ice pack. Still on active duty in the army, Walker could be reassigned by order of President Grant, Hall suggested, and his salary still paid out of army funds. To sweeten the deal, Hall slyly hinted at donating the trove of relics and artifacts he had amassed on his Arctic tours if Walker were selected.
Spencer Baird, secretary of the Smithsonian, liked the idea. As he was always battling with Congress for funds, not having to pay for Walker appealed to the tightfisted Baird. Besides, an exhibition of the last fragments of Franklin's doomed party would draw packed crowds. Morbid curiosity was as strong then as it is today.
George Robeson, secretary of the navy, and Joseph Henry, president of the National Academy of Sciences, agreed. So did the surgeon general of the army. Walker was the right man to go.
Elated, Hall directed his attention back to the
Polaris
itself, basking in his newfound glory. While in Washington, his spirits soared when President Grant recognized him in a crowd and made it a special point to shake his hand and inquire about the progress of the expedition. Hall should have watched his back during this tranquil period.
Unknown to Captain Hall, the fates were conspiring against him. A letter arrived from August Petermann, a highly noted geographer residing in Gotha, Germany. During the summer of 1868, Petermann had completed a successful scientific expedition north of Spitsbergen aboard the vessel
Albert,
which belonged to a walrus hunter named Rosenthal. Petermann's assistant during that trip was a young man named Emil Bessel. In his letter Petermann extolled the virtues of Bessel and urged that he be appointed as chief scientist instead of Walker.
Emil Bessel's credentials were impressive. From the wealthy upper class, Bessel obtained his doctorate of medicine from Heidelberg and then went on to study zoology and entomology at Stuttgart and Jena. Letters attesting to Bessel's skill as a surgeon flowedto the selection committee, but it was the fact that he was primarily a scientist that impressed Spencer Baird and Joseph Henry. Dr. Walker was essentially a physician with a scientific bent. And Bessel had all those credentials after his name that everyone loved.
The committee did an about-face. Emil Bessel replaced Walker.
At twenty-four, Emil Bessel would have been called handsome by his contemporaries. Thick, wavy brown hair rose to an extravagant pompadour that added inches to his short stature and framed a broad, flat forehead and low-set ears. His sideburns blended with a trim, square-cut beard. Dark, deep-set eyes stared imperiously from beneath straight, even brows. A small hump marred the bridge of his otherwise straight nose. Slightly flaring nostrils overrode a trim mustache. On close inspection the downward curl of the right side of his lower lip hinted of cruelty.
Size was Bessel's main problem. A contemporary description of him states that he “would pass for a handsome man, built on rather too small a scale.” Strange praise, indeed. Quick, nervous in temperament, or high-strung, Bessel moved about in short, twitching steps, while his eyes darted and flashed. If Charles Francis Hall might be described as a bear of a man, Bessel was a bantam rooster. Definitely not a “people person,” Bessel loved to study insects.
To further complicate matters, Bessel was not even in the United States at the time.
He was serving as a surgeon in the German army.
The impulsive shift from Walker to a German to head the first
American
polar exploration might seem strange until one considers the times. Germany was regarded as the foremost home of modern scientific knowledge. Anyone who wished to establish his credentials went to Germany to study. With Theodor Bilroth and Emil Theodor Kocher advancing the field of surgery, the Allemagnkran-kenhaus was deemed the finest hospital in the world. America's dean of modern surgery, William Stewart Halsted, studied in Germany before establishing the
Spencer Baird, secretary of the Smithsonian, liked the idea. As he was always battling with Congress for funds, not having to pay for Walker appealed to the tightfisted Baird. Besides, an exhibition of the last fragments of Franklin's doomed party would draw packed crowds. Morbid curiosity was as strong then as it is today.
George Robeson, secretary of the navy, and Joseph Henry, president of the National Academy of Sciences, agreed. So did the surgeon general of the army. Walker was the right man to go.
Elated, Hall directed his attention back to the
Polaris
itself, basking in his newfound glory. While in Washington, his spirits soared when President Grant recognized him in a crowd and made it a special point to shake his hand and inquire about the progress of the expedition. Hall should have watched his back during this tranquil period.
Unknown to Captain Hall, the fates were conspiring against him. A letter arrived from August Petermann, a highly noted geographer residing in Gotha, Germany. During the summer of 1868, Petermann had completed a successful scientific expedition north of Spitsbergen aboard the vessel
Albert,
which belonged to a walrus hunter named Rosenthal. Petermann's assistant during that trip was a young man named Emil Bessel. In his letter Petermann extolled the virtues of Bessel and urged that he be appointed as chief scientist instead of Walker.
Emil Bessel's credentials were impressive. From the wealthy upper class, Bessel obtained his doctorate of medicine from Heidelberg and then went on to study zoology and entomology at Stuttgart and Jena. Letters attesting to Bessel's skill as a surgeon flowedto the selection committee, but it was the fact that he was primarily a scientist that impressed Spencer Baird and Joseph Henry. Dr. Walker was essentially a physician with a scientific bent. And Bessel had all those credentials after his name that everyone loved.
The committee did an about-face. Emil Bessel replaced Walker.
At twenty-four, Emil Bessel would have been called handsome by his contemporaries. Thick, wavy brown hair rose to an extravagant pompadour that added inches to his short stature and framed a broad, flat forehead and low-set ears. His sideburns blended with a trim, square-cut beard. Dark, deep-set eyes stared imperiously from beneath straight, even brows. A small hump marred the bridge of his otherwise straight nose. Slightly flaring nostrils overrode a trim mustache. On close inspection the downward curl of the right side of his lower lip hinted of cruelty.
Size was Bessel's main problem. A contemporary description of him states that he “would pass for a handsome man, built on rather too small a scale.” Strange praise, indeed. Quick, nervous in temperament, or high-strung, Bessel moved about in short, twitching steps, while his eyes darted and flashed. If Charles Francis Hall might be described as a bear of a man, Bessel was a bantam rooster. Definitely not a “people person,” Bessel loved to study insects.
To further complicate matters, Bessel was not even in the United States at the time.
He was serving as a surgeon in the German army.
The impulsive shift from Walker to a German to head the first
American
polar exploration might seem strange until one considers the times. Germany was regarded as the foremost home of modern scientific knowledge. Anyone who wished to establish his credentials went to Germany to study. With Theodor Bilroth and Emil Theodor Kocher advancing the field of surgery, the Allemagnkran-kenhaus was deemed the finest hospital in the world. America's dean of modern surgery, William Stewart Halsted, studied in Germany before establishing the
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