“December 15th.--This has been a week of suffering, of mad freaks, and of horror. Benton, the mate, went insane, and for an hour we had all we could do to prevent his cutting his throat. Poor fellow! The end is near.
December 20th.--Another week has dragged by. Yesterday poor O’Byrne died. His body yet lies on the main deck. I am the only survivor. Ye gods! This stark solitude will drive me mad yet. I think I shall try to make a trip across the ice and join a band of Esquimaux. Once to-day the ship heaved and seemed likely to go down.”
The journal ended here.
Frank did not go back further in the book for more particulars.
He had already learned the most that it was necessary for him to.
He knew the name of the ship and the mission of the crew, which was to find the North Pole.
It was only one more instance of the folly of fitting out Arctic expeditions with wooden ships.
This was only one of the many rotting hulks which lay at the bottom of the Arctic.
Frank put his helmet close to Roger’s and shouted:
“Well, have you seen enough?”