HANS MISTAKEN FOR A BEAR.
DIFFICULT TRAVELLING.
The cold was now excessive,—35° below zero at noon, and 37° at midnight. On the 13th, it sank below 40°. On the following day, however, a strong westerly gale blew up; the cold became more moderate—the temperature rose to -14°. Under the influence of the gale, the ice began to crack and grind and break up; the natives launched a kayack; a seal was hunted down, and the castaways feasted gloriously. This, however, was but a transient gleam of good fortune. On the 17th the glass again sank to 38°, and no more seals were visible. The men were now reduced to less than twelve ounces of food daily, which was not sufficient to furnish internal warmth, or to strengthen the system against the terrible effects of the Arctic climate.
The 19th was, to some extent, a day of hope; for, after an absence of eighty-three days, the sun once more rose above the misty horizon. Eskimo Joe took advantage of the burst of daylight to undertake a hunting expedition. About five miles from the hut he found open water, and shot two seals, but could land only one; the young ice carried the other away. Encouraged by the cheerful glow of the sun, he stayed out later than usual, and it was very dark before he returned. A light of burning blubber was kindled to guide him to the hut. It shone out upon the gloom of the night like a pharos.
THE GUIDING LIGHT.
The 25th of January marked the one hundred and third day of the castaways’ voyage on the ice-raft, and they severely felt the monotonous wretchedness of their existence. It was a beautiful day, and perfectly calm; but the thermometer indicated 40° below zero. At midnight the heavens were illuminated with all the glories of a brilliant aurora. They seemed to be ablaze: from the south-west to the north-east, from the horizon to the zenith, the magnetic fires shot here and there, and wavered and undulated, like flame driven by a strong wind. At one time the splendour was almost overpowering, and the straining eye was fain to seek relief in darkness.
On the 1st of February a violent gale arose, blowing from the north-west, and the ice, rolling and rocking beneath its influence, split up into great cracks and fissures which threatened the safety of the castaways. Huge blocks fell off from the floe; and the vast bergs which had hitherto accompanied, and partly sheltered it, moved rapidly before the wind. Everything acknowledged the might of the storm; but as yet the adventurers had not been disturbed, though surrounded by mountains of ice heavy enough, if driven against their encampment, to have crushed them to atoms. Thus far they had floated safely, but the position was one to cause reflection: at some time or other the ice must break up, they knew; but whether they would survive the catastrophe was beyond conjecture. They could only wait and hope.