Matthew Henson: A Negro Explorer at the North Pole

Matthew Alexander Henson was an American explorer who may have been the first person to reach the North Pole.

Matthew Henson was also an African-American man. It is an unfortunate reality that most historic explorers of color were never given the recognition they deserved for their accomplishments. Many were forgotten from the western history books despite buried records showing that some had accomplished as much as if not more than their white counterparts. Most were never allowed to tell their story, never given a chance for their voices to be heard, and they were also unable to write down their tales of adventure, to leave behind their legacy. It is a truly sad loss to outdoor history and culture.

Somewhat of an exception to that rule, Matthew A. Henson published his own autobiography and received a modest amount of attention for his accomplishments, though not so much as his white contemporaries. Henson was a black man and lifelong voyager who was under Robert Peary’s leadership during numerous expeditions into the Arctic, the last being in 1908-1909 in which the party claimed to have successfully reached the geographic North Pole. Henson has said that he was the first member of the party to reach what they had believed to be the pole.

Whether the expedition actually found the exact location of the pole is up for debate, but the struggles, determination, and bravery exemplified by Henson and his companions for curiosity’s sake are no less justified— no less amazing, whether or not they found the pole.

The Arctic team captained by Robert Peary is notable because he had his white companions stay behind at camp while Matthew Henson and four Inuit assistants joined Peary as they marched the final stretch to the pole. He revered these men for their strength and courage, making sure they were known to all who were interested in his quest for the North Pole.

Of Matthew Henson and the expedition, Robert Peary said:

“The example and experience of Matthew Henson, who has been a member of each and of all my Arctic expeditions since 1891, is only another one of the multiplying illustrations of the fact that race, or color, or bringing-up, or environment, count nothing against a determined heart, if it is backed and aided by intelligence.

Henson proved his fitness by long and thorough apprenticeship, and his participation in the final victory which planted the Stars and Stripes at the North Pole, and won for this country the international prize of nearly four centuries…it is an interesting fact that in the final conquest of the “prize of the centuries,” not alone individuals, but races were represented. On that bitter brilliant day in April, 1909, when the Stars and Stripes floated at the North Pole, Caucasian, Ethiopian, and Mongolian stood side by side at the apex of the earth, in the harmonious companionship resulting from hard work, exposure, danger, and a common object.”

Though the storytelling of the time would have you believe that Commander Peary considered Henson an equal, the commander unabashedly lavished in the praise, honor, and awards he was given by the American people, all the while leaving Henson to be all but ignored and forgotten. But Henson was intelligent, well-read, and courageous man. He had accrued enough attention as the non-white man who made it to the North Pole, and he had a story to tell, so he made sure it was going to be told.

Matthew A. Henson published his autobiography of the North Pole expedition in 1912 titled A Negro Explorer at the North Pole. In this autobiography Henson leads in with a brief recount of the many expeditions which led up to the famous North Pole journey, and then he details the historic trip itself by referencing his personal journal and other remembrances which build “the narrative of that voyage, and the story of the discovery of the North Pole”.

During these journeys he lived with the Inuit people for extended periods of time, mastering their language and remembered by the people as, at the time, being the only non-Inuit to train and utilize sled dog teams in the Inuit way. Of this time, Matthew Henson said:

“Naturally the impressions formed on my first visit to the Land of Ice and Snow were the most lasting, but in the coming years I was to learn more and more that such a life was no picnic, and to realize what primitive life meant. I was to live with a people who, the scientists stated, represented the earliest form of human life, living in what is known as the Stone Age, and I was to revert to that stage of life by leaps and bounds, and to emerge from it by the same sudden means. Many and many a time, for periods covering more than twelve months, I have been to all intents an Esquimo, with Esquimos for companions, speaking their language, dressing in the same kind of clothes, living in the same kind of dens, eating the same food, enjoying their pleasures, and frequently sharing their griefs. I have come to love these people. I know every man, woman, and child in their tribe. They are my friends and they regard me as theirs.”

Henson eventually came to adopt an orphan Esquimo boy after the child’s mother had died. He supplied the boy with all the necessities of life, taught him English, and “made him a presentable Young American” who Henson was proud of. Years passed here in the North and back at home in the United States before the fateful voyage would take place.

Henson faced much adversity in his life, mostly at the hands of racism which could strangle a person into submission or degrade with a patronizing slap on the back. In his book Henson wrote no ill will of Commander Peary and his fellow explorers, however, and speaks of them in only the kindest regards. Despite the harshness of such an expedition, Henson displays a stoic sense of calm throughout his writing.

What we’re given in Henson’s autobiography, A Negro Explorer at the North Pole, is a well written, well documented story of adventure. Henson details both the wild and mundane occurrences that happen throughout the journey. The day to day life of the explorers is a treat to experience, and the feats of heroism (and stupidity) make for an exciting read.

The beginning chapters showcase Henson’s hesitancy and excitement as the expedition sets off for the North Pole. His first journal entry is entered thusly:

July 6, 1908: We’re off! For a year and a half I have waited for this order, and now we have cast off. The shouting and the tumult ceases, the din of whistles, bells, and throats dies out, and once again the long, slow surge of the ocean hits the good ship that we have embarked in. It was at one-thirty p. m. to-day that I saw the last hawse-line cast adrift, and felt the throb of the engines of our own ship. Chief Wardwell is on the job, and from now on it is due north.

Oyster Bay, Long Island Sound: We are expecting President Roosevelt. The ship has been named in his honor and has already made one voyage towards the North Pole, farther north than any ship has ever made.

The journey is full of icy perils, raucous laughter, toiling work, companionship, respect, fear, fighting, hunting, death, and so much more. Here now are a few select passages from A Negro Explorer at the North Pole. This exciting read is quite an experience to behold, that of an arduous seafaring voyage coupled with a bone-freezing trek across a frozen wasteland. Matthew Henson’s story is unlike any I have ever read before, and an adventure that few, even to this day, have ever beheld.

July 25 and 26: Busy with my carpenter’s kit in the Commander’s cabin and elsewhere. There has been heavy rain and seas, and we have dropped the Erik completely. The Roosevelt is going fine. We can see the Greenland coast plainly and to-day, the 29th, we raised and passed Disco Island. Icebergs on all sides. The light at midnight is almost as bright as early evening twilight in New York on the Fourth of July and the ice-blink of the interior ice-cap is quite plain. We have gone through Baffin’s Bay with a rush and raised Duck Island about ten a. m. and passed and dropped it by two p. m.

I was ashore on Duck Island in 1891, on my first voyage north, and I remember distinctly the cairn the party built and the money they deposited in it. I wonder if it is still there? There is little use for money up here, and the place is seldom visited except by men from the whalers, when their ships are locked in by ice.

From here it is two hundred miles due north to Cape York.

August 1: Arrived at Cape York Bay and went ashore with the party to communicate with the Esquimos of whom there were three families. They remembered us and were dancing up and down the shore, and waving to us in welcome, and as soon as the bow of the boat had grazed the little beach, willing hands helped to run her up on shore. These people are hospitable and helpful, and always willing, sometimes too willing. As an example, I will tell how, at a settlement farther north, we were going ashore in one of the whale-boats. Captain Bartlett was forward, astraddle of the bow with the boat-hook in his hands to fend off the blocks of ice, and knew perfectly well where he wanted to land, but the group of excited Esquimos were in his way and though he ordered them back, they continued running about and getting in his way. In a very short while the Captain lost patience and commenced to talk loudly and with excitement; immediately Sipsoo took up his language and parrot-like started to repeat the Captain’s exact words: “Get back there, get back—how in ——do you expect me to make a landing?” And thus does the innocent lamb of the North acquire a civilized tongue.

It is amusing to hear Kudlooktoo in the most charming manner give Charley a cussing that from any one else would cause Charley to break his head open.

For the last week I have been busy, with “Matt! The Commander wants you,” “Matt do this,” and “Matt do that,” and with going ashore and trading for skins, dogs, lines, and other things; and also walrus-hunting. I have been up to my neck in work, and have had small opportunity to keep my diary up to date. We have all put on heavy clothing; not the regular fur clothes for the winter, but our thickest civilized clothing, that we would wear in midwinter in the States. In the middle of the day, if the sun shines, the heat is felt; but if foggy or cloudy, the heavy clothing is comfortable.

All of the Esquimos want to come aboard and stay aboard. Some we want and will take along, but there are others we will not have or take along on a bet, and the pleasant duty of telling them so and putting them ashore falls to me. It is not a pleasant job to disappoint these people, but they would be a burden to us and in our way. Besides, we have left them a plentiful supply of needfuls, and our trading with them has been fair and generous.

The “Crow’s-Nest” has been rigged upon the mainmast, and this morning, after breakfast, Mr. Whitney, three Esquimos, and myself started in Mr. Whitney’s motor-boat to hunt walrus. The motor gave out very shortly after the start, and the oars had to be used. We were fortunate in getting two walrus, which I shot, and then we returned to the ship for the whale-boat. We left the ship with three more Esquimos in the whale-boat, and got four more walrus.

Sunday, at Kangerdlooksoah; the land of the reindeer, and the one pleasant appearing spot on this coast. Mr. Whitney and his six Esquimo guides have gone hunting for deer, and I have been ashore to trade for dogs and furs, and have gotten twenty-seven dogs, sealskin-lines for lashings, a big bearskin, and some foxskins. I try to get furskins from animals that were killed when in full fur and before they have started to shed, but some of the skins I have traded in are raw, and will have to be dried.

I have had the disagreeable job of putting the undesirable ashore, and it was like handling a lot of sulky school children.

Seegloo, the dog-owner, is invited to bring his pack aboard and is easily persuaded. He will get a Springfield rifle and loading-outfit and also a Winchester, if he will sell, and he is more than willing.

And this is the story of day after day from Cape York to Etah Harbor, which we reached on August 12.

The story of the winter at Cape Sheridan is a story unique in the experience of Arctic exploration. Usually it is the rule to hibernate as much as possible during the period of darkness, and the party is confined closely to headquarters. The Peary plan is different; and constant activity and travel were insisted on.

There were very few days when all of the members of the expedition were together, after the ship had reached her destination. Hunting parties were immediately sent out, for it was on the big game of the country that the expedition depended for fresh meat. Professor Marvin commenced his scientific work, and his several stations were all remote from headquarters; and all winter long, parties were sledging provisions, equipment, etc., to Cape Columbia, ninety-three miles northwest, in anticipation of the journey to the Pole. Those who remained at headquarters did not find life an idle dream. There was something in the way of work going on all of the time. I was away from the ship on two hunting trips of about ten days each, and while at headquarters, I shaped and built over two dozen sledges, besides doing lots of other work.

Naturally there were frequent storms and intense cold, and in regard to the storms of the Arctic regions of North Greenland and Grant Land, the only word I can use to describe them is “terrible,” in the fullest meaning it conveys. The effect of such storms of wind and snow, or rain, is abject physical terror, due to the realization of perfect helplessness. I have seen rocks a hundred and a hundred and fifty pounds in weight picked up by the storm and blown for distances of ninety or a hundred feet to the edge of a precipice, and there of their own momentum go hurtling through space to fall in crashing fragments at the base. Imagine the effect of such a rainfall of death-dealing bowlders on the feelings of a little group of three or four, who have sought the base of the cliff for shelter. I have been there and I have seen one of my Esquimo companions felled by a blow from a rock eighty-four pounds in weight, which struck him fairly between the shoulder-blades, literally knocking the life out of him. I have been there, and believe me, I have been afraid. A hundred-pound box of supplies, taking an aërial joy ride, during the progress of a storm down at Anniversary Lodge in 1894, struck Commander Peary a glancing blow which put him out of commission for over a week. These mighty winds make it possible for the herbivorous animals of this region to exist. They sweep the snow from vast stretches of land, exposing the hay and dried dwarf-willows, that the hare, musk-oxen, and reindeer feed on.

The Esquimo families who came north to Cape Sheridan with us on the Roosevelt found life much more ideal than down in their native land. It was a pleasure trip for them, with nothing to worry about, and everything provided. Some of the families lived aboard ship all through the winter, and some in the box-house on shore. They were perforce much cleaner in their personal habits than they were wont to be in their own home country, but never for an instant does the odor or appearance of an Esquimo’s habitation suggest the rose or geranium. The aroma of an East Side lunch-room is more like it.

There were thirty-nine Esquimos in the expedition, men, women and children; for the Esquimo travels heavy and takes his women and children with him as a matter of course. The women were as useful as the men, and the small boys did the ship’s chores, sledging in fresh water from the lake, etc. They were mostly in families; but there were several young, unmarried men, and the unattached, much-married and divorced Miss “Bill,” who domiciled herself aboard the ship and did much good work with her needle. She was my seamstress and the thick fur clothes worn on the trip to the Pole were sewn by her. The Esquimos lived as happily as in their own country and carried on their domestic affairs with almost the same care-free irregularity as usual. The best-natured people on earth, with no bad habits of their own, but a ready ability to assimilate the vices of civilization. Twenty years ago, when I first met them, not one used tobacco or craved it. To-day every member of the tribe has had experience with tobacco, craves it, and will give most everything, except his gun, to get it. Even little toddlers, three and four years old, will eat tobacco and, strange to say, it has no bad effect. They get tobacco from the Danish missionaries and from the sailors on board the whaling, seal, and walrus-ships. Whisky has not yet gotten in its demoralizing work.

It is my conviction that the life of this little tribe is doomed, and that extinction is nearly due. It will be caused partly by themselves, and partly by the misguided endeavors of civilized people. Every year their number diminishes; in 1894, Hugh J. Lee took the census of the tribe, and it numbered two hundred and fifty-three; in 1906, Professor Marvin found them to have dwindled to two hundred and seven. At this writing I dare say their number is still further reduced, for the latest news I have had from the Whale Sound region informs me that quite a number of deaths have occurred, and the birth-rate is not high. It is sad to think of the fate of my friends who live in what was once a land of plenty, but which is, through the greed of the commercial hunter, becoming a land of frigid desolation. The seals are practically gone, and the walrus are being quickly exterminated. The reindeer and the musk-oxen are going the same way, for the Esquimos themselves now hunt inland, when, up to twenty years ago, their hunting was confined to the coast and the life-giving sea.

They are very human in their attributes, and in spite of the fact that their diet is practically meat only, their tempers are gentle and mild, and there is a great deal of affection among them. Except between husband and wife, they seldom quarrel; and never hold spite or animosity. Children are a valuable asset, are much loved, never scolded or punished, and are not spoiled. An Esquimo mother washes her baby the same way a cat washes her kittens. There are lots of personal habits the description of which might scatter the reading circle, so I will desist with the bald statement, that, for them, dirt and filth have no terrors.

I encourage you to read Matthew Alexander Henson’s autobiography, A Negro Explorer at the North Pole, in full. It’s a grand adventure and a real page-turner. You’ll enjoy it.