All come home to de mastah’s gate—
Ole brown cows.”
Sept. 23. The wind keeps with us, and whenever we find a decently smooth place we can sail. Otherwise, we should make little progress, for we are too weak from weariness and lack of food to do much at pushing the boat. We kept up to-day on coffee and tea. We can’t eat any more tablets, and Mr. Sturritt, who forced down a number of them, had something like nervous spasms afterwards. To-night, when he stopped for camp, he sat down and cried. Gale comforted him.
“Poor Bill,” he said “poor old Bill. Don’t break down. We’ll get out of this mess some way. We always have, you know.”
“It isn’t that,” moaned Sturritt, “I’m not afraid. It’s the tab—that is—the lozenges. They’ve failed me. I—I can’t eat ’em, myself!”
Sept. 24. Strange what will come out of this white desolation. Last night, after the others were asleep, Ferratoni and I talked softly of evolution and immortality. He believes in transmigration, and that the horse is the next step before man. I was barely awake at last, and closed my eyes to a vision of four jaded horses that were dragging a heavy boat across the sun-bright snow.
Sept. 25. This morning a white bird—the first life we have seen—lighted near our camp, and Gale shot it with his revolver. It was a fine shot, for the bird was not large—barely a good bite apiece. It revived us more than would seem possible, and encouraged us in the belief that we are nearing bare ground. We pushed on to the south, though very slowly. We have made no more than twenty miles in the past three days. Other birds passed, but neither Gale nor the rest of us could hit them. We were soon wretchedly hungry again, and desperate.
About noon Gale was taken quite unexpectedly with a religious turn, and offered a prayer. It seemed fervent enough, but on the whole I did not think much of it. He said:
“Oh, Lord, we seem to have run the lines of this addition wrong. We’ve made a poor survey and we can’t find any corner-stones. There’s no use trying to get back to the ship, and we don’t seem to be able to get anywhere else. We’re hungry, Lord, too, and we can’t eat any more of Bill’s tablets. He can’t eat ’em himself. I’ve tried to shoot birds, but I only hit one, and I think that was an accident. I’ve shot and shot and used up about all my ammunition. I can’t hit a thing, Lord, and the other boys shoot worse than I do. It’s your turn now, Lord. Amen.”
It may be that this prayer did some good, for in the afternoon a whole flock of birds lit near us, and Gale threw his revolver among them, killing two. We feel sure these birds indicate bare earth not far away. But we must reach it soon. Gale is, as ever, full of cheer. Ferratoni does not seem to flag, while I am buoyed up by hope, and still have, though it comes each day more faintly, the voice of the woman I love, to give me strength and courage. But poor old Sturritt, who is heart-broken over the failure of his food lozenge, won’t last long as things are. I gave him my part of the last birds to-day. I divided them, so he didn’t know the difference.