A Negro Explorer at the North Pole | Page 7

Island give me a
curious impression. I am waiting for the command to attack the savage
ice- and rock-bound fortress of the North, and here instead we are at
anchor in the neighborhood of sheep grazing in green fields.
Sydney, N. S., July 17, 1908: All of the expedition are aboard and those
going home have gone. Mrs. Peary and the children, Mr. Borup's father,
and Mr. Harry Whitney, and some other guests were the last to leave
the Roosevelt, and have given us a last good-by from the tug, which
came alongside to take them off.
Good-by all. Every one is sending back a word to some one he has left
behind, but I have said my good-bys a long time ago, and as I waved
my hand in parting salutation to the little group on the deck of the tug,
my thoughts were with my wife, and I hoped when she next heard of
me it would be with feelings of joy and happiness, and that she would
be glad she had permitted me to leave her for an absence that might
never end.
The tenderfeet, as the Commander calls them, are the Doctor, Professor
MacMillan, and young Mr. Borup. The Doctor is a fine-looking, big
fellow, John W. Goodsell, and has a swarthy complexion and straight
hair; on meeting me he told me that he was well acquainted with me by
reputation, and hoped to know me more intimately.
Professor Donald B. MacMillan is a professor in a college in
Massachusetts, near Worcester, and I am going to cultivate his
acquaintance.
Mr. George Borup is the kid, only twenty-one years old but well set up
for his age, always ready to laugh, and has thick, curly hair. I
understand he is a record-breaker in athletics. He will need his athletic
ability on this trip. I am making no judgments or comments on these
fellows now. Wait; I have seen too many enthusiastic starters, and I am

sorry to say some of them did not finish well.
All of the rest of the members of the expedition are the same as were on
the first trip of the Roosevelt:--Commander Peary, Captain Bartlett,
Professor Marvin, Chief Engineer Wardwell, Charley Percy the steward,
and myself. The crew has been selected by Captain Bartlett, and are
mostly strangers to me.
Commander Peary is too well known for me to describe him at length;
thick reddish hair turning gray; heavy, bushy eyebrows shading his
"sharpshooter's eyes" of steel gray, and long mustache. His hair grows
rapidly and, when on the march, a thick heavy beard quickly appears.
He is six feet tall, very graceful, and well built, especially about the
chest and shoulders; long arms, and legs slightly bowed. Since losing
his toes, he walks with a peculiar slide-like stride. He has a voice clear
and loud, and words never fail him.
Captain Bartlett is about my height and weight. He has short, curly,
light-brown hair and red cheeks; is slightly round-shouldered, due to
the large shoulder-muscles caused by pulling the oars, and is as quick
in his actions as a cat. His manner and conduct indicate that he has
always been the leader of his crowd from boyhood up, and there is no
man on this ship that he would be afraid to tackle. He is a young man
(thirty-three years old) for a ship captain, but he knows his job.
Professor Marvin is a quiet, earnest person, and has had plenty of
practical experience besides his splendid education. He is rapidly
growing bald; his face is rather thin, and his neck is long. He has taken
great interest in me and, being a teacher, has tried to teach me.
Although I hope to perfect myself in navigation, my knowledge so far
consists only of knot and splice seamanship, and I need to master the
mathematical end.
The Chief Engineer, Mr. Wardwell, is a fine-looking,
ruddy-complexioned giant, with the most honest eyes I have ever
looked into. His hair is thinning and is almost pure white, and I should
judge him to be about forty-five years old. He has the greatest patience,
and I have never seen him lose his temper or get rattled.

Charley Percy is Commander Peary's oldest hand, next to me. He is our
steward, and sees to it that we are properly fed while aboard ship, and
he certainly does see to it with credit to himself.
From Sydney to Hawks Harbor, where we met the Erik, has been
uneventful except for the odor of the Erik, which is loaded with
whale-meat and can be smelled for miles. We passed St. Paul's Island
and Cape St. George early in the day and through the Straits of Belle
Isle to Hawks Harbor, where there is a whale-factory. From here we