[CHAPTER XXXVII]
SAVED BY A MIRACLE
Serge had noticed for some time that the movements of the tiny craft in which he and Phil Ryder were navigating the mighty waters of Bering Sea were heavy and lagging. It seemed to have lost life and buoyancy. Instead of gliding smoothly through the water, it seemed to drag, as though its bottom were foul with grasses or barnacles. Serge of course knew that this could not be the case, and, after puzzling over the matter for some time, concluded that the fault did not lie so much with the boat as in its exhausted crew, who no longer possessed the strength necessary to force it ahead with the same speed as formerly.
All at once he felt a movement of the bidarkie’s skin between its wide-spread ribs, and heard a peculiar sobbing or sucking sound that instantly explained the situation. It also filled him with a dread before which even the fact that they were drifting helplessly over the vast expanse of the great northern sea seemed insignificant.
A bidarkie, or “bidarka,” as it is often spelled, made of green sea-lion skins stretched as tightly as possible over a wooden or bone frame, allowed to dry in the wind until they become taut and smooth as a drum-head, and then liberally coated with seal-oil, is, for twenty-four hours or so, one of the swiftest, safest, smoothest, and most graceful of craft. A few years ago two wrecked sailors made a two-thousand mile voyage from one of the Aleutian Islands to San Francisco in a nineteen-foot bidarkie, but they hugged the coast, took inside passages wherever it was possible, and camped on shore every night. By so doing they were enabled to lift their frail craft from the water, and allow it to dry six, eight, or ten hours out of every twenty-four. Thus it retained its shape and remained serviceable during the whole of that tremendous voyage. If they had not been able to do this, their bidarkie would have been worthless by the end of forty-eight hours, the one great fault of this craft being that after a while its skin covering becomes water-soaked and will stretch. In this condition it sags in and out between the ribs with strange sounds, until the boat becomes wellnigh unmanageable. By-and-by, if the soaking and stretching process continues, the skins are so softened that the sinew threads with which they are sewn together pull out and the seams open. Then in a moment the bidarkie fills and sinks like a lump of lead.
In the present case the softening process had begun, and Serge was aware of it. Before another day was done their frail craft would have ceased to float, and they—well, they would be beyond the reach of human aid or knowledge. Their bodies would be hidden deep beneath the cold green surface of Bering Sea, while their unknown fate would serve as a matter for sad conjecture for many a day to the dear ones whom they should never again see.
All this flashed through the lad’s mind in an instant, with the bidarkie’s first sobbing intimation that its strength was nearly gone, and he was on the point of sharing his unhappy knowledge with his companion. But why should he? Poor Phil was wretched enough already. No; he would keep the discovery to himself, and his well-loved comrade should be spared its added terror as long as possible. So, when the latter laid down his paddle, declaring himself utterly exhausted, Serge answered, “So am I, and, what is worse, I don’t believe we will be able to stand watch during the night. Certainly both of us can’t keep awake all the time, and so, old fellow, I would advise you to get a nap if you can. Before sleep overpowers me I will wake you, and so we will keep watch by turn as best we may.”
“What shall we watch for?” asked Phil, in a hopeless tone.
“For the vessel that is to pick us up, to be sure,” replied Serge.