Before we left our last misty anchorage we partook of a meal of both bear
and narwhal. The narwhal’s flesh is blacker than an old mushroom, and as
food it is only passable. Young bear is our best food, but there is a lot
of trouble about preparing it, for we remove all the fat, which has not a
good taste.
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.
[Illustration]
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.
It is certainly best to attack a bear in couples, on account of
above-mentioned possibilities—lives have been lost by not doing so.
As we turned in, the mist rose a little and left a streak of palest
primrose between it and the horizon, the shape of a great searchlight,
but how delicate was the warm violet of the mist and the darker tint on
the smooth water. In other ten minutes the light increased, then the sky
was faintest yellow, except a low arch of cold bluish tint above the floe
to which we were anchored; on the floe were three small icebergs.
Where we are to-night there is little life, only a few petrels chuckling
quietly at our stern, where there is always some blubber hanging over for
their benefit.
There is not a ripple on the sea, not the slightest perceptible motion. I
think the stillness and silence of the Arctic is a thing seldom noticed;
the hundreds of miles of drifting floes which surround us break all
swell. Everyone sleeps to-night after the exertions of yesterday. If
there is a watch on deck I do not hear him; in my cabin the only sound
is the snoring of our starboard bear. His berth is close to mine; when
he does not snore he growls, a deep vibrating organ note, which is a
little fearsome, and when he stops the deep note there is an ominous
scrape, scraping in the stillness, that shows his set purpose to get out,
and—what? I wish he was overboard or in our Zoo, or behind iron bars or
something stronger than fir-wood battens, which he tears into moss in no
time! A rat tearing wood is vexatious in the silence of the night, but
to hear the patient and effective work going on beside one when you know
there is possibly no one on the look-out, makes one anxious, so I keep my
pistol handy at meal-times and between them.
An uneventful Sunday. After the manner of our great examples of
Reformation times, we held mild sports. Fencing, two entries, F. J. de
Gisbert and the writer, we may not say who took the prize. Lassoing, five
entries, De Gisbert and three Spanish, first Don José Herrero. Don José
Herrero now surpasses our Professor Gisbert, and the writer comes only
a little behind, but still a halo is seen over him for having lassoed
a live bear! Shooting at floating bottles, range inside thirty yards,
Entries, the writer with Browning revolver, Spaniards mannlicher rifles,
easy win for pistol, showing age and practice make up for telescopic
sights. Pipe-playing, march, strathspey and reel, one entry, a walk over.
Guitar accompaniment, three entries, De Gisbert easily first, steward and
writer draw. Painting water-colour evening effect, one entry—judge the
writer—subject, a pale yellow sky, lilac strip clouds above floe, floe
high in tone, faintest pink with pale blue in crevices; prize not awarded.
In evening we tied up to a gap in floe-edge, hoping for narwhals, because
they seem to keep close to edge of the floe. And sure enough they came
when we were at evening meal, a great black-and-white-spotted bull
leading, with a visible gleam under the still, dark water of his white
ivory horn; after him, more drab-coloured whales, presumably Madame and
bébés. We waited out in our boat, the writer with harpoon, and pursued
two lots. One of them was a splendid bull, but both lots vanished a
fraction of a second before I got a good chance at them, so we saved
powder.
During the night we got to some extent embayed. We had floes all round,
and raced round like a bird in a trap, but found a way out of the lake
about four A.M.
As we plodded round in the early morning, it rained! straight down
heavy rain and warm at that, with the thermometer two degrees above
freezing—most unexpected and unsuitable Arctic weather—might as well have
rain at Assouan! When the rain ceased thin mist still hung over the day
and it was very quiet indeed.
Our Starboard bear seemed to feel the quiet and monotony and made a very
good attempt to get out to-night. He did not seem very overpowering on
the floe, but now, when he got his head and one great forefoot out and
the timber was flying and six men struggling to nail him up, he gave one
a sense of great strength. He is now inside the remnants of timber baulks
of about three cages. As he chews one batten up more timber is nailed on
over the first stumps. Some of us thought the bridge gave a good point of
view: the struggling figure, and the steam of its breath as the cage was
turned over, and Gisbert’s cigarette smoke as he pulled and hauled and
directed the various manœuvres, made a fairly dramatic picture. I thought
my services might be called on at any minute with my Browning, but six
men, active of mind and body, and various ingenious appliances of tackles
and hatchets and big nails, at last made Bruin secure, and the stillness
of the misty day come over us again.
Later, a great narwhal raised his back and tail right astern, groaned
and went under with hardly a ripple, and we saw his white length come
towards us under the glassy surface and disappear under the ship. So
the whale-boat was lowered and a crew went out and lay a hundred yards
off. My fishing instinct told he was the only one about, so I stayed on
board and painted an ice effect. The whale-boat and men lay perfectly
reflected, and looked almost too still and colourless through the thin
mist to be real, looking more like a faded print of people waiting for
perch than whalers waiting with stern intent to do or die. Bow lay on his
back smoking, the smoke rising straight up, the others chatted in subdued
voices.
On board, Pedersen the steward started his guitar and mouth-organ, and
altogether, with the tum-tum, common waltz music, and the outer stillness
it did not feel a bit as it ought to do in the Arctic regions,
“Where there’s frost and there’s snow
And the stormy winds do blow,
And the daylight’s never done,
Brave Boys,”
as the old song goes.
I have mentioned our many-sided steward. Photography seems to be another
of his accomplishments—hobbies, I should say. Light or no light, he
fires his camera. We could not help smiling the other day when he went
for the first time on to the floe with a party to photograph a bear-hunt.
Hardly had he gone five yards when one leg went deep into a hole in the
floe and his shoe came off. He emptied the water, and then the other came
off, so he hastily fixed his tripod, fired a shot at the ship and came
on board again, and took to the guitar and his proper offices. To-night
a sudden idea seized him and he left his cosy corner by our galley fire
and Johanna, our “she-cook,” and came with guitar and that instrument
called the mouth-organ, and arranged our bears’ heads and skins on the
main-hatch, and sat himself down on a block of wood between them and
got one of the men to fire his camera at him. But first he produced a
pocket-mirror, when I called his attention to a hair being astray, and
having arranged that, he pulled his white jacket into position, fixed
up the guitar and mouth-organ and struck a fine pose. I might have
fired a plate at him, but there was not nearly enough light. The head
of Hamilton’s enormous bear, as if resentful of this last indignity of
having to pose in such a picture, broke the barrel it rested on as if in
protest—even the head and neck is a big lift for one man.
Another picture composed itself a little later. We watered ship from one
of these shallow blue pools on the floe, two men at the pool filling
tin pails with a large tin bailer. To encourage them our jolly, burly
_vivandière_ went out to them with her cheery laugh, carrying a glass
and bottle of aqua vite. There was colour! and if not elegance, a beauty
of fitness, which is saying a good deal for the lady; the ample, strong
form, in pale blue and white pinafore kind of dress, tripped over the
floe, and the deep blue of the sailors’ clothes and her red cheeks, and
the golden yellow of the aquavit, the grey of the zinc pails, and the
blue and white of the snow, suddenly struck one as the first decided
effect of strong colour contrast which we have seen for days.
Nothing very exciting to-day, mist and snow on deck till evening, when
it cleared, and became very calm. We were all at _aften-mad_ when word
came a bear was sighted, so our Spanish friends armed themselves and went
forward to the bows, and the vessel slowly approached the floe on which
the bear had been seen, and to our astonishment the bear approached the
ship steadily, and lightly climbed a round snow-block and steadily gazed
at us, a pale primrose patch in a great whiteness, with interesting dark
eyes and muzzle. I have tried to recall the effect, but the highness of
the scheme of colour makes it difficult to paint, and probably impossible
to reproduce by any process of colour-printing.
Our friends calmly held their fire till within twenty-five yards when Don
José began with his telescope-sighted mannlicher and hit the bear at his
first shot! unfortunately rather near its tail. The bear, enraged, tore
at itself. Then a sharp fusillade began from both rifles and by-and-by
the bear succumbed. It had been hit not less than five times. It was only
a small bear, but, as Don Luis senior remarked: “It was forte bien mieux
de tirer from the ship than to go march, march, toujours sur la neige.”
This is the way we speak on board, with a little Spanish thrown in.