The yacht-sledge crossed the chasm, and I, a short distance behind, on the “calf” made by the impact, pitched into the gap. I came up like a cork and instantly felt Hopkins’ hand in the neck of my coat. He dragged me out and for the moment we were safe.
But behind us ploughed on the devastator. A closer view revealed a great hulk of ice blocks heaped up, up-ended pieces of the floeberg, perhaps forty feet high. It would strike us again, the shock of its first blow had allowed the strong current to turn its extension northward, and it was slowly revolving on a water pivot, and another face was about to deliver a second disrupting blow further along. There were no councils held just then. We scampered out of danger at our best speed, leaping to the sides of the “Pluto” and helping to pull with the dogs, all together, with a simultaneous inspiration. It worked well. We were slipping along fast, thanks to the level surface, when BANG, and then bang again, and then a fierce ripping sound.
“A wallop on the slats, and a jolt under the chin. That rocks us,” exclaimed Hopkins spasmodically.
Goritz was keeping the air over the dogs blue with imprecations and hot with the winnowing lashes of his whip. We were too late. Twenty or more feet ahead a black jagged line suddenly ran over the ice, a million unseen hands seemed to have seized the farther edge of the seam and pushed it open with frightful speed. Deliberation was impossible, but there must be a decision of some sort, “right off the bat,” as Hopkins would say. It came.
Goritz called back, “Shoot it! Loosen the dogs! All aboard!”
We cast off the loops from the cleats, always intended for quick release, and prepared for embarkation. The word “prepared” does not fit, for it was preparation wound to the top-notch of precipitancy. Goritz turned the forward teams of dogs and slowed the momentum of the boat-sledge. She slid on, however, and almost dumped into the lead that had been formed; a fortunate hump of ice blocked her and made her cargo of boxes and tins rattle absurdly. It had a silly effect like the wail of a baby in a storm. I long remembered it. Getting the dogs stowed was troublesome. We had seventy (thirty had been discarded and sent back with Coogan) but pemmican pitched on the boat hurried them aboard and kept them there. Then we pushed the boat overboard, holding her back with boathooks. In another instant we were on her, too, and the little voyage towards the receding ice began—towards the larger mass, which we believed to be still connected with the ice field we had first traversed. That was a trifle, but it was another matter lifting her to the surface of the pack. We sloped the edge with picks, anchored a capstan on the ice, and by main strength hauled her on, putting in the dogs at the final pull. We fed the dogs, fed ourselves, and took time to think. As Goritz remarked, “there was some room for thought.”
Our dilemma was this: Should we try to regain the first floe cake, through the gateway we had made in the pressure ridge, or stay where we were? In any case the complete breakup of our platform involved sticking to the boat, trusting that she would not be crushed and waiting for the colder days when the cementation of the floes would begin, when we could push northward somehow over the ice. A reconnaissance settled the question. Our first floe had parted, the pressure ridge had disappeared; south of us, as all around us, was the treacherous, shifting, pulverized ice pack (the particles of the pulverization were often small rafts). We drilled the ice and found it from four to six feet thick, and took our position in the center. We were beleaguered; as with Marshal Bazaine it was J’y suis, j’y reste, for each of us. A storm was brewing, the wind rose and, as Mikkelsen has described it, the ice floes “ducked and dipped and hacked at each other, crushing and being crushed.”
“As long as our island holds out we’re safe enough, and if some good leads develop we might strike the water, and make off for another,” said Goritz.
“There’s no place like home,” said Hopkins. “Stick here. We’re drifting in the right direction. When we sight the metropolis of Krocker Land we can hoist our colors and, if there are proper harbor facilities, come up the bay under full steam. I guess the Professor understands the formalities of these upper regions. He can introduce us to the mayor and the aldermen and get us the freedom of the city, and perhaps we can negotiate a commercial treaty that will give the United States of America the monopoly of the ice crop. If we could get an attachment on these rory-borealises for the movies, it would be a mint.”
The Professor ignored these pleasantries. He also believed our safest plan was to stay on the floe and drift at present. Game would turn up for the dogs—seal, walrus—and when we touched Krocker Land (persistent iteration had banished all doubts now of its reality) we would find bear.