Ada Blackjack
by Alexandra Otto
Wanted: English-speaking Native Alaskan seamstress to sew furs on Stefansson’s 1921 Arctic expedition to Wrangel Island—riches guaranteed.
August 20, 1923
Wrangel Island, Siberia
Sometimes, I imagine a ship cresting the horizon. Driftwood floats by, the kind I used to fashion my skin-boat, and I pretend it’s a ship on the Chukchi Sea, bringing me home. To him.
I check the fox traps for meat, releasing their springs with my spear. Beyond, a mother polar bear swims alongside two cubs. She teaches them to hunt seals and scavenge eggs. I don’t know what it would be like for a mother to teach her child these skills.
I’ve learned to hunt alone.
In the icehouse, the cat purrs. I’m not sure if I’m more surprised that she’s made it this long or that I have. I counted my time on Wrangel in days, then weeks, months. Now two years.
I tighten my home-sewn reindeer parka and rest. When I wake, I scan the horizon.
Something bobs on the sea. A brown wood schooner. I rub my eyes. The Donaldson. It’s barreling toward me.
Bennett, I’m coming.
August 19, 1923
Wrangel Island, Siberia
At dawn, a heavy footfall crunches near my icehouse. Polar bear. I jolt awake. The cat opens her eyes but dares not move.
I grab my spear, the one I carved. The need to sweep the shelter for the men has long passed. This is no longer my broom, but my weapon. I’ve speared small game in nets I’ve woven. I kill the animals quickly. I hope the beast outside is as merciful to me.
I rise like the sun, emboldened by my dreamborne, whispering ancestors. They accompany me when no one else does, murmuring that I’ll reach Bennett again. I hope their promises are truer than Stefansson’s were.
The crunching halts. I sense eyes.
I skulk along the wall of the icehouse. My thumping heartbeat reminds me I’m alive. For now.
The crunching resumes.
I turn my head in time to see a polar bear dashing from my shelter, toward a seal drifting dangerously close to shore. I sigh in relief.
I’ll wait until I see only the seal’s blood stain remaining. Then I’ll bring my skin-boat to the icy sea to hunt.
Once, I considered myself just a seamstress.
Now, the polar bear and I share an understanding. It’s eat-or-be-eaten on Wrangel.
June 23, 1923
Wrangel Island, Siberia
Stefansson called it “the friendly arctic” when I signed on. He had visions of meaty caribou and polar bears, their fat glistening over a fire. For the first six months, it was so.
Stefansson never saw the piles of bones we’d suck the marrow from, in deep winter after the animals vanished. How could he? He never joined us. We were but pawns for his glory.
“Next year, we’ll pick you up. You’ll tell Britain of the vast resources on Wrangel,” he’d said.
That was two years ago.
There’s no rescue ship. Only bones, emptied of their marrow now like hollow promises of men.
It’s just me, Knight, and the cat now. And my dreams of holding Bennett, sweeping hair from his eyes.
When Knight grew ill, the three other men absconded with the ship. They left me to care for him, saying they’d return with help.
That was three months ago.
I built an icehouse for shelter, calling upon the spirits of my ancestors to teach me their methods. I carved the tip of my broom into a point. It’s tinged red with the blood of an occasional fish, though these days the stain has mostly faded.
Knight wheezes for me.
When I arrive beside him, his body stills.
No.
The cat blinks, reflecting my fear.
I’m alone, abandoned in the arctic.
September 9, 1921
Nome, Alaska
We board the Silver Wave at the port. We’re an odd sight: four white men, one Native woman, and a cat. But no one’s around to see us, except for the sea lions and seals. Some Natives hunt them, though I haven’t. Stefansson has loaded the ship with stores for the first six months of our expedition to claim Wrangel. “The land will provide after that,” he promised. My heart is optimistic.
The crew steers, sharing young men’s dreams: words like “wealth” and “fame” waft beneath whistling wind and shrieking gulls.
I sweep the deck, but I can’t sweep away my sadness. When I was a child, missionaries taught me that idle hands were the devil’s toys. I’m here to work.
“Woman, we’ll need warmer parkas soon,” Knight calls from the stern.
I nod. The cat curls around my feet. I swat her playfully with my broom like I would my child. She purrs against me. We aren’t Seamstress Ada Blackjack and Calico Victoria. We know our place. She’ll hunt rats; I’ll sew and clean. Nameless, here to serve. “Woman.” My face burns in shame, but I don’t dare speak and lose this job when it’s barely begun.
I don’t dream of wealth and fame. I only dream of Bennett.
August 1, 1921
Nome, Alaska
I’m sweeping the floor of a musher’s hut when I hear voices outside.
“Stefansson’s looking for a Native woman to sew furs and clean for an Arctic expedition. One who speaks English.”
Ignoring chitchat, I sweep the dust outside. I don’t know Stefansson, and don’t care. I focus on work, so I can afford to bring my son back. Nightly, the howling wind can’t mask the sounds in my heart—Bennett’s wheezing, our footsteps on the forty mile walk to the orphanage, my cries.
“Stefansson’ll pay $50 a month.”
I stop, mid-sweep. My broom hangs in the air like a whale harpoon the moment before it’s swung. Before me, an older white couple wears furs trapped on Inupiat land. Furs I sewed for them.
“Tell me more,” I say in my strongest English.
The August winds bristle, but I’m warm and light. I hesitate just once. I don’t know much about arctic survival. But the men they’re bringing must. I’ll make money to save him.
Bennett, I’m coming.
About the author
Alexandra Otto writes stories and short screenplays. She just completed her first novel. When Alex isn't writing or teaching, she is outsmarting the largest bears in the world in Southcentral Alaska.
About the illustration
The illustration is The 1921 Wrangel Island Expedition team: Ada Blackjack, Allan Crawford, Lorne Knight, Fred Maurer, Milton Galle, and Victoria the cat, 1921, photograph.