“That’s right, captain,” broke in Dr. Ambler who was alongside the skipper. “Noros is best.”
“All right; Noros then. Be ready, both of you in the morning.” Stiffly De Long stretched himself out before the tiny camp fire crackling feebly in the snow.
Morning found thirteen somber seamen looking anxiously off over the frozen tangle of rivers and of islands to the south. Somewhere there beyond that terrible delta land lay Ku Mark Surk and life, but all about them was only the vast snow-crusted tundra, an Arctic waste of wintry desolation and the promise of slow death. Solemnly De Long shook Nindemann’s hand.
“You’ll do all a man can do to get us help, I know, Nindemann,” he said. “God keep you safe and bring you soon again to us.”
“I ain’t got much hope of finding help, captain,” responded the quartermaster gloomily. “It’s farther maybe to Ku Mark Surk than you think.”
“Well, do the best you can. If you find assistance, come back to us as quickly as possible. God knows we need it here! If you don’t—” The captain’s voice broke at that implication, he paused a moment, then concluded huskily, “Why then you’re still as well off as we; you see the condition we are in.” He turned to Nindemann’s companion, standing in the snow beside him,
“Noros, are you ready?”
“Yes, captain.”
De Long looked them over. They carried nothing but one rifle, forty cartridges, and a small rubber bag with three ounces of alcohol, their share of the party’s sole remaining substitute for food. Their clothes were ragged, their sealskin trousers bare of fur, their boots full of holes. The captain’s eyes lingered on the toes protruding from the remnants of their footgear.
“Don’t wade in the river, men. Keep on the banks,” he finished gently.