“It was a sight of horror,” continues Schley. “On one side, close to the opening, with his head toward the outside, lay what was apparently a dead man. His jaw had dropped, his eyes were open, but fixed and glassy, his limbs were motionless. On the opposite side was a poor fellow, alive, to be sure, but without hands or feet, and with a spoon tied to the stump of his right arm. Two others, seated on the ground, in the middle, had just got down a rubber bottle that hung on the tent pole, and were pouring from it in a tin can. Directly opposite, on his hands and knees, was a dark man with a long matted beard, in a dirty and tattered dressing-gown, with a little red skull cap on his head, and brilliant, staring eyes. As Colwell appeared, he raised himself a little, and put on a pair of eye-glasses.
“‘Who are you?’ asked Colwell.
“The man made no answer, staring at him vacantly.
“‘Who are you?’ again.
“One of the men spoke up,—
“‘That’s the Major—Major Greely.’
“Colwell crawled in and took him by the hand, saying to him,—
“‘Greely, is this you?’
“‘Yes,’ said Greely, in a faint, broken voice, hesitating and shuffling with his words; ‘yes—seven of us left—here we are—dying—like men. Did what I came to do—beat the best record.’