CONCLUSION.
It would be useless to enumerate all the misfortunes which befell
the survivors of the expedition. Even the men themselves were never
able to give any detailed narrative of the events which occurred
during the week subsequent to the horrible discovery related in the
last chapter. However, on the 9th of September, by superhuman
exertions, they arrived at last at Cape Horsburg, the extreme point
of North Devon.
They were absolutely starving. For forty-eight hours they had tasted
nothing, and their last meal had been off the flesh of their last
Esquimaux dog. Bell could go no further, and Johnson felt himself
dying.
They were on the shore of Baffin's Bay, now half-frozen over; that
is to say, on the road to Europe, and three miles off the waves were
dashing noiselessly on the sharp edges of the ice-field.
Here they must wait their chance of a whaler appearing; and for how
long?
But Heaven pitied the poor fellows, for the very next day Altamont
distinctly perceived a sail on the horizon. Every one knows the
torturing suspense that follows such an appearance, and the
agonizing dread lest it should prove a false hope. The vessel seems
alternately to approach and recede, and too often just at the very
moment when the poor castaways think they are saved, the sail begins
to disappear, and is soon out of sight.
[Illustration: Two hours later, after unheard-of exertions, the
survivors of the Forward were picked up by the Hans
Christian.—P.266]
The Doctor and his companions went through all these experiences.
They had succeeded in reaching the western boundary of the ice-field
by carrying and pushing each other along, and they watched the ship
gradually fade away from view without observing them, in spite of
their loud cries for help.
Just then a happy inspiration came to the Doctor. His fertile
genius, which had served him many a time in such good stead,
supplied him with one last idea!
A floe driven by the current struck against the icefield, and
Clawbonny exclaimed, pointing to it—
"This floe!"
His companions could not understand what he meant.
"Let us embark on it! let us embark on it!"
"Oh! Mr. Clawbonny, Mr. Clawbonny," said Johnson, pressing his
hand.
Bell, assisted by Altamont, hurried to the sledge, and brought back
one of the poles, which he stuck fast on the ice like a mast, and
fastened it with ropes. The tent was torn up to furnish a sail, and
as soon as the frail raft was ready the poor fellows jumped upon it,
and sailed out to the open sea.
Two hours later, after unheard-of exertions, the survivors of the
Forward were picked up by the Hans Christian, a Danish whaler, on
her way to Davis' Straits. They were more like spectres than human
beings, and the sight of their sufferings was enough. It told its
own tale; but the captain received them with such hearty sympathy,
and lavished on them such care and kindness, that he succeeded in
keeping them alive.
Ten days afterwards, Clawbonny, Johnson, Bell, Altamont, and Captain
Hatteras landed at Korsam, in Zealand, an island belonging to
Denmark. They took the steamer to Kiel, and from there proceeded by
Altona and Hamburg to London, where they arrived on the 13th of the
same month, scarcely recovered after their long sufferings.
The first care of Clawbonny was to request the Royal Geographical
Society to receive a communication from him. He was accordingly
admitted to the next
[Illustration: —P.267]
séance, and one can imagine the astonishment of the learned
assembly and the enthusiastic applause produced by the reading of
Hatteras' document.
The English have a passion for geographical discovery, from the lord
to the cockney, from the merchant down to the dock labourer, and the
news of this grand discovery speedily flashed along the telegraph
wires, throughout the length and breadth of the kingdom. Hatteras
was lauded as a martyr by all the newspapers, and every Englishman
felt proud of him.
The Doctor and his companions had the honour of being presented to
the Queen by the Lord Chancellor, and they were feted and
"lionized" in all quarters.
The Government confirmed the names of "Queen's Island,"
"Mount Hatteras," and "Altamont Harbour."
Altamont would not part from his companions in misery and glory, but
followed them to Liverpool, where they were joyously welcomed back,
after being so long supposed dead and buried beneath the eternal
snows.
But Dr. Clawbonny would never allow that any honour was due to
himself. He claimed all the merit of the discovery for his
unfortunate captain, and in the narrative of his voyage, published
the next year under the auspices of the Royal Geographical Society,
he places John Hatteras on a level with the most illustrious
navigators, and makes him the compeer of all the brave, daring men
who have sacrificed themselves for the progress of science.
The insanity of this poor victim of a sublime passion was of a mild
type, and he lived quietly at Sten Cottage, a private asylum near
Liverpool, where the Doctor himself had placed him. He never spoke,
and understood nothing that was said to him; reason and speech had
fled together. The only tie that connected him with the outside
world was his friendship for Duk, who was allowed to remain with him.
For a considerable time the captain had been in the habit of walking
in the garden for hours, accompanied by his faithful dog, who
watched him with sad, wistful eyes, but his promenade was always in
one direction in a particular part of the garden. When he got to the
end of this path, he would stop and begin to walk backwards. If
anyone stopped him he would point with his finger towards a certain
part of the sky, but let anyone attempt to turn him round, and he
became angry, while Duk, as if sharing his master's sentiments,
would bark furiously.
The Doctor, who often visited his afflicted friend, noticed this
strange proceeding one day, and soon understood the reason of it. He
saw how it was that he paced so constantly in a given direction, as
if under the influence of some magnetic force.
This was the secret: John Hatteras invariably walked towards the
North.
The End.