Late one evening in August, our ship was plowing her way through a sea
of slushy ice and small pans in Hudson Straits. The weather was dead
calm. Ahead of us, to the northwest, the sun was sinking over the
horizon, staining sky and ice in crimson. Astern—to starboard—miles
away, the rugged coast of Baffin Land loomed up, faint and dark.
The only sound which struck the ear was the steady droning of the
engine; while now and then a pan of ice, cut in two by the ship’s stem,
cracked under the impact, then groaned and grinded as it slid and was
crushed under the keel.
Suddenly a sharp cry rang out from the crow’s nest, “White bear ahead—a
she bear with two cubs. Two points at starboard.” Instantly every one
rushed to the bow. Five hundred yards away, floundering through the ice,
in and out of the water, was a great big bear. She had seen us and was
trying to get away. A few yards in front of her were two small cubs—four
months old—struggling hard to keep ahead of their mother.
[Illustration: Mother and cubs]
The whole crew was in a turmoil of excitement. The skipper already had a
rifle in his hands. So had the cook and one of the sailors. For a long
time the bears were able to keep their distance. The pans of ice were
large and fairly close together. Mother and cubs would climb on one—race
a few hundred yards—dive, swim a few feet—then get out of the water and
run again.
Meanwhile the ship had to wind her way between the ice, or butt the
heaviest pans which sometimes slowed her down completely. We reached, at
last, a spot where the ice was scattered. Huge lakes separated each pan.
Although the bears swam bravely, the ship was gaining on them. In a few
minutes we were almost on top of them—just as they reached some more ice
and climbed on it.
The young animals were now getting exhausted. The cubs, their tongues
out, were giving signs of distress. Their only idea was to stop, lie
down, bury their heads in their front paws and rest. But the old mother
was undaunted. She turned around, faced the ship, rose on her hind legs
and gazed steadily at us towering above her. Then, turning around like a
flash, she lifted each grovelling cub with a jerk of her snout, cuffed
its hind quarters hard with a swift tap of her front paw and launched
both of them again ahead of her in full flight. This she repeated time
and again. Her courage was so amazing that no one fired a shot.
Finally we reached a last pan of ice on the very edge of the floe.
Further on was the open sea. Mother and cubs scrambled on that piece of
ice a few yards in front of the steamer which had been put down to “dead
slow”. The little cubs “were done”. They just lay on the ice and panted.
The mother could have taken to the water—dived like a duck—made a bid
for her life. But she remained beside her young, facing the ship
squarely, silently, fearlessly. Her jaws were half open in a snarl. Now
and then she would lift a front paw and cuff the air as if she wanted to
show how hard she could hit our steel stern if ever our vessel touched
her.
There was silence on board. Suddenly our skipper’s voice rang out: “Hard
over at port,” while the telegraph rang, “Full speed ahead.” The same
voice called out again. “Leave those bears alone, you sons of....”
As the ship swung over—gathered way and passed the pan of ice—three
blasts of the steamer’s foghorn blared out in a salute! It was the old
Newfoundland master. He was leaning over the side of his bridge, waving
to the old she bear who still stood, undaunted, right over the bodies of
her two little cubs.