CHAPTER XXXVI
With some old tea leaves and two quarts of grain alcohol as their entire food supply, the thirteen survivors gloomily resumed their southward trek on October 7th. The snow was deep and still falling; the weakened men ploughed through it to their waists. A little alcohol mixed in water constituted dinner; a little more of the same was served out for supper and night found them camping in the snow.
October 8th, underway again over thin ice, De Long sought a trail over the wandering streams and through the multitude of islands where the spreading Lena flattened out over the low delta lands and its surface waters, churning in swirling eddies, were not yet completely frozen over. More and more frequently the faltering men paused to rest; De Long particularly, whose freezing immersion of a few days before had sadly damaged his feet, was in worse condition than anyone save Lee, whose weakening hips continually gave way, plunging him drunkenly into the drifts every other step. Badly strung out, the line of starving seamen staggered along with their captain in the rear, constantly refusing the offers of his men to relieve him of the load he carried and thus ease the way for him. When finally they halted for the night, shelterless on the bleak and open tundra, his hungry men had once again to be content with nothing more substantial to fill the aching voids in their stomachs than hot water and half an ounce of alcohol. De Long, watching them drop feebly in their tracks in the snow with Ku Mark Surk still (as he thought) over twelve miles away, concluded sadly that they could never all cover that last stretch alive. Without the slightest chance now of getting food in the deserted delta, they would soon in their weakened condition use up the last dregs of their fading vitality and quickly freeze to death in their tracks. His only hope lay in sending a few stronger men ahead for help, while in some shelter, if they could find it now, the rest of them, fighting off starvation, conserved their little remaining strength and awaited rescue. With that resolve, he beckoned Nindemann to his side in the snow.
“Nindemann,” said the captain earnestly, “I’m sending you ahead tomorrow to get through to Ku Mark Surk for aid. It should be only twelve miles south now. You ought to do it in three days, maybe four at the most, and get back in four more. Meanwhile, we’ll follow in your trail. I’ll give you one of our two rifles, your share of the alcohol for food, and you can take any man in the party with you except Alexey to help you out. Alexey we must keep as a hunter. Who do you want?”
The quartermaster thought a moment, then answered,
“I’ll take Noros, captain.”
“Isn’t Iversen better?” asked De Long anxiously. “I think he’s stronger.”
“No,” replied Nindemann, “he’s been complaining of his feet three days now.”
“That’s right, captain,” broke in Dr. Ambler who was alongside the skipper. “Noros is best.”
“All right; Noros then. Be ready, both of you in the morning.” Stiffly De Long stretched himself out before the tiny camp fire crackling feebly in the snow.
Morning found thirteen somber seamen looking anxiously off over the frozen tangle of rivers and of islands to the south. Somewhere there beyond that terrible delta land lay Ku Mark Surk and life, but all about them was only the vast snow-crusted tundra, an Arctic waste of wintry desolation and the promise of slow death. Solemnly De Long shook Nindemann’s hand.
“You’ll do all a man can do to get us help, I know, Nindemann,” he said. “God keep you safe and bring you soon again to us.”
“I ain’t got much hope of finding help, captain,” responded the quartermaster gloomily. “It’s farther maybe to Ku Mark Surk than you think.”
“Well, do the best you can. If you find assistance, come back to us as quickly as possible. God knows we need it here! If you don’t—” The captain’s voice broke at that implication, he paused a moment, then concluded huskily, “Why then you’re still as well off as we; you see the condition we are in.” He turned to Nindemann’s companion, standing in the snow beside him,
“Noros, are you ready?”
“Yes, captain.”
De Long looked them over. They carried nothing but one rifle, forty cartridges, and a small rubber bag with three ounces of alcohol, their share of the party’s sole remaining substitute for food. Their clothes were ragged, their sealskin trousers bare of fur, their boots full of holes. The captain’s eyes lingered on the toes protruding from the remnants of their footgear.
“Don’t wade in the river, men. Keep on the banks,” he finished gently.
There was a bustling in the little knot of men surrounding them, and Collins suddenly pushed through to confront De Long.
“I’m the New York Herald correspondent with this expedition,” he said bruskly. “As James Gordon Bennett’s representative, I demand the right to go with these men!”
De Long, surprised at the interruption, flushed slightly, then answered evenly,
“Mr. Collins, we’ll settle that question with Mr. Bennett in New York. At present, getting you or anybody through as a newspaper correspondent interests me very little. And in any other capacity, just now you’re only a hindrance to this expedition; you’re much too weak to keep up with Nindemann. You wouldn’t last five miles!” and turning his back on Collins, he gripped Noros’ hand, shook it warmly, and repeated,
“Remember, Noros. Keep out of the water! That’s all. Shove off now, men!”
Bending forward against the wind, Noros and Nindemann staggered away toward the south, the last forlorn hope of the eleven emaciated castaways standing in the frozen drifts behind them, cheering them as they vanished in the blinding snow.