Covers a Long Period of Time, and shows, among other Things, how a Race may be lost at Both Ends.
“I must now tell you,” continued the Captain, “that, while all these adventures were happening, the winter was passing steadily away; and, from what I have before told you about the Arctic seasons, you will know that when the winter came finally to an end the darkness came to an end too,—that is, to be more particular, first there was a little flush of light at noon, to see which made us very glad, you may be sure; after this, from day to day, the light grew brighter and brighter, until it was almost broad daylight, as it is here just before the sun has risen in the morning; then the sun came up a few days afterward only a little way above the horizon (of course right in the south); and then, next day, it was a little higher, and the next day a little higher still; and then, by and by, it was (as it had been in the summer-time before) circling round and round us, shining all the while; and now our hut was at midnight in the shadow of the cliff; at noon the sun was blazing down upon us, softening the snow, and making our hearts, O, how happy and thankful!—more so than I can tell you.
“I thought that never in all my life had I seen anything so splendid as the sun’s bright face when he appeared for the first time after this long dark winter. For you must know we were about one hundred and twenty days without once setting eyes upon the sun at all; and now, when he did rise, after this long interval, what could we do but take off our caps and whirl them round and round our heads, in very joy and gladness? and this I can assure you we did with many a good round cheer.
“The summer now came on steadily, and the temperature became warmer every day. The spring glided into summer, and early in the month of June the snow began to melt in good earnest, and by July great streams were dashing and roaring over the cliffs, and through the gorges, to the sea. Then the sea soon began to show the influence of the summer heat. The ice grew rotten, and, from being white, it got to be quite dark; and we could no longer go out upon it with any safety, except in one particular direction, towards the east, where it was much thicker than in any other place. Then strong winds came, and the rotten ice was broken up, and after that it went drifting here and there to right and left, up and down upon the sea, whichever way the winds were blowing.
“And now once more we kept a sharp lookout for ships, hoping all the time that ‘this day will be the day of our deliverance.’ But we lived on as we had done before,—every day adding one more disappointment to the list,—for no ship came. Thus watching, waiting, hoping on, we grew restless with anxiety, and were more unhappy than we had ever been in the gloomy winter that had passed away.
“But the summer brought some pleasure to us. As soon as the snow had gone, the grass grew green upon the hillside, and the tiny little plants put out their leaves, and then the tiny little flowers were blooming brightly, and turning up their pleasant faces to the ever-smiling sun.
“And then the birds came back,—the eider-ducks, and the little auks, that I have told you of, and great flocks of geese and gulls, all looking out for places in which to make their nests; and they fairly kept the air alive with the flutter of their wings, and their ‘quack, quack, quack,’ and their gladsome screams, as they hurried to and fro.
“And then bright yellow butterflies and little bees came fluttering and buzzing about the little flowers, and all was life and happiness and brightness in the air about us; but there was no one there to look at us and see how heavy were our hearts at times,—no one but God.
“But not on our desert island alone was nature full of life and gayety. The seals, as if glad that summer had once more returned, crawled out upon the ice, and lay there on it, where it floated in the water, basking in the sun. There were hundreds and hundreds of them to be seen almost every day; and, besides the seals, the walruses, with their great long hideous-looking tusks and ugly and ungraceful bodies, came up too; and the narwhals, also, with their long ivory horns, and the white whales, were to be seen at almost any time, ‘spouting’ round about us in the sea. And besides all this life in the sea, and in the air, and on the land, we now and then saw a great white bear prowling about upon the floating ice-fields, seeking seals to feed upon; and, when tired of one ice-field, he would jump into the water, and swim away and crawl up on another.
“Thus you observe that, if we were upon a desert island in the Arctic Sea, it was not so barren as one would think who had never seen anything of such a place.
“It is not worth while for me to tell you how we lived through this second summer. Of course we had a much easier time of it than we had had the summer previous, for there was no hut to build, and we had now leisure to make ourselves more comfortable; and indeed we used our time so well that we accumulated, in good season, everything we needed in the way of food and fuel,—catching the birds and other animals as before, which we stowed away in so many different places that we felt quite sure the bears would not be likely to discover all of them; and then we made fresh suits of fine fur clothes, and fresh fur bedding, and carved new lamps and pots and cups out of soapstone, that we might be safe against all accidents.
“While we were thus working, and watching all the time for ships, without the hoped-for ship ever coming, the summer passed away, the birds flew off once more with the setting sun, the sea froze up all around the island, and we were left again alone,—all, all alone, in the cold and snow and darkness of another winter.
“O how heavy were our hearts now! Bright had been our hopes of rescue; great was our disappointment, and unhappy the prospect before us. For a time we were very despondent; but the darkest hour, you know, is just before the break of day, and we were experiencing now only one more of our many periods of gloom with daybreak following; for when the winter fairly sealed up the sea around us, and covered everything with snow, we felt the same spirit of resignation in our lives that had before carried us through so many trials and difficulties. And in this we were a great support to each other. If our hearts were more than commonly heavy at any time, we tried all we could to disguise it from each other, and tried always to be as cheerful as possible. If we had each always carried a gloomy face about with him, I am sure both of us must have died. Thus you see how important is the spirit of cheerfulness; and, to tell the truth, I haven’t much opinion of long-faced people anyway, whether they live on rocky islands or in big houses or in little huts,—whether they are old or young, rich or poor, civilized or savage, Christian or pagan. That’s my opinion.
“Well, this winter passed over just as the other had done;—the same routine of work and hunting, the same cold and darkness, the same constant bearing up against our unhappy fortunes. It did not in any particular differ from the other in a manner worthy of mention, except that no bears came this time to disturb us. But there was the same aurora borealis, the same bright starlight and brighter moonlight, the same fierce snows and howling gales. We caught foxes and seals as we had done before, and wanted not for food or fuel. Our health was still always good.
“So you see there is no occasion for our halting over this period. I can tell you nothing new about it. The winter came to an end, as everything must, in time; the sun came back; the summer followed the winter; and this, our third summer on the Rock of Good Hope, passed away like the others, with its bright sunshine, and its pretty butterflies and flowers, and myriads of birds, but still no ship, and still no rescue.”
After the Captain had thus spoken, he paused as if to consider whether he had omitted anything, in connection with the long period they had passed on the island, that would make it worth his while to dwell longer upon any portion of his story up to this time. Satisfied always of the deep interest and close attention of his young auditors, he thought only of selecting such points of the narrative as seemed to him likely to convey most pleasure and instruction to the little people, who, ever eager to listen, were yet always curious to have something cleared up which the Captain had hastily passed over, thinking little of it. But still they had the good sense to see (to say nothing of the requirements of politeness) that they were not likely to be much benefited by interrupting the Captain; for if they asked questions in the midst of his story he would, in all probability, be put out, and lose the even thread of his narration. But a question, or perhaps a volley of them, was always sure to come if the Captain made a pause, or as he, in mariner phrase, expressed it, lay “hove to,” for a little while.
So it was now. No sooner had the Captain stopped his speech, and got into the reflective mood, than William’s tongue was loosened.
“O Captain Hardy!” said he, “don’t go on until you have told us something more about those curious little flowers you have been speaking of. It is so odd to think of flowers growing in such a desert place!”
“O, do!” exclaimed little Alice, “O, do, do, Captain Hardy! they must be such pretty little things! But I don’t see how they ever get any chance to grow, when it is so cold and dreary. How do they?”
“Pretty they are indeed, my dear,” replied the kind-hearted Captain, pleased to have the question asked, as was evident, “and very wonderful. How they managed to grow is more than I can tell, and is just as astonishing to me as to yourselves. The snow, however, in the spring went pretty quickly; and as soon as the earth was free in any place, then we saw the tiniest flowers you ever saw coming up, seemingly right out of the frozen earth, and almost underneath the very snow,—at least within a few inches of it. The Dean and I one day came across one of these little flowers, looking just like a buttercup, only the whole plant was—well, the littlest thing you ever did see. Why, it was so little that little Alice’s little thimble, with which she is learning to sew so prettily, would have been quite large enough for a flower-pot to put the whole of it in! and it would have grown there, too,—and glad enough, no doubt. There was a great snow-bank hanging right over it, and there was ice all around it. But still it looked spunky, and happy, and well contented, and seemed quite able to take care of itself.
“As we walked on towards the hut, I noticed that the Dean grew very thoughtful.
“‘What’s the matter, Dean?’ said I; ‘what are you thinking about?’
“‘About that little flower,’ replied the Dean.
“At this I laughed, asking the Dean what there was in the little flower to think about.
“‘A great deal,’ said he.
“I laughed again, and asked him what it was.
“‘Why,’ said he, very soberly, ‘it is a lesson to us not to get the blues any more. If that poor flower can live and fight its way against such odds, I think we ought to!’
“Now there was more in that observation of the thoughtful little Dean than you would think for; and we talked a great deal about the little flower,—indeed, it came up between us very often; we went back many times to it, and watched it closely. Once there came a snow-storm and buried it up; but next day the snow was all melted, and the leaves came out as green, and the flower as yellow, and the whole plant as plucky, as ever. I should say the flower was about as large round as a very small pea, and it was just as yellow as gold; and the whole wee thing was not taller than a common-sized pin.
“We talked so much about this little flower that we got to making rhymes about it; and, every time we made a new rhyme, we were much delighted, you may be sure. How we wished we had some way to write down what we thought! It would have been much easier, and a great satisfaction. But, for all that, we finally got quite a song of it, which I have not forgotten, even to this time. To be sure we did not know much about making verses, and nothing at all about what they call ‘feet’ in poetry; yet we got some pretty good rhymes for all, though they might be called a little worm-fency, or like as if they hadn’t got their sea-legs on, you know. Now, would you like to hear this little song that the Dean and I made about the little Arctic flower?”
“O yes, yes, dear Captain Hardy!—yes, yes, indeed!” said the children, in such a loud and universal chorus that nobody could have told who “deared” the Captain, or who said “O,” or who, “indeed”; but you may be sure they all said “yes!” and so the Captain, being thus encouraged, cleared his throat, and said he would repeat it.
“My impression is,” he continued, “that it isn’t exactly a song; in fact, I don’t know what it is. I should hardly venture on calling it a ‘poem,’ you see; but still, for all that, we must give it a name, you know, and ‘song,’ ‘poem,’ or what not, its right title anyhow is:—
“There, now you have it!” exclaimed the Captain, drawing a very long breath, and looking around, no doubt to see the impression he had produced,—“there you have it, my dears!”
The children all expressed themselves highly delighted with this effort of the Captain’s in the poetical way, and they all declared if that wasn’t a song they “would like to see one.”
Thus greatly flattered by the pleasure the children received from his recitation of what had become old to him, and deeply rooted in his memory, the Captain resumed once more the thread of his narrative, or, rather, “once more picked up the broken yarn, and spun away,” as he would have more graphically expressed it.
“Well, well,” continued the Captain, “you see our little flower died after a while, and all the other little flowers died; and this brought us to the end of our third summer on the island and into the third winter.
“This winter passed away as the previous ones had done, and we felt still greater resignation.
“‘Here we are forever,’ said the Dean, ‘and that we must make up our minds to. It is God’s will, and we must bow before it and be reconciled.’
“‘I fear, Dean, that is so,’ I answered, solemnly.
“This was in the month of February, and the sunlight was coming back, and, to see if we could not catch a glimpse of the god of day, we had gone out together, wading through the snow.
“The Dean felt it when he said ‘we must be reconciled’; but he had hardly spoken when our attention was quickly called away from such reflections (and from the sun too) by seeing something dark upon the frozen sea, not far away from us. It was moving.
“We were not long in doubt as to what it was, for we had seen too many polar bears to be cheated this time,—a bear, without any doubt at all.
“He was running very fast, and was making directly towards the island. He soon ran behind a large iceberg, and for a little while was out of sight; but he appeared again soon afterwards, and held on in the same course. Then we lost him once more among rough ice, and then again he came in view. He appeared so dark at first, that less-experienced persons might have been uncertain about what it was; for although the polar bear is usually called the white bear, yet in truth he has a yellowish hue, and is quite dark, at least in comparison with the pure white snow.
“‘It’s another bear, I do believe!’ exclaimed the Dean, and at once we made for the hut. But the bear was running much faster than we were, and was moreover coming in right towards the place for which we were bound. So we grew much alarmed, and quickened our speed, not however without difficulty; for the snow was, in places, very deep.
“By and by the bear, which proved to be a very large one, caught sight of us; and, as you know already that the polar bear is rather a cowardly beast than otherwise, you will not be much surprised to learn that, when he saw us, he altered his course, and turned off from the island as fast as he could go. Seeing him do this (as you may be sure to our great delight), we halted to watch him; and now we perceived, for the first time, that the animal was pursued. By what we could not imagine, but, clearly enough, by something; for in the distance, and from the quarter whence the bear had come, there was plainly to be seen, winding among the bergs and rough masses of ice, something dark following on the very track which the bear had taken, sometimes lost to sight and sometimes in full view, and growing larger every moment, just as the bear had done.
“Nearer and nearer came this object, and our wonder increased. Presently we heard a cry.
“‘Hark!’ said the Dean.
“The cry was repeated.
“‘A dog!’ exclaimed the Dean.
“‘A dog!’ said I, in answer, for I heard it distinctly.
“‘Hark!’ said the Dean again, for there was another sound.
“‘A man,’ said I.
“‘A man!’ repeated the Dean, excitedly.
“And a man it was.
“Dogs and men! what could they be doing there? was the question that ran through both our minds at once.
“But dogs and a man (not men) there were, and whatever they might be doing there, or whence they might have come, it was certain that dogs and a man made the dark spot which we saw upon the white sea; and it was, moreover, clear that they were pursuing the bear which had passed us and was now pretty far away.
“Nearer and nearer came the dogs and man, and the sounds became more and more distinct; the dogs were upon the bear’s tracks, the man was upon a sledge to which the dogs were fastened. At length they came so near that the dogs could be easily counted. They were seven, and all of different colors, and were fastened with long lines to the sledge, so that they were a great way in front of it, and they were running all abreast. They were straining and pressing into their collars, all the while crying impatiently, as they bounded over the snow at a rapid gallop. The man was encouraging them along all he could with a long whip, which he threw out with a lively snap, exclaiming, ‘Ka-ka! ka-ka!’ over and over again; and then, ‘Nen-ook, nen-ook, nen-ook!’—many times repeated; for he was now so near that we could distinguish every word he said.
“It was a wild chase, and the Dean and I became much excited over it, running all the time to get nearer to the passing sledge and man and dogs.
“Very soon we should have met, but suddenly the bear came in full view of the dogs, evidently for the first time. Up to this moment the dogs had only been following the track.
“The dogs, now leaving the track, gave a wild, concerted howl, and dashed off after the bear in a straight line. Man, sledge, dogs, and all passed us quickly by,—the man shouting more excitedly than ever to his dogs, sometimes calling them by name, as it seemed to us, and sometimes crying ‘Nen-ook, nen-ook!’ and sometimes, ‘Ka-ka! ka-ka!’ and so away they went, rushing like the wind,—the whole scene more strange than strangest dream,—the dogs and man like spectral things, so quickly had they come and so unexpectedly; or, at the least, the dogs seemed like howling wolves, and the man a wild man of the frozen ocean, clothed in wild beasts’ skins.
A Race for Life.
“We called to the man to stop; we shouted, ‘Come here, come here!’ and then again, ‘Come back, come back!’ as loud as we could shout, waving our caps, and throwing up our arms, and running in a frantic way; but not the slightest notice would he take of us, not one instant would he stop, but upon his course and purpose he kept right on, pushing after the running bear, without appearing to give us even a single thought. We could not doubt that he had seen us, we were so near to him.
“On went the bear, on after him went the dogs and sledge and man. More impatient grew the dogs, louder called the man to his excited team, and the Dean and I ran after, shouting still, as we had done in the beginning. We came soon upon the sledge track, and followed it at our greatest speed.
“At length the cries of the dogs grew indistinct, and then died away at last entirely, and the man’s voice was no longer heard; and that which had come so suddenly soon became but a dark moving speck upon the great white frozen sea, as it had first appeared; but after it we still followed on.
“Then the moving speck faded out of sight, and everything around was still and cold and solemn and desolate as before. Yet still we ran and ran.
“I said as desolate as before. But O, it was a thousand times more desolate now than ever,—as the night is darker for the lightning flash that has died away, or a cloudy noon is colder for a single ray of sunshine that has broken through the vapors.
“Yet on and on we ran and ran, until we could run no more.
“And then we laid us down upon the snow and wept, and bemoaned our hard, hard fate; but no word was spoken. The disappointment was too great for words; and, after a short rest in the chilly air upon the frozen sea, we wandered slowly back to our poor hut; and after many weary hours we reached it, not so much alive as dead,—for through miles and miles of heavy snow we had run after the sledge, and through these same miles we had trudged back again, with the cruel disappointment rankling in our hearts, and with no hope to buoy us up.
“Strange—was it not?—that at no period of our life upon the desert island were we so unhappy as we were that day,—never so utterly cast down, never so broken-spirited, never looking on the future with such hopelessness.
“And in this state of mind we crawled beneath our furs, feeling too lonely and forsaken to have a thought to cook a meal, and so very, very weary with the labor we had done, in running and wading through the heavy snow, that we did not care for food; and in deep sleep we buried up the heaviest sorrow that we had ever known,—the grievous sorrow of a dead, dead hope,—the hope of rescue that had come and gone from us, as the cloud-shadow flies across the summer field.”