Anonymous

The Ravings

A poem from the Arctic Eagle of December 25, 1903 by a member of its crew during a North Pole expedition led by Anthony Fiala (1869-1950) of Brooklyn. The newspaper was initially printed on board the ship America, then on Prince Rudolph Island when the ship was crushed in pack ice. “The Ravings” was reprinted in the Brooklyn Eagle of September 10, 1905, from which paper the type had been borrowed. Fiala observed that he’d “thought that a newspaper, issued from time to time, might help to liven the men up and keep them cheerful.”

(With Apologies to Edgar Allan)

Once, in Arctic night most dreary,

While the ship’s crew rested—weary

Of the task of building sledges

That had been built once before,

With the sound of moorings slacking,

Suddenly there came a cracking

As of pack-­ice closer packing—

Crowding in toward the shore—

All of this and then some more.

 

Fiala, roused by this commotion

In the lonely Arctic Ocean,

Instantly, with optic psychic,

Saw that ghost he saw before.

Quoth he “Man or devil, hark’ee—

Speak to me from out thy parkee—

Tell me—(if thou knowest, mark’ee)—

Tell me this now, I implore—

Only this, I ask no more:

 

“Can she twice withstand the crushing

Of the pack upon her rushing—

Lying here at outer ice-­edge,

Far from the protecting shore?”

Spake the ghost, with grin ungainly—

“Listen—I will tell thee plainly

That thou strivest to save her, vainly

Her bones share with mine this shore,

Here they’ll rest forever more.”

 

Anthony, with eyeballs starting,

Thro’ his pale lips slightly parting

Breathed a prayer—then humped himself

As he had never humped before.

While the “Chief” cursed the timbers crashing,

The “Old Man,” with bull’s eye flashing,

Down the narrow gangplank dashing

Dragged “chronometer” ashore.

Only this?—well, perhaps more.

 

Later, Hartt with tears surprising,

Muttered that the water, rising,

Made the ship unsafe to stay on—

Something he’d ne’er said before,

To Fiala—“You show sand, sir;

But I’m now in full command, sir;

And I order you to land, sir.

Be so good to climb ashore,

I am last—.” And then some more.

Those at home may have a notion

That the mystic Arctic Ocean

Offers deeds of valor only,

To our manhood’s precious store;

But all those who—joyed or grieving—

Saw our little party leaving,

Realize that I’m not weaving

Fiction in with History’s lore—

This there is—and then some more.

 

Thus, dismantled, crushed and dying,—

But with colors bravely flying—

Our good ship lies on the ice pack,

Doomed to sleep on Teplitz shore.

On the bridge, the parkee spirit

Shouts his order ’till we hear it

All about the ship or near it,

Sometimes we can hear his roar

From our cabin on the shore—

Sometimes his—and sometimes more.