This is where you could bowl along without using your engines!
Tuesday, July 14. Today Sotkin and Korolkov went to the tip of the
island where they made a surprising discovery. Slightly inshore they saw
a small mound built of stones. They were struck by its regular shape. On
coming closer they saw an empty English beer bottle with a screw cap.
The men quickly uncovered the mound and found an iron container
under the stones. In it was a well-preserved British flag, and beneath it
another bottle. This bottle had a paper pasted on it with several names
and inside it was a note written in English. With some difficulty and by
the joint efforts of Nils and myself, I made out that the British polar
expedition led by Jackson, having sailed from Cape Flora in August 1897
had arrived at Cape Mary Harmsworth, where it had placed this flag and
the note. The note said that all was well on the good ship Windward.
In this surprising manner all my doubts were cleared up: we were on
Cape Mary Harmsworth, the south-western tip of Alexandra Land.
Tomorrow we intend to go to the southern shore of the island and make
for Cape Flora where this famous Englishman Jackson had his base.
Wednesday, July 15. Broke camp. We had the choice of either going
all together across the glacier and dragging our baggage along or
breaking up into two parties, one of which would go across the ice on
skis while the other, consisting of five men, would sail along the icefield
in the kayaks. We chose the latter method.
Thursday, July 16. In the morning Maxim and Nils started to bring
the kayaks closer in to where we had halted, and Nils was carried out so
far by the current that two men had to be sent to his aid. I looked
through my binoculars and saw Nils ship his paddle and look at the
approaching rescue craft with a helpless air. Nils must be very sick; it's
the only way I can account for his behaviour. He acts rather strange-
walks unsteadily and sits apart all the time. Today, for supper, we
cooked two pochards and an eider.
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Friday, July 17. Dirty weather. Still sitting on Cape Grant, waiting for
the shore party. Weather cleared up at night. E.N.-E. ahead, seemingly
quite near, we can see a rocky island across the icefield.
Can this be Northbrook, where Cape Flora is? We shall soon know
whether I was right in trying to make this cape. Twenty years is a long
time. There may be nothing left of Jackson's log houses. But what else
could we do? Make a wide detour? Would my wretched, sick
companions have stood it, their clothes, soaked in blubber oil, all in rags
and full of vermin?
Saturday, July 18. Tomorrow, weather permitting, we will push on. I
cannot wait any longer. Nils can hardly walk and Korolkov is almost as
bad. Dunayev complains of pains in his legs, too, but he does not show
signs of that apathy and exhaustion which frightens me in Nils and
Korolkov. What can be delaying the walking party? In any case we
cannot stay here any longer-it spells death.
Monday, July 20. Bell Island. When we stepped out of the kayaks we
saw that Nils could not walk any more. He fell down and tried to crawl
forward on all fours. We put up a tent of sorts, carried Nils into it and
wrapped him up in our only blanket. He kept trying to crawl away, but
then quieted down. Nils is a Dane. During his two years' service aboard
the St. Maria he learned to speak Russian well. But since yesterday he
has forgotten his Russian. What strikes me most of all is the blank, fear-
stunned look in his eyes, the eyes of a man who has lost his reason. We
boiled some broth and gave him half a cupful. He drank it and lay down.
I feel sorry for him. He is a good sailor, a sensible, hard-working man.
All went to sleep, but I took my rifle and went to look at Cape Flora from
the cliffs.
Tuesday, July 21. Nils died in the night. He had not even thrown off
the blanket we had wrapped him in. His face was serene, undistorted by
death agonies. Within a couple of hours we carried out our dead
comrade and laid him on a sledge. The grave was a shallow one, as the
earth was frozen hard. No one shed a tear over this solitary, remote
grave. His death did not come as a surprise to us and we took it as a
matter of course. This was not callousness or heartlessness on our part.
It was the abnormal torpor one feels in the face of death, a sense of
irrevocable doom that haunted every one of us. It was with something
akin to animosity that we now kept glancing at the next "candidate",
Dunayev, trying to guess whether he would "make it or not". One of his
mates even shouted at him angrily: "What are you sitting there like a
wet hen? Want to go after Nils? Come on, get some driftwood, stir your
stumps!" When Dunayev humbly rose to go, they shouted after him:
"Now, no buckling, mind!" There was no resentment against Dunayev.
Even the driftwood was of no importance now. It was resentment
against the sickness which had claimed their comrade, it was a call to
fight death to one's last breath. Buckling, when your legs give way under
you as though paralysed, is very characteristic. After that your tongue
refuses to obey you. The sick man articulates his words carefully, then
gives it up in some confusion when he sees that nothing comes of it.
Wednesday, July 22. At three o'clock we started out for Cape Flora. My
thoughts again were with Captain Tatarinov. I have no further doubt
now that he was somewhat obsessed with this new land we had
discovered. Lately he kept reproaching himself for not having sent out a
party to explore it. He spoke about it also in Ms farewell speech to us. I
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shall never forget that leavetaking. That pale, inspired face with its
inward look! How different from that once ruddy-faced, cheerful man
with his fund of yarns and funny stories, the idol of his crew, a man who
always came to his task, however difficult, with a joke on his lips!
Nobody moved after his speech. He stood there with closed eyes, as
though nerving himself for the last word of farewell. But instead of
words, a low moan broke from his lips and tears glistened in the corners
of his eyes. He began jerkily, then continued more calmly: "We all find it
hard to say goodbye to friends with whom we have lived through two
years of struggle and work. But we must remember that, although the
expedition's main task has not been accomplished, we have done a good
deal. By the labours of Russian men, some very important pages have
been written in the history of the North, and Russia can be proud of
them. It is up to us to show ourselves worthy successors of the Russian
explorers of the North. And if we perish, our discovery must not perish
with us. So let our friends report that through the efforts of our
expedition an extensive territory, which we have named Maria Land, has
been added to Russia." He stopped, then embraced each of us in turn
and said: "I want to say to you not 'goodbye', but 'till we meet again'."
Thursday, July 30. There are only eight of us left now-four in the
kayaks and four somewhere on Alexandra Land.
Saturday, August 1. This is what happened today: we were within two