Chapter Thirty.
Our companions slept on, and, while they happily were able to forget the hardships and dangers which were in store for them, we could not find it in our hearts to awake them. At last, one after the other, they awoke. As they did so, they went and looked out at the dreary prospect I have described, and then returning, sat themselves down in gloomy silence in the hut.
On seeing the discontent, not to say despair, which their countenances exhibited, I remembered the conversation I had with Andrew in the night, and determined at once to try and follow his advice; so I went and sat down with the rest.
“Well, mates, things don’t look very pleasant, I’ll allow, but they might be worse, you know,” I remarked.
“I don’t see how that can be,” answered one of the most surly of the party. “Here are we left by our ship, without food or a house, at the beginning of the winter; and it’s cold enough, I’ve heard, in these parts, to freeze up every drop of blood in the veins in ten minutes.”
“Andrew and Terence, and Tom and I, were once much worse off, when we were left on the iceberg,” I observed. “As for food, too, we’ve got a good lump there, which came to our door of its own accord. We’ve every chance of taking plenty more; and I’ve heard say the country is full of game of all sorts. Then, as for a house, we must try and build one, if no ship comes to take us off. Mind, I don’t say that none will come; only if we are left here, we need not fancy that we are going to die in consequence.”
“Faith, Peter’s the boy for brightening a fellow’s heart up,” exclaimed Terence, rousing himself from the despondency which he, with the rest, had begun to feel. “Why, mates, perhaps after all we may have as merry a winter of it as if we got home, though they do say the nights are rather long at that time.”
Terence’s remark did more good than mine. There was something inspiriting in the tone of his voice; and in a few minutes all hands were ready to perform their best,—at all events, to do what Andrew considered for the public good. He first ordered us to have breakfast, for we had been in no humour to take any supper the night before. We accordingly brought in our provisions, and were about to commence on them, when I suggested that we should preserve them for times of greater necessity, and begin, instead, upon the bear.
“But how are we to cook him?” asked some one. “We can’t eat him raw, and we’ve got no oil for the kitchen.”
The kitchen was the cooking apparatus I have spoken of. It was simply an oil lamp with several wicks, and a couple of saucepans, a kettle, and frying-pan to fit over it. The crude oil drawn from the last fish we had killed served for it.