the trial ascension precisely as if we were to make the intended voyage.
In order that the weight might—er——”
“Do you mean,” interrupted Gale, “that there are sandwiches in there?”
tapping on the compartment reserved for that purpose.
“Yes, sir—or were, when we started.”
“Bill,” declared Gale, fervently, “if we ever get out of this snap, I’ll
set you up in a business big enough to supply tablets to the whole
civilized world and part of Long Island.”
“I should be quite satisfied to stay—that is, to remain—that is, if we
ever get back to it, on the Billowcrest,” said Mr. Sturritt simply.
Gale turned to me.
“How long will it take to get to that warm country of yours, Nick?”
“If we keep on as we’re going, we ought to be in a much warmer climate
by night,” I said, “and night won’t come so quickly, either, going in
this direction. The continuous day is just beginning at the Pole, you
know.”
Gale leaned back.
“All right,” he said, “I’d rather go to the end of the line than to try
to get back over that ice-wall. Give us a through ticket and throw her
wide open.”
Ferratoni meantime was fishing up the telephone, and after a brief
examination passed it with gentle courtesy over to me.
“I do not need it, you know,” he said.
I took it eagerly, though I did not quite gather his meaning. The little
bell was already ringing violently. I called hastily into the
transmitter:
“Hello! hello! down there! All well up here. All safe and bound for the
South Pole.”
Edith Gale’s voice came back joyously.
“Oh, Nicholas! Oh, I was so frightened!”
“Don’t worry a bit. We’re a little ahead of schedule time, but we’re off
all right, and have got a clear track.”
There was a brief pause, during which I imagined Miss Gale might be
collecting herself after her excitement, and perhaps communicating the
news to the others. Then her voice came again, somewhat more calmly.
“Oh, are you sure you’re all right, and how’s Daddy?”
“Supplied with sandwiches, and at peace with all mankind.”
My tone reassured her.
“What can you see up there?” she asked eagerly.
“Nothing, so far, but snow, but there seem to be light fleecy clouds to
the south, or maybe they’re snow hills. If clouds, it would mean a
warmer country, I think.”
“How high up are you?”
“Well, perhaps a mile or so.”
“Very cold up there?”
“It’s getting cold. We were pretty warm at first, from exercise.”
“Oh, weren’t you frightened?”
“N—no, I don’t think we had time.”
She then asked me about Mr. Sturritt and Ferratoni, but before I could
answer Ferratoni said:
“You may tell her that I gain happiness with every mile that passes.”
“Could you hear her question?” I asked, surprised.
“Mentally, yes,” he answered. “Even at this distance there is a perfect
chording of the thought, as well as the electrical vibration.”
I knew then what he had meant by not needing the telephone.
“Look here, we’re going down,” declared Gale, suddenly.
I peered over the side of the boat. Certainly the swift-flying waste
below seemed to be coming nearer. We were no longer miles above the
drifts. I doubted if we were even one mile, and they seemed to be
rapidly coming nearer. I looked at Gale. What could it mean?
“I’ll tell you,” he said, “just what’s the matter. We got a puncture
when we struck the edge of that ice-wall. We’re leaking gas, and we’re
going to be dumped out, pretty soon, right here in the middle of
nowhere.”
There seemed no argument against this conclusion. I did not attempt any.
The thing to do was to act.
“We’ll have to throw out some of our ballast, quick,” I said, “before we
get down where our drag-rope can touch. That would pull on us still
more. We must keep going as long as we can, unless you want to try to
get back to the ship.”
“And fall off that two thousand foot wall—not much!” said Gale. “We’re
going on.”
Our bags of zinc filings were stored in a compartment at the bottom of
the boat, under our furs and sleeping arrangements. I lifted the latter
quickly and drew out some of the ballast. I passed the bags to Gale, who
threw them over, one at a time. There was a slight upward pull as each
went over, but still the white surface below remained distressingly
near. The five hundred feet that still remained of our anchor rope
seemed to cover more than half the distance, though this was, of course,
deceptive. We continued to throw out our bags of filings until all were
gone, and followed them with our supply of acid, which, without the
zinc, would be of no value. Minus the means of making gas, our chances
of return were, of course, much lessened, but the needs of the moment
seemed all important and imperative. As we drew near the flying surface
our speed appeared to increase, though in reality it probably slackened.
Our descent now became less rapid. Perhaps because the pressure of the
gas was not so great, and also because the lower air was more buoyant.
Still, it was not to be denied that we were drawing slowly, surely,
nearer to the white plain below. We had not mentioned our predicament to
those on the ship, and we said no word now of the impending disaster. We
simply huddled down into our fur wrappings and waited, often looking
over the side to note our progress, both southward and downward.
Finally, just after noon, it became evident that our anchor-rope would
soon touch, and this would presently drag us down.
“How much does that rope weigh?” Gale asked, looking at me.
“About two hundred pounds, perhaps.”
We remained looking at each other, and though not skilled like Ferratoni
in such matters, I could read the thought in his mind. The rope, as I
have said, was attached to the iron ring below. I would as soon have
jumped over at once, as to have attempted to climb over and cut it. As
for Gale, he was much too heavy, and not constructed for such work. But
we knew we must get rid of that rope.
“Perhaps I can shoot it off,” suggested Gale.
He drew a revolver from one of the compartments, and leaning over, fired
repeatedly at the slender mark. But the end below was touching now, and
this made it unsteady. He gave up at last, his hands numb with cold.
“Either I am a poor shot, or the bullets won’t cut it,” he said.
“There is no help for it,” I thought. “I must make the attempt and die.”
“No,” said Ferratoni, “I will go over. You can put a rope around me.”
But at this point Mr. Sturritt ventured to interfere.
“As a boy,” he said, “I was something of a circus—that is—I was somewhat
given to gymnastics, and I think I might properly undertake this
matter.”
“Bill,” said Gale, fervently, “you’re laying up treasures.”
He was the lightest of the party. We put a small rope securely about
him, and made loops to hold to from above. The elderly man laid off his
outer furs, and in the icy air stepped nimbly to the edge. Then, knife
in hand, he cautiously descended. He first tried holding to the side of
the boat with one hand and reaching for the rope with the other. But
this would not work, so, at his bidding, we lowered him a few feet
further. He gave himself a push outward as he descended. As he swung
back under the boat he seized the rope below, and with a few deft cuts,
severed it.
There was a sudden upward flight that prevented our hauling in
immediately. Then we pulled straight up, and Mr. Sturritt’s hands, and
presently his head, appeared over the side. He tumbled in among us and
we covered him with furs. We offered him brandy, for he was stiff and
blue.
“N—no,” he shivered, “in c—compartment four you will find a brown
lozenge especially adapted to such occas—that is—to emergencies of this
sort.”
I hastily procured the tablets, and he swallowed two of them.
“Take a little whisky to wash ’em down, Bill.”
But Mr. Sturritt shook his head, and presently seemed to grow quite warm
among the furs. Then, closing his eyes, he slept. Gale regarded him
fondly.
“Bully old Bill!” he said. “I never knew him to be afraid in my life, or
to fail when it came to the pinch!”
XXIII.
THE CLOUDCREST MAKES A LANDING.
We were fully half a mile above the white world now, and greatly
encouraged. If we could keep this up for several hours I believed we
might get beyond the snow barrier, or at least to a point where the cold
was less intense. Already it seemed to me that the air was less keen. We
felt little or no wind as we were traveling with it, and while we had
started our propeller and kept it going steadily it did not add enough
to our speed to cause any perceptible current of air from ahead. By two
o’clock we agreed that it was considerably warmer than when we had
started. The thermometer, too, showed a difference of several degrees,
though this might be due to a variety of causes. At the ship, however,
Edith reported no perceptible change, all of which added to our
encouragement. Gale, meantime, had investigated the sandwiches, and
found them not only safe, but packed to prevent freezing. We each took
two, in addition to an allowance of lozenges—all except Mr. Sturritt,
who stood by his guns, or rather his tablets, and fared on this food
only.
But by three o’clock it became evident that we must soon reach the end
of the balloon stage of our journey. The Cloudcrest had done nobly in
her crippled condition, but she was settling steadily now, and there was
nothing else that we could afford to throw away. It was better, we said,
to face the disaster of landing at once with our supplies than to throw
them away and land finally with nothing. We believed that we had covered
no less than a hundred and fifty miles, a distance which I had hoped
would mark the limit of the snow-line, but in this, evidently, I had
been mistaken. It was still a white level ahead, over which, if we
escaped destruction in making our landing (and this seemed extremely
doubtful at the rate of speed we were going), we would now be obliged to
proceed, and much more slowly, on foot. I determined, therefore, to
stick to the balloon as long as possible, even at the cost of some risk
and discomfort.
But as we drew near the surface we saw that what had appeared to us a
smooth level was billowed and drifted like the sea. We braced ourselves
for the moment when we should strike. The chances were that we would be
flung out with violence or dragged to death miserably.
Nearer and nearer we came, rushing down on the marble whiteness beneath.
“Do you know,” said Gale suddenly, “it seems to me we are going
down-hill.”
“If we are,” I replied, “it shows that the crust is getting thinner, and
proves my theory of a warm country. I have thought it for some time, but
I would not mention it until some one else—hi!—Look out!”
There was a sudden shock, and a blinding smash of snow that choked and
stunned us. I gasped and coughed to get my breath. When I opened my eyes
I saw that we had cut through the peak of the high drift I had seen
coming just ahead, and bounded several feet into the air. But presently
we settled again, and there was another jerk and smash, and another
bound.
“We’re hitting only the high places,” gasped Gale.
“We won’t hit many more,” I gasped back.
We did hit another at that instant, and plowed through still another
immediately afterward. Then we appeared to strike a comparatively smooth
place, for we felt the rush and bump of the snow beneath almost
constantly, though the spray of it became a blinding volume that meant
suffocation and death.
“Cut the ropes!” shouted Gale, “and let her go!”
He was seated in the stern, and must have suited the action to the word,
for I felt the bow, where I was, rise, and looking back saw Gale holding
on for dear life to keep from spilling out behind. He did not look
contented, and evidently had changed his mind about a through ticket.
Like Uncle Laxart, he was willing to wait for the next balloon, or to
walk, or to go in any way that was quieter. Ferratoni and Sturritt were
also sawing at the side ropes, and I quickly got my knife ready to sever
the single rope at the bow last. Mr. Sturritt succeeded in getting the
ropes on his side cut off first, and for some moments our boat, or
rather our sled, for it was that now, was pitching or rolling through
the drifts on side or bottom, just as it happened. Then we seemed to
right, and I guessed, though I could not see, that Ferratoni had in some
manner got his ropes cut away. Our sled was being pulled now by its
single cord up hill and down dale, helter-skelter, lickety-split,
bounding, leaping, plunging, and courting destruction. From out of the
madness of it all came Gale’s voice.
“Here we come! Head us, somebody! Dern our fool souls, we’re runnin’
away!” And a second later, “Cut her, Nick, cut her! I can’t stick on any
longer!”
[Illustration:
“Cut her, Nick, cut her! I can’t stick on any longer!”—Page 202.
]
I had been holding the edge of my knife to the rope, hesitating to cut,
for the reason that we appeared to have slowed down somewhat, and were
yet making such excellent time. Now, with a slash, we were free.
There was a sudden halting, a plunge, a wild medley of legs and arms and
ropes and Antarctic snow, and over all a tightly fitting cover, and
blackness.
The cover was the overturned boat. The blackness, the inside of it,
where I was. I was half stunned at first, however, and did not realize
just what had occurred. Then I heard Gale’s voice outside.
“Ring up the curtain, and let’s see what’s left.”
I braced my back against whatever was above me and it rose. Then the
light came under, and I saw Gale. Together we pushed and pulled up the
boat and righted it. Under the boat with me had fallen both Mr. Sturritt
and Ferratoni. The latter was gasping and getting his wind. The former
was white and senseless, but opened his eyes almost immediately, and sat
up. Gale, who had rolled out behind into a comfortable drift, was quite
merry.
“Look yonder,” he laughed.
I looked to the south and upward, as he pointed, and saw a dark spot
against the sky. It was the bag of the Cloudcrest.
“If you get there before we do,” sang Gale.
“Chauncey Gale,” I said, “if every exploring party had a man like you
along there would be no such thing as failure.”
“I think we’d better talk a little to Johnnie if the telephone’s
working,” he said. “She may think we’ve gone to sleep.”
We found the apparatus buried in the snow, but apparently uninjured. The
little bell on it rang as soon as the snow was poked away.
“Hello,” called Gale, “that you, Johnnie? Matter? With us? Why, nothing.
We’ve been busy, that’s all.—No, not quite so loud as it was.—Yes. Bell
didn’t ring, maybe.—Noise you heard? Oh, slacking down the propeller I
guess. Or maybe Nick singing. We’ve camped for the night.—No. Nick
thought it best now we’ve got where it’s warm. Didn’t know what we might
get into, you know.—Yes, bully!—Yes, had to let out some gas. We’ll have
to throw out ballast of course in the morning.—Good place? Oh, yes,—nice
and clean.—No, not _too_ warm.—No, no trees yet.—Oh, why—we—we hitched
it to—that is—we tied it to—to”—Gale slipped his hand over the
transmitter and turned to me helplessly. “Nick, what under heavens did
we hitch the balloon to, for the night? Tell me quick!”
“A—a peculiar petrified formation,” I said hastily. “Might have been a
tree, at one time, you know.”
“Nick says it’s a petrified tree.—Yes, only a few of ’em left.—No. Tell
Biff to hold the fort.—Yes, we must camp, now. Good-by!” He turned to me
again. “Nick,” he said, “that was a good petrified lie of yours, and it
worked in bully. No use to worry the little girl,” he added, “she’ll
think about us enough, anyway.”
We prepared for the night. There was still a feeble sun in the west, and
we made haste to get into comfortable quarters before it left us. I had
learned something of navigation on the vessel, and securing an angle I
calculated that we had made somewhat more than one hundred and sixty
miles during the five hours of aerial travel. We were convinced now that
the snow surface sloped to the southward. Our horizon showed this when
we ascended to the top of the highest drifts, and the temperature also
indicated our approach to a warmer zone. That the frozen crust was
getting thinner we had no doubt, but the end of it seemed yet far
distant, and the temperature about us was by no means of a sort to
suggest a summer wardrobe.
The mechanical skill of Chauncey Gale now became manifest. Inverting our
boat once more, there appeared folded legs which when pulled down formed
short uprights. Also, there was a canvas that dropped around these, and
made a continuous wall, with a flap door in front. On the snow floor
inside we spread our furs, and at the opening there was presently a
little electric stove going, on which Mr. Sturritt was busily melting
snow and preparing tea. This with some sandwiches and a generous round
of lozenges formed our evening meal. We ate it, reclining on our furs,
and were really quite cozy and comfortable. I had a presentiment that I
could not adopt Mr. Sturritt’s condensed food as a continuous diet. It
would have been treason, however, to say so at this stage. Gale was very
delicate in the matter.
“What’s a picnic without peanuts!” he said, as he lit a cigar, and lay
back in the darkness. “And, by the way, Bill, how many of those
sandwiches have we got?”
“Why, I think plenty for—er—to-morrow—that is—at the present rate of
consumption.”
“Um—well, maybe we’d better begin tapering to-morrow then. One a meal,
instead of two. We don’t want to break in on tablets too suddenly, you
know.”
We crept into our sleeping bags—Gale and I together. We heard the
clatter of fine drifting snow on our roof and canvas wall. We were not
cold, and drowsiness presently came stealing over me—the reaction after
all the excitement of the day.
Then out of the darkness came the face of Edith Gale. We were far apart
for the first time in a year. Long, desolate, frozen miles lay between
us. To-morrow night the distance would be still greater. She did not
know our plight—of that I was glad. Yet, in the end, it might be no
worse than hers. The Billowcrest might never escape from her ice-locked
harbor. And it was I who had brought all of this to pass. We were both
isolated in this great frozen world, and all through a mad dream of my
boyhood. I had an inclination to toss on my pillow, but the limits of
the sleeping-bag did not permit this luxury. From out of the darkness at
the other end of the boat came the voice of Ferratoni.
“It will avail nothing to disturb yourself,” he said gently, “and a
good-night word would be comforting.”
I had forgotten the telephone. I reached out an arm for it now, and
touched the call button. Almost immediately it answered, and then came
Edith’s voice.
“Hello! Who is it?”
“It’s me—we’re just going to sleep and want to say good night.”
“Are you really warm and nice? And is Daddy comfortable?”
“Yes, he’s asleep, I think.”
“No, he isn’t,” said Gale. “Give me that phone a minute.”
“Hi, Johnnie, that you?—Yes. You better go, too.—Can’t sleep? Why?—Oh,
pshaw! we’re snug as a bug. Go on, now. Say your prayers over twice, and
get Zar to sing ‘Brown Cows’ to you! Good night!”
He handed me the transmitter.
“Good night,” I said.
“Good night, dear,” she called, “and God bless you!”
A sweet peace and comfort came upon me.
“Ferratoni,” I said, “you deserve a crown!” But he did not answer.
Drowsiness once more came down like a soft curtain. Then the sleepy
voice of Gale:
“Bill!”
“Yes, sir.”
“How did it happen, when you cut the rope to-day and the balloon shot
up, that your weight didn’t jerk us all out? I didn’t feel any jerk.”
“No, sir—I—I—had grabbed—that is—seized hold quite firmly of the bit of
rope above, sir.”
There was another silence, and then I half-heard, mingled with a dream
that was just beginning, the far-off sleepy voice of Gale, whispering,
“Bully old Bill!”
XXIV.
THE GREAT WHITE WAY.
Sept. 21. All day we have been pushing our boat-sleigh, and to-night we
are between fifteen and twenty miles farther south than last. We made
fairly good progress in spite of the drifts, because of the general
down-slope, which in some places was such that we got into our boat and
the wind carried us along. Gale and Ferratoni are fixing up a sail to
use to-morrow. It will be rigged between two of the uprights, forward.
The wings of our propeller were smashed in the fall. We are all very
tired to-night, and very hungry, for our light ration of sandwiches does
not go far, and the food lozenges become unpleasant when eaten in any
quantity. Mr. Sturritt explains that we do not quite follow
instructions, but I noticed this evening a very sad look on his face, so
perhaps he is experiencing some difficulty with them himself, as a
steady diet, for he still persistently declines the sandwiches. I hope
we shall reach somewhere or something to-morrow. Otherwise we shall be
in very bad straits in the matter of food. Fortunately we have plenty of
tea and coffee. The air has grown warmer, and a soft snow is falling. It
is what we would call good winter weather in northern Nebraska.
Sept. 22. Another day of pushing and sailing our boat-sledge. The sail
is a success, and a great help. We have made good time, but there is no
sign of dry land yet, and our last sandwiches are gone. To-morrow it
will be tablets or nothing. We have not confessed it to each other, but
I think it will be _nothing_. Even Mr. Sturritt looks wretched when it
comes mealtime. He steadily refuses the sandwiches, however.
It is clear and cold to-night, but it was much warmer through the day
than yesterday. We are almost too warm, in fact, when we are pushing the
boat. Gale never loses heart. He keeps up the deception with Edith,
though this is not so easy as it would seem. He told her to-day that we
were “laying up,” because of adverse winds. Her voice in the telephone
seems weaker than it was, perhaps because of our reaching a lower level,
and the increasing distance. Like the Marconi system, this may require
that one end of the circuit should be much higher than the other in
order to get the best results. Ferratoni thinks the jar of our fall may
have affected the instrument, too. I hope and pray that it will not fail
us altogether, for the voices from the ship are our greatest comfort.
Last night, just as I was dozing off I heard my name called gently.
“Nicholas!”
It was Edith’s voice, and close to my ear. I answered softly, for the
others were already sleeping. Then she said:
“Nicholas, Zar is going to sing to me, don’t you want to hear, too?”
“Oh, yes, I should love to.”
There came a mumble of protest in the receiver. Evidently Zar did not
altogether approve of singing us both to sleep at once, even though so
many frozen miles lay between. Then this ceased, and a moment later,
vibrating across the wastes in a rich, crooning chant, came her song of
the “Old Brown Cows.”[2]
Footnote 2:
[Illustration]
Words and Music, Copyright, 1901, by the Author.
“Dark come down an’ dey ain’ come home—
Dark come down an’ dey ain’ come home—
Dark come down an’ dey ain’ come home-
Ole brown cows.
Ole brown cows—
Straying away from de mastah’s gate,
Ole brown cows.
“Look way down to to de pastur’ lot—
Call way down th’ough the clovah fiel’—
Hunt way down by de cattle pon’
Foh ole brown cows.
Ole brown cows—
Call ’em home to de mastah’s gate,
Ole brown cows.
“What dat tinkle-in’ th’ough de wood?
What dat browserin’ ’long de haidge?
What dat shuffle-in’ down de lane?
Ole brown cows.
Ole brown cows—
All come home to de mastah’s gate—
Ole brown cows.”
Sept. 23. The wind keeps with us, and whenever we find a decently smooth
place we can sail. Otherwise, we should make little progress, for we are
too weak from weariness and lack of food to do much at pushing the boat.
We kept up to-day on coffee and tea. We can’t eat any more tablets, and
Mr. Sturritt, who forced down a number of them, had something like
nervous spasms afterwards. To-night, when he stopped for camp, he sat
down and cried. Gale comforted him.
“Poor Bill,” he said “poor old Bill. _Don’t_ break down. We’ll get out
of this mess some way. We always have, you know.”
“It isn’t that,” moaned Sturritt, “I’m not afraid. It’s the tab—that
is—the lozenges. They’ve failed me. I—I can’t eat ’em, myself!”
Sept. 24. Strange what will come out of this white desolation. Last
night, after the others were asleep, Ferratoni and I talked softly of
evolution and immortality. He believes in transmigration, and that the
horse is the next step before man. I was barely awake at last, and
closed my eyes to a vision of four jaded horses that were dragging a
heavy boat across the sun-bright snow.