The year was 1913, polar expeditions had become the Last Great Adventure, and the names of Scott, Peary, and Shackleton were household words. Vilhjalmur Stefansson, a lesser-known Arctic explorer, persuaded the Canadian government to fund an expedition that he hoped would raise him to the same pantheon, for he meant to discover the vast continent he was sure lurked beneath the polar ice cap. Stefansson was one of those figures in history who are too sincere to be considered con men, too impressive to be written off as charlatans, and too dangerously self-assured to be trusted with other men's lives.
In appearance, the scale of the expedition was awesome: a flotilla of boats, the largest scientific staff ever taken on such a journey, several dog teams, tons of supplies, and loads of scientific equipment. In reality, afraid that someone else would beat him to the discovery of his imaginary continent, Stefansson bought supplies without examining them, hired almosst anyone who put themselves forward whatever their experience, and stuffed everything helterskelter into any boat he could hire that would float. Even so, they set sail too late, steaming out of the Esquimalt Naval Yard (Victoria, BC) in June. Six weeks later, the Arctic winter began, and the lead -- and largest -- boat, the H.M.C.S. Karluk, found itself frozen solid in the pack ice.
At that point, Stefansson, taking the best of the dog teams and his closest associates, abandoned ship. He assured the crew and the less favored members of his expedition that he was only going for help and would soon return, but in fact he never looked back, leaving the party to almost certain death. As he knew, the ice itself was slowly moving west, bearing the ship with it deep into the stormy and desolate Bering Sea.
Ironically, the Karluk carried with it an extensive library of books on polar exploration; among the collection was a volume recording a Russian expedition that had perished in just this way. One of the many poignant passages in The Ice Master tells of the members of the expedition, one after another, reading that book, each gradually realizing that they were eerily retracing the exact course of that doomed voyage.
For five months, the Karluk remained frozen in a massive block of ice, drifting further and further west. Then, in January 1914, the ice began to crush the boat, and order was given to abandon ship. With nothing but the stores they managed to offload onto the ice, Captain Bartlett, twenty-one men, an Inuit woman and her two small daughters, twenty-nine dogs, and one pet cat were now shipwrecked in the middle of the Arctic Ocean, hundreds of miles from inhabited land.
Captain Bartlett and one of two Inuit hunters began a desperate trip to Siberia, hundreds of miles away, to seek help, leaving the others, all in varying degrees of bad shape, to make their way to nearby Wrangel Island to await rescue. The island was barren and windswept, but at least there they would be off the ice (the shifting and breaking of which is a constant and terrifying threat) and possibly find game.
What follows is a riveting story of defeat and despair. Like evil, disaster, too, is ultimately banal, and the story builds in power through creeping increments of small failures -- moments of bad judgment and even worse luck, compounded by inexperience and incompetence. Supply dumps disappear in snowstorms, never to be found; seals roll off the ice and sink when shot; the canned food they have rescued at the risk of their lives is slowly poisoning them; their clothing has been so often shredded by the sharp ice that it has become all but impossible to patch.
As supplies and hope diminish, the men turn on each other, stealing, hoarding food, lying, and, in one instance, most likely commiting murder. Their eyes fail from the blinding brightness and the grit that is always blowing into them; their limbs swell up like balloons; their flesh becomes frostbitten and has to be hacked from their bodies. The one month of Arctic summer comes and goes, leaving them with only rotting seal pelts to eat and a sagging tent to protect them from the increasingly severe weather.
When a ship finally arrives (Bartlett heroically manages to get to Siberia and then to find his way back to Canada, where he organized the rescue attempt), it is almost beside the point -- although some do survive, including the Inuit woman and her two little girls (one of whom is alive today), one dog, and the pet cat. But as touching as their return to civilization is, they are less survivors than salvage, and they know it.
The Ice Master was passed on to me by a friend, and once I started it I couldn't stop, although I often wanted to. I would read a chapter a night, and dully lie in bed afterward, beset by that impersonal sense of despair that comes from witnessing men forced to bear the terrible consequences of someone else's folly. Furthermore, Jennifer Niven hasn't a clue when it comes to telling a story and her prose can be almost embarrassingly bad. But she has done her research (almost everyone on the voyage seems to have kept a journal of sorts) and eventually the narrative simply shrugs her aside and propels itself along on its own. The result is peculiarly compelling where by all rights it should be merely depressing. Tragedy has a logic and a meaning all its own.