The World of Ice

by R. M. Ballantyne

The effect of the monotony of long-continued darkness, and the absence of novelty, had much to do also with the indifferent health of many of the men. After the two expeditions were sent out, those who remained behind became much more low-spirited, and the symptoms of scurvy increased. In these circumstances Captain Guy taxed his inventive genius to the utmost to keep up their spirits and engage their minds. He assumed an air of bustling activity, and attached a degree of importance to the regular performance of the light duties of the ship that they did not in reality possess, apart from their influence as discipline. The cabin was swept and aired, the stove cleaned, the fittings dusted, the beds made, the tides, thermometers, and barometers registered; the logs posted up, clothes mended, food cooked, traps visited, etcetera, with the regularity of clockwork, and every possible plan adopted to occupy every waking hour, and to prevent the men from brooding over their position. When the labours of the day were over, plans were proposed for getting up a concert, or a new play, in order to surprise the absentees on their return. Stories were told over and over again, and enjoyed if good, or valued far beyond their worth if bad. When old stories failed, and old books were read, new stories were invented, and here the genius of some was drawn out, while the varied information of others became of great importance. Tom Singleton, in particular, entertained the men with songs and lively tunes on the flute, and told stories, as one of them remarked, “like a book”. Joseph West, too, was an invaluable comrade in this respect. He had been a studious boy at school, and a lover of books of all kinds, especially books of travel and adventure. His memory was good, and his inventive powers excellent, so that he recalled wonderful and endless anecdotes from the unfathomable stores of his memory, strung them together into a sort of story, and told them in a soft, pleasant voice that captivated the ears of his audience; but poor West was in delicate health, and could not speak so long as his messmates would have wished. The rough life they led, and the frequent exposure to intense cold, had considerably weakened a frame which had never been robust, and an occasional cough, when he told a long story, sometimes warned him to desist. Games, too, were got up. “Hide-and-seek” was revived with all the enthusiasm of boyhood, and “fox-chase” was got up with tremendous energy. In all this the captain was the most earnest and vigorous, and in doing good to others he unconsciously did the greatest possible amount of good to himself; for his forgetfulness of self, and the activity of his mind in catering for the wants and amusements of his men, had the effect of imparting a cheerfulness to his manner, and a healthy tone to his mind, that tended powerfully to sustain and invigorate his body. But despite all this, the men grew worse, and a few of them showed such alarming symptoms that the doctor began to fear there would soon be a breach in their numbers.

Meanwhile Saunders and his fifteen men trudged steadily to the southward, dragging their sledge behind them. The ice-floes, however, turned out to be very rugged and hummocky, and retarded them so much that they made but slow progress until they passed the Red Snow Valley, and doubled the point beyond it. Here they left the floes, and took to the natural highway afforded by the ice-belt, along which they sped more rapidly, and arrived at the Esquimaux village in the course of about five hours.

Here all was deserted and silent. Bits of seal and walrus, hide, and bones and tusks were scattered about in all directions, but no voices issued from the dome-shaped huts of snow.

“They’re the likest things to bee-skeps I ever saw,” remarked Saunders, as he and his party stood contemplating the little group of huts. “And they don’t seem to care much for big doors.”

Saunders referred here to the low tunnels, varying from three to twelve feet, that formed the entrance to each hut.

“Mayhap there’s some o’ them asleep inside,” suggested Tom Green, the carpenter’s mate; “suppose we go in and see?”

“I dare say ye’re no far wrong,” replied the second mate, to whom the idea seemed to be a new one. “Go in, Davie Summers, ye’re a wee chap, and can bend your back better than the most o’ us.”

Davie laughed as he went down on his hands and knees, and, creeping in at the mouth of one of the tunnels, which barely permitted him to enter in that position, disappeared.

Several of the party at the same time paid similar visits to the other huts, but they all returned with the same remark, “empty”. The interiors were begrimed with lamp-black and filth, and, from their appearance, seemed to have been deserted only a short time before.

Buzzby, who formed one of the party, rubbed his nose for some time in great perplexity, until he drew from Davie Summers the remark that his proboscis was red enough by nature and didn’t need rubbing. “It’s odd,” he remarked, “they seems to ha’ bin here for some time, and yit they’ve niver looked near the ship but once. Wot’s become on ’em I don’t know.”