“It’s no use, men. We might as well turn in. Pitch the tents,” ordered De Long wearily, and soon the two tents were erected, a little shelter at least from the cutting wind. On the soft and snow-covered ground inside them, the wretched mariners stretched themselves out full length, for the first time since leaving Semenovski Island, able at least to turn in lying down.
More like stiffening corpses than sleepers, the exhausted men sprawled out in the snow and soon as the driftwood fire died away, darkness and falling snow enveloped the silent tents, while only the whistling of the chilling wind kept watch over De Long and his thirteen worn companions, stretched out at last on Siberian soil, victors in a heroic retreat over ice and ocean to which the long annals of the sea, whether in the tropics or round about the poles, offers no parallel.
Morning dawned; it snowed intermittently. Crawling from his tent, De Long looked about. Nearby to the westward, flowing north to discharge into the sea, was a wide river. From the chart, this was evidently the River Osoktah, the main northern mouth of the Lena, and close at hand should be Sagastyr with its signal tower and a busy trading village. But with a sinking heart, De Long, looking over the snow-covered tundra, saw that every evidence of civilization shown on his chart was completely missing—no signal tower, no village, no signs of river traffic on the Lena, not even the slightest sign of roving hunters! Petermann’s vivid descriptions of traffic and of settlements at the Lena mouth were only the idle dreams of an unreliable geographer, as unreal as the Grecian myths of marvelous Atlantis to be found just beyond the Pillars of Hercules!
On rescue at this point De Long had based all his plans, figured his food supply, and savagely driven himself and his men far beyond human endurance to get here. And now at this long-sought goal, plainly evident to all hands, was nothing but disillusion and despair!
Hobbling about him, trying to dry themselves before a new fire, were his worn and crippled companions, all hope gone from their haggard faces, all strength gone from their frozen bodies, through bleared and sunken eyes, watching him apathetically. De Long beckoned to Ambler.
“Do what you can for the men’s feet today, doctor, while I sort over our stores. There’s no hope of assistance on the coast. We may as well look this situation in the face, and prepare ourselves to walk inland to the nearest settlement.”
“And where will that be?” asked the surgeon anxiously.
“At Ku Mark Surk, ninety-five miles to the southward,” replied De Long.
“Ninety-five miles!” repeated Ambler in dismay. “Why, some of these men can’t walk even a mile!”
“They’ve got to now,” answered the captain grimly. “Get to work on our feet, doctor. Our lives depend on them now. Tomorrow they’ve got to carry us along!”