The men shoved the big rock off its hydraulic jacks—each designed to lift thirty tons—as others on the opposite side pulled the chains and ropes attached to the black craggy surface. They rolled the rock over again onto the wooden tracks on the ground, a kind of makeshift railway. At the end of the tracks, they’d be dug out, and placed farther along, then the process would be repeated. A process of heave, dig, roll, dig and do it all over again and again. This work had gone on for more than twelve months over less than 100 miles. They ate, slept and shat moving the rock which had been nicknamed “Ahnighito” by Peary—his daughter’s middle name. Donkeys had been brought on this trip to help move the Tent. The bitter cold had killed the animals, and they’d been fed to the dogs. It was as if the more than fifty members of the crew and laborers had found themselves in Purgatory, and the punishment was only for humans and machines to undertake this seemingly Sisyphean task. Possibly an eternity later they may have been judged to have completed their duty. Several fingers and toes had been sacrificed along the way from frostbite or a slipped jack.
But damn if they had finally hadn’t reached end of their journey. In sight was the bay, and the ship, the Hope.
“Take a break,” Matthew Henson said in English and Inuktitut. A chorus of relieved groans went up.
“Hey, who put you in charge, darkie?” Leeward said. He was a lean, long-faced individual from some damn place in Kentucky.
“I told you about using such language,” a bearded Peary said to Leeward.
“I’ve about had it with you and your pet monkey, Captain.”
“Why don’t you shut the hell up Leeward, and save your hot air for loading the Tent onboard.” Henson said.
“It’s Mr. Leeward to you, boy.”
“I’ll call you what I feel like.”
Ootah, who spoke a degree of English, had positioned himself close to Leeward. By nature, he was a hard-faced man, but he now displayed a bland expression. His knife was in his hand under his furs.
Leeward was aware of this. “You won’t always have your chink manservant nearby, Henson.”
“I’m happy for just you and me to settle the score. Any goddamn time you want, Johnny Reb.”
“Let it go,” Peary said.
The two antagonists glared at one another until Leeward broke contact.
By mid-afternoon as it was reckoned, the largest of the three meteorites was winched onto the ship. This time of year, the midnight sun hung low on the horizon. The men and the environs were, at any given time, washed in various arrays of color. There wouldn’t be darkness for another month.
Some of the laborers had feared the Tent was so heavy it would sink the vessel. Two years ago, when he’d first sighted it, Peary had estimated it weighed at least twenty-five tons. But once it had been unearthed, a better sense of its true heft had been determined at over thirty-four tons.
Henson sat on the starboard side of the boat, making notes in his diary. Kudlooktoo came over. He’d taken a shine to the youngster, and the young man was fond of him as well.
“Hey now, Luke. How’s the professor?” Like many Inuit, the orphaned teenager had acquired an Americanized nickname.
“The same since he was brought back,” he replied in English. “He eats and sleeps, and when he’s not doing that, sits on his bunk talking to himself.”
This had been Henrik Ellsmere’s second excursion with the crew. The storms, the harsh conditions, the life so close to the edge, it got to even the most experienced. Ellsmere snapping had been unexpected, as there had been no warning signs. Or at least none anyone paid any attention to. But one day out on the tundra as the men moved The Tent along, the professor, who usually stayed in the encampment, had come out to see the progress. Making small talk with Peary, Henson saw the man abruptly stop, his mouth agape, like someone snow-blind and disoriented. He peered up into the sky, a man who suddenly couldn’t recall how he got here.
“Professor?” Henson had asked.
“Yes, yes, I must get to my class,” he muttered, looking right through the other man.
And that was that. He was helped back to his cabin on the ship, and Luke given the task to checking in on him.
“I’ll go see him,” Henson promised.
“Uncle Matt…” the kid began, having learned English from Henson, “There’s a fourth rock from the sky, you know.”
Henson put his pencil in the diary and closed it, setting it aside. “You mean a piece of one of the three?” There’d been fragments from the meteorites taken back for several years, and not just by the Americans.
“No,” the young man said, his hair short as Henson had first cut it back then. “The holy man said in his sermon last Sunday. He talked about the brightest light from the stars since the birth of Jesus.”
“Father Christofferson?” Every now and then a missionary type, usually a Dane, would show up and attach themselves to a group to convert the heathens and bring stray Christians back to the Lord. Henson read the Bible, but didn’t put much truck with these sorts.
“Him, yes,” Luke said.
“You know the father likes his…strong coffee,” he said in Inuktitut.
Luke chuckled. “He was sober,” he replied in English.
“And how would he know of this?”
“Don’t know. But I had been thinking on this since then, and now with the big one on the ship, knew I should tell you before you go away again.”
He clasped the young man on the shoulder. “Thank you, Luke. I’ll check it out.”
The teenager smiled, having pleased the other man.
Henson left The Hope and walked to
