This morning one of these little grey seals or floe rats looked at us from astern, and as I plan a motoring coat I felt called upon to deprive it of its pelt, painlessly, after administering a tabloid—lead in nickel. I do not think there is any sport in shooting seals without a pucca stalk, still, the skins of these little grey fellows (Vitulina, or are they a new species?) are too good to leave. I think six will be enough for a coat. I have got three now.
The flippers of the seals here are highly developed, with distinct claws. In the Antarctic the flippers are less distinctly articulated. The finger-bones are more bound together by ligament, and the claws or nails are scarcely noticeable.
All day we travelled north and as westerly as possible, trying to get within sight of Greenland, and for once the sun came out and we felt as if we could paint on deck, and did so for a little—dead smooth sea, with fine icicles forming and very level fields of ice, with few hummocks, extending to the pigeon-grey ribbed sky on horizon—rather monotonous. The guitar was going somewhere on board and most of us cooling our heels in the silence. Only the captive bears seem busy—grate, grate, grating at their wooden walls; one got nearly out last night, when we were off after the narwhal. We saw excited figures jumping about on our foredeck, and when we came alongside there was fierce growling, poor old Port bear being prodded in the back to draw its attention, whilst three seamen struggled to nail on new wood in front of its nose-end of the cage.
But to come back to this day that begins so quietly, we are now all agog, we had a splendid bear-hunt and spotted a female with cub, a very small thing, and it was fascinating watching all their movements and signs to each other. We tried to jam the ship to the floe-edge, but for hundreds of yards it was guarded by floating pan ice—that is, ice in cakes of a few yards diameter and not deep, only, say, a foot. A big whaler could have jammed through comfortably, but we are not strong enough and got stuck and retired as gracefully as possible and went a long round of miles and miles to where we could land on the true floe, practising lasso en route in case we may have another opportunity of throwing a rope over a live wild bear.
Later we spotted the bear and child, and Archie and party went off after it, and from board ship we watched their slow procedure and the bears’ rapid disappearance. I thought then that the fun was over, and retired to draw—but they had the best stalk they have had. They struck the spoor of a bigger single bear, followed it by directions from mast-head, and came within a short distance, when the sleeping hero awoke, and promptly stalked them, then Archie fired at forty yards. He says: “Give me pheasant-shooting and a covert side, and nothing on four legs bigger than a spaniel.” It is rather an awesome thing seeing a fellow in white robes and formidable teeth, that when on his bare feet stands well over ten feet high. A cordite rifle is then a very comfortable thing to hold in your hand. The first bullet in the chest knocked the bear over and two more shots killed it. It took about five hours there and back to finish the bloody business. And even on their tramp home we on board were kept in interest, for Don José Herrero, with the captain, went out for a fourth bear—relationship to others not known—Svendsen tried to draw the bear after him, whilst Don José hid behind a hummock. A bear will always attack a single man, sometimes two, seldom a number, and the plan worked effectively up to a point. It was lovely to watch Svendsen’s simulated frightened flight and the bear following, stalking him behind every hummock, keeping cover, and then scuttling across the open to make sure of its victim. But somehow or other the bear did not just come far enough and our second lot of hunters came back with nothing in the bag. Later, we noticed the same bear working along the horizon. I expect it will strike the track of the homeward drawn bear’s skin. I hope he will evince sufficient interest in his deceased relative either to follow the trail of the skin to the ship or to the carcass; it was far too great a distance to bring in all the flesh. An eight-foot bear, nose to tail, ten feet four inches nose to heel, is a frightful weight, about nine hundred and eighty pounds.
It is still the Spaniards’ watch and we steam away back to where we saw the bears first—if we cannot find whales we must take bears—En falta de pan, buenas son tortas (If you cannot get bread, cakes are good enough), and if you cannot get either bears or whales you must either draw, write, smoke, or go to bed. I would go to bed, but still have a lingering interest in my fellows’ proceedings with the above ursidæ.
After the somewhat exciting afternoon and evening after bear, the night felt very quiet. Mist fell and stilled the least ripple. Archie came to my cabin—two can sit in it with a squeeze—and celebrated the occasion with a pipe and a glass of aqua vite, and he retold his adventures. I ought to have been with him, I believe, as comrade, to draw a bead on the ferocious opponent if necessary, and afterwards put it all down in paint, but Gisbert is most unerring in his aim, and being a little lame, I might have kept them back. At eighty yards, a big bear, Hamilton says, is very imposing, and when it stalks you to within thirty-five yards and you give it your best in a vital spot and it is not killed, you are inclined to wish yourself at home. You think of what will happen if your foot sticks in the deep snow or if you miss with your next, or only wound it. The size and shape of these wild floe-bred bears is far greater than any one may see in captivity. I suppose the age of the males, their food, and free life account for their enormous chest measurements and huge bowed forelegs.