Matthew Henson and the Ice Temple of Harlem Read online

  The two dismounted and tethered their dog when they reached their destination. To their good fortune, the ruddy-tinged sky was still clear, and for this part of the world, the weather tolerable.

  “Did you think it would be lying around for us to see?” Ootah asked. He enjoyed ribbing his friend when he could. He’d also told him he’d never heard this story about the sun goddess. They poked around the base of the mountain for a while. Even looking up its side, there were no gouges or where a meteorite could have made impact.

  Henson recalled that when he and Peary met with the museum’s board, a man named Fremont Davis made mention of an astronomer friend at a university. The scientist, Davis had noted, was of the opinion these meteorites would have struck the earth hundreds of thousands of years ago, and any traces would likely be long gone—and yet there were the other three.

  Motivated to one-up that cornpone cracker, Henson said, “Let’s keep at it.” But after another hour, ascending some yards up the mountain, no vestiges of iron ore or otherwise was discovered.

  “I’m hungry,” Ootah said when they reached level ground again.

  “I hear you,” Henson said. Hands on his hips, he walked about, looking at the ground. They were several yards from where their sledges were.

  “Hey, wait,” Henson said, trudging over to a spot where he saw a dark streak on the ground. He bent down, touching it with his gloved hand. “Not iron. Must be from another dogsled.” He stood up, and as he began to turn away, the ground gave out under him.

  “Matthew,” Ootah yelled, running over. A trench had opened in the frozen ground and, though he was concerned about his companion, the seasoned hunter knew better than to rush to the edge and fall in as well.

  Standing as close as he dared to the opening and leaning forward, he could see Henson on his back. But he hadn’t fallen straight down into the exposed subterranean cavern. Rather, he had landed on a pack of hard ice that covered a formation of sloping rock that led to the cavern floor.

  “Matthew, can you move?” his friend called out.

  Henson moaned, eyes fluttering open. “I think so,” he said weakly.

  “I’m coming.” Ootah began navigating the descent, the light fading from lavender to purple to black in the interior. It wasn’t that wide, and his friend had been lucky he’d landed where he did. Below on the floor of the revealed chamber several stalagmites of ice poked upward, some taller than a man. They hadn’t brought a torch, but, having long since gotten used to the half-light of summer, he could make out parts of the interior. He reached Henson who now was sitting up.

  “How do you feel?’ he asked in his native language.

  “I think I just had the wind knocked out of me,” he said. “Don’t seem to have anything broken.”

  “Good.” Getting a grip on him, Ootah helped him to his feet and the two went down to the cavern itself. There were number of stalagmites, and centuries of ice build-up had created outcroppings that protruded all around them, along the walls and overhead. It was hard to determine how large the space was, and how deep it might go.

  “Water must seep in all the way from the bay from cracks and cervices,” Henson observed.

  “True,” Ootah agreed, also looking around. He pulled back the hood of his fur parka and combed his long hair away from his eyes.

  “Hey, over there” Henson said, pointing into a gloomy patch beneath an overhang of rock and ice. They walked over to find the remains of a dogsled and pieces of skeleton.

  Ootah bent down and sorted through some of the bones with his gloved fingers. Momentarily he announced, “Dog and human bones.” He glanced up at Henson. “Not sure, but I’d say two people, but one sledge.”

  Henson pursed his lips. “Maybe one of them was a woman, lighter in weight.” Peary had brought his wife and young daughter along on at least one of their expeditions. Though he was pretty sure he hadn’t introduced the missus to his mistress Ahlikahsingwah. Hell, Peary had even hired the woman’s husband, and that man was proficient with a rifle.

  He refocused.

  “What happened to trap them in here? They both couldn’t have broken a leg. One would have been able to help the other out.”

  His friend offered a blank expression.

  The diffused light was tricky among the shadows, but Henson got closer to the tread marks from the sledge. He began following the trail which ended at a wall of ice.

  “That’s not from a ski,” Ootah said standing next to him.

  They both got out their ice axes and began chopping away, working up a sweat. Through the translucent layers, there seemed to be an object, greyish black and roughly shaped. The two explorers got more excited as they went, and after a half hour of chopping away, a portion of the object was exposed.

  “She was right,” Ootah exclaimed.

  “Yeah,” Henson breathed.

  Embedded in the ice was a hunk of rock that looked like the Tent and its two mates. It was the smallest of the four, maybe the size of a two-person couch Henson figured. But there was something different about this specimen. Renewed, they kept hacking away and got more of the artifact exposed. It was black and craggy with depressions and outcroppings like the other three. Only its surface wasn’t matte, but had a sheen to it.

  “What is this?” Ootah said, touching a blue vein in the rock. The meteorite was shot through with those veins. They’d uncovered enough that a dome of the ore protruded from the ice.

  “I don’t know.” Henson raised his axe high, hesitating for a second then struck the meteor’s surface forcefully. After several more chops at it, he broke off a triangular fragment. He picked it up, the piece filling his palm. The blue evident by contrast. “Maybe Ellsmere’s not so far gone he can’t test it. Or, when we get back to New York, I can get it examined.”

  “You’re not going to tell the others? Not even the captain?”

  Henson scoffed. Peary had not dissuaded the Eskimos from calling him by a rank he’d yet to achieve. “Not yet I’m not.”

  Ootah regarded the other man evenly.

  “What have you two jigs been up to, huh?” said a voice behind them.

  As one they turned to see Leeward descending the slope. He had a revolver in his gloved hand. “I knew seal hunting was bullshit. I figured you two had found gold, but this…” he said, reaching the floor. “This could be bigger.” He came closer, eyes glittering as he took in the meteorite. “It’s different than The Tent,” he said, excitement rising in his voice.

  “You were gonna hog all the credit, weren’t you, Henson? Tired of being in Peary’s shadow? Well, huh, I can’t blame you for that.” He laughed and snorted. “Shit, I’m going to be famous.”

  “You?” Henson growled, starting toward him.

  “Easy, now, boy,” Leeward said, waving the pistol at him. “Take it easy. I’ll make sure you and slant-eyes here get a mention in the footnotes.” He laughed again. It sounded hollow and mocking in the underground chamber.

  “Now, you two do what God made you for. Get to digging.”

  Henson and Ootah went back to work, gun on them. In another hour and a half, they had more of the rock exposed. Henson stood back. Both men’s chests rose and fell, sweat coating their faces.

  “Another break already?” Leeward joked. “Well, I wouldn’t want to wear out my two mules.

  Henson said, “You think your story will be believed, Leeward?”

  “Why not, Henson? I’m the white man here.”

  “He’s got you on that one,” Ootah said straight-faced.

  Henson pressed. “How will you explain you learned about the meteorite? How did you know to find it? And how are you going to stop me and Ootah from telling the truth?”

  “Don’t you worry your lil’ burr head about that, son. Maybe you two will have an accident out here in the wild. I came here out of the goodness of my heart searching for you two, but you must have fallen into a crevasse.” Leeward had been sitting on a rock
, legs crossed like he was relaxing at the theater. He stood up, menace drawing his face tight.

  “Break’s over, get the fuck back to work and get me my meal ticket.”

  As Henson had challenged Leeward, he’d moved away from the rock and Ootah. But the revolver was aimed at his stomach, and he knew better than to try anything. He turned back to continue working. The meteor, more than half of it sticking out of its icy prison, had been loosened by gravity and its weight. It fell the few feet to the floor with a thud. As it struck, there were sparks, and a jagged finger of cosmic energy shot from it with a boom as a bolt of blue-white light.

  Instinctively, the three ducked.

  Ootah went prone. Leeward cursed. Henson was in motion.

  He grabbed up a handful of loosened rock and ice at his feet and flung it at Leeward. The man had to raise his arms in front of his face to protect himself. As he did, Henson covered the distance between them with a bound and a leap. He bowled him over.

  “Get off me, nigger,” Leeward howled.

  Henson tried to punch him in the face but Leeward moved faster than he’d anticipated. He got a knee between them and shoved Henson away. Both were still down but Leeward scrambled up, gun in hand, about to shoot Henson. An ice axe whistled through the air and sunk in Leeward’s shoulder. Blood spurted from the wound and the hot numbness in his arm caused him to drop the weapon as he yelped.

  “You goddamn chink,” he yelled at Ootah.

  Henson swung like he’d seen Jack Johnson do in a fight. His fist hit Leeward flush in the face, staggering him.

  “I ain’t done yet, snowball.” Enraged, Leeward plucked the axe free from his shoulder and hefted it. Powered by desperation and greed, he charged at Henson, ignoring his wound, axe poised to do severe damage.

  Henson back-peddled and, heel hitting a rock, fell over on his backside. Ootah came at Leeward but he slashed at him, driving him back. Teeth bared, Leeward lunged at Henson, who yelled shrilly.

  Having nothing for defense, Henson latched onto the rock he’d tripped over. He drove its rough-hewn tip into Leeward’s chest as he dropped on him. To his and Ootah’s absolute amazement, in a flash of blue-white light, he exploded into flame as if he’d been roasted by a direct beam of sunlight. Not even enough time for him to scream. A rain of dark ash powdered Henson’s clothes and face. He rose, and they both stared down at the charred remains of what had been John Leeward.

  “Holy shit,” Henson stammered.

  “What was that?’ Ootah said, awed.

  Henson opened his hand. It was the piece of the meteorite he’d chopped loose for a sample. There was a smudge of blue on the tip of his index finger. He was afraid to rub his fingers together least the stuff ignite and burn him up, too.

  “It is from Seqinek.” Ootah said fervently.

  Henson wasn’t about to argue.

  “Where’s Leeward?” One of the crew, a mechanic named Peters, asked when Henson and Ootah returned to the three-masted Hope several hours after the incident.

  “Leeward?” Henson said innocently, with a glance at Ootah. “We didn’t see him.”

  His friend remained tight lipped.

  Peary appeared, frowning at Henson. “You taking up smoking after all these years, Matt?”

  “No...”

  “Got some ash in your mustache.” He walked off. His listing gait due to losing all his toes to frostbite.

  A search party was hastily organized. The man’s dogsled and team were found, but not at Mount Robeson—not that they would have found the meteorite or the burned corpse there. Leeward’s dogsled was found near a snowy bank of headlands a few miles away from the cavern. There were tracks from the dogs and sled, but by mushing their teams back the way they’d come, the two had dragged snow shoes to better cover their own tracks. They had briefly considered killing the dogs and destroying the sled, but unless you were going to stew up the dogs as the last resort for food—as both men had had to do in the past—trained Malamutes and Huskies were more valuable than precious metals out here. And Henson didn’t believe in killing innocent creatures.

  From the faked location, Henson and Ootah knew the searchers would go out in increasing circles to find a trace of Leeward. The Hope’s voyage was delayed, but despite all their searching, Leeward wasn’t found. What had he gone off to investigate, they wondered? Had he stepped on what seemed to be solid land and fallen to his death in a crevasse? They were known to open like the maw of a snow beast, then go shut again without a trace, filling in on themselves from the impact of a body hitting from enough height.

  “If and when the cavern is found, well,” Henson reasoned to a worried Ootah, “who was to say who’d been there?”

  “It’s too bad. He had his faults, but to die in the cold, alone, frozen to death. He didn’t deserve that.” Peary said later to Henson as the explorers stood on the Hope’s top deck, the chained down Tent behind them. It sat straddling the hold, suspended over steel rails. It was determined it would be easier to unload back in the States above deck rather than from within the ship.

  “He’s in the hands of the Lord now, sir,” Henson said.

  “As we all will be one day to answer for our deeds.”

  “Yes, that is so.”

  Peary regarded him evenly then walked away.

  Henson and Bessie Coleman sat quietly and comfortably in lounge chairs in the back room of May-May’s, closed up after the dinner rush. At his behest, Lacy DeHavilin had invested in the diner and this room was his unofficial office. It was dark in New York City and the evening was chill.

  “I know you and the cold are friends, but the rest of us ain’t penguins,” Coleman said. She bent to poke at the smoky logs in the wood burning stove. Embers sparked, and a tepid flame started up. She added a fresh log, closed the stove’s door, and returned to her seat near him.

  “You and Ootah covered up this Leeward’s death? Even though it was self-defense?”

  “That’s right,” he drew out. “I wasn’t about to take my chances with the whims of the crew, all of them white. Hell this wasn’t our first try at the Pole and each time I was the only negro. Sure, some were okay in their dealings with me, but I also knew several saw me as no more than Peary’s uppity valet. Out there where the law was tooth and claw, who knows what they’d believe? Now, mind you, the other way around, well hell, Leeward would have said ‘That nigger went crazy, his simple mind snapping from the pressure of having to keep up with us white men.’ And Ootah, well, you ever hear his name, or the names of the other three Eskimos who were with us when we planted Old Glory at the top of the Earth, mentioned?”

  “You’ve mentioned them in your talks.”

  He was impressed she knew that. “The white newspapers don’t come to my talks.”

  “There is that,” she agreed.

  They each sipped their libations. He also didn’t tell her how Peary had planned to leave him behind at their base camp and make the last surge to the Pole with only two other Eskimos. How he’d learned this overhearing two Inuit boys talking the night before. But Peary’s estimations had been off. Henson could also reckon latitude and longitude. He could estimate a sledge’s progress within feet, let alone miles. He’d been certain that their camp was already at the Pole. As Peary couldn’t reconcile the colored Henson could be so adept, Henson wasn’t going to waste time arguing.

  He had written about this publicly several years ago in the Boston American. But thereafter, didn’t mention it—he couldn’t without stewing in rancor and regret.

  Finally, he said, “Peary got his pension from Congress, Bess. They’ve denied mine, more than once. Despite the facts, and me saving the commander’s life. Twice.” He said this reservedly, no more emotion behind the words than ordering a steak in a restaurant. He had long ago come to accept that fate was his to forge from life’s adversities.

  Coleman nodded knowingly.

  He’d told her a version of the story of the cavern. He
’d left out the meteorite they’d come to call the Daughter, short for the Daughter of Seqinek. She was told it was gold, and that he and Leeward and Ootah had battled, him killing the Kentuckian with a hunting knife.

  “And this Davis fella, he wants that gold?” She said. “He kidnapped your Professor Ellsmere to get you to ‘fess up?”

  He’d also told her that Ootah and his brother Seegloo had hidden the gold. What had been hidden by the time he’d returned to Greenland was the meteorite with the strange power. A power he feared, then and now, would be used for evil. He also understood sooner or later he was going to have to tell her the truth. But first things first.

  “Not sure. But I’m looking forward to meeting Mr. Renwick.”

  “Very good,” she said, draining her glass. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Good deal.” He walked her to the rear door and unlatched it. “You going to be okay? I am a gentleman, and all.”

  “Negro, please,” she grinned, patting his cheek. She stepped out into the night and he watched her go, then closed the door.

  He turned from the door when the phone rang. Not too many people knew the number to this back room. He put a hip on the desk and plucked free the receiver, while picking up the body of the instrument in his other hand to talk into the mouth piece.

  “Hello?”

  “Matt, it’s Slip. Figured I’d take a chance calling you here seeing as how you don’t keep a blower at your place.”

  “What you got?” When he’d talked with Latimore that day in St. Nicholas Park, he’d engaged his services.

  “That egg who came at us in the park with the knife is a fella who goes by the sobriquet of Two Laces, though I have no idea why. But he’s been known to do muscle work for Casper Holstein and Dutch Schultz.”

  “Not at the same time I’m guessing, since them two ain’t exactly buddies.”

  The well-off Holstein was seldom-seen, at least in daylight hours. He was originally a poor boy from the West Indies and a pioneer of the numbers racket. Poet Claude McKay, among others, posited he invented the pursuit while working as a porter in a store on Fifth Avenue. He studied the way other lotteries had operated, relaying on who knew how their winning numbers were derived. For as little as a nickel, an aspirant could bet what would be the ending three-digit number derived from the tabulation of the daily New York Clearinghouse total, arrived at as the result of trading among banks. The last two numbers from the millions column of the exchange’s total plus the last number from the balance’s total -- both published in the late afternoon newspapers. In that way, no one could dispute what the winning numbers were.