“Don’t worry over that, Nindemann,” replied the doctor. “You’ve got a knife.” He opened his medicine chest on the sledge. “Here, take my surgical saw; I guess if it’ll saw bones, it’ll saw wood all right,” he finished grimly.
Nindemann got to work on some driftwood branches, and soon between sheath knife and bone saw, he had fashioned a fair enough pair of crutches, on which when the party resumed its journey, Erichsen swung along haltingly behind the crippled Ah Sam.
But for the worn and burdened seamen, progress was still snail-like. After another faltering advance, De Long halted the party and deciding to lighten up still further, sent back Nindemann and two other seamen with one tent, all the log books, the spyglass, and two tins of alcohol to stow them with the abandoned gear in the cache at the beach. This left to be carried or dragged by the men only De Long’s private journals as a record of the expedition, one tent, some alcohol and medicines, the rifles, a cooking pot, and what little food they still had, together with the silk flag which De Long himself bore along.
The second day thus, the party staggered on four miles more to the south. The going got worse, the straggling procession lengthened out in the snow. A brief pause to rest, and all hands once more got underway except Nindemann, whose load chafing his shoulders, stayed behind to readjust it while the others started off through the snow. Having eased the fastenings of his pack as well as possible, the wearied quartermaster struggled to his feet and was hurrying forward to catch up with his mates when unexpectedly he stumbled over what as he fell he thought at first was a log half-hidden in the snowy path, but which he quickly saw to be Erichsen, prone on his face, while nearby, tossed into a drift, were his crude crutches!
With a thumping heart, Nindemann feverishly rolled his shipmate over on his back expecting to have to revive him, only to find instead Erichsen’s snow-flecked blue eyes staring bitterly at him, and Erichsen’s broken voice rising in a curse,
“Go avay, damn you! Ay vant yust to die here in peace!”
“Get up, Hans!” pleaded Nindemann. “You’re not going to die; nobody is. Here’s your crutches. Come along! I’ll help you!”
Erichsen only shook his head, his eyes rolling in anguish.
“No use, Nindemann, my feet ban all gone! Even if you can go so far as Moscow, Ay tal you, Ay cannot go one step more! Go on! Let me die!” and with a convulsive effort of his huge body, he twisted himself face down again and clawing feebly with his fingers, tried to bury himself completely in the snow.
Frightened, Nindemann jerked erect and shouted down the trail,