ANOTHER SOUND
The little party were overwhelmed with dismay. The very man on whom
they had relied from the beginning, the one who had conducted them
thus far, and the one who, under heaven, could alone guide them to
safety, had thrown up his hands and yielded the struggle. He lay on
the snow limp, helpless, and despairing.
The new fall of snow had almost obliterated their trail, but enough
remained to identify it beyond mistake. The cavity which Docak had
scooped out, and in which they slept, was recognized on the first
glance. The whole day, from the moment of starting, had been wasted,
in laboring to their utmost strength, in getting back to the very
point from which they set out, and which itself was twenty miles from
the sea-coast.
The tendency that every one shows to travel in a circle, when lost,
has been explained in various ways. It is probably due to the fact
that one side of every person is more developed than the other. A
right-handed individual gradually veers to the left, a left-handed one
to the right, while a really ambidextrous one ought to keep straight
ahead.
Jack and the boys remained silent for a moment. They looked down on
the prostrate figure, and finally Fred asked:
"What's the matter, Docak?"
"Gib up--no use--we die--neber see home 'gin."
The words were uttered with all the dejection that it is possible to
conceive, and the native did not move. He acted as if the power to do
so had gone from him.
Suddenly, to the astonishment of the others, Jack Cosgrove gave him a
thumping kick.
"Get up!" he commanded; "if you're such a lubber as all this, I'll
take you by the neck and boot you all the way across Greenland."
And as a guarantee of his good faith he yanked Docak to his feet, and
made ready for a still harder kick, when the fellow moved nimbly out
of the way.
"If you are too big a calf to go on, I'll take the lead, and when I
flop it'll be after all the rest of you've gone down."
The breezy style in which the sailor took hold of matters produced an
inspiriting effect on the others. Despite the grim solemnity of the
moments, both Rob and Fred laughed, as much at the quickness with
which Docak responded as anything else.
"Since we are here at the same old spot," said Rob, "and it is growing
dark, we might as well go into camp."
"That's the fact, as we won't have to scoop out a new place to sleep
in. I suppose, Docak, you're able to sleep, aint you?"
The native made no answer, and the party silently placed themselves in
position for another night's rest, Docak not refusing to huddle in
among them. But there was little talking done. No one could say
anything to comfort the others, and each was busy with his own
thoughts.
It need not be said that, despite the fearful gloom and these
forebodings, they were ravenously hungry. Their bodies were in need of
sustenance, and the probability that they could not get it for an
indefinite time to come was enough to deepen the despair that was
stealing into every heart.
It was unto Fred Warburton that something in the nature of a
revelation came in the darkness of that awful night. His senses
remained with him for some time after the others were asleep, as he
knew from their deep, regular breathing.
The snowfall had almost ceased, and he sat wondering whether, after
all, the end was at hand, and he was asking himself whether, such
seeming of a surety to be the fact, it was worth while to rise from
their present position and try to press on further. If die they must,
why not stay where they were and perish together?
These thoughts were stirring his mind, with many other solemn
meditations, which crowd upon every person who, in his right senses,
sees himself approaching the Dark River, when it seemed to him that
there was sounding, at intervals, an almost inaudible roar, so faint
and dull that for awhile he paid no heed to it, deeming it some
insignificant aural disturbance, such as causes a buzzing or ringing
at times in the head.
But it obtruded so continually that he began to suspect it was a
reality and from some point outside of himself.
It was a low, almost inaudible murmur, sometimes so faint that he
could not hear it, and again swelling out just enough to make it
certain it had an actuality.
Suddenly the heart of the lad almost stood still.
"It's the ocean!" he whispered; "the air has become so still that I
can hear it. The plain is open, there has been a big storm, and the
distance is not too great for it to reach us. But, no, it is from the
wrong direction; it can't be the sea."
The next moment he laughed at himself. Having fixed in his mind the
course to the home of Docak, and, hearing the roar from another point
of the compass, it did not at once occur to him that he himself might
be mistaken.
"If Docak, with all his experience could not keep himself from going
astray, what wonder that I should drift from my moorings? Yes, that is
the sound of the distant ocean or that part known as Davis' Strait and
Baffin's Bay. We can now tell which course to take to get out of this
accursed country."
He wished to awake his friends, and in view of their hungry condition,
urge that they should set out at once; but they were so wearied that
the rest would be grateful, and it was needed. And so, while not
exactly clear as to what should be done, he fell asleep and did not
open his eyes until morning.
Docak was the first to rouse himself. He found that the snow was
falling again, with the prospect worse than ever.
Fred sprang to his feet and quickly told what he had discovered the
evening before.
"It was the ocean," he added, with a shake of his head: "I have heard
it too often to make a mistake--listen!"
All were silent, but the strained ear could catch no sound like the
hollow roar which reached the youth a few hours before.
"I don't care; I was not mistaken," he insisted.
"Why don't we hear it now?" asked Rob, anxious to believe what he
said, but unable fully to do so.
"There was no snow falling at the time; the air was clearer then, and
what little wind there was must have been in the right direction."
"Where did sound come from?" asked the Esquimau, looking earnestly at
Fred and showing deep interest in his words.
"From off yonder," replied the lad, pointing in the proper direction.
"He right--dat so--he hear sea," said Docak, who, to prove the truth
of his words, pointed down at the dimly marked trail. It led in the
precise course indicated by Fred. In other words, when the Esquimau
resumed the journey on the preceding morning, at which time his
bearings were correct, he went of a verity directly toward his own
home, which was the route now pointed by Fred Warburton.
The others saw the point, and admitted that the declaration of the lad
had been proven to be correct beyond question.
And yet, while all this was interesting in its way, and for the time
encouraged the others, of what possible import was it? The conditions
were precisely the same as twenty-four hours before, except they were
less favorable, for the comrades in distress were hungrier and weaker.
But they could not hear the ocean, the snow was falling, and there was
no way of guiding themselves.
They could only struggle on as before, hoping that possibly before
wandering too far astray they might be able to catch the roar that
would be an infallible guide to them in their despairing groping for
home.
The three looked at Docak, expecting him to take the lead, as he had
done from the start. It may be said that Jack Cosgrove had kicked the
Esquimau into his proper place and he was prepared to stay there as
long as he could.
But the native, instead of moving off, stood with his head bent and
his ears bared in the attitude of intense attention.
They judged that he was striving to catch a sound of the ocean. But he
was not.
Truth to tell, Docak had detected another sound of a totally different
character, but far more important than the hollow roar of the far-away
Arctic Sea.