"A WHITE MAN ALONE IN THE ARCTIC WHEN HIS SUPPLIES FAILED TO ARRIVE"
The following article is the first of six which Cleveland wrote (with writer Minna Littmann) for the New Bedford Sunday Times during his year’s leave of absence from the Hudson’s Bay Company during the winter of 1923-24. Cleveland was paid $45 dollars for the whole series, although he returned to the arctic and died before he was able to receive his money.
Minna Littman(n) (1893-1984) was a journalist with the New Bedford Standard Times from the 1920s until the 1950s. She was born in Salisbury, North Carolina to West Prussian parents - her father was grocer Isador(e) Littmann.
See my notes at the end.
[From the New Bedford Sunday Standard, Apr. 13, 1924:]
A WHITE MAN ALONE IN THE ARCTIC WHEN HIS SUPPLIES FAILED TO ARRIVE
Captain Cleveland’s Adventures in Frozen North Strange But True Tale – Sought Polar Bear for Dinner and Ended by Nearly Furnishing the Meal Himself – Gun Wouldn’t Fire
Captain George G. Cleveland, Vineyard whaleman and Arctic trader, has told the story of his adventures in the far north to Minna Littmann of The Standard staff. They will appear for six Sundays crammed with unusual incidents and many thrills. The first presented herewith is entitled,
Keedluck
The Clevelands of Martha’s Vineyard sailed in whaling vessels and clipper ships for generations before I was born. Growing up among seafaring men as I did, it happened quite as a matter of course that I followed the sea myself, and that the sea urged me north to become a whaleman and arctic trader.
I was already an experienced sailor and whaleman when I signed my contract with Thomas Luce & Company of New Bedford to ship as mate for one year’s whaling on their schooner Francis Allen and to remain as their agent in the north five years thereafter, trading for furs, and whaling. On two previous voyages we had cruised in Hudson Bay country to which I was now returning. I had wintered two years with the Francis Allen in Repulse Bay, which is part of upper Hudson Bay in the latitude of the Arctic Circle and spent 19 months in the same region with the bark A. R. Tucker. The Eskimos were friendly, and I had picked up a fair knowledge of their language. I knew that for tobacco, guns, and other supplies they would gladly man my boats on whaling expeditions. They would sell me meat – if they had any to spare – at any time my hunting might not prove successful. It had been agreed that every year my employers would send a ship for the whalebone and furs I had collected and to bring me fresh supplies. So, although I expected to endure hardships, in fulfilling my contract, I felt that I knew the country and the conditions I should have to face. It seemed to me that the five years ahead, except for the loneliness, would not be very different from the experience of my last two voyages. In the short summer I would go whaling as usual with the Eskimos, and in the winter, instead of being quartered in a ship stuck fast in the ice, I would live on land in a little house shrouded as deeply in snow and ice as our vessels had been in winter quarters.
Looking Forward to It
Before the preliminary year with the Francis Allen was over, I was looking forward to my five years ashore. An old-time whaling ship frozen in for the winter is a dreary abode at best. Thanks to the stuffy confinement and the salt food, the men who go into winter quarters in rugged health come out in the spring like ghosts of themselves. Living conditions, however, were small trials compared with our troubles with the crew. The seamen of the Francis Allen were a rough lot, and no wonder. They had been gathered together in the notorious old-fashioned way – coaxed to some waterfront tavern by an advertisement, “Wanted, able-bodied men for a pleasure cruise to Hudson’s Bay,” there plied with drinks until they signed their articles without the remotest idea of what they were doing, and then lugged aboard to wake up sober on the high seas. Not one in our lot had gone to sea before; we had stabbing and cursing and broils aplenty among them.
When the closing of winter terminated regular activities, the 15 men of our crew clung to their bunks in the darkness of the foc’sle, reading and sleeping the days away by the dim flicker of whale oil lamps. They refused persistently to go hunting and the ship’s officers were forced to take turns routing them out. By holding guns over them, we compelled them to roll whale oil casks up and down a hill an hour a day so that they would get exercise enough to keep them in something like condition. After a summer spent trying to make seamen and whalers of them, and a winter of herding them like convicts, I hugged the prospect of years ashore when there would be no such devils to contend with, when instead of sharing responsibility with the ship, I should have only a shack to worry about, a shack that would stay anchored where it was built without danger from icebergs or grinding floes.
Arctic Whaling Cruise
We found relief from the monotony of our life in winter quarters and from seeing so much of each other by making friends with the Eskimo boys who came eagerly to our ship. Each of us had a special favorite. My choice was Keedluk, a pleasant featured youngster whom I had singled out because he looked especially bright. Keedluk is the Eskimo word for the native lamp, a soapstone bowl with a moss wick floating in seal oil. It is the Eskimo’s only means of illuminating, heating, and cooking with in doors, and therefore a treasure without price. My friend, the namesake of the lamp proved his right to the title of the “Keedluk” of my Arctic adventures.
When the summer brought the season of open water, officers and crew set out on the whaling expedition that was to precede the departure of the Francis Allen. In Arctic whaling of those days, the vessel was left at anchor; the whalers sailed in open boats to inlets where whales had been taken in previous years, each outfit carrying provisions to last the six weeks of the whaling season. We divided that year into three parties. I had one boat manned by white men and one with an Eskimo crew under my command. Keedluk was by now big enough to pull an oar, so I took him in my boat. That was glory in itself for him, but I made him still happier by lending him a gun, the first ever entrusted to him.
Sailing to the southern shore of Repulse Bay, I had my men cache all but a two weeks’ supply of our provisions on the promontory of Beachy Point. If we didn’t take a whale before the two weeks were up, we could go back for more, I figured; and if we were lucky, our boats would not be cluttered with supplies. I then directed our course away from the mainland, across Rowe’s Welcome to Big Island, through the narrow strait which separates Big Island from the northwestern tip of Southampton Island, and thence into Duke of York Bay, where we had found good whaling in previous summers.
Luck was not with us. We sighted no whales that trip. We kept a sharp lookout for them the two weeks our provisions lasted, expecting that every day might bring the welcome sight of a huge back rising above the surface of the water. The last rations of our food supply disappeared, and with the pinch of hunger, we made ready to go back to Beachy Point for a fresh store. We didn’t go far. Big Island strait was blocked with ice; Frozen Straits, to the north of Big Island, was blocked as well. There was no other route. We were trapped by ice in midsummer. The sea tide divides in Rowe’s Welcome opposite Big Island. Part flows north, part south. The rising tide had filled the northern strait with ice. The falling tide had jammed Big Island Strait. If I had asked the advice of my Eskimos before I cached our supplies on the mainland, they would have warned me of the risk I took…. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask.
Game is plentiful on the southern part of Southampton Island, but the northern part, where we camped, is barren of it. The third day of our fast arrived without our getting a shot at anything. The straits continued frozen, and our plight grew serious. I shouldered my gun, handed Keedluk his, and announced that we were going hunting.
Pot-Hunting for Polar Bear
It was July, and the snow was off the slopes. In the sheltered spots masses of tiny, bright colored Arctic flowers nodded, and the wind brought us whiffs of fragrance from the blue bells of a blooming moss. We were too hungry, however, to appreciate the beauty of anything that wasn’t edible. We tramped as straight as we could go, 14 miles across the point which separates Duke of York Bay from Fox channel, the eastern boundary of Southampton Island, until we reached a commanding hill on the shore, which I climbed, that I might survey the island for game.
Keedluk scrambled up the hill with me. I scanned the horizon, but there was not a living thing in sight. I focused on the nearer slopes. In the valley at the foot of the hill, separated from us by a tall rock, a patch of white which I had mistaken for a snow drift caught my attention. I made it out clearly now. It was a big white bear asleep with her cub. I pointed towards the slumberers. “There’s our dinner, Keedluk, let’s go get it,” I whispered.
My young comrade’s eyes dilated in horror. To shoot a bear safely marooned on an ice floe is one thing; to arouse the savagery of a mother bear is quite another. Keedluk knew the difference. “No, no, no,” he implored, seizing my arm and endeavoring to pull me back the way we had come, “let’s go back to the boats.”
There was as great a risk of starvation for all of us as there was of my getting the worst of it with the bear. I told Keedluk that he might remain in safety on the hill while I tried my luck at killing the beast. He fought down his terror and reluctantly let me go.
I descended the hill as quickly and quietly as I could, lugging my old .44 Winchester. It had long ago seen its best days; at times it refused to fire. Whenever it misfired, it jammed, and I had to unscrew the breech to reload. I was too much concerned with getting down the hill without waking the bear to think about the shortcomings of my weapon. Keeping within cover of the tall rock I had seen from the top of the hill, I advanced until I was not more than 15 feet from the bear. Then I took my first good look at her. The huge creature lay on her back, forepaws spread wide, sleeping peacefully, while her cub enjoyed a mid-day meal with smacks of satisfaction.
I aimed steadily, carefully, and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked, but it did not fire. A cold shiver ran up my spine. Suppose that furry white monster should awaken! I pulled the trigger again. Again there was a click, a sharp one, but no report. The cub heard the second click. It began clawing furiously at its mother to awaken her. I tried to reload. The gun jammed.
The big bear sat upon her haunches, stretching, and opened her eyes. My predicament seemed like the worst sort of nightmare come true. That tall rock behind which I had advanced was my one refuge. I don’t know how I scaled it – it was about eight feet high, and almost perpendicular – but I dashed for it and landed on top somehow, still clinging to my balky gun. I had scarcely hauled one foot up after the other before the bear reached the bottom of the rock and rose to her hind legs, clawing for me. I tried to get the screws out of the breech so I could reload. My fingers scarcely touched them before I had to reverse the weapon to club the bear on the nose and thus make her drop back from her scramble up the rock. She relaxed her efforts in the first moment of pain, only to come at me with redoubled fury. Her lunges grew consistently more menacing. I made no progress whatever with reloading the gun, not daring to be off my guard for a moment. The bear was growling horribly and snarling, froth streaming from her mouth. She could reach the top of the rock with her claws. It was all I could do in my excitement to keep my balance on the far edge as I whacked at her with the butt of the gun.
Keedluk to the Rescue
Time dragged. … I fumbled hopelessly with the screws of the rifle. After what seemed an eternity – it was probably about ten minutes, judging from the distance Keedluk had to come – I caught sight out of the corner of my eye of Keedluk slipping up cautiously behind the bear. He was white as a sheet, and his legs trembled so that he tottered. He had never fired a gun in his life, but his quivering hands clutched the gun I had lent him. There was no doubt he intended to try to use it. My desperation gave way to sharp anxiety for the boy, mingled with wild hope. Closer, closer, Keedluk crept on the enraged animal, until he had the gun all but touching her ear. The bear was so bent on murdering me that she did not notice him. He summoned all the nerve in one desperate effort and pulled the trigger. There was a flash, and a loud report. My enemy crumbled, shot through the brain.
I had a much harder time getting down from my rock than I remembered having getting up. Keedluk and I pounded each other in joyous relief. When we caught our breath, I tried to tell Keedluk what I thought of him. All he could do was gasp, “Wah-gud-lunga, wah-gud-lunga!” Eskimo for “Thank Heaven!” and a lot of other things rolled into one.
We regained our composure to see the baby bear trotting off along a rocky stream bed. The little orphan was soon captured and despite his angry struggles disappeared into our game bag, alive and kicking. He was later sent to a zoo, and may be living still.
The killing of the mother bear proved to have been the salvation of our party. Although we sought other game, we didn’t get within range of another animal the three weeks we continued prisoners on the island. Until the channel opened permitting our return to the cache and the schooner, one scanty meal of Bruin each day was our sole ration.
To Keedluk the incident brought the dignity of man’s estate, for the Eskimos believe that a boy becomes a man when he kills his first bear, no matter how young or how old he may be at the time. It also brought him the coveted ownership of the gun that killed the bear, for I lost no time in presenting the weapon to him. To me, with the departure of the Francis Allen and the beginning of my five year’s exile at hand, the incident brought a clearer realization of the hazards involved in the work I had undertaken and the uncertainties of the country, as well as a sense of everlasting gratitude to Keedluk.
I waved farewell to the Francis Allen on the fifth of September 1898. Beside me was a heap of lumber and tar paper roofing for my house, casks filled with ammunition, flour, tea, sugar, and trade articles, and a ten-ton heap of coal. A little band of Eskimo men stood with me, ready to help me build my rude quarters. As the sails of the schooner disappeared below the horizon, I saw in fancy, approaching, the sails of the ship that would come next year, laden with fresh supplies for me and news from home. The thought of the ship that was to come gave me something to look forward to during the uneventful course of the long, lonely winter and the brief whaling season that rounded out my first year of exile.
Marooned in the Arctic
The ship had not arrived when we left to go whaling in the summer of ’99. I returned to my post at Wager Bay after a two months’ absence brimming with anticipation. The moment I opened the door, I knew that the ship had come. Speared to the wall above my pallet by a snow knife, two letters greeted me. I made an eager dash for them. At the same moment my senses recorded the appalling fact that my three rooms were just as I had left them – no new stores put in. The first letter was from my family. I turned swiftly to the other from my employer. “Are they telling me to come home?” I muttered as I broke the seal in feverish haste. The message was brief. “In fitting out ship we were so busy that we [microfilm copy illegible] from ship‘s goods. Captain Santos will supply you with what you need.” Yes, but where was Captain Santos?
It was mortal queer that Captain Santos hadn’t taken the initiative of leaving me a few necessities, or even a message, I thought, while strove to reconcile myself to bitter disappointment. Twisting the letter in my hand, I found scribbled on the back of the envelope a line from Santos. “Going into winter quarters at Depot Island.”
Depot Island was 330 miles south as the crow flies; 600 miles by dog sled. Did Santos expect me to follow him and spend the winter with him there? I couldn’t have got to him then even had my contract not required me to stay at Wager Bay. What had happened was more than strange. Santos’ note – Thomas Luce & Company’s note – no supplies. Oh, Santos must be counting on getting my stuff to me next season, I assured myself.
In January, when the ice was firm enough for travel by dog sled, Keedluk and an older Eskimo went down to Depot Island for me. They carried a note which told Captain Santos what I had and what I needed until he could bring up the bulk of my supplies. My messengers brought back his reply, “Nothing aboard for the post. Scarcely enough supplies for the ship.”
My worst misgivings were confirmed. Someone had bungled inexcusably or else the apparent muddle was a ruse to compel me to break my contract and return with Santos. That I was determined not to do. I was not going to forfeit my bargain by jumping at conclusions. If I didn’t go back with Santos, the company would surely send another ship for me with supplies or else with definite instructions. I still had a generous stock of ammunition, and felt sure I could hold out until another boat arrived.
My second year alone in the north was well under way. What supplies I had left I used sparingly. I relied for food on the prowess of my gun. The summer brought the brief whaling season around again and I went north again with the Eskimos in pursuit of bowheads. As we passed through Frozen Straits on our return, we noticed several places where empty tins and piled-up rocks suggested the camping sites of white men. I wondered what vessel they had come from.
When we reached Repulse Bay, natives were waiting for me with news. Keedluk stood at my side and rephrased their words when he saw I was uncertain whether I had caught the drift of what they were telling. At last I got the whole story. Beyond a shadow of a doubt from what the Eskimos said, the white men who had camped in Frozen Straits were the crew of the Francis Allen. The schooner had been destroyed by fire during the summer, every stick and spar of her. The crew saved only what they had in their whaleboats. They came to the Straits in hope of meeting other whaling vessels, but their quest was fruitless. They left word for me with the Eskimos that when Captain Santos rearranged his cargo late in the spring, he had, after all, found the supplies intended for me, but the vessel had burned before he had an opportunity to put them ashore at my post.
I learned many years later that the crew of the Frances Allen worked their way south to the Hudson Bay Company post at Churchill and eventually got safely out of the country. But in the intervening years before I saw a white man again, I did not know what had become of them. It seemed to me not unlikely that the owners would give me up for lost with the rest if the Francis Allen and her crew failed to return. My faith in the coming of the relief ship on which I had so confidently counted dwindled with my diminishing supplies.
Next Sunday Captain Cleveland tells of the theft of his remaining supplies, and how he was compelled to join the Eskimo tribe, become an angikok, or witch doctor, and spend years without seeing a white face.
Notes on this article:
1) We know that Cleveland sailed on the voyage of the Francis Allyn (note correct spelling) which left New Bedford with a crew of twenty on July 7, 1897 under the command of Capt. Arthur Gibbons (whose skeleton Cleveland was to discover in 1923, but that’s another story!) By one report, Cleveland served as second mate. The log of this voyage exists at the Providence Public Library, but I haven’t seen it yet. The Francis Allyn returned to New Bedford on Oct. 21, 1898, although according to Cleveland he was no longer aboard. In June 1899, the Francis Allyn sailed again from New Bedford on a new voyage. Its register lists “Geo. G. Cleveland” of Vineyard Haven, age 28, as one of the fourteen crewmen. This contradicts Cleveland’s account as he claimed to have been at the Wager River post at this time (unless he was considered a crewman on paper only?)
2) In this article, Cleveland would have been about 28 years old and Keedluk about 14. Keedluk (aka Qillaq / K’illak / Keedluck, “Johnny Cleveland,” and “Cleveland’s Johnnie”) was reportedly born about 1885, the son of Siksik of Tamnaruluk and Iktuliak. His biological father is said to be a white whaler of Portuguese background who whaled near Wager Inlet and Southampton Island. He had an older brother known as “Manuel” who was a former whaler who shared his half-Portuguese heritage and had legs crippled by frostbite.
3) The Francis Allyn left the US on its final voyage to Hudson Bay in July 1901 under Capt. Manuel F. Santos. It burned on July 15, 1902 off Depot Island. One of the crew had gone into the forecastle to dry his clothing, and soon after he came out the vessel was discovered to be on fire. The crew took to the whale boats and made a 400-mile journey to the south where they were picked up by the Scottish whaleship Active and transferred to the American whaler, Era.
4) According to the book “When the Whalers were Up North” by Dorothy Harley Eber, “For two winters had with him a white companion, Charles Clemmons of Torrington, Connecticut.” (However in a 1906 lawsuit, Cleveland claimed that “When the Era reached her destination his companion's courage failed and he sailed home with the boat, leaving Cleveland alone.”
Eber relates a slightly different version of Cleveland’s abandonment:
"Joe Curley elaborated on his career: 'Oh, I knew George. He was one of the Americans, but because he was such a thief, he was just left behind among the Inuit people. He was fired. Eventually he was adopted by Harry and his family. They were concerned for him and looked after him. He had stolen quite a bit of equipment, mainly perhaps liquor. He stole from the ship and the crew. So they just left him here. The Inuit looked after him, fed him, and gave him clothing. They treated him as one of themselves. They didn't want him starving.”