hundred and fifty miles of it, and it’s not so much colder inside than
it is here. We’ve got our electric lamp ahead, and we could make it in
seven or eight hours, the way we are going. If we can hit the tide right
we might do it as easy as nothing. If we did, we’d be home for dinner.
If we didn’t—well, Nick, to talk right out in meeting, I don’t believe
we’d have a bit more chance of getting home the other way, and a good
deal longer misery before—before we quit trying. Ain’t that so, now?
What do you think, Bill?”
Neither of us could reply immediately. The thought had lurked in the
minds of all, but when put into words it was a bit staggering. Yet the
prospect of being, within a few hours, on the Billowcrest with Edith—for
dinner, as her father put it—started the warm blood once more in my
veins. Perhaps the latter appealed to Mr. Sturritt also.
“I—I—that is—I’m with—er—the Admiral,” he managed to say at last, “as
usual.”
“And so am I,” I agreed. “We can only die once wherever we are, and it
is better to take the chances where we will go all together, in a
minute, and be carried somewhere near our friends, than to perish
lingeringly one after another, away off up yonder in the snow.”
“That’s my ticket!” assented Gale. “And anyway, our boat, some of it,
will get through, with all these air-tight compartments, and we can put
some messages in each one, so if any pieces are picked up the folks will
know what became of us.”
We began doing this at once, for we felt that the entrance to the dark
tunnel could not be far distant. The walls on either side were becoming
very high, and in places drew inward alarmingly. The river was narrowing
too, and was much swifter.
“We couldn’t get up, now, if we wanted to,” commented Gale, presently,
“and say, Nick, there’s a bend just ahead.”
But it was not a bend. The walls bent, truly, but they bent inward, and
far above they joined. Below was a depth of blackness into which our
eyes could pierce but a little way.
It was the “Passage of the Dead!”
We hastily slackened our speed to consider a little. Gale was making a
calculation.
“It’s now ten o’clock,” he said, at last, “and as nearly as I can
figure, the tide ought to be about half down in Bottle Bay. It’ll be low
tide at—say one o’clock, and high tide again about seven, unless the
wind’s blowing in there. That would bring the tide up earlier. What we
want to do, Nick, is not to waste a minute, so’s to get there if we can
before the tide closes the entrance again.”
“Why run that risk?” I shivered. “Why not figure to get there at low
tide?”
“Because,” explained Gale, “that tide don’t stop at the opening. It
comes on up—perhaps a good ways. When it’s low tide there, there’s a
high tide somewhere this side, and coming this way. I don’t know how
fast, or how far it would come, or how far up it would close this
passage. But somewhere we’ve probably got to meet that tide, and the
farther up this way it is, the less likely it’ll be to rise higher than
the ceiling.”
I had another spasmodic seizure at this suggestion. It amounted to
almost a chill, in fact, and Gale considerately waited until I was
better. Then he said:
“If we pass that tide all right, we’ll have a clear run for the
entrance, and if I’ve counted the time right we ought to make it before
it closes. Of course if there’s a head wind, or our propeller gives
out—why——”
“I know,” I said hastily, though with some attempt at calmness, “we
wouldn’t get through.”
“Oh, yes we would,” said Gale cheerfully, “we’d get through all right,
but we wouldn’t be worth picking up, afterwards.”
We were now at the entrance of the great tunnel. The ceiling above was a
vast black arch, hollowed out by the warmer waters of the river, during
its great freshets. At the opening it was very high, and the span above
thin and crumbling, and hung with huge icicles. Streams of water were
pouring from it, and we had barely passed beneath when just behind there
came the crash of falling fragments.
We were nearly upset by the upheaval of water, but were presently beyond
the reach of this danger. We had turned on our light, and it threw a
long white radiance ahead that dazzled back and forth, and up and down,
between ice and water in a wonderful iridescence. The wide ceiling
lowered rapidly until it was perhaps fifteen feet above our heads and
seemed much closer. We remembered that at Bottle Bay it was less than
ten, and the tides there rose very high.
We were running at full speed and the current was swift. Our log showed
that we were making twenty miles an hour. At this rate we believed that
a little more than seven hours would bring us through. Perhaps even less
than that. In spite of the vault-like cold and stillness about us, we
grew mildly cheerful.
“Nick,” said Gale, “we’re going home in style. What do you suppose
Johnnie and Biff will say, if they happen to see us pop out into Bottle
Bay, as if we’d been shot out of a gun?”
The prospect seemed almost too joyful to consider.
Gale, meantime, had opened one of the compartments, and brought forth a
small flask containing what was left of our supply of brandy. He held it
up to the light.
“Just about one apiece,” he commented cheerfully. “If we get through all
right, we’ll have plenty more. If we don’t we won’t need it. What is
hope without a high-ball? Age before beauty, Bill, you first.”
Mr. Sturritt shook his head. I think he seldom tasted liquors.
“I—er—I have a few of the brown lozenges,” he explained. “They are very
stim—that is—sustaining during cold, as you remember.”
“What’s that ahead, Nick?” Gale asked suddenly.
There was an outline in the light over our bow that stopped all tendency
to mirth. It was that of a canoe, and presently when we swept by it, we
got a glimpse of a white, dead face within.
Silently Gale once more extended toward Mr. Sturritt the depleted flask.
This time he did not refuse.
XXXVII.
THE RISING TIDE.
It was about three o’clock in the afternoon when we noticed that the
ceiling seemed to be drawing nearer to our heads. The change was very
gradual and at first we could not be sure. Then Gale said:
“It’s getting closer, boys—there’s no doubt of it. We’re probably down
to tide-water, and I believe we’re hitting it just about right—it can’t
fill up along here.”
We steered the boat toward the side of the passage and examined the ice
closely as we passed. Then he indicated a faint line about three feet
above us.
“There’s where it gets to, here,” he said; “of course it gets higher
farther down. If it gets too high, well——”
He did not finish, and we went on at full speed.
Lower and lower descended the wall above. At half-past four it was
within two feet of our heads, when we sat upright, and stretching away
into the blackness on either side it seemed an irresistible mountain
mass that was to crush us beneath the flood. We felt that we were going
slower, too, for the tide had opposed and checked the current.
At quarter of five I was obliged to stoop.
“Low bridge,” said Gale, but less than an hour later the situation lost
its last vestige of humor, even for him.
From the bottom of the boat where we were lying, he called:
“Nick, I forgot one thing. The ebb tide and the incoming tide probably
meet about here. I think we’re goners.”
I lay in the bow, which still lacked a few inches of touching the ice
above. I had my eyes lifted as high as possible, looking ahead. The
world weight of ice was coming down—down—the world of water rising, and
steadily rising from below. Between, the space was narrowing from feet
to inches, and the line of meeting seemed just ahead. Once I thought I
saw there a tiny spark that was not of our own light. Then it
disappeared, came again, disappeared—I could not look. I felt already
that I was being crushed, smothered, drowned.
The ice above brushed against my hair. I lowered my head quickly until
like the others I lay full length in the bottom of the boat.
“Gale—Sturritt,” I groaned, “forgive me! I got you into all this.”
Chauncey Gale’s smothered voice was first to answer.
“Not a word, Nick! We went into the game with our eyes open. Besides,
this deal is mine.”
And from Mr. Sturritt:
“It’s—it’s all right. I—I’m with the Admiral!”
And now the bow was touching and sliding on the ice above. It was
several inches higher than the stern, but presently that touched also.
We were being pressed slowly, surely downward. I don’t know what the
others were doing, but I was praying, hard.
Lower, and still lower. Water splashed cold against my face, and choked
the good-by I was about to utter. Then came another splash, and
another—then a great cold stream, and then——
A sharp grating above—a roaring of waters all about—a lifting—a
tossing—and a burst of something that brought me suddenly upright to
God’s daylight, and the fresh salt air of Bottle Bay!
Behind us, the rising tide was roaring into the opening of the tunnel,
that was now open and now closed by the billows. Our boat was more than
half filled with water and we were choking and gasping, but above us was
blue sky, and before us, not two hundred yards away, our stanch, our
noble, our beautiful Billowcrest. Somebody was on deck. Somebody with a
peaked fur hood—somebody who gave a great shout that brought others from
everywhere. And a moment later we were on board—welcomed by those who
loved us!
“Biff,” said Gale, as he greeted him, “have you got up steam?”
“A little, and I can get up a good deal more in five minutes.”
“Well, get her up, and let’s pull out of here, quick!”
Then turning to me:
“Come, Nick, break away there, and let’s get these wet clothes off while
Johnnie’s looking after something extra for dinner. I told you we’d get
here in time.”
XXXVIII.
STORM AND STRESS.
Upon our voyage to the north I shall not dwell. I have neither the time
nor the willingness to do so. The memory of those days is weird and
depressing. I would cover with all speed the place they occupy in this
history.
From Bottle Bay we followed the great salt current eastward, as we did
not believe it possible to work northward against it. For two days all
went well, and we found happiness in our reunion and homeward progress.
Then all the joyless misery of Antarctic lands and seas seemed to gather
and shut us in.
For five weeks through this blinding fog, crashing ice, and imminent,
sleep-destroying peril we crept, and toiled, and struggled, and battled
our way toward open water. For days we did not remove our clothing to
rest, but lay down ready for instant action, whether to save or desert
the ship.
Depression seized upon us all. Edith Gale was ill much of the time and
lost her appreciation of the beauties of nature. Even Gale himself found
it hard to create cheer through this grim period. During moments of
comparative calm he wandered about with his hands in his pockets, trying
to whistle, but it was a dismal tune.
As for myself, I despaired utterly. More than ever I realized what I had
done in bringing those who had trusted me into so dire a plight. And for
what? To prove a theory that was worth nothing to them or to me, after
all was told. To seek out a practically inaccessible land, and what now
seemed to me a paltry, indolent race that added nothing to the world’s
store of wealth or progress—to pay for it with our lives. I had promised
a new world, perhaps wealth beyond our wildest dreams. I had found,
instead, a land of dreams only, and of shadows. I had brought us all, at
last, face to face with privation, suffering—death. Even should we
eventually reach home, it seemed to me that I, still a penniless
adventurer, could not presume to claim the hand of Edith Gale. Truly I
was in the depths.
Whether we kept with the current, or what part it played in our
struggles, we could not tell, but we reached at last the easier seas
below Cape Horn, and here we were met by what seemed to us the King of
All Storms, determined at last to destroy us for having penetrated the
depths of his domain.
We were off the South Shetlands again, somewhere near the spot where,
twenty years before, my uncle’s vessel had been last seen battling with
a mighty tempest, and was supposed to have gone down. I reflected
vaguely that it must have been another just such as this, and that it
was a curious fate that had brought me with those I loved to find a
grave in the same unfriendly waters.
There were nights, now, and the black sea and sky made this one a memory
that divides as with a sable curtain all that went before it from all
that followed after.
Once there came a heavy jar as our keel struck and grated over some
hidden reef. We had no means of knowing where we were, and even had we
known, the knowledge would have availed us little in these uncharted
seas.
Suddenly, in the electric glow of our searchlight, there rose straight
before us a black wall that was not the penetrable night. A great wave
just then lifted us and bore us forward. An instant later there came a
jar that threw us from our feet, and then the stanch old Billowcrest no
longer tossed and pitched and battled, but lay rocking helplessly, as
though wounded to the life.
There came first a quick order to lower the boats. Then another to hold
them in readiness, but not to launch until the vessel gave signs of
breaking up. It was better to remain where we were, as long as we
could—to wait for daylight, if possible. Examined below, the Billowcrest
showed as yet no opening, and seemed to be lying easily.
Morning dawned at last on a gray, desolate shore, with a sea as gray and
desolate, between. But the King of Storms, satisfied, perhaps, that he
had stranded us on a desert island, had gone his way.
Chauncey Gale came on deck presently with Edith, still pale and ill, but
more animated than she had been for days. With Captain Biffer I had come
out early to view the shore.
“Well, Biff,” greeted Gale, “you seem to have got us anchored some place
at last. Don’t look much like the last place we stopped, but I s’pose
it’s all in a day’s work. What do you call it?”
“One of the South Shetlands, I should say. I don’t know which.”
“How’s the ship? Any holes in her yet?”
“No, and she ain’t grinding any that I can hear. But she’s aground good
and hard. She seems to be on a flat surface—mebbe sand. The sea’s
running down, too, and I shouldn’t wonder if we were left high and dry
before long.”
“Oh, can’t we go ashore?” asked Edith Gale, eagerly.
Poor girl, it was the first real land she had seen for more than a year,
and even this cheerless coast seemed inviting.
Captain Biffer nodded grimly.
“We’ll have plenty of time to do that, ma’am,” he said, “before we get
out of here, I’m thinking.”
“Oh, Nicholas, will you take me right away? I do so want to set foot on
solid ground again.”
“We will go as soon as the Captain will let us,” I said, “and give us
somebody to take us over.”
The sea continued to run down, and during the forenoon the Billowcrest
listed, though far less than if she had been a deeper vessel. The
weather cleared just before luncheon, and soon afterwards Chauncey and
Edith Gale, with Officer Larkins and myself, and a small crew, made
ready to set out in the launch for investigation. At the last moment, we
heard somebody come puffing up the companion-way, and Zar, fully arrayed
for the trip, stood before us.
“Look heah, I wan’ you take me in dat boat! I jes’ wan’ to set dis old
foot on solidificated groun’ once more befo’ I die. I mighty tiahd dis
ole ship dat toss, an’ tip, an’ spread-eagle, and doubleshuffle, an’
keep hit up foh six weeks at a stretch, an’ now tip ovah like a
side-hill, so a’ old, fat ’ooman like me cain’t fin’ her balance, nohow.
I wan’ go long, I tell you.”
So Zar accompanied us, and we landed presently at a shelving beach,
where we were greeted by some noisy birds, and a few small hair-seals,
who slipped into the water as we approached. Leaving the crew we made
our way between barren hills to the country beyond.
The sun had come out, now, and being midsummer it seemed warm and
genial, especially to those who had seen no other land for so long.
“Not much like our violet reception in the Antarctics, eh, Nick?” said
Gale.
“Oh, but it’s land! land!” breathed Edith “Warm, solid land! Aren’t we
glad to see it, Zar?” and it seemed to me that she grew well as I
watched her.
“Yes, _ma’am_! We is _dat_! Hit’s a mighty po’ country, I spec’, but hit
seem to me right now as fine an’ proliferous as ole Vaginny!”
Even Mr. Larkins seemed to joy in the land feeling, and said that it
reminded him of places in Newfoundland, where as a boy he had found the
bake-apple. He believed we could find it here, if we looked about a
little.
We pushed our way inland, and farther down the coast. There was a sparse
moss vegetation here and there, and on one sunny bank we found a
considerable bed of this growth. Edith Gale dropped down upon it
luxuriously, and the rest of us followed her example.
“Oh, how beautiful!” she cried, “and how I loathe the ship! It seems to
me that I could stay here forever!”
Zar grunted approvingly, but Gale said:
“I’d be glad enough to hurry back to the old Billowcrest if she was only
afloat. We’ll get tired enough of this, I’m thinking, before that
happens.”
I made no comment on this, but called attention to a ledge of rocks just
beyond.
“Looks as if somebody had been hammering on it,” I said. “I suppose
nobody lives on these islands.”
“Not a soul crreature,” declared Mr. Larkins. “Forthy year ago they used
to come here for the furr-seals, but they got the last of ’em in a
shmall bit of a time. No pay in comin’ for the little hair fellies. ’Tis
said they’s gold here, too, but I’ve never met the man that saw the
color of it.”
We rose and walked on. We had grown a bit chilly, sitting, and would
presently return to the vessel. All at once, Edith Gale stopped and held
up her hand.
“Wait—listen!” she commanded.
Borne to us on a light breeze from the south, came the sound of a voice
singing.
We looked at each other startled. There was something about it, most
uncanny.
“My good lawd!” groaned Zar. “Dat’s a sho sperritt! Lemme get outen heah
an’ back to dat boat.”
Mr. Larkins detained her.
“Wait,” he said. “There’s a bit of an echo hereabout. The singin’ ’ll be
comin’ from the ship, I think.”
There was a wave of relief. Then Gale dissented.
“That’s not from the ship. The wind isn’t right. It’s from the land——”
We hurried to the top of a little rise, just ahead; here we halted and
listened again. We could hear much more plainly now. Even the words came
quite distinctly.
“I’m out of humanity’s reach—
I must finish my journey alone.
Afar from the music of speech—
I start at the sound of my own.”
“Selkirk’s hymn,” I whispered. “I know it perfectly. My grandmother sang
it to her children, and my mother to me.”
“I am monarch of all I survey—
My right there is none to dispute—
From the center all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.”
“Yes! yes! and that, too!” I added, excitedly. “Some one is cast away in
this place. Come, we must find him!”
“Oh, and quickly!” urged Edith; but the singing had begun again and we
hesitated, to listen.
“There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found.
They softly lie and sweetly sleep,
Low in the ground.”
“The storm that wrecks the winter’s sky
No more disturbs their sweet repose
Than summer evening’s latest sigh
That shuts the rose.
“I know that, too,” said Edith. “It is by James Montgomery. It is also a
hymn.”
“And another of those I heard in childhood,” I answered eagerly. “The
favorite of—of one who perished—Come on! everybody, I must see what this
means!”
The singing had ceased now, but we hastily scrambled over the rocks in
the direction from which it had come. Pushing out from behind a great
bowlder we looked down a little slope upon what at first seemed to be a
heap of bowlders. Then we saw that it was the construction of human
hands—a habitation. We descended quickly, though almost in silence, only
whispering caution to each other. A rolling stone, however, slipped from
beneath my foot and went plunging to the side of the hut. A moment later
there stepped out into view a curious fur-clad figure—tall, bearded, and
with masses of grizzled hair upon his shoulders. An aged man he seemed,
but bronzed, erect, and with the movement of strength.
A moment he looked at us as if doubting his vision. Then, flinging both
arms in the air, he gave a great cry of welcome.
We rushed down and surrounded him. He seized our hands wildly.
“Who are you?” he cried. “Who are you? And why are you here?”
But I besought him with fierce eagerness.
“Tell us, first, who _you_ are!” I commanded, “and why _you_ are here!”
“Oh, it does not matter,” he answered, “I have been dead twenty years!
But when I was in the world of men I was called Nicholas Lovejoy.”
“Then,” I shouted, “you are my uncle—for I am Nicholas Chase!”
XXXIX.
WHERE DREAMS BECOME REAL.
In the little hut which he had built, and where all the years he had
lived alone, he told us his story. It was hardly more than a word. When
the vessel went down, he had drifted with one other, on a spar, to this
island. The other had died next day from exposure, and was buried not
far away. And winter and summer for twenty-one years the survivor had
waited for those who never came.
At first he had hoisted the spar with a signal, but long since he had
lost hope, and when at last a wind blew it down he had not replaced it.
His speech he had preserved by singing and reciting such things as he
knew, and so comforted himself. Less than seventy years old, he was
still a man of strength and vigor.
In return I informed him of our plight and briefly outlined our previous
expedition. When I had finished my Uncle Nicholas regarded me for a
moment in silence. Then, smiling:
“So, Nick, you found the warm South Pole. My boy, I have believed in it
for fifty years.”
“I always thought of you in that way,” I said. “I knew you would have
helped me. I even thought you might have gone there.”
“And so I might if my ship had come into port,” he sighed. Then, to
Gale, “As for _your_ ship, I think she is safe enough. She is probably
on the sand only. It makes in and out of that place as the winds change.
You may have twenty feet of water there in a week.”
He set out with us for the vessel. At first sight of the Billowcrest, he
paused and regarded her rapturously.
“Oh, that beautiful ship,” he cried. “How I have longed for this
moment.”
It was with him as with Edith when she had welcomed his desert island.
The Billowcrest was not really beautiful after her long battle with the
elements, and perhaps later he might not altogether approve of her
model, but now she seemed as a winged messenger from Paradise.
When we reached the launch the sailors regarded our companion with
wonder, and as we drew near the Billowcrest a curious group gathered on
the deck forward.
Foremost of these was Captain Biffer. I had never spoken to him of my
sailor uncle. My former experiences in that line may have resulted in
this delicacy, or it may have been out of consideration for my relative,
whose skill as a navigator might have been judged by that of his nephew.
Now, however, I ascended proudly to the deck.
“Captain Biffer,” I said, “I want to present to you my uncle, Captain
Nicholas Lovejoy.”
With his deflected orb Captain Biffer pierced my innermost being, while
with his good eye he searched deeply the soul of the man before him. He
tried to speak, but at first his voice failed him. Then he said huskily:
“Captain Nick Lovejoy, don’t you know your old shipmate, Joe Biffer?”
My uncle, too, started and gasped.
“My God, yes!” he said, “it’s Joe—Joe Biffer of Boston!”
A moment later Captain Biffer turned and seized my hand.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded; “and say, Chase, I’ve learned to
like a good many things about you since we’ve been together, but this is
the best yet.”
At which Zar, who was standing by, added:
“An’ to think dat ole Aunt Artics o’ his turned out to be a’ uncle,
aftah all!”
That night in my stateroom my Uncle Nicholas and I talked until near
morning. I told him of events that had come and gone, and of family
changes. Then more fully of our expedition, my love for Edith Gale, and
how, as matters had turned out, I did not feel justified in claiming the
promise she had made me.
He listened quietly and when I had finished, he said:
“It’s the money difference you feel most, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“I have only a few thousand dollars,” I said, “a mere drop with a man
like Gale.”
He took my hand.