Chapter Six.
Winter in the Ice-fields—The Ice breaks up—Sailing South—A Sledge Adventure—The Storm and Shipwreck—Afloat on an Iceberg—Land! land!—A terrible Journey—Cronstadt.
Was it always so silent and still in that lonely ice-pack as I have tried to describe it? Not always: there were times when the floes around the ship began to move slowly up and down, telling of a swell beneath them; then the rending, shrieking, and groaning noises were indescribable. But only twice during the months of darkness did a breeze blow, and, when it did, snow fell, or rather was borne along on the wings of the wind, with a fierce bitterness that no living being could be exposed to for an hour and live. A snow-house was built over the decks, and this served in some slight measure to mitigate the terrible cold.
And so the winter wore away, for the longest time has an end. Our heroes had borne their privations and their deprivations nobly. They did not even let down their hearts when the captain told them they would have to go on “short commons,” and only laughed when the steward reported the eggs finished, and the last potato vanished. The biscuits held out, however, and the soup in bouilli, so they rejoiced accordingly, and were thankful.
But when the sun showed face one day, there were no bounds to the joy that every one on board manifested. They even manned the rigging, and gave him three times three heartfelt cheers. Even Rouskia, the ship’s dog, seemed glad to see the light of day again, and joined in the cheering with a kind of half hysterical bark, as if the tears were in his throat and partially stopped his utterance. The sun did not stop to look at them long, but, like an invalid in the stage of convalescence, he stayed up longer and longer every day, and his presence soon began to work a change in the appearance of the ice; the snow on the top of it became less dry, and the cold to a large extent left the air. Then the ice began to float farther apart, and, on taking the reckoning one day, the captain found, to his joy, that the whole pack was moving slowly southwards.
After many days the Grampus left her harbour, and began “boring” her way through the ice. It was slow, tedious work; but slow as it was they were homeward bound, so there was happiness at the hearts of all on board. But their hopes of escape were doomed to be blighted; for once again the light wind which had begun to blow from the gentle south fell to a dead calm, winter once more resumed his sway, and the good ship Grampus was beset a second time. Although the ice was not heavy, but hummock-covered or flat, it was dangerous enough in all conscience.
One day they were surprised by a visit from some natives, with sledges drawn by dogs. They brought fish with them, and the carcase of a reindeer, and begged, in their strange but musical labial language, for blankets and tobacco. They came from land that was visible on the starboard bow, and this country, or island, or whatever it was, Chisholm begged leave of the captain to be allowed, with his friends, to visit.
“It must be at your own risk, then, gentlemen,” the captain replied; “for, although we are most likely to lie here for six weeks to come, the ice may break up at any moment.”
But our heroes did risk it. They packed a sledge with many things which they knew the natives would appreciate, and off they started, the captain waving his hand and wishing them luck. It was more pleasant to run for a little way on first starting; but having by this means succeeded in starting the circulation of the blood, as Chisholm phrased it, they handed the whips to the natives, and squatted on the tops of the curious and primitive sledges.
They found the Esquimaux very friendly, and willing to barter. Their huts were mere mole-hills, and far from cleanly inside, and were built with no attempt at architecture; but they were strong, nevertheless. The only kind of religion these people had was a kind of sun worship. They were expert in hunting and fishing, and very brave and daring. Chisholm soon found that he could accomplish the journey from the ship to the village of Redinvolsk in an hour; so he started a sledge, drawn by two dogs, and, great though the risk was, went on shore almost every day. But these little trips of his had a sad and all but fatal ending. His team one day took fright, and, instead of running directly for the village, dashed over a precipice. Half-way down the crevasse the sledge was brought up by a snow-covered shelf of rock. But kindly aid was at hand, a rope was lowered by some friendly natives, and a sheathed knife. With the latter he cut the poor plunging dogs adrift, sorry in his manly heart that he had to leave them to their fate. He was then drawn to bank much bruised and shaken, but thankful to escape with life.
One morning clouds began to bank up in the sky, and that very day the ice broke up, steam was got up, and, more quickly than before, the Grampus headed homewards.
There was an air of greater gravity about the captain, as he came below to dinner that day, than ever Frank and his friends had seen.
“I hope there is nothing serious the matter, captain?” Chisholm inquired.
“Not as yet, gentlemen,” replied the captain, with an uneasy kind of a smile, “but the glass is going tumbling down, and the ice grows heavier and more dangerous the nearer to the open sea we get. I fear we’re going to have a blow.”
He soon after went on deck, whither our heroes followed him. The floes were of great size, heavy, mischievous-looking pieces, covered with snow on the top, but with a deal of hard green stuff under water. Against these the ship was constantly bumping, with a violence that made every one on deck stagger and reel. The captain himself was on the bridge giving constant orders, for the ship was being steered by the ice; the object being to strike the pieces stem on, and so save the more vulnerable bows or quarters.
The day wore gloomily away, and the night closed in dark and stormy. No one cared to lie down or seek for rest; there was a cloud on the heart of every one on board—a strange foreboding of evil to come. The wind soon increased to all the fury of a gale; the waves dashed over the ship with such violence that when struck you couldn’t have told whether it was with a piece of ice or a green sea.
It was just two bells in the morning watch, and the night was at its darkest, when the good ship was caught with tremendous force between two mighty floes, which, as soon as they had done the mischief, began to part and leave the sinking ship to her sad fate. The next moment the engineer had rushed on deck to say the engines had stopped. All was now confusion on board, for there was a strange steadiness about the vessel that told she was sinking fast.
Boats were of no use in that terrible tempest-tossed ocean, so orders were given to get ready the ice-anchors. By dint of courage and strength, the anchors were thrown, and the ship made fast for a time, to the nearest berg. It was but for a time, alas! And now commenced all the hurry and horror of this pitiful disembarkation. The waves washed over both ship and berg, making the former quiver all over like some creature in the throes of death, and causing the berg itself to heel over like a great raft.
Morning broke grey and cold and dismal; but hours before, the Grampus had slipped her ice-anchors, and gone down head foremost; and, out of all her crew of fifty men, fifteen only were alive to see the sunrise, and thank the God who had spared their lives—fifteen, and the ship’s dog. Our heroes were saved, or this story would not be written; but, with the exception of Captain Anderson, every other officer met with a watery grave.
I have not the heart to harrow the feelings of my youthful readers with a relation of the horrors the survivors of the foundered ship had to endure on that floating iceberg. For a whole week they were tossed about among the stormy waves of that cold ocean, drifting before an eastern gale that blew with almost the force of a hurricane. But if their half-frozen hearts were still capable of feeling one atom of joy, they must surely have beat faster when the captain, glass in hand, but half buried in spray, shouted—“Land, land! I see it, I see it!”
Ah! there were hearts on that berg that would never beat again, for at that moment six of the original fifteen lay dead on the berg.
The storm now abated, and the sea went down; but yet another danger had to be encountered, for strange black monsters, with fierce eyes, rose up from the depth of ocean and sought to scale the berg. Was it after the dead they had come?
Boats at last!—only the boats of native Indians, but they came with friendly intentions.
So they committed the bodies of their late comrades to the deep, and, embarking with the Indians, were rowed on shore to a new land. Frank was in a sad way: he was carried to the hut of a chief; medicine men were sent for to look upon him and administer to him herbs strangely compounded, and wise old squaws uttered their spells over his prostrate form; but it was the nursing he received, after all, from Chisholm and Fred that at last brought him round.
Their fare while they lived among the Indians was very poor of its kind; but then, a gift-horse should not be looked in the mouth. These poor people gave them a portion of all they possessed, and they gave it, too, with right good will. Captain Anderson could speak their language—a kind of Yack patois—and held many long conversations with the chief—a great man in the estimation of the tribe, and in reality a true man, although only a savage. Anderson held him spell-bound, as he told of some of the strange cities and countries there were in the world. He liked to hear the captain talk, and still, from the sinister look and incredulous smile on his face as he listened, you could see that he thought the narrator was drawing largely on his imagination.
It was very kind of this chief to invite the captain, our heroes, and the survivors of the melancholy shipwreck to stay with him for the rest of their lives.
“Blubber,” he said, “would never fail them; salt fish and seal’s flesh could always be had in abundance, with now and then a bit of a whale as a treat. Then they could take them wives from the daughters of his people, and the smoke from their wigwams would ascend for ever.”
It was a pretty picture, Anderson allowed; but—there is no accounting for taste; he loved his own home in England better.
“Then in that case,” said Kit Chak—and here spoke the noble savage—“I and my brother will guide you through the great forest to Inchboon, where lies a Danish whaler. The journey will take us one moon.”
One moon!—nearly thirty days. It was a fearful undertaking; but what will not men do for home and country? So all preparations were made for the march, and in three days they were ready to start.
“You do well to wrap up, Frank, my boy,” said Chisholm to his young friend; “but, beside the captain, you do look odd.”
In twenty-five days, after sufferings and hardships that they never forgot, they arrived at Inchboon, and sure enough they found the Danish ship. She was bound to Russia, though; if that would suit them, said the captain, his vessel was at their service.
They gladly accepted his offer, bade brave Kit Chak and his brother adieu (not without well rewarding them), and in six weeks’ time they were landed at Cronstadt.
Our travellers now were as happy as kings; but where, they wondered, would they turn up next?