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"Mister
Peary was a
noble man, and
it was a
privilege to
serve him. He
was always my
friend. I have
been fortunate,
indeed. I have
not expected
much, and I have
not been
disappointed.
One does not
need pride and
position to be
considered
worthy. When a
man has been out
of the world,
away from
everything, he
learns something
that the world
can never teach
him. And when he
comes back,
nothing can
confound him."
"I am not used to
this, a man coming here
to my office to shake my
hand. I thank you for
this abrupt honor, of
course, but I must admit
that you make me a
little unhappy. For more
than 20 years I have
been waiting for a
stranger to come through
this door to say, 'Matt
Henson, you did your
duty as a man should.’
Now it has happened to
me. And it hurts me to
know you are a white
man. All these years I
have hoped that the
person who should first
seek me out would be one
of my own race."
|
[KEN magazine 1939] |
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Discovery of
the unsung
hero of
polar discovery
|
 |
| (restored 1939 magazine
article) |
Nevertheless, Matt today (r.)
seems happier than in 1909 (l.) |
|
Matthew Henson, Peary's Negro
servant, broke trail for the explorer
right up to the North Pole, after others
of the party had turned back. But he
didn't expect much reward, and wasn't
disappointed: Few have heard of him.
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It was a quarter to three on the day
of New York's greeting to a famous
explorer just returned from the
Antarctic. The Broadway parade was over;
the homecoming hero had been welcomed.
I stood for a moment on the sidewalk
below the broad, worn stone steps of the
Customs House. It seemed strangely quiet
there at that moment. Then I mounted
upward between the sooted statuary and
stepped inside the dirty vestibule
doors.
The interior of the Federal building was
stifling with stale air and tobacco
smoke. But I knew the rest of the way—to
the left, up one flight, around the
corner and down a dark corridor on the
shadowed side, facing Whitehall, away
from the glare of afternoon light on
Broadway. There, upon an unfrequented
door, would be the number of a small
inside room-the remote office of a
forgotten man.
Behind the translucent doorlight an
office lamp was burning. My quarry was
in his lair. I knocked, just above the
doorknob, lightly in a polite signal,
then dropped my hand to open the door.
But the pane and panel moved backward
without my touch, and in the opening
appeared a cordial, coffee-colored face,
appraising me with a business-like
examination, silently challenging me for
credentials.
"Good afternoon," came the melodic
voice. "You perhaps have made a mistake.
You knocked here? May I help you to find
someone?"
"You are Matthew Henson?" I inquired,
studying his quiet features, intelligent
eyes and mouth, clerk's ears, and the
fringe of kinky white hair that crowned
his temples.
"So you have come here to see me? Come
in, sir. Will you be seated?" He offered
me his desk chair.
"First let me shake your hand. I want to
shake the hand of a man who never forgot
his duty and still performs it." And I
introduced myself, remaining standing as
I bade Mr. Henson take his chair.
Immediately I tried to think back to
April 6, 1909. 1909…Matt Henson
was 42 years old then—a ripe age, at the
prime, to break the first trail to the
top of the world and be the first man to
stand at the North Pole.
"You've been here more than 20 years,
Mr. Henson?"
"Yes. After the final Arctic expedition,
a place was made for me here in
the customs service. I shall retire in
1936, at the full age of 70, and then I
may devote my entire leisure to the
memory of the active years in the
northland and my pleasant quiet years
here at my desk."
What a synopsis of contentment. Matt
Henson had been man-servant
and attendant to Robert Edwin Peary, the
much-decorated dean of American
exploration. He accompanied Peary on his
expedition of ultimate discovery. He
went north aboard the ship that was
skippered by Captain Bob Bartlett, and
led one of the sledge parties that broke
a trail across the white wilderness
toward the North Star. Henson was a man
of talents and patience, a competent
fellow. He served, and was content in
his competent accomplishment of service.
Peary's crowning achievement came on
April 6, 1909. The final expedition left
New York in the Roosevelt in July, 1908,
and established winter quarters in
September at Cape Sheridan. Preparations
were made there for the dash to the
pole, and on the first of March the
journey northward across the ice fields
was begun. There were five parties, four
of which carried provisions to
ice-packed stations and returned to the
base camp. The fifth detachment,
comprised of Peary, Henson and four
Eskimos, proceeded.
Across the Arctic wastelands the swift
expedition moved: the white men; Henson,
the Negro; 17 Eskimos; 133 dogs; 19
sledges. At scheduled stations on the
route, the separate parties deposited
their stores and returned to the ship
anchorage at open water. Dr. Goodsell
reached 84° 29' North Latitude; George
Borup, 85 ° 57'; Ross G. Marvin, who
drowned, 86° 38'; Captain Bartlett, 87°
48'. Finally, at ten o'clock on the
morning of April 6, 1909, Peary, Henson
and four Eskimos reached 90° North—the
Pole!
The spot was held for 30 hours, during
which observations verified the
location. The return trip was
accomplished in 16 days and the
Roosevelt reached Indian Harbor on her
return voyage on September 5, from which
point Peary sent his famous dispatch to
the Peary
Arctic Club of New York: "Stars and
Stripes nailed to the North Pole."
Commander Peary was elevated to Rear
Admiral, and decorations from kings and
courts were bestowed upon him. Henson
was rewarded by receiving a life post in
the customs service.
"Mister Peary was a noble man, and it
was a privilege to serve him. He was
always my friend. I have been fortunate,
indeed. I have not expected much, and I
have not been disappointed. One does not
need pride and position to be considered
worthy. When a man has been out of the
world, away from everything, he learns
something that the world can never teach
him. And when he comes back, nothing can
confound him."
"But I must confess you have caught me a
little unaware. You see, I am not used
to this, a man coming here to my office
to shake my hand. I thank you for this
abrupt honor, of course, but I must
admit that you make me a little unhappy.
For more than 20 years I have been
waiting for a stranger to come through
this door to say, 'Matt Henson, you did
your duty as a man should.’ Now it has
happened to me. And it hurts me to know
you are a white man. All these years I
have hoped that the person who should
first seek me out would be one of my own
race."
The door was opened for me and I stepped
out into the corridor. Then out into the
blinding sunlight and the brisk, salt
air of downtown, the confusion of
traffic at Bowling Green and the
reverberant afternoon noise of Broadway.
Yet, inside me, an impression of
peaceful quiet and darkness—like the
smile of a coffee-colored face—remained,
diffused from the personality of a
modest man, an unsung hero, a man. that
nobody had ever heard of, a man named
Matt Henson.
—Carl John Bostelmann |
|
June 15, 1939. An
obscure magazine 70 years ago
named KEN (magazine) published
this story. I
purchased this June 15, 1939
issue on eBay in order to
restore the story about Matt.
You may download a high
resolution PDF. What I found so
interesting was the "like you
are there" description of the
federal building where Matt
worked with it's stale odor of
tobacco smoke, the
"reverberant
noise of Broadway." New York
City was my home once—40 years
ago. |
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