or three miles of Cape Flora when a strong Northeaster rose, which
quickly built up to gale force and whipped up a heavy swell. Before we
knew it we lost the second kayak in the mist, the one with Dunayev and
Korolkov in it. It was impossible to battle against the wind and current
in this swell, so we sought the protection on one of the larger icebergs,
climbed up it and dragged our kayak on to it. We planted a mast at the
top of the iceberg and hoisted a flag in the hope that Dunayev would see
it and follow our example. It was pretty cold, and, being rather tired, we
decided to get some sleep. We put on our parkas and lay down on the
top of the iceberg head-to-toe, so that Maxim's feet were in my parka,
behind my back, and my feet were in Maxim's parka, behind his back.
We slept soundly for some 7 or 8 hours. Our awakening was frightful.
We were wakened by a terrific crash and found ourselves hurtling down.
The next moment our improvised double sleeping-bag was full of water;
we were submerged and making desperate efforts to get out of this
treacherous bag by trying to kick each other away. We were like cats
thrown into the water to be drowned. I don't remember how many
seconds we threshed about in the water, but it seemed a dreadfully long
time to me. Together with thoughts of rescue and death, a kaleidoscope
of scenes from our voyage whirled through my head—the death of
Morev, Nils and the four who had set out on foot. Now it was our turn
and nobody would ever know what had happened to us. At that moment
my feet found Maxim's and we kicked each other free. The next moment
found us standing drenched to the skin on the under-water foot of the
iceberg, fishing out of the water our boots, caps, blanket and mittens
which were floating round us in the water. Our parkas were so heavy
that we had to lift each one out together, and the blanket sank before we
could get to it. I cudgelled my brain what to do now. We would surely
freeze to death! As if in answer to our question, our kayak dropped
down into the water from the top of the iceberg: either the wind had
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blown it down or the ice had given way under it as it had under us. Now
we knew what to do. We wrung out our socks and jackets, and put them
on again, threw everything we had left into the kayak, got in and started
paddling away. My God, how furiously we worked those paddles! It was
this, I think, that saved us. In about six hours we approached Cape
Flora...
Among the earlier entries made soon after the navigating officer had
left the ship, I found an interesting chart. It had an old-fashioned look
about it, and I thought it resembled the chart that was appended to
Nansen's account of the voyage of the Fram.
But what surprised me was this: there was a chart of the drift of the St.
Maria from October 1912 to April 1914, and the drift was shown as
having taken place in the area of what was known as Petermann's Land.
Who nowadays does not know that this land does not exist? But who
knows that this fact was first established by Captain Tatarinov in the
schooner St. Maria'.
What then did he accomplish, this Captain, whose name appears in no
book of geography? He discovered Severnaya Zemlya and proved that
Petermann's Land does not exist. He changed the map of the Arctic, yet
he considered his expedition a failure.
But the most important thing was this: reading the diary for the fifth,
sixth and seventh time from my own copy (with nothing now to
interfere with the actual process of reading), my attention was drawn to
the entries dealing with the Captain's attitude to this discovery:
"Lately he kept reproaching himself for not having sent out a party to
explore it" (i.e. Severnaya Zemlya).
"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."
"Should desperate circumstances compel me to abandon ship I shall
make for the land which we have discovered."
And the navigating officer called this idea childish and foolhardy.
Childish and foolhardy! The Captain's last letter which Aunt Dasha
once read to me contained those two words.
"Willy-nilly, we had to abandon our original plan of making
Vladivostok along the coast of Siberia. But this proved to be a blessing
in disguise. It had given me quite a new idea. I hope it does not strike
you, as it does some of my companions, as childish and foolhardy."
The page had ended with those words and the next sheet was missing.
Now I knew what that idea was: he wanted to leave ship and head for
that land. The expedition, which had been the principal aim of his life,
had been a failure. He could not return home "empty-handed". His one
desire was to reach that land, and it was clear to me that if any trace of
the expedition were to be found anywhere, then it was in that land that
it had to be sought.
Would I ever find out what had happened to this man, who had
entrusted me, as it were, with the task of telling the story of his life and
death? Had he left the ship to explore the land he had discovered, or had
he died from hunger along with his men, leaving his schooner, icebound
off the coast of Yamal, to drift for years along Nansen's route to
Greenland with a dead crew? Or, one cold stormy night, when stars,
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moon and Northern Lights were blotted out, had the ship been crushed
in the ice, her masts, topmasts and yards crushing to the deck, killing
the men there, while the hull groaned and creaked in its death throes,
and in some two hours the blizzard had cloaked the scene of the disaster
in snow?
Or were men from the St. Maria still alive somewhere, on some Arctic
desert island, men who could tell the story of the ship's fate and the fate
of her Captain? Had not six Russian sailors lived for several years in an
uninhabited corner of Spitzbergen, hunting bears and seals, eating their
flesh, wearing their skins and using them to cover the floor of their hut,
which they had built from ice and snow?
But how could they? Twenty years had passed since that "childish",
"foolhardy" idea of abandoning ship and striking out for Maria Land
had been voiced. Had they made for this land? Had they reached it?
CHAPTER EIGHT
"I THINK WE HAVE MET"
Volodya, the doctor's son, called for me at seven in the morning. Half
awake, I heard him down below scolding his dogs Buska and Toga. We
had arranged the day before to visit the local fur-breeding farm and he
had suggested making the trip by dog-sledge.
When we had settled in the sledge he shouted briskly, like your true
Nenets, "mush, mush!" and the dogs started off at a spanking speed.
The snow dust struck my face, stinging my eyes and taking my breath
away. When the sledge bounced over a snowdrift I clutched Volodya,
who looked round in surprise. I let go of him and started to bounce up
and down in my straps, which, I thought, were not drawn tight enough.
Whoosh! Without warning the dogs stopped dead in their tracks, all
but catapulting me out of the sledge. Nothing alarming. It appeared that