“No, Hans, there was nothing. You must be dreaming things.”
“Don’t try to fool me, qvartermaster; Ay tal you Ay saw it und so did you.” Mournfully he gazed at his shabby boot, then sadly shook his head. “Ay hope you get home yet, Nindemann, but vit me, it ban all done. Stretch me out now; you must sleep.”
But it being still early in the evening, after a brief nap, De Long sent Alexey and Nindemann out with rifles to hunt, the while the others rested and he took stock of the situation.
Long and earnestly, as the two hunters trudged outside through the snow looking for game, the captain pondered. His recent chart, based on Petermann’s reports and descriptions of the villages on the delta itself, he now knew was worthless; only in the old Russian chart showing Ku Mark Surk at the head of the delta and Bulun beyond could he put any faith. But with the nearest of these over eighty miles distant, it was hopeless to expect that his crawling party, making at best five miles a day, could ever get through on the two days’ pemmican still left. And without food to sustain them on the way, the outside temperature, hovering around zero, would of itself in a few more nights in the open like the preceding one, quickly make an end of them. There seemed nothing for it except to stay in the huts where at least they had shelter and warmth and stretch to the utmost their few pounds of pemmican, eked out by poor Snoozer as a last resort, the while he sent two men ahead on a forced march to Ku Mark Surk in the thin hope that he might keep his starving men alive till they returned with aid, in two weeks at the soonest if they found the traveling good, longer if they did not.
What alternatives were there? He considered them. Erichsen, Lee, Boyd, and Ah Sam were his drags on progress, especially the two former. If he left these two, the others might easily double their speed of travel and reach Ku Mark Surk and safety in possibly a week. But it would take at least a second week to get help back to his abandoned men. How could two helpless cripples without food, hardly able to crawl outside to gather wood to warm themselves, stay alive for two long weeks, perhaps more? They would soon, hopeless in the feeling that they were deserted, both lie down and die. As it was, only his constant driving, his apparently soulless harshness, and the lash of his stinging commands, kept them hobbling weakly along.
Could he abandon them? Dispassionately he tried to consider it. On one hand, a far better chance for life to twelve men, certain death for two. On the other hand, the strong probability that all would perish in that hut before relief arrived. Going on, leaving his cripples behind, looked logical. But De Long shook his head. While he lived, he could abandon nobody to the loneliness of that Arctic waste, least of all the heroic Erichsen, who unrelieved through that terrible night in the boat, had clung to the tiller, safely steering them all through the gale, and now in the agony of his decaying feet, was uncomplainingly paying the penalty of his steadfastness. With a sigh, the captain decided to stay on in the hut, while he sent ahead for help. Who should go? Running over in his mind the physical condition of his men, he decided on Surgeon Ambler and Nindemann, the two he felt who were most likely to get through.
At six o’clock, Nindemann returned, empty-handed except for a dead gull he had found. Eagerly the hungry seamen, roused by Nindemann’s entrance, crowded round while Ah Sam plucked the gull, only to discover that the carcass had long since rotted. Sadly it was thrown away, and the disappointed sailors once more turned in. Alexey still was missing, but no fears were felt for him, and quickly, without exception now, the exhausted company sank into deep slumber.
About nine o’clock came a knock on the door of the hut and Alexey’s voice rang out,
“All sleep here?”
Immediately, sleeping heads lifted here and there over the floor as the door flew back and Alexey cried proudly,