When the catastrophe described in the last chapter occurred, Captain
Vane and his friends, following hard on the heels of the runaway,
chanced to be within two miles of the berg in the bosom of which Benjy
had found refuge.
"There he is!" shouted the Captain joyfully, as the flash of the
explosion reached his eyes and the roar of the report his ears.
"Blessed evidence! He's up to mischief of some sort still, and that's
proof positive that he's alive."
"But he may have perished in this piece of mischief," said Alf,
anxiously glancing up at the kite, which was dragging the heavily-laden
sledge rather slowly over the rough ice.
"I hope not, Alf. Shake the regulator, Butterface, and see that it's
clear."
"All right, Massa. Steam's on de berry strongest what's possible."
"Heave some o' the cargo overboard, Alf. We must make haste. Not the
meat, lad, not the meat; everything else before that. So. Mind your
helm, Chingatok; she'll steer wildish when lightened."
Captain Vane was right. When Alf had tumbled some of the heavier
portions of lading off the sledge, it burst away like a wild-horse let
go free, rendering it difficult at first for Chingatok to steady it. In
a few minutes, however, he had it again under control, and they soon
reached the berg.
"The dynamite must have gone off by accident," said the Captain to Alf,
as they stumbled over masses of ice which the explosion had brought down
from the roof of the cavern. "It's lucky it didn't happen in summer,
else the berg might have been blown to atoms. Hallo! what's this? Bits
of a polar bear, I do believe--and--what! not Benjy!"
It was indeed Benjy, flat on his back like a spread-eagle, and covered
with blood and brains; but his appearance was the worst of his case,
though it took a considerable time to convince his horrified friends of
that fact.
"I tell you I'm all right, father," said the poor boy, on recovering
from the state of insensibility into which his fall had thrown him.
"But you're covered from head to foot with blood," exclaimed the anxious
father, examining him all over, "though I can't find a cut of any sort
about you--only one or two bruises."
"You'll find a bump on the top of my head, father, the size of a
cocoa-nut. That's what knocked the senses out o' me, but the blood and
brains belong to the bear. I lay no claim to them."
"Where _is_ the bear?" asked Alf, looking round.
"Where is he?" echoed Benjy, bursting into a wild laugh.
"Oh! Massa Benjy, don't laugh," said Butterface solemnly; "you hab no
notion wot a awful look you got when you laugh wid sitch a bloody face."
This made Benjy laugh more than ever. His mirth became catching, and
the negro's solemn visage relaxed into an irrepressible grin.
"Oh, you japan-jawed porpoise!" cried Benjy, "you should have seen that
bear go off--with such a crack too! I only wish I'd been able to hold
up for two seconds longer to see it properly, but my shelf went down,
and I had to go along with it. Blown to bits! No--he was blown to a
thousand atoms! Count 'em if you can."
Again Benjy burst into uproarious laughter.
There was indeed some ground for the boy's way of putting the case. The
colossal creature had been so terribly shattered by the dynamite
cartridge, that there was scarcely a piece of him larger than a man's
hand left to tell the tale.
"Well, well," said the Captain, assisting his son to rise, "I'm thankful
it's no worse."
"Worse, father! why, it _couldn't_ be worse, unless, indeed, his spirit
were brought alive again and allowed to contemplate the humbling
condition of his body."
"I don't refer to the bear, Benjy, but to yourself, lad. You might have
been killed, you know, and I'm very thankful you were not--though you
half-deserve to be. But come, we must encamp here for the night and
return home to-morrow, for the wind has been shifting a little, and will
be favourable, I think, in the morning."
The wind was indeed favourable next morning, we may say almost too
favourable, for it blew a stiff breeze from the south, which steadily
increased to a gale during the day. Afterwards the sky became overcast
and the darkness intense, rendering it necessary to attend to the kite's
regulator with the utmost care, and advance with the greatest caution.
Now, while the Captain and his friends were struggling back to their
Polar home, Leo Vandervell happened to be caught by the same gale when
out hunting. Being of a bold, sanguine, and somewhat reckless
disposition, this Nimrod of the party paid little attention to the
weather until it became difficult to walk and next to impossible to see.
Then, having shot nothing that day, he turned towards the Pole with a
feeling of disappointment.
But when the gale increased so that he could hardly face it, and the sky
became obliterated by falling and drifting snow, disappointment gave
place to anxiety, and he soon realised the fact that he had lost his
direction. To advance in such circumstances was out of the question, he
therefore set about building a miniature hut of snow. Being by that
time expert at such masonry, he soon erected a dome-shaped shelter, in
which he sat down on his empty game-bag after closing the entrance with
a block of hard snow.
The position of our hunter was not enviable. The hut was barely high
enough to let him sit up, and long enough to let him lie down--not to
stretch out. The small allowance of pemmican with which he had set out
had long ago been consumed. It was so dark that he could not see his
hand when close before his eyes. He was somewhat fatigued and rather
cold, and had no water to drink. It was depressing to think of going to
bed in such circumstances with the yelling of an Arctic storm for a
lullaby.
However, Leo had a buoyant spirit, and resolved to "make the best of
it." First of all he groped in his game-bag for a small stove lamp,
which he set up before him, and arranged blubber and a wick in it, using
the sense of touch in default of sight. Then he struck a light, but not
with matches. The Englishmen's small stock of congreves had long since
been exhausted, and they were obliged to procure fire by the Eskimo
method, namely, a little piece of wood worked like a drill, with a thong
of leather, against another piece of wood until the friction produced
fire. When a light had been thus laboriously obtained, he applied it to
the wick of his lamp, and wished fervently for something to cook.
It is proverbial that wishing does not usually achieve much. After a
deep sigh, therefore, Leo turned his wallet inside out. Besides a few
crumbs, it contained a small lump of narwhal blubber and a little
packet. The former, in its frozen state, somewhat resembled hard
butter. The latter contained a little coffee--not the genuine article,
however. That, like the matches, had long ago been used up, and our
discoverers were reduced to roasted biscuit-crumbs. The substitute was
not bad! Inside of the coffee-packet was a smaller packet of brown
sugar, but it had burst and allowed its contents to mingle with the
coffee.
Rejoiced to find even a little food where he had thought there was none,
Leo filled his pannikin with snow, melted it, emptied into it the
compound of coffee and sugar, put it on the lamp to boil, and sat down
to watch, while he slowly consumed the narwhal butter, listening the
while to the simmering of the pannikin and the roaring of the gale.
After his meagre meal he wrapped himself in his blanket, and went to
sleep.
This was all very well as long as it lasted, but he cooled during the
night, and, on awaking in the morning, found that keen frost penetrated
every fibre of his garments and every pore of his skin. The storm,
however, was over; the moon and stars were shining in a clear sky, and
the aurora was dancing merrily. Rising at once he bundled up his traps,
threw the line of his small hand-sledge over his shoulder, and stepped
out for home. But cold and want of food had been telling on him. He
soon experienced an unwonted sense of fatigue, then a drowsy sensation
came over him.
Leo was well aware of the danger of giving way to drowsiness in such
circumstances, yet, strange to say, he was not in the least afraid of
being overcome. He would sit down to rest, just for two minutes, and
then push on. He smiled, as he sat down in the crevice of a hummock, to
think of the frequent and needless cautions which his uncle had given
him against this very thing. The smile was still on his lips when his
head drooped on a piece of ice, and he sank into a deep slumber.
Ah, Leonard Vandervell! ill would it have been for thee if thou hadst
been left to thyself that day; but sharp eyes and anxious hearts were
out on the icy waste in search of thee!
On arriving at his winter quarters, and learning that Leo had not yet
returned, Captain Vane at once organised an elaborate search-expedition.
The man who found him at last was Butterface.
"Oh, Massa Leo!" exclaimed that sable creature on beholding the youth
seated, white and cold, on the hummock; but he said no more, being fully
alive to the danger of the situation.
Rushing at Leo, he seized and shook him violently, as if he had been his
bitterest foe. There was no response from the sleeping man. The negro
therefore began to chafe, shake, and kick him; even to slap his face,
and yell into his ears in a way that an ignorant observer would have
styled brutal. At last there was a symptom of returning vitality in the
poor youth's frame, and the negro redoubled his efforts.
"Ho! hallo! Massa Leo, wake up! You's dyin', you is!"
"Why--what's--the--matter--Butterf--" muttered Leo, and dropped his head
again.
"Hi! hello! ho-o-o!" yelled Butterface, renewing the rough treatment,
and finally hitting the youth a sounding slap on the ear.
"Ha! I be tink dat vakes you up."
It certainly did wake him up. A burst of indignation within seemed to
do more for him than the outward buffetings. He shut his fist and hit
Butterface a weak but well intended right-hander on the nose. The negro
replied with a sounding slap on the other ear, which induced Leo to
grasp him in his arms and try to throw him. Butterface returned the
grasp with interest, and soon quite an interesting wrestling match
began, the only witness of which sat on a neighbouring hummock in the
form of a melancholy Arctic fox.
"Hi! hold on, Massa Leo! Don't kill me altogidder," shouted Butterface,
as he fell beneath his adversary. "You's a'most right now."
"Almost right! what do you mean?"
"I mean dat you's bin a'most froze to deaf, but I's melted you down to
life agin."
The truth at last began to dawn on the young hunter. After a brief
explanation, he and the negro walked home together in perfect harmony.