Chapter Eighteen.
“Summer Comes with one Glad Bound”—Fire!
Spring or early summer is to all a season of hope and joy, but no one who has never lived in the drear cold regions around the Pole in winter could understand or appreciate the glad feeling that is born in the heart when the sun once more ascends his throne and rules triumphant in all the land.
Some reason or other may be ascribed for all religions and forms of worship, even the most heathenish; and I have never been astonished to see a pious Eskimo Indian with his family kneel or throw himself on his face before the god of day, though I have felt sorry for him and for them.
“But yonder comes the powerful king of day,
Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud,
The kindling azure, and the mountains’ brow
Illumed with fluid gold, his near approach
Betoken glad.
He looks in boundless majesty abroad
And sheds the shining day, that burnished play,
On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering streams
High-gleaming from afar.”
Summer seemed to come to the rocks and hills around the sea of Dunallan with one glad bound. There were some few days of fog or mist, so dense that it was impossible even to see the point of the jibboom. This fog was, as it were, the curtain of Nature’s great theatre, dropped for a time while the grand transformation scene was being put on the stage behind it.
Then it was withdrawn—lifted, and behold summer on the hills, summer in the glens. Glad streams and cataracts sparkling in the sunshine, the mountain-tops capped in silvery snow, streaks of silver running down their brown, white-flecked sides, but the ground all carpeted with green, which in a few days burst forth into the most charming variety of colours.
The sea itself was scarcely rippled by the gentle breeze that blew steadily from the west; the air was so fresh and balmy that it was a pleasure to breathe it. Everything seemed to feel the touch of the newly come summer, and to rejoice. Flocks of birds of innumerable varieties went wheeling and circling round the ship, or floated on the water; there was music even in their wild glad shrieks.
Many a black head, too, popped up out of the water, some tusked and bearded, some as awful as a nightmare. And seals basked on the sunny side of the rocks, or on the sandy beach; while bears by the dozen and score prowled round, warily watching their chance to spring upon and make prey of these innocents. The bears seemed now to have no fear of man. Nor did they appear anxious to attack any one; they were no longer an-hungered.
The snow awnings were now taken down from the decks, a general spring cleaning was instituted, and, after this, even winter garments were put aside, and the men looked gay and felt happy in consequence. But for all this, the temperature was seldom a degree above 45 degrees; and if ever it reached 50 degrees, the men thought it uncomfortably hot.
Alba, the snow-bird, had pined a great deal during the long, dark winter day, and seldom cared to leave the cabin; but now she went screaming and flying all round the ship as if mad with joy, and hardly could Claude tell her from the other birds of the same genus, only she usually came when called.
Fingal, when not on the war-path, used to lie on the snow-white deck and gasp, with about a quarter of a yard of crimson tongue lolling indolently out of his mouth.
The doctor continued busy as ever, only the sledges were put away, and all expeditions had now to be undertaken on foot.
Very much to Claude’s surprise, they came one day in their wanderings, while a very long way from the ship, on a herd of tiny horned bisons quietly browsing on the sweet mosses in a wild glen.
The strange creatures lifted their heads and sniffed the air as Claude and Paddy O’Connell approached, but it was surprise, not fear, they exhibited.
Claude waited till the doctor and his party came up.
“What are they, in the name of mystery?” asked Claude.
“They are musk oxen, without a doubt,” was the reply; “but I never saw such small ones before. They are dwarfs of their species. Truly this is a land of wonders. There is certainly,” he continued, “no geological reason why these animals should not be here, only—”
“Look here, doctor,” cried Claude, “while you are preaching to Paddy there, I’ll have a shot.”
“By all means, let us have a specimen.”
“And troth,” said Paddy, “we’ll have a specimen for the cook’s coppers, doctor dear, as well as for the good of science.”
At the very first rifle shot, one of their number bit the dust; but, strange to say, the others fled not. They looked wild and startled, and in dread terror they sniffed at the blood of their dead companion, but they stood still.
Another was shot, and another; then at last there was a wild stampede, not from, but down towards our sportsmen.
Were they charging to take revenge on the murderers of their companions?
Claude thought so. The surgeon knew better.
“Stand aside quickly!” he cried.
Hardly had they rushed a little way up the bank ere the whole herd rolled past.
Paddy had a parting shot, but missed, and looked very foolish.
Fingal could scarcely be restrained from going in pursuit. He thought he could easily pull at least one down, seeing they were but little bigger than Newfoundland dogs.
Deer there were now among the hills in abundance, hares, and a strange kind of rabbit, that even Dr Barrett had never seen before.
On the great lake itself, sport was to be had in abundance. Jack and Joe astonished every one by their marvellous dexterity in harpooning the huge and ferocious bladder-nose seal (Stemmatopus Crisatus), the sea bear (Ursus Marinus), the little Atak, and the walrus himself.
Not from the boats of the Icebear, however, did these wonderful Indians work. No, for they built themselves kayaks, or light canoes, made principally of hide, and so light you could lift one with a single hand or wear it as a hat. In these frail skiffs they would venture for miles out to sea, and they seldom came back without an animal of some kind.
But once Jack came home without Joe.
“Where is Joe?” asked Claude.
“Joe? You asked for my brooder?”
“Yes, your brother,” replied Claude.
“Oh!” said Jack, indifferently, “he toomble up plenty quick. No can turn hims kayak again. P’r’aps he go drown, ha! ha?”
It had never occurred to Jack to go to his brother’s assistance. When taxed with his callousness—
“What for I go?” he replied. “No plenty good. P’r’aps Jack he catchee my kayak, and den we bof on us toomble. No, no, not plenty good enough.”
“Call away the whalers,” bawled Claude.
“Call both away, Mr Lloyd.”
There was a trampling of feet, and a rattling of blocks and tackle, and in two minutes both took the water with a plash.
“A guinea to the first boat that reaches the kayak,” cried Claude.
There was a race on then—a very exciting one, though only to save the life of a poor Eskimo Indian.
The kayak could be distinctly seen from the masthead, with poor deserted Joe clinging to it.
Claude went himself to the crow’s-nest, to guide the boats by means of the long fan used for such purpose by Greenland-going ships.
The poor fellow was at length rescued, very much exhausted.
By the time he had reached the ship, however, what with the warm sunshine and a stimulant the Spectioneer had administered to him, Joe was all right and smiling.
But his brother Jack, as soon as Joe came on board, pointed at him a stern finger of reproof.
“I ’shamed o’ you,” he said. “I ’shamed o’ you proper. You not can turn your kayak, ha! ha! You no true Indian. Suppose one shark snap your two legs off, dat do you plenty mooch good. Bah!”
The summer passed away only too quickly; it passed, but not in vain, for Dr Barrett had done much good for the cause of science; and, reader, science always does or always should bring us nearer to Him who made all things and rules over them by unchangeable laws that He knows are good, whatever we finite beings may dare to imagine.
The summer passed; Claude and all his crew had enjoyed splendid sport. I wish I had space to tell of the adventures they had, some of them wild enough in all conscience. But while enjoying themselves there had been no neglect of duty, with one sad, solitary exception presently to be mentioned.
“I am very glad to say,” remarked Dr Barrett, one evening at dinner, “that I have succeeded in doing about all I believe that our learned friends in England wanted me to do, thanks to your good judgment, Captain Alwyn, in steering us to this wondrous country.”
“And so am I glad also,” replied Claude. He was thinking of home just then. “Let me see,” continued the doctor, musingly, “I have collected quite a museum of specimens of Arctic flora and even fauna. To the lichen world I have, I think, added not a few species hitherto unknown. I have taken observations of every conceivable kind; there is a record of them in my notes. I have, or, pardon me for my egotism, we have discovered coal—that is of little use, perhaps; iron—that exists everywhere; tin—that is more to the purpose; silver and gold, and these are better still. We have also,” he went on, “found the bones of extinct mammals, and the evidences on all sides that at one time the hills around us, or hills like them, were covered with forest and fern, and inhabited by a race of animals that we human beings too often, I think, call inferior. We have, moreover—”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the steward. “May I speak to you half a minute?”
The doctor followed him into the steerage.
He soon returned, looking serious and vexed.
“Beast!” he muttered.
“I hope,” said Claude, “there is no one in this ship deserves that title, doctor.”
“Will you come and see for yourself, sir?”
“I will.”
Claude followed the doctor out to the steerage and into the dispensary. There he pointed to an almost empty bottle of brandy.
He said nothing.
“Do you mean me to infer,” said Claude, “that one of my crew has been guilty of a theft so vile?”
The doctor nodded.
“And who?”
“Who but Datchet?”
“Mr Lloyd,” shouted Alwyn, “bring Datchet before me to-morrow morning.”
Datchet was duly punished, Dr Barrett, however, begging mitigation of sentence on the plea that he had left temptation in the man’s way.
Time went on, and everything was got ready for a start. In a few more days the order would be, “Up anchor, and hey for Merrie England!”
All hands were happy. Small wonder at that. It was Friday night. The Icebear would sail on the Monday, the stores having still to be got on board from the house on shore.
Friday night is, in many northern ships, held somewhat en gala, as the day is a salt-fish day, so to-night there was a huge sea-pie cooked for the half-deck officers, and several such for the men forward.
Everything seemed propitious as regards the weather, for though dense fogs had prevailed for a week or two—it was early in August—the sky was now clear and the glass slowly but steadily rising. So the men were right merry. Paddy O’Connell had never appeared to such advantage. The boy Bounce was even allowed to tell a story and sing a London street ballad; while big Byarnie sat in a corner, beaming over with gigantic smiles.
But by ten o’clock sounds were hushed, and all hands in bed fore and aft. There was not now a sound to break the stillness, for the solitary sentry had gone below to smoke by the galley fire.
An hour passed away; then a solitary figure might have been seen creeping aft on hands and knees.
Two hours. The captain is sleeping sound; his hand is over the coverlet. Into this hand a cold wet nose is thrust.
“Go away and sleep, Fingal,” he mutters.
But the dog whines, and finally barks, and then Claude starts up, fully awake now.
See, across the cabin yonder is the reflection of a strange light in the glass!
He springs to the deck and rushes to the door, which is open.
There is fire in the store-closet between his cabin and the wardroom.
Fire in the spirit-store!
Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, went the bell two strokes to the second.
Ding, ding, ding, ding, and in a minute the whole ship is alive.