Sometimes, when the ship was in special peril, the Eskimos on board would set up their strange barbaric chant--calling on the souls of their ancestors to come from the invisible realm and help us.
Often on this last expedition of the _Roosevelt_, as on the former one, have I seen a fireman come up from the bowels of the ship, panting for a breath of air, take one look at the sheet of ice before us, and mutter savagely: "By God, she's _got_ to go through!" Then he would drop again into the stoke hole, and a moment later an extra puff of black smoke would rise from the stack, and I knew the steam pressure was going up.
During the worst parts of the journey, Bartlett spent most of his time in the crow's nest, the barrel lookout at the top of the main mast.

I would climb up into the rigging just below the crow's nest, where I could see ahead and talk to Bartlett, backing up his opinion with my own, when necessary, to relieve him, in the more dangerous places, of too great a weight of responsibility.
Clinging with Bartlett, high up in the vibrating rigging, peering far ahead for a streak of open water, studying the movement of the floes which pressed against us, I would hear him shouting to the ship below us as if coaxing her, encouraging her, commanding her to hammer a way for us through the adamantine floes: "Rip 'em, Teddy! Bite 'em in two! Go it! That's fine, my beauty! Now--again! Once more!" At such a time the long generations of ice and ocean fighters behind this brave, indomitable young Newfoundland captain seemed to be re-living in him the strenuous days that carried the flag of England 'round the world.
[Illustration: TABULAR ICEBERG AND FLOE ICE].