It was the month of mid-winter. Sickness had come at last; the sickness
that is born of privation and absence of vegetable food. The younger
and more weakly of the men were first to succumb. They lost heart, felt
weary, tired, depressed. They refused to work. Even Dr Barrett could
not find it in his heart to force them. They grew pale and thin, even
to emaciation, and their dilated pupils glittered on their sunken
eyeballs.
Their stronger companions tried to cheer them, ay, and many a time went
without food themselves to give it to them.
One dropped dead, and was carried away and buried in the ice-hole.
"Buried by the light of glaring torches," buried at sea you may call
it,--a sailor's funeral, but what a sad one!
It was Magnus Jansen, a fair-haired Shetland lad, who had been a great
favourite with his messmates, owing to his kind and gentle nature and
his ever willingness to oblige.
"We commit his body to the deep," read Claude, "looking for the
resurrection, when the sea shall give up her dead;" and more than one
horny hand was raised to brush away a tear, as with deep and sullen
plash the body sank into the sea.
Two more died in a week--died apparently of utter despondency and
weariness.
"I shall soon see the light," were the last words of one of these. He
just smiled faintly, and passed away.
Three more in a fortnight.
They nearly all seemed to go in the same way, of utter debility and
hopelessness.
Byarnie was nurse-in-chief. He was always with them to the last; the
great giant kneeling down beside their pallets, and breathing in their
dying ears words that it is to be hoped often deprived even death of its
victory.
More than one died leaning against Byarnie's broad breast. I have
already said that Byarnie's big fat face was far from handsome. Ah! but
it was _so_ honest; and had you seen him there by the bedsides of those
dying sailors, you would have said that his face shone at times with
almost a heavenly light.
Another, and still another, was borne slowly away to the ice-hole.
Then it seemed as if Death was for a time satiated, and had claimed
victims enough.
For almost the first time this winter, the sky cleared, the stars shone
like emeralds through the frosty glow, the moon put in an appearance,
casting long shadows across the snowfields, from those who walked out.
There was the aurora, too, a brighter display than any one ever
remembered witnessing. Away in the north, and overhead, the
ever-changing colours shimmered and danced in a way that was magical,
marvellous, and it seemed at times that you had but to put up your hand
and touch the broad fringes of light that danced and flickered before
your eyes.
The sight of the sky evidently gave the men some heart, some hope.
But after a week the stars and aurora disappeared, and the darkness of a
Polar night once more descended on the scene.
With so many ill, with so many dead, it would have been but a mockery
now to venture on anything approaching to gaiety or merriment. Even
Paddy felt that; and though, like boy Bounce, ever earnest, and
energetic, and kind, he went about his work quieter and more subdued
than probably he had ever been in his life before.
Instead of lecturing, Dr Barrett used in the evenings now to read books
to his people; often books of a religious character, though not of the
gloomy kind, but rather those that spoke of a Father's love, and carried
the thoughts away and away to that bright land where there shall be no
more sorrow or crying.
One morning in March, Dr Barrett appeared more than usually cheerful.
There were now so many sick that hardly could those in comparative
health attend to their wants.
"I've had a dream," the doctor explained. "No," he added, smiling, "I
shall not tell you what it is. You will know by-and-by, for my dream
may not come true. Byarnie," he said, "I'm going mining after
breakfast. The morning is still and fine, and there are a lot of stars
out. Bring tools and a few men with you."
"Going mining?" said Claude, in some surprise.
"Yes, mining, captain; but not for gold this time, but for what is ten
times more precious--for health. Get ready, Byarnie, and we'll want
torches, as well as a bucket."
"You excite my curiosity," said Claude. "May I go along with you?"
"You'll do me pleasure."
Straight along the south coast of the inland sea went Dr Barrett,
Byarnie following up with his men. For more than half a mile he trudged
on without looking either to the right or left. Then he stopped just
under a cliff, or rather a rounded braeland.
"Now, men, clear away the snow from the ice close to the edge."
"I think it was here I saw them in my dream," he added, turning to
Claude.
"I'm all in a fog," said Claude.
The snow was not very deep, and the ice was soon cleared.
"Now light up your torches, and you other men smash the ice and clear a
big hole. No fear of drowning; the tide is well back."
This was a more difficult task, but it was accomplished at last, all the
more easily because there was no water beneath.
"See anything down there?" the doctor asked of a man who had just lifted
up a huge piece of ice.
"Only a thickish kind of seaweed, sir."
"All right," cried the doctor, quite jubilant now. "Fill this bucket
with it."
This was done, and soon the whole party reached camp again.
"I am to be blamed," said Dr Barrett, "for not thinking of this
marvellous seaweed before. It contains potash in abundance, and while
mosses of all kinds are frozen to death on the hillsides, this, you see,
survives. Our poor fellows, now almost dead of the scurvy, may yet
revive."
Not only those who were sick, but all hands partook of the esculent
weed. The sick revived, those in health grew brighter, calmer, and
happier.
"If our food holds out, I think we may now weather the winter," said Dr
Barrett.
"I sincerely trust so," said Claude, "and that we may all be well to
commence the march."
It seemed, however, that fate had still further affliction in store for
them, for one day Byarnie came to the doctor, and very sad he looked.
No less than two casks of meat were found almost putrid, and the store
of bears' flesh had also gone bad.
This was indeed terrible news.
When the third and last cask was opened it was found like the others,
unfit even for the food of starving men!
Tinned meat was all they now had to depend upon, and there was very
little of that; so they must go on short allowance at once.
The men were far less cheerful after this, and the summer, that but
yesterday had appeared so near at hand, was now apparently an
illimitable distance away.
Another expedition was made to the caves among the hills, in the
endeavour to find another bear.
All in vain.
Hope now sunk in every heart. Even the doctor himself, who had
struggled so long, began to feel that the time was not far distant when
he too must succumb, must lie down and--die.
It was April, another month, another long, long four weeks--and early
summer and sunshine would come and bring back with them the birds--the
grebe, the auk, the wild duck and guillemot.
Two more had been added to the list of the dead.
The boy Bounce fell ill.
"We are not going to let the boy die," said one of the men. "It is food
he wants. Let us make a subscription."
The subscription was made. Everybody gave a morsel of something for the
poor boy, and his allowance came to be double instead of half Big
Byarnie even gave up his blanket, and just slept a little closer to the
fire and hugged Fingal.
Poor boy Bounce lived, and began cooking again, though in this matter,
unfortunately, his labour was not now very arduous.
Claude was looking very pallid and worn; he did not speak much, he
suffered in silence. The men would have fain had their captain to live
better than they did, but he would not hear of such a thing. Besides,
he gave away a goodly portion of his meagre allowance to poor Fingal.
For Fingal was ill.
Indeed, Claude knew that Fingal was dying, and the faithful old fellow
appeared to know it himself. One day the hound was very much weaker,
very much worse, and Claude knew the end was very near. He was sitting
by the couch on which the dog lay. Alba, the snow-bird, jealous perhaps
of her master's attentions to Fingal, came and perched upon his
shoulder.
Claude took the bird in his hands and slowly rose to his feet.
"For once, Alba," he said, "I must send you off." Then he handed her to
one of the men. "Take her to the aviary."
This was all he said. But he went back and knelt by Fingal's bed.
Why did he put the bird away? Those of my readers who love dogs will
understand and appreciate his reasons: there was always a slight rivalry
between the bird and the dog, and Claude would have grieved to let
Fingal in his last moments feel that aught stood between his master's
heart and his.
As Claude returned, Fingal recognised him. He attempted to rise, tried
even to crawl towards him, and in doing so fell. Claude raised him--how
light he was!--and replaced him in the softest part of his couch. Then
he sat beside his dying favourite with one arm over his shoulder.
Fingal knew he was there. He fell quietly and gently asleep.
It was that sleep from which nor dogs nor men ever awaken.
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The time rolled drearily on, and at length the sun rose, and the days
got rapidly longer and longer; but starvation had done its work.
Not that more died, but several were down with sheer debility, all were
weak and poor, Claude could no longer stand.
Paddy O'Connell held out, so did Byarnie and the doctor, but the latter
was quieter far than of yore. "The sooner," said Claude, one day, "the
sooner, doctor, it is all over the better."
One day from the hill-top, Byarnie saw a sight which suddenly struck him
with fear and trembling, and sent him on his knees to pray.
Away in the southern sky, some distance above the horizon, was a
wondrous vision.
It faded away at last, and then Byarnie hurried off to the camp, his
clothes wet with the sweat of fear, to report the matter to the doctor.
"It is all over with us," he said, "for I have seen a wonderful vision,
even as Ezekiel did in the days of the olden time."
"Have you been dreaming?" said Dr Barrett.
"I have not even been asleep," replied Byarnie. "I was there on the
mountain-top alone, when suddenly in the sky there appeared before my
sight this vision, as of men and sledges and dogs moving rapidly across
the sky, among the very clouds."
"Were they all head-down?"
"They were all head-down," said Byarnie, "which makes the awful vision
still more wondrous strange."
"Bless you, Byarnie, for this news," cried the doctor. "Hurrah!
Byarnie, we are saved! we are saved! Be they Indians, be they savages,
they are coming, and we are saved. What you saw, my faithful fellow,
was a mirage."