. He was constantly in his
letters from Washington cautioning us to use our ingenuity and our
diplomacy with the Yard’s officers to affect every practicable
economy, and whenever possible within the terms of the Act of
Congress taking over the Jeannette, to see that costs, especially for
materials furnished, were absorbed by the Navy itself and not lodged
against the expedition.
So we struggled along through April, May, and June, with my
dealings on machinery mainly with Chief Engineer Farmer of the
Navy Yard, while Chipp worked with Naval Constructor Much who
handled all the hull work at Mare Island, and Danenhower confined
himself to disbursing the funds and watching the accounts. The two
new boilers (originally intended for the U.S.S. Mohican but diverted
to us to expedite completion) were finally dropped into our hold, the
beams and decking replaced, and the Jeannette, though life aboard
was still a nightmare as the vessel rang from end to end under the
blows of shipwrights’ mauls and caulking hammers, once more
began to look something like a ship instead of a stranded derelict.
 CHAPTER III

Meanwhile our crew was being assembled, an unusual group

naturally enough in view of the unusual nature of our projected
voyage.
Of Lieutenant De Long, captain of the Jeannette, originator of the
enterprise, and throughout its existence the dominant spirit in it, I
have already spoken. The choice of the others who made up the
expedition, especially of those ranked as officers, rested with him.
Good, bad, or indifferent, they were either selected by him or met his
approval; no one else was to blame if, before our adventure ended,
of some he wrote in the highest terms while others were at various
times under arrest by his orders, and with one at least he was
engaged in a bitter feud that lasted to the death of both.
Second in command was Lieutenant Charles W. Chipp, whom I
have already briefly noted in connection with the repairs. He came all
the way from the China Station to join the ship as executive officer.
Chipp, of moderate height, who in appearance always reminded me
of General Grant due both to his beard and his eyes, was a calm,
earnest, reticent sort of person, serious, rarely given to smiles, and a
first class officer. He was an old shipmate of De Long’s in the U.S.S.
Juniata, and together they had had some previous Arctic experience
when in 1873 their ship was sent north to the relief of the lost Polaris.
On this mission, when the Juniata, not daring because of ice
conditions to venture farther north, was stopped at Upernavik,
Greenland, both De Long and Chipp cruised together for nearly two
weeks in a small steam launch several hundred miles farther to the
northward, searching among the bergs of Baffin Bay for the Polaris’
crew. To their great disappointment they failed to find them, a
circumstance not however their fault, since unknown to the
searchers, the Polaris survivors had already been rescued by a
Scotch whaler and taken to Great Britain. On this hazardous voyage,
covering over 700 miles in a 33 foot steam launch, amidst the bergs
and gales of Baffin Bay, Chipp as De Long’s second got his baptism
of ice, and in all the intervening years from that adventure, even from
the distant Orient, he kept in close touch with De Long, eager if his
shipmate’s dreams of a polar expedition of his own ever
materialized, to take part. When early in 1878, the Pandora was
finally purchased in England, Chipp was in China, attached to the
U.S.S. Ashuelot. Upon learning of this concrete evidence of progress
toward the Pole, he tried strenuously to secure his immediate
detachment and join the renamed Pandora in England for the trip
round the Horn, but in this he was unsuccessful, and it was not until
late April, 1879, that by way of the Pacific he finally arrived from Foo
Chow to join us in San Francisco.
The third and last of the line officers was Master John W.
Danenhower, navigator, who a few weeks after we sailed, in the
regular course of naval seniority, made his number as a lieutenant.
Danenhower, the youngest of the officers aboard, having been out of
the Naval Academy only eight years at the time, was during the
summer of 1878 on the U.S.S. Vandalia, convoying ex-President
Grant, then at the height of his popularity, on a triumphal tour of the
Mediterranean. Here, off the coast of Asia Minor, the news of
Bennett’s purchase of the Pandora for a polar expedition reached
him. Whether prompted by youthful exuberance or a desire to
escape the heat of the tropics, I never knew, but at any rate,
Danenhower promptly got in touch, not with De Long, but with
Bennett, offering his services, and shrewdly enough backing up his
application with an endorsement obtained from the Vandalia’s
distinguished passenger, General Grant himself!
For the owner of a Republican newspaper, this was more than
sufficient. Bennett promptly accepted him, subject only to De Long’s
approval. Scheduled shortly to sail from Havre to San Francisco with
the Jeannette and confronted with the imperative need of finding
immediately to help him work the ship some assistant in the place of
the distant Chipp who was still ineffectually struggling in China to get
his detachment, De Long gladly assented to this solution. Between
Bennett, General Grant, and the cables, Navy red tape was rudely
cut, Danenhower’s transfer swiftly arranged, and after a hasty
passage by steamer and train across the Mediterranean and Europe,
he arrived from Smyrna shortly before the Jeannette shoved off from
Havre.
Danenhower, hardly thirty when we started, masked his youth (as
was not uncommon in those days) behind an ample growth of
sideburns. Unlike his two seniors in the Line, he had had no previous
Arctic experience of any kind, but he was enthusiastic, impetuous,
big in frame, strong and husky, and from all appearances better able
than most of the rest of us to withstand the rigors of the north.
Concerning myself, then a passed assistant engineer in the Navy
with the rank of lieutenant, little need be said. Of all the regular
officers on the Jeannette, I was the oldest both in length of service
and in years, being at the time we set out thirty-eight and having
entered the Navy when the war began in 1861 as a third assistant
engineer. My years in the poorly ventilated and hot engine rooms of
those days had cost me most of my hair, but to compensate for this, I
had the longest and fullest beard aboard the Jeannette, which I think
gave me somewhat of a patriarchal appearance to which however
my age hardly entitled me. Oddly enough, my first polar service was
coincident with that of De Long and Chipp, for I was engineer officer
of the U.S.S. Tigress, also searching Baffin Bay in 1873 for the
Polaris survivors when we fell in with the Juniata’s launch, officered
by De Long and Chipp, on the same mission searching off Cape
York. When the launch had exhausted its small coal supply and
returned to the Juniata we in the Tigress (which was really a
purchased whaler and therefore better suited for the job than a
regular naval vessel like the Juniata) continued the task.
My first acquaintance with De Long had come however several
years earlier than this, when in the sixties, we were shipmates on the
U.S.S. Lancaster on the South Atlantic Station, where in spite of the
fact that he was on deck and I in the engine room, we got to know
each other well. It was as a result of this friendship and the interest
in polar research I had myself acquired on the Tigress that at De
Long’s suggestion, I volunteered my services for the Jeannette. I had
some difficulty getting the berth, however, for the Bureau of Steam
Engineering, being hard pressed for personnel, was loath to let
anyone in the Bureau itself go.
So far as her operation as a ship went then, these four of us, three
officers of the Line, De Long, Chipp, and Danenhower, and one
officer of the Engineer Corps, myself, made up the commissioned
personnel of the Jeannette.
We had with us one more officer of the regular navy. Passed
Assistant Surgeon James M. Ambler, a native of Virginia and a naval
surgeon since 1874. Upon the recommendation of the senior
medical officers of the Navy, Ambler was asked by De Long to take
the berth, and gladly accepted.
I met Ambler for the first time on the Jeannette. Quiet, broad of
brow, dignified in manner and bearing, of amazing vitality, he
impressed me from the first both as an excellent shipmate and as a
competent surgeon to whose skill, far from hospitals and resources
of civilization, we might safely trust our health in the Arctic. And in
this belief, the hazards of the months to come proved we were not
mistaken.
These five mentioned, regularly commissioned in the Navy,
comprised the whole of those technically entitled to be considered as
officers, but in the wardroom mess we had three others, Collins,
Newcomb, and Dunbar, who came into that category in spite of the
fact that they were shipped as seamen. The Act of Congress taking
over the vessel authorized the Secretary of the Navy to detail such
naval officers as could be spared and were willing to go, but as for
the rest of the crew, it permitted only the enlistment of others as
“seamen” for this “special service.” To some degree this created a
dilemma which from the beginning had in it the seeds of trouble, for
as a scientific expedition, Bennett desired to send along certain
civilians. These gentlemen, who obviously were not seamen, and
who felt themselves entitled to consideration as officers (in which
belief the rest of us willingly enough concurred) were nevertheless
informed by the Navy Department that legally they could go only as
“seamen for special service” or not at all. How they were to be
considered aboard ship and what duties they might be assigned,
would rest with the commanding officer. This fiat of the Department,
a bitter pill for the men concerned to swallow, was soon ameliorated
by De Long’s assurance that those affected were to be treated as
officers, and on this understanding Collins, Newcomb, and Dunbar
were accordingly shipped as “seamen for special service.” And then
and there was laid the basis of a quarrel which long after those
involved were stretched cold in death, mercifully buried by the
snowdrifts on the bleak tundras of the Lena Delta, still raged in all
the unbridled malevolence of slander and innuendo through naval
courts and the halls of Congress, venomously endeavoring to
besmirch both the living and the dead.
Jerome J. Collins, of the staff of the New York Herald, was
appointed by Mr. Bennett as meteorologist of the expedition, but was
obviously aboard mainly as a newspaper man. Collins, a big man
with a flowing mustache but no beard, was active, energetic, eager
in a news sense to cover the expedition, often in trouble with the rest
of us, for the usual naval temperament, taught to regard the
captain’s word as law, was wholly missing in this newspaper man’s
ideas of the freedom befitting a reporter. Collins’ appointment as
meteorologist was natural enough for he ran the weather department
of the Herald, though scientifically his knowledge of meteorology was
superficial. But he plunged whole-heartedly into the subject, and
aided by De Long who got him access both to the Smithsonian
Institution and to the Naval Observatory, he absorbed all he could on
meteorology in the few months which elapsed while we were fitting
out.
Still, shipping as a “seaman” rankled in Collins’ soul; a small thing
to worry over perhaps, but he was overly sensitive and often took
offense when none was meant. Many times since have I wondered
whether Collins, the only one amongst the wardroom mess not born
an American, may not, like many immigrants, have been unduly
tender on that account and therefore imagined subtle insults in the
most casual comments of his shipmates about his birthplace,
Ireland.
Our other civilian scientist was Raymond Lee Newcomb of Salem,
Massachusetts, naturalist and taxidermist of the expedition.
Newcomb, serious, slight in build, small as compared to the rest of
us, seemed at first glance ill adapted to stand the gaff of a polar
voyage, but technically he was a good naturalist and that settled his
appointment, in spite of his boyish manner.
Last of all those comprising the wardroom mess was William
Dunbar, ice-pilot, who hailed from New London and had been a
whaler all his life, had commanded whalers in the Behring Sea, and
of all those aboard, had had the longest and the most thorough
knowledge of ice, ice packs, and the polar seas. By far the oldest
man aboard, either in the wardroom or in the forecastle, Dunbar’s
grizzled face, gray hairs, and fund of experience gave his words on
all things Arctic an air of authority none of the rest of us could
muster, and on his knowledge and sagacity as ice-pilot, we rested
mainly our hopes of navigating the Jeannette safely through the ice-
fields.
These were the eight that made up the Jeannette’s wardroom
mess, each in his own way looking to the ice-fields and the
mysterious regions of the Pole as the path to knowledge, to
adventure, or to fame. Instead, even after thirty years, my heart still
aches when I recall what the ice did to us and where for most of us
that path led.
 CHAPTER IV

Throughout May and June we were busy loading stores, coaling

ship, running our trials, cleaning up the odds and ends of our
alterations, and signing on the crew.
De Long in Washington, deluged from all over the country with
requests from young men, old men, cranks, and crackpots of every
type, eager to go along in all sorts of ridiculous capacities,
diplomatically solved his difficulty by rejecting each claim in about
the same letter to all:
“I have room in the Jeannette for nobody but her officers and crew.
These must be seamen or people with some claim to scientific
usefulness, but from your letter I fail to learn that you may be classed
with either party.”
And then, having thus disposed of the undesirables, from
Washington he wrote the Jeannette, carefully instructing Chipp as to
the essential requirements for the seamen he desired to have signed
on:
“Single men, perfect health, considerable strength, perfect
temperance, cheerfulness, ability to read and write English, prime
seamen of course. Norwegians, Swedes, and Danes preferred.
Avoid English, Scotch, and Irish. Refuse point-blank French, Italians,
and Spaniards. Pay to be Navy pay. Absolute and unhesitating
obedience to every order, no matter what it may be.”
De Long’s instructions with respect to nationalities were based
mainly on his assumptions with regard to their supposed abilities to
withstand the rigors of the north, but they seemed to me to a high
degree humorous when I consider that I, of Scotch descent, fell in
the class to be “avoided,” while De Long himself of French Huguenot
parentage, came in the group “to be refused point-blank.”
How little the average American of that day went to sea may be
inferred from the fact that it did not even enter De Long’s mind to
mention “Americans” among the various categories to be considered
for his crew, though not forty years before in the heyday of wooden
ships, the sails of Yankee clippers manned by Yankee seamen,
whitened every ocean.
In early June, De Long came west and at Mare Island joined us to
witness the final completion and trial of the ship. Completely satisfied
with the changes made in the ship, he had nothing but praise for the
manner in which we, his three subordinates, had carried on in his
absence, and waved aside the gloomy prognostications of the Navy
Yard officers and their comments about inadequate spars and sails,
improper shape of hull, and (to put it briefly) the Jeannette as a
whole, which they damned euphemistically in their official trial report:
“So far as practicable, we are of the opinion that she has been
repaired and placed in condition for service in the Arctic Ocean.”
But on one thing, securing an escort as far as Alaska, De Long
had firmly set his heart. He was anxious to get from San Francisco
into the Arctic as rapidly as possible to take advantage of what
summer weather he could in working his way north. The weather at
sea to be expected being mostly head winds, speed meant
proceeding under steam rather than under sail on the long trip to
Alaska. This of necessity would use up most of our coal, forcing us
to start the Arctic part of our journey with our bunkers either empty or
what was almost as bad, full of such inferior and almost unburnable
coal as was available in Alaska; unless an escort ship accompanied
us as far as the Arctic Circle to replenish our bunkers then with the
excellent anthracite obtainable in San Francisco.
Regardless, however, of all his arguments and his persuasions,
De Long was unable to get the commandant at Mare Island to
approve the detail of any naval vessel for this duty; nor, with Bennett
unfortunately abroad, did he have, in spite of his most urgent
telegrams, any better luck in forcing the Navy Department itself to
order one. In this dilemma, at the last minute Bennett saved the
situation by a cable from Paris, authorizing the charter of a schooner,
the Fanny A. Hyde, to carry the coal north. De Long, relieved of his
worry but exasperated beyond measure by the controversy, eased
his mind by wiring back to the Herald,
“Thank God, I have a man at my back to see me through when
countries fail!”
On June 28, the Jeannette was commissioned as a ship of the
Navy. Thirty years have passed since then, but still that gay scene is
as fresh and bright in my memory as only yesterday. Our entire
ship’s company was mustered on the poop for the ceremony, officers
in the glitter of swords, gold lace, and cocked hats to starboard,
seamen in sober navy blue to port. Between those lines of rough
seamen about to dare the Arctic ice, Emma De Long stepped forth,
as fresh and lovely on that June day as summer itself, the very
embodiment of youthful feminine grace if ever I have seen it in any
port on this earth. With a dazzling smile that seemed to take in not
only our captain but every member of his crew as well, she manned
the halliards and amidst the hoarse cheers of the sailors swiftly ran
aloft our flag, a beautiful silken ensign lovingly fashioned for her
husband’s ship by the slender fingers which for the first time now
hoisted it over us. And then with a seagoing salute as our new
banner reached the masthead, she passed the halliards to the
quartermaster, stepped back to De Long’s side, and clung proudly to
his arm while he read the orders detailing him to the command, and
the commandant of the Navy Yard, Commodore Colhoun, formally
(and no doubt thankfully) turned the ship over to him.
A few days later, under our own steam we moved from Mare
Island to San Francisco and there, away from the din of the yard
workmen finally, we finished in peace loading stores in preparation
for departure.
At last, on July 8, 1879, with the North Pole as our destination, the
Jeannette weighed anchor, and gaily dressed out in all her signal
flags, slowly steamed through the harbor, escorted by all the larger
craft of the San Francisco Yacht Club, while as an indication of the
esteem of Californians generally, Governor Irwin himself
accompanied us to sea aboard a special tug.
 That was a gala day for San Francisco, climaxing a week of
banquets and farewell parties given for us in the city. Telegraph Hill
was black with cheering crowds; on every merchant vessel in the
bay as we passed flags dipped and impromptu salutes rang out.
From the Presidio, a national salute blazed from the fortifications as
we passed, the Army’s godspeed on our mission to their brothers of
the Navy. It was well the Army saluted us, for that was the only
official salute we received on our departure. De Long, much
chagrined, noted as I noted, that not a single naval vessel, not a
single naval officer, took part in the ovation at our departure, and that
though three warships, the Alaska, the Tuscarora, and the Alert, lay
at the Navy Yard only twenty-six miles away, and one of them at
least might have been sent for the purpose. And as if to emphasize
the point, the navy yard tug Monterey, which that very morning had
brought the commandant down to San Francisco on other business,
not only lay silently at her wharf while we steamed by her, but fifteen
minutes later crossed our wake hardly a mile astern of us and
without even a blast of her whistle as a farewell, steamed off in the
direction of Mare Island.
From the machinery hatch where I was keeping one eye out for
my clumsy engines and the other out for my last long glimpse of
home, I watched in puzzled surprise as the Monterey silently
disappeared astern, then looking up at the bridge nearly overhead,
caught a glimmer of a wry smile on De Long’s face as he watched
the Monterey. A navy expedition, we were sailing without the
presence of a single naval representative in that vast crowd of men
and ships cheering us on; worse perhaps, for it seemed as if we
were being studiously ignored. Why? I have often wondered. Not
enough rank on the Jeannette, perhaps.
But this was the only cloud on our departure, and I doubt if
overwhelmed in the roar of the guns from the Presidio, the cheers
from the citizens of San Francisco, and the shrieking of whistles from
the flag-decorated vessels we passed, others, especially civilians,
ever noticed it.
Slowly, under engines only, we steamed out the Golden Gate and
met the long swells of the Pacific. Astern, one by one the escorting
yachts turned back. On the starboard wing of the bridge at her
husband’s side stood Emma De Long, a sailor’s daughter, and after
a hectic courtship terminating finally in a sudden shipboard marriage
in the far-off harbor of Le Havre, for eight years now a sailor’s wife.
Silently she looked forward through the rigging, past furled sails, past
yards and mast and bowsprit, across the waves toward the unknown
north. Occasionally she smiled a little at De Long, rejoicing with him
on the surface at least that at last his dream had come true, her eyes
shining in her pride in the strength and the love of the man by whom
she stood. But what her real feelings were, I, a rough seaman, could
only guess, for she said nothing as she clung to the rail, her gaze
riveted over the sea to the north into which in a few brief hours were
to disappear forever her husband and her husband’s ship.
We stood on a few miles more. The coast line astern became
hazy, our escorting fleet of yachts dwindled away to but one. Then a
bell jangled harshly in the engine room below me, the engines
stopped. For a few brief minutes the Jeannette rolled in the swells
while to the shrilling of the silver pipe in the mouth of Jack Cole,
bosun, our starboard whaleboat was manned, lowered, and shoved
off, carrying toward that lone yacht which now lay to off our quarter,
Emma De Long and her husband. There in that small boat, tossing
unevenly in the waves a shiplength off, was spoken the last farewell.
A brief embrace, a tender kiss, and De Long, balancing himself on
the thwarts, handed his wife up over the low side of the yacht.
Another moment, and seated in the sternsheets of the whaleboat,
De Long was once more simply the sailor. Sharply his commands
drifted across the waves to us,
“Shove off!”
The bowman pushed clear of the yacht.
“Let fall!”
In silence, except for the steady thrash of the oars, our whaleboat
came back to us, rounded to under the davits, was hoisted aboard.
Again the bell jangled below. Our engines revolved slowly, the
Jeannette sluggishly gathered speed, the helmsman pointed her
west northwest. Off our quarter, the yacht came about, swiftly picked
up headway, and with the two ships on opposite courses, she
dropped rapidly astern. For a few minutes, with strained eyes I
watched a white handkerchief fluttering across the water at us, then
it faded in the distance. The bosun secured the whaleboat for sea,
piped down, and without further ceremony, the sea routine on the
Jeannette commenced. I took a final look at the distant coast and
went below to watch the operation of my engines at close range.
 CHAPTER V

Of our passage to the Alaskan Peninsula, there is not much to

record. It was a shakedown cruise literally enough. The Jeannette,
between the newly added weight of her hull reenforcements and the
excessive amount of stores and coal aboard, was so grossly
overloaded she had hardly two feet freeboard left amidships, and
she labored so heavily in the seas as a consequence that for
seagoing qualities, I do her no injustice when I say that as a ship she
was little superior to various of Ericsson’s ironclad monitors with
which I fell in on blockade duty during the late war. Indeed, had it not
been for our masts and spars, our nearly submerged hull would no
doubt have pleased even John Ericsson himself as affording a
properly insignificant target for enemy gunfire.
From our second day out, when the breeze freshened a bit from
the northwest and De Long, easing her off a few points to the
southward, spread all our canvas to take advantage of it, we were
under both sail and steam, but with the seas breaking continuously
over our rail and our decks awash most of the time. With our
negligible freeboard, we lifted to nothing but took all the seas aboard
as they came, rolling heavily and wallowing amongst the waves
about as gracefully as a pig in a pen.
In this wise, we discovered a few things, among them the fact that
we were burning five tons of coal a day and making only four knots
with our engines, which gave us hardly a hundred miles for a day’s
run. Lieutenant Chipp, an excellent seaman if there ever was one but
who had not before been out in the Jeannette, was certain he could
do as well under sail alone as I was doing under steam, with a
consequent saving of our coal, and persuaded the captain to let him
try. So below we banked our fires, while the sailors racing through
the rigging loosed all our square sails in addition to the fore and aft
rig we already had set.
 It was interesting to watch Chipp’s disillusionment. With all canvas
spread up to the fore and main topgallant sails (the Jeannette carried
nothing above these) Chipp started bravely out on the starboard
tack, but in the face of a northwest breeze, he soon found that like
most square riggers, she sailed so poorly by the wind, he had to pay
her off and head directly for Hawaii before we began to log even four
knots. That was bad enough but worse was to come. Having spent
most of the afternoon watch experimenting with the trim of the sails,
Chipp finally arrived at a combination to which we logged about four
and a half knots, though in the direction of our destination, Unalaska
Island, we were making good hardly three. Thus trimmed we ran an
hour while the seagoing Chipp in oil skins and boots sloshed over
our awash deck from bowsprit to propeller well, his beard dripping
water, his eyes constantly aloft, studying the set of every sail from
flying jib to spanker in the hope of improving matters.
In this apparently his inspection gave him no cause for optimism,
for after a final shake of the head, he decided to come about and try
her on the port tack, to see if by any chance she sailed better there,
as is occasionally the case with some ships owing to the
unsymmetrical effect of the drag of the screw. Stationing himself
amidships, Chipp gave the orders.
Down went the wheel. Then came the final shock. To his great
discomfiture, Chipp was wholly unable to bring the lumbering
Jeannette into the wind and come about! Twice he tried, only to have
the ship each time hang “in irons” with yards banging and sails
flapping crazily till she fell off again and picked up headway on her
old tack. After two failures, De Long tried his hand at it, then
Danenhower made an attempt, but in spite of the nautical skill of all
her deck officers and the smart seamanship of her crew, the
Jeannette simply could not be made to tack. For all they could do
under sail, the Jeannette might still be on that starboard tack headed
for Honolulu, if the captain had not finally given up in disgust and
roared out to his executive officer in the waist of the ship struggling
with the sheets to square away for another attempt,
“Belay that! Leave her to me, Chipp! I’ll tack this tub!” and reaching
for the bell pull, he rang the engine room,
 “Full speed ahead!”
Knowing De Long’s impetuous nature, I had for some time been
suspecting such a result and in the engine room, I had both
coalheavers and engineers standing by, so I was ready with both
boilers and machinery. I yanked open the throttle myself, and our
back-acting connecting rods began to shuttle athwartships. Quickly
our shaft came up to fifty revolutions. Above I heard the captain
bellow,
“Hard a’ lee!”
This time, driven by her screw, the Jeannette maintained her
headway, came obediently up into the wind, fell off to starboard, and
quickly filled away on the port tack. When I poked my head above
the machinery hatch coaming to observe results, there was the
crestfallen Chipp just outboard of me, busily engaged in securing all
on his new course, and I could not resist, a little maliciously,
suggesting to him,
“Hey, brother! You want to stay at sea? Well, while you’re still
young enough to learn, take my advice and study engineering.
Sailing ships? In a few years, they’ll all be as dead as triremes!
Better start now. Let me lend you a good book on boilers!”
But Chipp, still hardly willing to believe that he was beaten, seized
a belaying pin, waved it in my direction, retorted hotly,
“Get below with your greasy machinery and sooty boilers! They’re
the ruination of any vessel! Sails dead, eh? Unship that damned
propeller of yours and I’ll tack her!” He jammed his sou’wester
viciously down over his ears and ignoring my offer strode forward to
check the set of the jibs.
De Long, leaning over the bridge, peering down at me over his
dripping glasses, took my gibe at sails more philosophically.
“Well, chief,” he observed, “she handles now like nothing I ever
sailed in before, but I suppose it’s my fault, not hers, she’s so low in
the water. When we’ve burned some of this coal and lightened up,
perhaps she’ll do better.” He puffed meditatively at his pipe while he
turned to examine the compass. We were hardly within six points of
the wind. In dismay De Long muttered, “Heading north! This course
will never do if we want to get to Alaska this season. I guess we’ll
have to douse sail, stick to the engines, and lay her dead into the
wind, west nor’west for Unalaska, till the breeze shifts anyway.” He
cupped his hands, shouted after his first officer,
“Mr. Chipp!”
Chipp, just passing the fore shrouds, turned, looked inquisitively
up at the bridge.
“Mr. Chipp, furl all sail! We’ll proceed under steam alone till further
orders!”
For three days we kicked along with unfavorable weather through
rain, mist, and head seas. The Jeannette labored, groaned, and with
no canvas to steady her, rolled and pitched abominably. Our two
scientists, Newcomb and Collins, at the first roll went under with
seasickness, and as the weather grew worse their misery passed
description, though as is usual in such cases, they got scant comfort
from the rest of us. What queer quirk of the seagoing character it is
that makes the sailor, ordinarily the most open-hearted and
sympathetic of human beings, openly derisive of such sufferings, I
know not, but we were no exceptions, and towards Collins in
particular, whose puns had occasionally made some of us in the
wardroom self-conscious, we were especially barbed in our
expressions of mock solicitude.
But if the seasickness of our men of science excited only our
mirth, no such merry reaction greeted our discovery that Ah Sam,
our Chinese cook, was also similarly indisposed. At first that Ah Sam
was seasick was solely a deduction on our part to account for his
complete disappearance from the galley, and the fact that for meal
after meal we had to make out in the messroom with only such cold
scraps as Charley Tong Sing, the steward, dished out. But when two
days went by thus, Ah Sam’s whereabouts became a matter of
concern to all of us and especially to the doctor. Still where he had
stowed himself, even the bosun could not discover, and to all our
inquiries about Ah Sam and to all our complaints about the food, we
got from Charley only a shake of the head and in a high singsong the
unvaried reply,
“Ah Sam, he velly sick man now. Cholly Tong Sing, he no feel so
good too.”
With this unsatisfactory state of affairs in our supply department
we had perforce to remain content, until after three days of total
eclipse, Ah Sam rose again, one might say, almost from the dead.
I had just come up from the humid engine room to the main deck,
and still bathed in perspiration, had paused to get my lungs full of
fresh salt air before diving aft into the shelter of the poop. For a
moment, with the wind blowing through my whiskers, I clung to the
main shrouds. With both feet braced wide apart on the heaving deck,
I stood there cooling off, when from the open passage to the port
chartroom, which was the as yet unused workroom for Newcomb’s
taxidermy, I heard in the doctor’s unmistakable Virginian accent,
“Well, I’ll be damned! Lend a hand here, Melville!”
I poked my head through the door. Ambler, who I afterwards
learned had been tracking down the source of some mysterious
groans, had pulled open a locker beneath the chart table, and there,
neatly fitted into that confined space, was the lost Ah Sam!
I gasped. Have you ever seen a seasick Chinaman? The
combination of Ah Sam’s natural yellow complexion with the sickly
green pallor induced beneath his skin by mal de mer, gave him a
ghastly appearance the like of which no ordinary corpse could
duplicate. To this weird effect his shrunken body contributed greatly,
for he had certainly disgorged everything he had ever assimilated
since emigrating from China. (The evidence for this apparently
exaggerated statement was such as to convince the most
incredulous, but I will not go into details.)
Surgeon Ambler, holding his nose with one hand, grabbed Ah Sam
by the pigtail and unceremoniously jerked him forth. Immediately Ah
Sam sagged to the deck, his eyes rolling piteously.
Also holding my nose, I seized our cook by one shoulder and
dragged him out on deck, where the surgeon gave him a dose of
chloroform, which composed him somewhat. Why he had not
already died, shut up in that locker, I cannot comprehend except on
the assumption that he grew up in one of those stinkpot factories
which Chipp, who was an authority on that country, claimed Chinese
pirates maintain. But fearful lest he die yet unless kept out in the air,
the captain planked him down at the lee wheel, where under the
constant eye of the helmsman, he could not again crawl off to hide in
some glory hole. There, clutching with a death grip at the spokes as
the wheel spun beneath his fingers, Ah Sam stayed till next day, a
fearful sight with pigtail flying in the breeze and eyes almost popping
from their sockets each time a green sea came aboard; and
whenever she took a heavy roll, poor Ah Sam’s lower jaw sagged
open and his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. Such a picture
of abject despair and utter anguish as that Chinaman, I never saw.
The fourth day out the weather cleared, moderated somewhat,
and the wind shifted to the northeast, so that assisted again by our
sails, running on the starboard tack and keeping our desired course,
we made a little over five knots for a day’s run of one hundred and
thirty miles.
As we steamed toward Alaska, we gradually settled down with
Chipp laboring continuously to get everything properly stowed. On
deck, Ice Pilot Dunbar, Bosun Cole, and Ice Quartermaster
Nindemann were designated as watch officers, with the seamen
under them divided into two watches of four hours each. Below in the
black gang, I divided my little force of six men into two watches of six
hours each with Machinist Lee and Fireman, 1st Class, Bartlett in
charge of the other two men comprising each watch.
For twenty-three days we stood on toward Unalaska Island in the
Aleutian chain, a run of about two thousand miles from San
Francisco. With better weather, our various landsmen began to show
on deck, having acquired sealegs of a sort. Newcomb, first up, fitted
out the port chartroom as his taxidermy shop, spread his tools, and
went fishing over the side for albatross almost as soon as he was
able to drag himself out of his bunk. With a hook and a line baited
with a chunk of salt pork towing astern in the broken water of our
wake, he waited patiently but without results while an occasional bird