We now come to one of the most curious figures in the whole history of Arctic exploration, that of the American, Charles Francis Hall, who, in the year 1864, set sail for Smith Sound in the barque Polaris. Hall came from Cincinnati, and in his earlier days he followed the peaceful avocation of a blacksmith. He was an ambitious man, however, and something of a dreamer, and he had not the least intention of spending all his days at the forge. Journalism claimed his attention for a while, and he became editor of the Cincinnati Daily Penny Press, but his heart yearned towards the Polar regions, and, though he had never seen the sea in his life, he felt himself irresistibly impelled to quit the life in which he was already beginning to win some measure of success for the more hazardous career of an Arctic explorer.

It was probably the fate of the Franklin expedition which first made him turn his thoughts seriously in this direction. He firmly believed that the English explorers had been absolutely wrong in their methods of conducting the search. The only way by which success could possibly be obtained was, he imagined, by settling among the Eskimos, by acquiring their language, their ways and their confidence, and so obtaining from them any information which they might possess concerning the fate of Franklin’s party, many of whom he believed to be still alive.

Hall seems to have imagined that he was “called” to undertake this task himself, so, with an energy and enterprise which must command our admiration, he promptly set about the fulfilment of his mission.

Funds having been provided by Henry Grinnell and a number of other men who were interested in the project, he set sail in the barque George Henry with a crew of thirty officers and men, including an interpreter. His object was to proceed direct to Boothia, and there to spend three years among the natives, living with them as one of themselves, and completing the history of the Franklin expedition. This scheme, however, he only partially fulfilled. He lived with the natives, it is true, and became by far the greatest authority of the day on their manners and customs, but, beyond demonstrating that what was known as Frobisher Strait was in reality a bay, he did nothing towards adding to the world’s knowledge of the Arctic regions, or towards elucidating the mystery of the fate of the Franklin expedition. He returned home in 1862, and occupied himself for some time in writing up an account of his experiences.

Two years later he sailed in the barque Monticello on his second expedition. On this occasion he made for Repulse Bay, where he proposed getting into touch with the natives and acquiring from them all the information that they possessed about Franklin’s party and ships. Unfortunately, it appears that the natives knew how dear his mission was to him, and, not wishing to disappoint him, employed their imagination to fill in the gaps in their actual knowledge. As was only inevitable, Hall ultimately discovered that the circumstantial tales with which they regaled him were largely flights of fancy, and, completely disillusioned, he made his way home again to America.

During his sojourn with the Eskimos, however, he had acquired a real taste for Arctic exploration, and he at once decided that, as there seemed to be nothing further to be learned about the Erebus and Terror, he had better direct his attention towards the North Pole. He was a man of unbounded enterprise, and he soon found friends who were ready to help him to launch his new project. Chief among these was Mr Robeson, Secretary of the American Navy Department, through whose offices Congress voted him $50,000 towards his expenses. A wooden river gunboat of 387 tons, originally called the Periwinkle but rechristened the Polaris was placed at his disposal, and in this he set sail from New London on July 3, 1871.

Truth to tell, the expedition was never really marked out for success, as is pointed out by Sir A. H. Markham in the following passage: “He (Hall) had no advantages of education, and was unacquainted with nautical astronomy. He was thus in no sense a seaman, but rather an enthusiastic leader depending on others to navigate his vessel and to render his discoveries useful. He possessed, however, one great advantage. His two previous expeditions had thoroughly acclimatised him, and given him a complete knowledge of Eskimo life. The men who accompanied him were also badly chosen. Buddington was an old whaling captain, without any interest in the undertaking; and Tyson (the assistant navigator) was a man of the same stamp. Chester, the mate, was a good seaman and excellent harpooner, but one who had merely shipped from the inducement of high pay. Dr Bessels, a former student of Heidelberg, who had served in one of the German Arctic expeditions and in the Prussian army during the invasion of France, was the only man of scientific attainments in the ship, and the only man, besides Hall, who felt any enthusiasm for the objects of the voyage. Altogether it was an ill-assorted company, without zeal for discovery, without discipline or control, and in which every man considered himself as good as his neighbour.”

It was, perhaps, a little unfortunate that this expedition, which was so poorly adapted to make full use of its opportunities, should have been more favoured by luck than any of its predecessors. After stopping at Upernivik to pick up Hans Christian, who brought with him his wife and a family which had already attained to considerable dimensions, the Polaris sailed merrily on past Rensselaer Harbour, through the so-called “open Polar Sea,” through Kennedy Channel, across Hall Basin and up Robeson Channel, till, on August 30, she was in lat. 82° 16´, 250 miles, beyond the furthest point reached by any previous explorer. It seems, indeed, that she might have penetrated even further than that without much difficulty had Hall only been a practical seaman, for the stream of ice by which she was stopped was quite insignificant, and there was a magnificent water-sky away to the northward. Buddington, however, was dead against the attempt, and Hall, of course, was obliged to follow his advice, so the Polaris was allowed to drift southward, until, on September 3, when she had reached lat. 81° 38′, she found herself in a small indentation called Thank God Bay, in which she was made snug for the winter.

Two months later a gloom was cast over the company by the tragic death of Hall. On returning, rather chilled, from a sledge journey, he was unwise enough to descend at once to the cabin and drink hot coffee, though his experience of life in the Polar regions ought to have taught him that it was extremely dangerous to do this without first divesting himself of his furs and allowing his system to be toned up to the high temperature of his cabin. Within a few hours he became seriously ill, and a fortnight later he died. Dr Bessels gave it as his opinion that his death was due to apoplexy.

The command now devolved on Buddington, who showed himself singularly unfitted for his duties. In the first place, he abolished the Sunday services, a step which is always inadvisable, and which, in this case, was absolutely criminal, as the men were quite ill-disciplined enough as it was. In the second place, he developed a taste for sending out exploring parties and calling them back to the ship again for no comprehensible reason, so that no discoveries of any value were made, in spite of the exceptionally favourable situation in which the expedition was then placed. It was, however, after the Polaris had been set free and while she was on her way home that he gave the most convincing proof of his incompetence, with the result that a large portion of his crew came within an ace of absolute disaster. The ship happened to be caught in the ice with which she drifted into Baffin Bay. On October 15 she was severely nipped, whereupon the panic-stricken Buddington promptly cried out, “Throw everything upon the ice.” Of course the whole ship was instantly cast into the direst confusion. The sailors hurled everything that they could lay hands on on to the floe, including a bundle which was subsequently found to contain two of Hans Christian’s offspring. Men, women, and children leapt after them, and though Tyson did his best to calm them his efforts were not of much avail. While everything was still in confusion and while half the crew were on the ice and the rest on board, the ship suddenly freed herself and flew off before the wind at the rate of ten or eleven knots an hour.

It was not until morning came that the castaways were able to take a serious survey of their situation. They found that they numbered nineteen, among them being two Eskimo women, and Hans Christian’s youngest child, Charlie Polaris, which had seen the light of day on board the ship after which he was named while she was lying in winter quarters. The floe on which they were cast away was over a mile in diameter, but though, for the time being, it made a serviceable raft, there was, of course, no knowing when it would split up.

For over six months, that is to say, from the middle of October 1872 to the end of April 1873, the floe drifted steadily south, diminishing in size as it went. The most serious split occurred on March 11, after which it only measured a hundred yards in length by seventy in breadth. Provisions, too, which were never exactly plentiful—they had started on their adventurous voyage equipped only with eleven and a half bags of bread, fourteen small hams, some cans of meat and soup, a little chocolate and sugar, and 630 pounds of pemmican—became painfully scarce, and had they not been able to eke out their menu with a few dogs which had been thrown on to the ice, and with sundry seals which had been caught during the latter part of their voyage, they would have died of hunger.

Fortunately for them, the floe drifted down into the track of the whalers, and on the last day of April they were picked up by the Tigress, of Conception Bay, Newfoundland, which conveyed them safely to St John’s.

Of the remainder of the voyage of the Polaris herself there is very little to be said. With fourteen men on board, she was driven north to Life Boat Cove, where she was safely anchored. Her crew promptly unloaded her and built a house on shore, where they spent the winter in tolerably comfortable circumstances, being supplied by the Eskimos with all the fresh meat that they required. In the spring they made a couple of boats out of the ship’s timbers, in which they set sail for the south on June 3. They were ultimately picked up by the whaler Ravenscraig of Dundee.

As has already been indicated, the results of this expedition might have been far greater than was actually the case. The Polaris, it is true, penetrated further north than ever ship had penetrated before. Dr Bessels made many valuable researches into animal and vegetable life in those regions, and it was conclusively shown that Kane’s open Polar Sea and the coast-line laid down by Hayes were quite fictitious. But more might easily have been achieved had the expedition been better conducted.