THE ICE FIGHT GOES ON 111 



Bartlett — for he was then, as now, the master of the 

 Roosevelt — had tried to drive the ship south from her 

 exposed position at Cape Sheridan to a more sheltered 

 place in Lincoln Bay, where I was to rejoin them. 



At Shelter River, the Roosevelt had been caught 

 between the moving pack and the vertical face of the 

 ice-foot, receiving almost a fatal blow. She had been 

 lifted bodily out of the water, the stern-post and rudder 

 smashed into kindling wood, and a blade ripped off 

 the propeller. Everything was landed from the vessel 

 in the expectation that when the ice slacked off and 

 she settled into the water, she would be leaking so 

 badly it would be impossible to keep her afloat. 



Bartlett and his men worked manfully in stopping 

 the leaks, as far as possible; and when the pressure 

 from the ice was partially released, the ship was 

 floated. But she lay there nearly a month, and twice 

 during that time even the rigging of the ship was 

 landed, when it seemed impossible that she could 

 survive. 



Here at Shelter River I had found the Roosevelt 

 on my return from "farthest west." A new rudder 

 was improvised, and the crippled and almost helpless 

 ship floated around into Lincoln Bay, whence she 

 finally limped home to New York. 



After an hour of retrospection at this place I 

 walked back to the ship. Borup and MacMillan had 

 also gone ashore, in the hope of obtaining game but 

 had not found any. It was a dull, raw, overcast day 

 and MacMillan, Borup, the doctor, and Gushue, the 

 mate, amused themselves by target-shooting with 

 their Winchesters. 



