The scene was changed. Summer had fled from the shores and from the
braelands around the inland sea, where our travellers have taken up
their abode.
"Away hath passed the heather-bell
That bloomed so rich on Needpath fell."
Thus sweetly sang the Scottish bard. But here no heather-bell bloomed
to vanish. But the lovely little stonecrops, white or yellow, the
crimson ranunculus, the dark-tufted grasses, the wild dwarf poppies, and
even the mosses and the hardy shrubs that blossomed for a time in the
sloping rays of the sun--all have gone or lie deeply buried under the
snow; they will appear no more till June again melts their covering and
awakens them to sunshine and life.
Claude and his crew have not been idle. Every preparation is already
made to mitigate the rigours of a winter that is even now commenced.
Boats had been despatched to the inlet of the creek, to land and bury
ship's stores in a sheltered nook not far from the sea. This was done
with all despatch. Captain Watson's men of the _Kittywake_ working with
a will born of the knowledge that, as soon as their labours were over,
they would once more embark and bear up for their own dear home in
England.
They had the good luck to find a cave large enough to contain all the
provisions and ammunition on board the store-ship. There was
accordingly no digging to be done, except the quarrying from the
hillsides of great stones to build up the entrance to the cave. This
done, it but remained for Mr Lloyd, who was in charge of the working
party, to take his bearings, in order to easily find the place again,
and deliver to Captain Watson his written orders to return south.
Lloyd's boats towed the _Kittywake_ out to sea, or, rather, steered her,
for the tide was running rapidly out. He remained on board the
store-ship until the turn of the tide, then there were farewells said,
and ringing cheers were re-echoed from the hills and from tall floating
icebergs, and, sail being set, away went the _Kittywake_ southward ho!
the crew as merry as schoolboys at play.
They were to bear tidings to the _savants_ in London of the successful
voyage made by the _Icebear_, the strange discovery of the inland sea,
and the prospects Claude and Dr Barrett entertained of the perfect
success of the expedition.
It may be as well to state here, and state it once for all, that the
_Kittywake_ was never more heard of, never more seen by mortal eye.
Whether she had sprung a leak in a gale, and foundered; been caught
a-back in a squall, and thrown on her beam-ends, never to recover; or
been crushed like a nut between some awful bergs, will never be known
until--
"The sea gives up its dead."
Had our heroes known aught of the disaster to the store-ship, it would
have cast a gloom over them that nothing could have dispelled.
As it was they had nothing in their hearts but hope--hope that, when the
long, dreary winter wore away, having more than accomplished the object
of their cruise, the ice would break up, their imprisonment would be
over, and, laden with riches and crowned with honour, they would bid
farewell to the land of the aurora, and reach England in peace and
safety.
They could, therefore, mark with complacency the ever-shortening days,
and the oncoming mists, and mists succeeded by stormy winds, and curling
clouds of drifting snow. The sooner winter came the sooner it would be
over.
There came a day when these intrepid travellers were to look their last
upon the sun for months to come. It was towards the end of October, but
not severely frosty. Indeed, the sky was altogether overcast, with the
exception of a space on the southern horizon It was here that the sun
last showed. Red, large, and angry looking, he but deigned to cast a
glance or two across the dreary landscape, then slowly sank to rest, but
for two hours after he had gone down, a long stripe of bare, lurid,
orange sky remained over the spot. It gradually assumed the appearance
of the reflection of some great fire or burning mountain. The clouds
above were purple red, mingled with leaden grey, but all this soon
faded. There was neither moon nor stars, and the blackness of darkness
was over the land. About noon every day for nearly a week there was a
kind of twilight. It was even more than this, for when the sky was
partially clear there was all the appearance of coming sunrise, the
cloudlets grew crimson, and even the tall mountains were tipped with
rosy red, and all between the glens were of a strange blue colour.
But even this mid-day twilight ceased at last, then all was night.
All the way north Meta's gulls had been kept on deck in an aviary built
for the purpose, and two had already been despatched with little
messages in sealed quills, fastened to their legs. Only one of these
reached Iceland. The other probably preferred his freedom.
Claude seldom doubted but that the gulls he sent off would eventually
find Meta's home.
Even before the daylight had entirely gone, and the long dead Arctic
night had descended upon the land, the birds and beasts migrated
southwards, the malleys, and gulls, and terns, and skuas going first;
then the guillemot the eider ducks, grebes, and divers. Next went the
bears, the wild oxen, and the foxes; finally even the inland sea itself
seemed deserted. The walrus and seal no longer popped their whiskered
faces above the water, nor courted the sun's rays on the rocky shore,
and the lonesome unicorn was seen no more ploughing through the waves.
The blackness of desolation and a silence deep as death was over all the
scene.
Think not, reader, that the beautiful stars were always shining, or that
even when a full moon was in the sky there was somewhat of light and
cheerfulness. No, for there were days--ay, and weeks--when neither
moon, stars, nor aurora were visible for the dark clouds and whirling
drift and snow.
At other times, perhaps, after a fall of silent snow, without as much
wind as would serve to move one downy fleck, the clouds would disperse,
and the stars would glitter like a million diamonds, when suddenly a
murmuring roar would be heard among the mountains, and on looking in
that direction from the ship's deck, or from the huts on shore, a sight
would be presented to the wondering gaze of Claude and his crew that my
poor feeble pen would struggle in vain to describe. It seemed as if a
wind from every point of the compass had marched forth to meet and do
battle with each other among the hills, and that each wind was
accompanied by a ghostly storm spirit. High as the stars were those
whirling sheeted ghosts; if they crossed the moon's disc they looked
unearthly and fearful; but see! they meet in fury, and all is a
bewildering chaos. Describe to me the foam of Atlantic billows dashing
high in the air after striking a black, bare rock in the sea; describe
to me in words the smoky spray of a geyser, and I will try to paint to
you the battle of the snow-squalls. But, behold! while we yet look,
half awed at the rage of elements among the jagged mountain peaks, the
chaotic tempest comes nearer and nearer, other ghosts arise and whirl
along on the plains, and a moaning sound as if nature were in pain falls
upon the ear. This may be but momentary, and ere you can dive below,
the tempest is on the vessel, the war of elements is raging around it.
The very masts bend and crack and yield, and high above the roar of the
wind is heard wild shrieks and yells and groans, as if demons really
danced and fought on every side. These latter sounds are emitted by the
ice rubbing against the ship's hull.
Then, even while one is expecting every moment that some jagged edge of
ice will penetrate through the vessel's timbers--lo! all becomes hushed
and silent. You creep on deck as quickly as the drifted snow will
permit you, and look around. The stars are all out again, the moon's
rays throwing shadows from the mountain peaks, and all is still. And
such a stillness! It is the silence of space--the silence of a dead and
buried universe. You can almost fancy the stars are near enough to
whisper to; that the flickering aurora borealis will presently emit some
sound. If you talk aloud your own voice seems harsh, and you find
yourself talking in a strangely subdued tone, as if Nature were asleep--
as, indeed, she seems--and you dreaded to wake her. At all times in
Greenland, when no wind is blowing, the silence is fearfully impressive;
but it is after a snow-squall such as I have endeavoured to depict that
it is most so.
"Do you think," said Claude to Dr Barrett one day--"do you think,
doctor, I might venture to send off another seagull?"
"I think," was the reply, "that the bird will be far more likely to fly
southward now--to seek the sun--than it would in summer."
So a little fond note was attached as usual to a seagull's thigh.
"Go!" whispered Claude, pressing his lips to the soft, warm head for a
moment.
"Go, beautiful and gentle bird,
Oh! southwards quickly go;
Though moon and stars shine bright above.
How sad is all below!
"No longer drooping here, confined
In this cold prison, dwell;
Go, free to sunshine and to wind,
Sweet bird, go forth--farewell!
"Oh! beautiful and gentle bird,
Thy welcome sweet will be.
And yonder thou shalt hear the voice
Of Love's fond melody."
I trust my hero may be forgiven for slightly altering the words of the
gentle poet Bowles.
The graceful bird went tacking and tacking for a time around the ship as
if he could not quite believe he had obtained his freedom, or were loath
to leave his quarters; then, as if memories of a sunnier south had
suddenly awakened in his breast, away he darted, and was lost in the
darkness.