“Landing-place, sir.”
There it was, surely enough, hidden from them as they came south, but plain to view now at the back of a huge mass of rock which acted as a breakwater; and there, in quite a recess, was a patch of yellow sand, over which the sea glided gently, while behind the rock the water seemed to be deep and still.
Five minutes after the engine was stopped, the boat lowered, and the captain, doctor, Steve, and a strong crew jumped in, leaving Mr Lowe in charge, the dog leaping in last of all. A short row, for the most part balanced on the top of a great roller gliding shoreward to break on the rocks, and then a smart pull to the right, and they were behind the great rock, riding gently on deep crystal-like water. Fifty yards farther the boat was beached on the thick sand, drawn up, and the party set off, climbing over the tumbled-together rocks to reach the more level ground and make straight for the wreck, which lay some quarter of a mile to the north.
The captain took a sharp look round, and then suggested loading the heavy double guns he, the doctor, and Steve carried, the right bore with the heaviest shot, the rifled barrel with bullet.
One of the men carried a spare rifle, and Johannes and Jakobsen each shouldered a heavy walrus lance, a terrible weapon in the hands of a strong man, with its stout pole about nine feet long and keen leaf-shaped blade, so that they felt themselves more than a match for any polar bear which might show itself in front.
“Gun heavy, Steve?” said the captain.
“Eh? Yes—no! I don’t know,” he replied; “I had not thought about the weight.”
“Which means, I suppose, that you were thinking of having a shot at a bear.”
“Well, yes, sir; I was thinking of something of the kind,” said Steve, colouring.
“You must be careful, then. I will not say do not fire, my lad; but a gun is a dangerous weapon in unskilled hands, as dangerous sometimes for the people round as for the quarry in front.”