Voyage to the North Pole | The Skeleton Pack | 4
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Wondery Plus subscribers can listen to Against the Odds early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Captain George DeLong tiptoes around the men sleeping inside his tent and grabs his sextant and a chart. Then he lifts the tent flap, shielding his eyes from the blinding light as he slips out to take a reading of his son's position in the sky.

It's noon on June 26, 1881. Eight days ago, DeLong's ship, USS Jeanette, sank after an iceberg punctured her hull. The crew abandoned ship and has been marching south across the rugged Arctic ice ever since. Their destination is Siberia, hundreds of miles away. The sun never sets during the Arctic summer, so DeLong has decided to travel at night.

The sun is lower in the sky then, and cooler temperatures keep the ice beneath them from breaking up. During the day, they find a solid patch of ice, pitch their tents, and then try to get some sleep. But each day, DeLong has been waking around noon and using his sextant to determine their latitude and see how much progress they've made. For the past few days, the measurements have left him deeply troubled. He's hoping today's readings will be more encouraging.

Positioning his sextant, he lines up its lenses and mirrors in relation to the sun and the horizon. Then he consults his charts and grimaces. More bad news.

There's no point in alerting anyone immediately. In any way, the men need their sleep. They've been marching close to 11 hours a day over brutally uneven, jagged polar ice. They sometimes have to zigzag 10 miles just to make one mile of forward progress. But DeLong needs a second opinion, so he peeks into one tent. "George! George!"

Wake up. Engineer George Melville wipes the sleep from his eyes and sits up groggily. What's the matter? Come out here.

When Melville emerges, DeLong hands him the sextant and asks him to take a reading. When Melville's done, he frowns. Well, that can't be right. Is the sextant broken? DeLong shakes his head. No, it's not broken. I got the same result yesterday and the day before. We're actually headed north. I really hoped it was just a miscalculation, but I don't think it is.

Melville's eyes go wide, and DeLong nods sadly. According to the compass headings, his men have been marching south, towards Siberia. And on land, they would have made substantial progress. But they're not on land. They're on pack ice. And it's drifting north faster than they've been walking south.

DeLong figures they've marched 20 miles over the past eight days, but according to the sextant readings, the ice under their feet has been pushed 28 miles north overall. So, they're even farther from Siberia than when they started.

It's devastating news. The men are suffering enough as it is. Their faces are red from the wind and sun. Their lips are chapped. Each night they take off their boots to air out their swollen and blistered feet. Some crew members are simply too weak to pull anything. A few can't even walk and have to be pulled, including Charles Chip, DeLong's second in command.

Chip is still suffering from the effects of lead poisoning and can barely eat or even dress himself. Their food situation is worrisome too. Maybe enough for only 60 days. DeLong thought that would be enough, but now he realizes that starvation is a real possibility. He turns to Melville. "Should we tell the men we're drifting north?" Melville thinks for several seconds. "No, no, I don't think so. It would crush their morale."

DeLong nods in agreement, but they obviously need a new tactic. He tells Melville they'll need to change course and head west until they hopefully find a section of pack ice that's flowing south. Then he tells Melville to go back to sleep. They need the rest. Their odds of making it to Siberia alive are already low, and today's terrible news has only made things worse.

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From Wondery, I'm Mike Corey, and this is Against the Odds. Two years into the Arctic voyage of the USS Jeunette, the crew's dreams of reaching the North Pole were dashed. Their ship was crushed between ice floes and sank to the bottom of the Arctic Ocean. The 33 sailors were now stranded nearly a thousand miles from the nearest inhabited land, a region in Siberia called the Lena Delta.

Reaching the Delta would require a long, hard march over an inhospitable ice scape in a race against time as their food supplies dwindled and another punishing winter closed in. This is Episode 4, The Skeleton Pack. Dr. James Ambler leaves his tent and begins trudging toward the area marked off as a latrine at today's camp.

He hasn't taken two steps before a sailor grabs his coat. Doctor, can you take a look at my feet? Certainly, yes, but I just need to use the bathroom first. But Doc, they're really aching. They look like raw meat. Please, just one moment. He turns and marches off. It's July 5th, and Ambler is utterly exhausted.

After spending all night dragging their gear across the ice, everyone else gets to flop down and rest. But not Ambler. He has to care for the men's ailments. Frostbite is running rampant, especially on their feet and faces. A few sailors are showing signs of scurvy, bleeding gums, loose teeth, joint pain.

The navigator, John Daenenhauer, looks worse too. His infected eye is cloudier than ever and oozing more pus. Ambler ducks behind an ice mound and unlaces his trousers, relishing a rare moment alone. But he can't help but notice something about his urine. It has a sharp ammonia smell. And it's dark, too. Almost brown.

He feels a twinge of worry. He noticed the dark urine a few days ago. It's a sign of dehydration, and so he's been drinking more water. But it hasn't helped. As he laces up, he gazes at the stains on the snow from the other men. All dark as well. Ambler hurries back to camp.

Ignoring the men pleading for his attention, he finds his medical equipment and digs out an eyedropper and his vial of silver nitrate solution. At the camp kettle, he grabs a tin cup of melted snow, their drinking water. Using the eyedropper, he dribbles two drops of silver nitrate into the cup and holds his breath as he swirls it around.

He cringes at the result. The water has turned white and cloudy. That means the snow they've been melting to drink contains dangerous levels of salt. And that explains the dark, foul-smelling urine. Ambler curses this terrible discovery.

Before the expedition set off 24 months ago, Arctic experts had assured Ambler and Captain DeLong that the pack ice, as well as the top few inches of snow sitting on top of it, was drinkable. It turns out that the so-called experts were wrong. But then why didn't the melted snow taste salty?

After a moment's thought, Ambler realizes why. It's their diet. At every meal, they're eating salted pork, or salted beef, or salty pemmican. The men are sick of the stuff, and it's so heavily salted that, in comparison, the salty snow tasted downright bland. Ambler hurries off to find DeLong and explain the problem.

He can already feel the burden weighing on his shoulders. Now he'll have to monitor everyone for salt poisoning. They'll have to spend extra time and extra energy finding fresher snow and testing their water to ensure it's not too salty. It's just another obstacle that their already hellish journey does not need. Engineer George Melville looks up from his dinner of salty pemmican and scans the horizon.

Is there really an island out there? He stands and squints into the distance. Captain DeLong grumbles at him. George, sit down. You're making me nervous. I was just hoping for a break in the fog. Well, either it will break or it won't. Jumping up and down like a jack-in-the-box won't make any difference. The other men chuckle, and Melville sits down sheepishly.

But even then, he can't stop himself from peeking. He's wound up at the very thought of setting foot on solid ground again.

It's mid-July, and the crew has been slogging across the ice for a month. Based on the readings of their sextant, they're now on pack ice that's moving south. A huge relief. Still, things haven't been easy. The ice is even more rugged than before, and the days and nights seem endless. But a few hours ago, their white-haired ice expert, William Dunbar, relayed some stunning news.

Dunbar has been scouting ahead of the main group, tracking a safe path through the twisted ice floes. Every hundred yards or so, he plants a black flag, which is easy to see on the white expanse. The men then march from flag to flag along the trail he's blazed, with the last man in the line retrieving the flags.

Melville likes to be near the front of the pack, helping to drag a boat filled with supplies. He mostly keeps his head down, focused on taking just one step at a time. But today, he was startled to hear Dunbar yelling, and lifted his head to see him racing back toward them. Melville assumed that he'd seen a polar bear. Instead, Dunbar swore he'd seen an island.

It was just a flicker on the horizon, then fog had immediately swept in and hidden it from view. But Dunbar insisted he'd seen land.

Normally, Melville would dismiss a sighting like this. Sailors are always seeing something, but Dunbar is not prone to exaggeration. Besides, Melville knows the men need something to hope for. Many of them are in worse shape than him, limping and coughing. Fights have been breaking out too. They need something to rally around. And so does he.

If only this damn fog would lift. Then they could know for sure. Melville drops his dinner plate on the ice and turns it along. Dunbar wouldn't just make something up. I'm not saying that he did. But you know the ice can play tricks on the eyes. And he did go snow blind before, remember? I just don't want to get people's hopes up. Melville nods, then gets to his feet. He needs to use the latrine. Then he wants to take a walk and think.

Look! There it is! Is that it? That's the island!

Look! Shouting erupts all around him. Melville wipes his eyes and looks. Dunbar is pointing to the horizon, practically jumping up and down. Melville follows his finger and lets out a whoop of joy. Jotting up from the horizon is a tiny gray nub, too small to make out much detail. But it is an island. There's no mistaking it.

Melville throws up his arms. He feels electrified, as if he's wired up to one of Thomas Edison's light bulbs. He then looks at DeLong, who's shaking his head in disbelief. Melville laughs and runs over to bear hug him. He can hardly believe it himself, but there's land ahead. If only they can reach it.

Captain George DeLong scans the ice for the next black flag marking their path. He finally spots one and hollers to his men behind him. "Bear 10 degrees south-southeast. We can't be far now!" He adjusts the shoulder strap connected to the sledge he's dragging. It's a sled that's designed for hauling supplies rather than people. Then he drives his legs forward.

There's another thick fog today, but they've got to be close to the island they spotted several days ago. The men are singing as they move, energized by the thought of fresh meat and the big fire. Even poor Charles Chip is feeling better after his bout of lead poisoning. He's now walking under his own power. Ahead of him, DeLonge sees William Dunbar stomp and whistle, loud and shrill.

Dunbar's waving his arms too. DeLong frowns and feels a flash of fear. What is he trying to say? Has something gone wrong? A moment later, a gust kicks up. DeLong shields his face to let it pass.

When he looks up again, the fog has blown away, and what he sees is like a vision of paradise. Dunbar is standing on the shore of an island, a mere half mile away. DeLong turns back and shouts, "Double time it, men! We're almost there! Come on! Push! Push! Let's go! Let's go! Here it is!

The men churn forward, scampering over the last ice mounds and hillocks as if their sledges were full of nothing but feathers. A few hours later, they're all standing on shore.

Driftwood lies scattered over the stony beach, while sheer cliffs loom high over them. The cliffs are streaked with red lichen and gleaming blue glacier ice. Through gaps in the cliffs, the men can see farther inland, where grassy green hills stretch into the distance. They stand and gape, drinking in the rich colors, after months of unrelenting whiteness.

Best of all, there are streams trickling down the cliffs with fresh water as well as thick streaks of guano on the rocks, which means that there's birds here. They also spot seal and reindeer droppings, which means fresh game and fresh meat.

To commemorate the occasion, DeLong digs through his trunk on the sledge. Beneath the blue silk flag from his wife, he finds a US flag with its 13 stripes and 38 stars.

The sight makes his throat catch a little. He was supposed to plant this flag on the North Pole, and it's been hard to give up on that dream. But finding this island is at least something they've accomplished, and he can be proud of that.

He grabs a spare tent pole from another sledge, ties on the flag, and stakes it into the beach. I hereby name this land in honor of our expedition's patron, Bennett Island, and I declare it property of the United States of America. Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray! The men hurrah. This thrill they're feeling, the sheer joy, has almost made all the hardship worth it.

DeLong then orders everyone to start setting up their tents to get a good night's sleep. They're first on solid ground in nearly 700 days. Engineer George Melville tosses and turns in his sleeping bag, strangely restless despite his bone-deep exhaustion. Maybe he's simply forgotten how to sleep on land? The thought makes him chuckle. He pulls his bag tight and tries to relax.

It's 2:00 AM on July 29th, eight hours after their arrival on Bennett Island. The sun is getting closer to setting these days, but still won't quite go down. Tomorrow, they'll go hunting. Melville's mouth is already watering at the thought of fresh meat, but if he doesn't get to sleep soon, he'll be utterly useless. A moment later, he hears a low rumbling coming from outside his tent. Birds begin squawking.

He's heard several similar noises tonight, which might explain why he's struggling to sleep. But this rumble sounds different. He sits up, holding still and listening. Beside him, another sailor opens his eyes and lifts his head. What is that? Shh! I'm trying to hear.

The rumbling grows louder. More men in the tent are stirring now, and in the eerie glow of the arctic summer night, Melville can see his own fear reflected on their faces. They shed their sleeping bags and stumble out of their tent. A few men emerge from other tents too, pointing and gaping upward.

They're camped 20 yards from a channel of water. On the other side of the channel is a steep slope several hundred feet high. Near its peak, fragments of black rock and clumps of soil are breaking off and tumbling down the slope. Melville holds his breath, willing the rocks to stop, but a moment later, the thing he fears most starts to happen.

A stray rock strikes a boulder and knocks it loose. Then that boulder dislodges another. Within seconds, there's a full-on landslide pouring down the slope. And it's headed right for their tents.

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George Melville stares transfixed at the gigantic landslide tumbling toward them from hundreds of feet overhead. Then he wheels around and starts running from tent to tent, throwing open the flaps. Run! Run! There's a landslide! He figures that they have a few precious seconds left before the tumbling rocks and boulders hit the beach and crush their tents, along with the men still inside them.

Inside the tents, most of the men are sluggish and still half asleep. Melville tries grabbing their hands and dragging them, but it's little use. A moment later, he realizes it's too late.

The landslide slams into a narrow stream that runs into a channel across the beach, no more than 100 yards away. Melville watches in terror as the rocks send water spraying 50 feet into the air. Then something amazing happens. The landslide continues pouring into the channel, but advances no further. Melville realizes that

that the channel must be far deeper than it looks. It swallows up the rocks and boulders like sand into a puddle. A spray of water splashes down on Melville and the tents, followed by a cloud of dust. But all the dislodged rocks and boulders from above them remain in the water.

Melville stands there, wet and sputtering, his heart racing in his chest. It's a hell of a welcome to Bennett Island, and despite his joy earlier about coming to shore, he begins to fear this island might not be the safe refuge that they were hoping for. Captain George DeLong takes a stroll along the beach of Bennett Island, smoking his pipe and enjoying the feel of the earth beneath his feet.

It's July 30th, 1881. After the landslide last night, he moved his men's camp to safer ground, away from the steepest slopes.

Then they built a roaring bonfire from driftwood, boiled water in kettles, and had their first good scrub in months. The piping hot water felt delicious onto Long's skin. Wiping away the grime and the sweat and the grease made him feel 10 years younger.

He's also heartened to see his men tramping along the beach and in the hills beyond, finally in good spirits again. Declaring this island American territory has allowed DeLong to designate this stop as shore leave, so he's relaxed the strict discipline he's been insisting upon. That discipline was necessary to keep morale high and prevent dissension, but the men have definitely earned some leisure time.

The rockhounds and the crew have been poking around the cliffs, chipping out chunks of quartz and other treasures. Jerome Collins, the newspaper reporter, is sketching the landscape. Others have grabbed guns and set off to hunt loons and reindeer. Still others are simply resting their swollen, frostbitten legs and catching up on sleep.

Sadly, there are no trees on the island's grassy plains. DeLong misses trees, but he has spotted a few brave arctic flowers blooming, and that's a hopeful sign. Still, as DeLong finishes his pipe, he recognizes that they can't stay here forever. He's been putting it off, but he has to come up with a plan.

He strides back toward camp, where he grabs engineer George Melville and second in command Charles Chip. He leads them a few yards away for privacy. Gentlemen, I want your advice.

How long should we stay on the island? He reminds them that though they failed to reach the North Pole, Bennett Island is genuinely a new discovery, and anything they can learn about its flora, fauna, and geology will be valuable knowledge. Then again, though, their food supply is dwindling. They can supplement it with fresh meat here, but once they leave the island, they'll have just 30 days worth left, maybe more if they cut their food rations down.

And while it's not even August, winter comes fast in the Arctic. Perhaps they should depart soon and continue the march south.

Melville speaks first. I'm not a superstitious man, but I vote for leaving. That landslide spooked me. And also, if the weather does turn bad, one day's delay now might cost us several weeks later. But Charles Chip, a consummate Navy officer, shakes his head and disagrees. I vote we stay a few weeks. We have a duty to survey as much of the island as we can. And it will boost the men's morale.

When they finish debating, DeLong pauses to think. In his heart, he's inclined toward Chip's point of view. Indeed, DeLong is embarrassed by how little they've accomplished. This was the most well-outfitted and expensive Arctic mission in history. They can't just limp home with nothing to show for it. But DeLong can also see Melville's point. They can't dawdle for long. He makes up his mind. "I see, okay."

We'll split the difference. One week here exploring. It will also give the men time to rest, and the boats do need mending and caulking. They're pretty beat up from being dragged across the ice. After that, we'll resume the push south. Neither Melville nor Chip looks thrilled by this compromise, but that's the burden of being a leader. As they head back to camp, DeLong reassures himself that he's made the right choice.

Emma DeLong winces as her daughter Sylvie saws away at her violin. The nine-and-a-half-year-old girl started music lessons recently, and she needs practice. It isn't the most relaxing sound, but it will buy Emma some time to write a letter. They're in the parlor of Emma's sister's home in Iowa, where they've been staying since the Jeanette departed two years ago.

While Sylvie practices her scales, Emma goes to a desk in the corner, gets out some paper, and writes the date, August 1st, 1881. Then she adds an address she knows by heart at this point. To Gordon Bennett, publisher, care of the New York Herald, Anne Street, Manhattan.

It's her third letter to Bennett in three weeks. No one knows the fate of her husband's voyage, whether they're lost or stranded and in need of rescue or even worse. And with every passing month, the odds of disaster seem higher.

She's especially worried with winter coming on, the third winter since they departed. She helped George plan the expedition. She knows they must be low on supplies. But right now, all Emma can do is keep writing Bennett for updates.

She has to admit, Bennett has been generous so far. He insists that there's nothing to worry about. He's sure that DeLong and his crew are simply too busy to come back because they're making so many incredible discoveries. But just to be on the safe side, Bennett has dispatched three separate ships at his own expense to search for the Jeannette. He's also petitioned Congress for $200,000 more for additional relief vessels.

But Emma suspects that Bennett's motives aren't entirely altruistic. He sends a Herald reporter along on each mission to file stories, which are picked up in newspapers around the country, including here in Iowa.

Each story pains Emma. They all emphasize how vast the Arctic is, how dangerous, and they never report any results. They all seem to head back as soon as the weather turns. It seems to Emma like Bennett is sending out the rescue ships to sell newspapers, rather than look seriously for the Jeanette. Emma reads back over her latest letter to the publisher.

I want direct updates from you. I'm tired of getting sensationalized secondhand stories from your newspapers. Emma also wants results. Is he sending out the best ships? The best sailors? If so, why have they found no news of her husband? Right when she's at her angriest, the violin stops and she hears Sylvie squeal. Mama, I forgot. I wrote a letter in school today.

She digs a paper out of her bag and rushes over. It must be a penmanship exercise. Emma tries to smile and skims the sheet. She's startled to see that Sylvie has written a letter to her father. The girl hasn't seen her father in over two years, and he was often absent before that, away on long naval assignments. She surely can't remember much of him. It's a sweet, innocent note, full of lines about music lessons and tests at school.

Reading it breaks Emma's heart. She hugs her daughter tight. Lovely job, dear. She pulls her close, in part so that her daughter cannot see her tears. Sylvie is too young to suspect what Emma does, that her father will never read this letter. Because with each passing month and no word of his fate, it's looking more and more likely that he'll never be coming home.

George DeLong digs in his heels and yanks on a rope, dragging the team of dogs behind him. Nearby, a sailor named Hans Ericsson does the same with another team. They're pulling them up a rocky slope near the beach to higher ground.

It's August 5th, just shy of one week on Bennett Island, and after running wild here, the dogs are feistier than ever. They keep snapping and biting each other. DeLong finally loses his temper. "Hey! Behave yourselves! Stop it!" He's almost grown to hate them, but that doesn't make this morning's task any easier.

Atop the slope, he drags the dogs behind a large boulder to conceal them from the camp below, and ties the rope to a stake he pounded into the ground earlier. When Erickson has his team secure, DeLong salutes him. "Okay, don't let them suffer." Quickly, he turns and marches back down to the beach, to distance himself from the scene.

Walking along, he studies the sky. The sun will begin setting again in a week or so. He hopes their good weather holds. He flinches at the sound of Erickson's rifle. He knows he's making the right decision, but it still pains him.

Back at camp, his men are preparing to resume the push south across the ice to Siberia. At some point, maybe in a month, they'll hit open sea. That's why, in addition to hunting and resting, they've been mending and re-caulking their three boats.

Today, the men are packing supplies. They hope to leave first thing tomorrow, but food will be limited. They have just 30 days worth, which forced DeLong to make an excruciating decision involving the sled dogs. Each dog eats a pound of meat every day, which might be worth it if they were pitching in to haul the sledges along. But they're not. They stop all of the time, refusing to pull or go scampering off in the wrong direction.

Many of them are sick as well, and the few healthy ones, they fight like crazy. In fact, of the 40 dogs that began the journey, just 23 remain now. A few succumbed to stress or disease, but the remainder were attacked and killed by their fellow dogs. DeLong's decided to keep seven of the gentler dogs, but he ordered the rest to be shot.

When he broke the news to their Inuit handler, Alexi, the man broke down in tears. So DeLong gave the job of shooting them to Erickson. As he strolls along the beach, DeLong squats down to examine rocks and shells. There's some driftwood, too. In fact, one piece of wood draped in seaweed catches his eye. He pulls it from the muck, wiping it clean. And his suspicions are confirmed. It's a fence post.

He can see the notches and carvings where it's been shaped by tools. He looks around for more pieces like it, but there's only the one. It comforts him anyway. It's a small sign of civilization in this vast, uncaring wilderness. DeLong stands and stares across the ice. Somewhere out there is Siberia, where there will be villages, huts, and people.

He grips the fence posts and feels the ache in his heart ease a little. However awful he feels about the dogs, his ultimate duty is to save his men and get them home alive.

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It's August 12th, 1881, a week since the crew left Bennett Island. They've covered maybe 50 miles in that time, but each one was hard fought. The summer sun has turned the top layer of ice to slush. Combined with the jagged ice flows, it's made for some of the hardest conditions they've encountered yet. The ice has gotten so jumbled that Captain DeLong has started calling it the Skeleton Pack.

and Melville can see why. It looks like a field of giant bones. Right now, he's walking past a partially melted iceberg that juts up like the ribs of a whale carcass.

But there has been one benefit to the warming temperatures. In some places, the pack has started to break up, enough for them to float in their three boats. They can then follow the maze of canals between the plates, kind of like an Arctic Venice. But to avoid steering the boats into a dead end, Melville and the ice pilot William Dunbar have volunteered to scout ahead. Every day, it's the same.

Tramp out, scout for a path, row as far as they can, then drag the boats across the ice to the next channel. It's tiring work. Melville scans ahead. "What about that channel? There. I think it's wide enough for the boats." Dunbar follows Melville's sightline, then frowns. "We'll have to drag the boats a long way to get there. Looks like at least half a mile." "I know, but I think it's worth it. It's clear sailing after that."

It takes Melville and Dunbar 15 minutes to slog back to the boats, which are bobbing in a water channel that dead-ends against an ice flow. They find their comrades huddled on the floor of the three boats, along with the seven remaining dogs, all damp and shivering. Melville explains the plan to everyone, that they're all going to drag the boats over the ice to the new channel. There are a few groans, but everyone climbs out and gets to work.

Unfortunately, as Melville's team is trying to hoist a boat out of the water, something spooks the dogs. He tries to steady the vessel. "Get them under control! They're rocking the boat!" But the dogs rush to the far side of the boat, rocking it so much that freezing water pours in, drenching the supplies. Now they'll have to bail out the boat just so they can lift it. Melville sighs.

It's getting harder and harder not to lose hope. Captain George DeLong and his fellow officers heave a trunk onto the ice. DeLong flips open the lid and points to his left. Spread the seal tarp over there and empty out every item. I want everything inventoried down to the last needle and thread. We'll ditch anything that's not absolutely necessary.

It's August 20th, three weeks into their slog south towards Siberia. They've begun rationing food and now have two weeks worth remaining. Their circumstances are getting worse each day. The ice is softer than ever, which means they spend more time in the boats. But unfortunately, as the channels get wider and choppier, the boats are growing unstable.

They have two small cutters, one 20 feet long and one 16 feet long, plus a 24-foot whale boat. All three are battered and leaky from being dragged across the ice.

Equally bad, the boats are riding too low in the water with all the equipment they're carrying. Trunks, spare lumber, scientific equipment, tents, sledges, and more. Between water splashing on board and the leaks, the men spend half of each day bailing. That's why DeLong has called for this triage. They have to cut as much weight as possible and lighten the load.

Once everything is spread out, DeLong strokes his mustache and appraises it all. Some of the choices are easy. They need the tents, cooking gear, and medicine. He tells the men to move these to the keep pile. Meanwhile, most of the spare lumber for repairing the boats gets tossed in the discard pile. Most of the backup furs and seal skins get tossed too. It makes him uneasy, but they'll have to risk it.

DeLong points and asks his officers, "What about the sledges?" The sledges help drag equipment across land. Unfortunately, they're longer than the boats are wide, which makes them awkward to transport. They stick out the sides and often drag in the water, further destabilizing the boats. But without the sledges to drag supplies, they'll be unable to cross any large stretches of ice anymore. They'll have to live or die by the boats.

I vote that we leave them behind. Now for the other hard decision.

And what about the journals and the specimens? He's referring to the leather-bound volumes in which they've recorded their field notes, observations of flora, fauna, and the islands they've encountered, plus jars full of rocks and biological specimens, hundreds of pounds in all. Again, Melville speaks first. You said it yourself, sir. Every ounce counts. They'll have to go.

This time, Chip objects, but DeLong hushes him. He scoops up an armful and treads towards the discard pile. But once there, he hesitates. These journals and specimens represent the sum total of the expedition's accomplishments. They're all they have to show for this harrowing journey. Can they really go back empty-handed? DeLong turns away from the discard pile.

We're keeping the records. And some of the specimens. I'll take personal responsibility for transporting them. Chip nods and smiles. Melville groans. The surgeon, Dr. James Ambler, looks concerned too. But the long stands firm. He's willing to discard sledges and other gear. But not those records. The world needs to know what they've accomplished.

George DeLong lights his pipe and takes a few cautious puffs before choking and coughing. It's the worst smoke of his life. He ran out of tobacco days ago and is now experimenting with tea leaves and dried coffee grounds.

He's standing on the shore of another island, one of several they've stopped at to escape the treacherous half-melted pack ice. This one is barely an island at all, more like a frozen sandbar, devoid of life.

Just beyond it, to the southwest, DeLong can hardly believe what he sees. Open ocean, free of ice. And beyond the horizon, a hundred miles away, by his best guess, lies Siberia. They're planning to sail for it tomorrow. It's September 11th, nearly two months after the Jeannette sank. DeLong is immensely proud that all his men are still alive. And, for the most part, in good health.

The same can't be said for the dogs. DeLong didn't have the heart to shoot them, but the last half dozen scampered off over the ice a few days ago, chasing some birds. They never returned, and it's probably for the best.

Once the men push off in their boats tomorrow, DeLong hopes they can reach Siberia within 36 hours. With any luck, they'll have good weather and calm seas. He's divided the men among the three boats, all of which have both sails and oars to power them. DeLong will helm the first boat, a 20-foot cutter. Charles Chip will be in charge of the other, smaller cutter. And George Melville will helm the 24-foot whale boat.

In Siberia, they're aiming to land on the Lena Delta, a vast frozen swamp fed by the massive Lena River. Once there, they plan to sail up a branch of the river and find a native village. The maps they're carrying now show dozens of settlements in the area. Then, they'll throw themselves on the mercy of the natives.

The three boats will try to stay close together on the crossing, but it will be difficult. Melville's boat is naturally faster than the other two. So if they get separated, they plan to rendezvous at the largest village in the area, a place along the Lena River called Boulogne. DeLong has been going over this plan incessantly and mulls it over again now while smoking his pipe.

Would they be better off lashing the boats together? Maybe ditch more weight? Instead of going upriver, should they paddle along the coast? But his thoughts are interrupted by a shout. "Captain, a word with you?" DeLong groans to see the navigator John Dainenhauer bearing down on him. He can already guess what this is about.

Danenhauer looks rough. His infected eye keeps getting worse, oozing mucus. Thankfully, he wears a patch over it. But given his visual impairment and lack of depth perception, he's having trouble keeping up. Even at camp, he keeps falling down and has to be dragged in the boat on any land crossing.

Worse, Danenhauer is completely delusional about his limitations. He keeps insisting he's fine. Dr. Ambler has confided that the syphilis might have reached his brain again. DeLong often catches him staring at others, muttering darkly.

Danenhauer has the same angry look now, except he's not muttering. He's shouting. Hey, why the hell is Melville helming a boat instead of me? I'm a graduate of the United States Naval Academy. He's just a grubby engineer. DeLong tries to calm him down, but Danenhauer only raises his voice even more. If you do not put me in charge, my family will have you court-martialed when we're back in Washington.

The Long is speechless. Then, suddenly furious. More furious than he's been all journey. But you can't see, John! Or even take two steps without stumbling! How can you command a boat? I outrank him! I'm an officer! It's my job to take on such responsibilities! You are not commanding that boat!

The taller, more muscular Danenhauer grunts and steps right into DeLong's face. DeLong throws down his pipe and clenches his fists, determined to have this out. Then, Danenhauer spins and stomps off. DeLong exhales hard and watches him go. Fifty yards away, Danenhauer shouts one last volley. "Your wretched plan is going to cost these brave men their lives!"

DeLong watches Danenhauer go in silence. Then he grabs his pipe from the ground and tries to take a puff. But it's already dead. DeLong has been over his plan a thousand times. It's the best he can come up with. But deep down, he fears that Danenhauer may be right. They could get split up on the water, or one of their already banged up boats could sink.

Somehow, after more than two years in the Arctic, DeLong and his entire crew have managed to survive. They've endured terrible hardships, but they've also been incredibly lucky. Now, DeLong worries that on this last push, their luck might finally run out.

If you like Against the Odds, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. This is the fourth episode of our five-part series, Voyage to the North Pole.

A quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't exactly know what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this event, we recommend the books In the Kingdom of Ice by Hampton Sides and Icebound by Leonard Guttridge.

I'm your host, Mike Corey. Sam Keen wrote this episode. Our editor is Steve Fennessy. Sound design by Rob Schieliga. Audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Coordinating producer is Desi Blaylock. Produced by Emily Frost. Managing producer is Matt Gant. Senior managing producer is Ryan Lohr. Senior producer is Andy Herman. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman, Stephanie Jens, Marshall Louis, and Erin O'Flaherty for Wondery.

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