The rarefaction of the air was fast expanding the hydrogen in the

balloon, and I saw its lower part, purposely left empty, swell out, so

that it was absolutely necessary to open the valve; but my companion

did not seem to intend that I should manage the balloon as I wished. I

then resolved to pull the valve cord secretly, as he was excitedly

talking; for I feared to guess with whom I had to deal. It would have

been too horrible! It was nearly a quarter before one. We had been gone

forty minutes from Frankfort; heavy clouds were coming against the wind

from the south, and seemed about to burst upon us.

“Have you lost all hope of succeeding in your project?” I asked with

anxious interest.

“All hope!” exclaimed the unknown in a low voice. “Wounded by slights

and caricatures, these asses’ kicks have finished me! It is the eternal

punishment reserved for innovators! Look at these caricatures of all

periods, of which my portfolio is full.”

While my companion was fumbling with his papers, I had seized the

valve-cord without his perceiving it. I feared, however, that he might

hear the hissing noise, like a water-course, which the gas makes in

escaping.

“How many jokes were made about the Abbé Miolan!” said he. “He was to

go up with Janninet and Bredin. During the filling their balloon caught

fire, and the ignorant populace tore it in pieces! Then this caricature

of ‘curious animals’ appeared, giving each of them a punning nickname.”

I pulled the valve-cord, and the barometer began to ascend. It was

time. Some far-off rumblings were heard in the south.

“Here is another engraving,” resumed the unknown, not suspecting what I

was doing. “It is an immense balloon carrying a ship, strong castles,

houses, and so on. The caricaturists did not suspect that their follies

would one day become truths. It is complete, this large vessel. On the

left is its helm, with the pilot’s box; at the prow are

pleasure-houses, an immense organ, and a cannon to call the attention

of the inhabitants of the earth or the moon; above the poop there are

the observatory and the balloon long-boat; in the equatorial circle,

the army barrack; on the left, the funnel; then the upper galleries for

promenading, sails, pinions; below, the cafés and general storehouse.

Observe this pompous announcement: ‘Invented for the happiness of the

human race, this globe will depart at once for the ports of the Levant,

and on its return the programme of its voyages to the two poles and the

extreme west will be announced. No one need furnish himself with

anything; everything is foreseen, and all will prosper. There will be a

uniform price for all places of destination, but it will be the same

for the most distant countries of our hemisphere—that is to say, a

thousand louis for one of any of the said journeys. And it must be

confessed that this sum is very moderate, when the speed, comfort, and

arrangements which will be enjoyed on the balloon are

considered—arrangements which are not to be found on land, while on the

balloon each passenger may consult his own habits and tastes. This is

so true that in the same place some will be dancing, others standing;

some will be enjoying delicacies; others fasting. Whoever desires the

society of wits may satisfy himself; whoever is stupid may find stupid

people to keep him company. Thus pleasure will be the soul of the

aerial company.’ All this provoked laughter; but before long, if I am

not cut off, they will see it all realized.”

We were visibly descending. He did not perceive it!

“This kind of ‘game at balloons,’” he resumed, spreading out before me

some of the engravings of his valuable collection, “this game contains

the entire history of the aerostatic art. It is used by elevated minds,

and is played with dice and counters, with whatever stakes you like, to

be paid or received according to where the player arrives.”

“Why,” said I, “you seem to have studied the science of aerostation

profoundly.”

“Yes, monsieur, yes! From Phaethon, Icarus, Architas, I have searched

for, examined, learnt everything. I could render immense services to

the world in this art, if God granted me life. But that will not be!”

“Why?”

“Because my name is Empedocles, or Erostratus.”

Meanwhile, the balloon was happily approaching the earth; but when one

is falling, the danger is as great at a hundred feet as at five

thousand.

“Do you recall the battle of Fleurus?” resumed my companion, whose face

became more and more animated. “It was at that battle that Contello, by

order of the Government, organized a company of balloonists. At the

siege of Manbenge General Jourdan derived so much service from this new

method of observation that Contello ascended twice a day with the

general himself. The communications between the aeronaut and his agents

who held the balloon were made by means of small white, red, and yellow

flags. Often the gun and cannon shot were directed upon the balloon

when he ascended, but without result. When General Jourdan was

preparing to invest Charleroi, Contello went into the vicinity,

ascended from the plain of Jumet, and continued his observations for

seven or eight hours with General Morlot, and this no doubt aided in

giving us the victory of Fleurus. General Jourdan publicly acknowledged

the help which the aeronautical observations had afforded him. Well,

despite the services rendered on that occasion and during the Belgian

campaign, the year which had seen the beginning of the military career

of balloons saw also its end. The school of Meudon, founded by the

Government, was closed by Buonaparte on his return from Egypt. And now,

what can you expect from the new-born infant? as Franklin said. The

infant was born alive; it should not be stifled!”

[Illustration: “He continued his observations for seven or eight

hours with General Morlot”]

The unknown bowed his head in his hands, and reflected for some

moments; then raising his head, he said,—

“Despite my prohibition, monsieur, you have opened the valve.”

I dropped the cord.

“Happily,” he resumed, “we have still three hundred pounds of ballast.”

“What is your purpose?” said I.

“Have you ever crossed the seas?” he asked.

I turned pale.

“It is unfortunate,” he went on, “that we are being driven towards the

Adriatic. That is only a stream; but higher up we may find other

currents.”

And, without taking any notice of me, he threw over several bags of

sand; then, in a menacing voice, he said,—

“I let you open the valve because the expansion of the gas threatened

to burst the balloon; but do not do it again!”

Then he went on as follows:—

“You remember the voyage of Blanchard and Jeffries from Dover to

Calais? It was magnificent! On the 7th of January, 1785, there being a

north-west wind, their balloon was inflated with gas on the Dover

coast. A mistake of equilibrium, just as they were ascending, forced

them to throw out their ballast so that they might not go down again,

and they only kept thirty pounds. It was too little; for, as the wind

did not freshen, they only advanced very slowly towards the French

coast. Besides, the permeability of the tissue served to reduce the

inflation little by little, and in an hour and a half the aeronauts

perceived that they were descending.

“‘What shall we do?’ said Jeffries.

“‘We are only one quarter of the way over,’ replied Blanchard, ‘and

very low down. On rising, we shall perhaps meet more favourable winds.’

“‘Let us throw out the rest of the sand.’

“The balloon acquired some ascending force, but it soon began to

descend again. Towards the middle of the transit the aeronauts threw

over their books and tools. A quarter of an hour after, Blanchard said

to Jeffries,—

“‘The barometer?’

“‘It is going up! We are lost, and yet there is the French coast.’

“A loud noise was heard.

“‘Has the balloon burst?’ asked Jeffries.

“‘No. The loss of the gas has reduced the inflation of the lower part

of the balloon. But we are still descending. We are lost! Out with

everything useless!’

“Provisions, oars, and rudder were thrown into the sea. The aeronauts

were only one hundred yards high.

“‘We are going up again,’ said the doctor.

“‘No. It is the spurt caused by the diminution of the weight, and not a

ship in sight, not a bark on the horizon! To the sea with our

clothing!’

“The unfortunates stripped themselves, but the balloon continued to

descend.

“‘Blanchard,’ said Jeffries, ‘you should have made this voyage alone;

you consented to take me; I will sacrifice myself! I am going to throw

myself into the water, and the balloon, relieved of my weight, will

mount again.’

“‘No, no! It is frightful!’

“The balloon became less and less inflated, and as it doubled up its

concavity pressed the gas against the sides, and hastened its downward

course.

[Illustration: The balloon became less and less inflated]

“‘Adieu, my friend,” said the doctor. ‘God preserve you!’

“He was about to throw himself over, when Blanchard held him back.

“‘There is one more chance,’ said he. ‘We can cut the cords which hold

the car, and cling to the net! Perhaps the balloon will rise. Let us

hold ourselves ready. But—the barometer is going down! The wind is

freshening! We are saved!’

“The aeronauts perceived Calais. Their joy was delirious. A few moments

more, and they had fallen in the forest of Guines. I do not doubt,”

added the unknown, “that, under similar circumstances, you would have

followed Doctor Jeffries’ example!”

The clouds rolled in glittering masses beneath us. The balloon threw

large shadows on this heap of clouds, and was surrounded as by an

aureola. The thunder rumbled below the car. All this was terrifying.

“Let us descend!” I cried.

“Descend, when the sun is up there, waiting for us? Out with more

bags!”

And more than fifty pounds of ballast were cast over.

At a height of three thousand five hundred yards we remained

stationary.

The unknown talked unceasingly. I was in a state of complete

prostration, while he seemed to be in his element.

“With a good wind, we shall go far,” he cried. “In the Antilles there

are currents of air which have a speed of a hundred leagues an hour.

When Napoleon was crowned, Garnerin sent up a balloon with coloured

lamps, at eleven o’clock at night. The wind was blowing

north-north-west. The next morning, at daybreak, the inhabitants of

Rome greeted its passage over the dome of St. Peter’s. We shall go

farther and higher!”

I scarcely heard him. Everything whirled around me. An opening appeared

in the clouds.

“See that city,” said the unknown. “It is Spires!”

I leaned over the car and perceived a small blackish mass. It was

Spires. The Rhine, which is so large, seemed an unrolled ribbon. The

sky was a deep blue over our heads. The birds had long abandoned us,

for in that rarefied air they could not have flown. We were alone in

space, and I in presence of this unknown!

“It is useless for you to know whither I am leading you,” he said, as

he threw the compass among the clouds. “Ah! a fall is a grand thing!

You know that but few victims of ballooning are to be reckoned, from

Pilâtre des Rosiers to Lieutenant Gale, and that the accidents have

always been the result of imprudence. Pilâtre des Rosiers set out with

Romain of Boulogne, on the 13th of June, 1785. To his gas balloon he

had affixed a Montgolfier apparatus of hot air, so as to dispense, no

doubt, with the necessity of losing gas or throwing out ballast. It was

putting a torch under a powder-barrel. When they had ascended four

hundred yards, and were taken by opposing winds, they were driven over

the open sea. Pilâtre, in order to descend, essayed to open the valve,

but the valve-cord became entangled in the balloon, and tore it so

badly that it became empty in an instant. It fell upon the Montgolfier

apparatus, overturned it, and dragged down the unfortunates, who were

soon shattered to pieces! It is frightful, is it not?”

I could only reply, “For pity’s sake, let us descend!”

The clouds gathered around us on every side, and dreadful detonations,

which reverberated in the cavity of the balloon, took place beneath us.

“You provoke me,” cried the unknown, “and you shall no longer know

whether we are rising or falling!”

The barometer went the way of the compass, accompanied by several more

bags of sand. We must have been 5000 yards high. Some icicles had

already attached themselves to the sides of the car, and a kind of fine

snow seemed to penetrate to my very bones. Meanwhile a frightful

tempest was raging under us, but we were above it.

“Do not be afraid,” said the unknown. “It is only the imprudent who are

lost. Olivari, who perished at Orleans, rose in a paper ‘Montgolfier;’

his car, suspended below the chafing-dish, and ballasted with

combustible materials, caught fire; Olivari fell, and was killed!

Mosment rose, at Lille, on a light tray; an oscillation disturbed his

equilibrium; Mosment fell, and was killed! Bittorf, at Mannheim, saw

his balloon catch fire in the air; and he, too, fell, and was killed!

Harris rose in a badly constructed balloon, the valve of which was too

large and would not shut; Harris fell, and was killed! Sadler, deprived

of ballast by his long sojourn in the air, was dragged over the town of

Boston and dashed against the chimneys; Sadler fell, and was killed!

Cokling descended with a convex parachute which he pretended to have

perfected; Cokling fell, and was killed! Well, I love them, these

victims of their own imprudence, and I shall die as they did. Higher!

still higher!”

All the phantoms of this necrology passed before my eyes. The

rarefaction of the air and the sun’s rays added to the expansion of the

gas, and the balloon continued to mount. I tried mechanically to open

the valve, but the unknown cut the cord several feet above my head. I

was lost!

“Did you see Madame Blanchard fall?” said he. “I saw her; yes, I! I was

at Tivoli on the 6th of July, 1819. Madame Blanchard rose in a small

sized balloon, to avoid the expense of filling, and she was forced to

entirely inflate it. The gas leaked out below, and left a regular train

of hydrogen in its path. She carried with her a sort of pyrotechnic

aureola, suspended below her car by a wire, which she was to set off in

the air. This she had done many times before. On this day she also

carried up a small parachute ballasted by a firework contrivance, that

would go off in a shower of silver. She was to start this contrivance

after having lighted it with a port-fire made on purpose. She set out;

the night was gloomy. At the moment of lighting her fireworks she was

so imprudent as to pass the taper under the column of hydrogen which

was leaking from the balloon. My eyes were fixed upon her. Suddenly an

unexpected gleam lit up the darkness. I thought she was preparing a

surprise. The light flashed out, suddenly disappeared and reappeared,

and gave the summit of the balloon the shape of an immense jet of

ignited gas. This sinister glow shed itself over the Boulevard and the

whole Montmartre quarter. Then I saw the unhappy woman rise, try twice

to close the appendage of the balloon, so as to put out the fire, then

sit down in her car and try to guide her descent; for she did not fall.

The combustion of the gas lasted for several minutes. The balloon,

becoming gradually less, continued to descend, but it was not a fall.

The wind blew from the north-west and drove it towards Paris. There

were then some large gardens just by the house No. 16, Rue de Provence.

Madame Blanchard essayed to fall there without danger: but the balloon

and the car struck on the roof of the house with a light shock. ‘Save

me!’ cried the wretched woman. I got into the street at this moment.

The car slid along the roof, and encountered an iron cramp. At this

concussion, Madame Blanchard was thrown out of her car and precipitated

upon the pavement. She was killed!”

These stories froze me with horror. The unknown was standing with bare

head, dishevelled hair, haggard eyes!

There was no longer any illusion possible. I at last recognized the

horrible truth. I was in the presence of a madman!

He threw out the rest of the ballast, and we must have now reached a

height of at least nine thousand yards. Blood spurted from my nose and

mouth!

“Who are nobler than the martyrs of science?” cried the lunatic. “They

are canonized by posterity.”

But I no longer heard him. He looked about him, and, bending down to my

ear, muttered,—

“And have you forgotten Zambecarri’s catastrophe? Listen. On the 7th of

October, 1804, the clouds seemed to lift a little. On the preceding

days, the wind and rain had not ceased; but the announced ascension of

Zambecarri could not be postponed. His enemies were already bantering

him. It was necessary to ascend, to save the science and himself from

becoming a public jest. It was at Boulogne. No one helped him to

inflate his balloon.

“He rose at midnight, accompanied by Andreoli and Grossetti. The

balloon mounted slowly, for it had been perforated by the rain, and the

gas was leaking out. The three intrepid aeronauts could only observe

the state of the barometer by aid of a dark lantern. Zambecarri had

eaten nothing for twenty-four hours. Grossetti was also fasting.

“‘My friends,’ said Zambecarri, ‘I am overcome by cold, and exhausted.

I am dying.’

“He fell inanimate in the gallery. It was the same with Grossetti.

Andreoli alone remained conscious. After long efforts, he succeeded in

reviving Zambecarri.

“‘What news? Whither are we going? How is the wind? What time is it?’

“‘It is two o’clock.’

“‘Where is the compass?’

“‘Upset!’

“‘Great God! The lantern has gone out!’

“‘It cannot burn in this rarefied air,’ said Zambecarri.

“The moon had not risen, and the atmosphere was plunged in murky

darkness.

“‘I am cold, Andreoli. What shall I do?’

“They slowly descended through a layer of whitish clouds.

“‘Sh!’ said Andreoli. ‘Do you hear?’

“‘What?’ asked Zambecarri.

“‘A strange noise.’

“‘You are mistaken.’

“‘No.’

“Consider these travellers, in the middle of the night, listening to

that unaccountable noise! Are they going to knock against a tower? Are

they about to be precipitated on the roofs?

“‘Do you hear? One would say it was the noise of the sea.’

“‘Impossible!’

“‘It is the groaning of the waves!’

“‘It is true.’

“‘Light! light!’

“After five fruitless attempts, Andreoli succeeded in obtaining light.

It was three o’clock.

“The voice of violent waves was heard. They were almost touching the

surface of the sea!

“‘We are lost!’ cried Zambecarri, seizing a large bag of sand.

“‘Help!’ cried Andreoli.

“The car touched the water, and the waves came up to their breasts.

“‘Throw out the instruments, clothes, money!’

“The aeronauts completely stripped themselves. The balloon, relieved,

rose with frightful rapidity. Zambecarri was taken with vomiting.

Grossetti bled profusely. The unfortunate men could not speak, so short

was their breathing. They were taken with cold, and they were soon

crusted over with ice. The moon looked as red as blood.

“After traversing the high regions for a half-hour, the balloon again

fell into the sea. It was four in the morning. They were half submerged

in the water, and the balloon dragged them along, as if under sail, for

several hours.

“At daybreak they found themselves opposite Pesaro, four miles from the

coast. They were about to reach it, when a gale blew them back into the

open sea. They were lost! The frightened boats fled at their approach.

Happily, a more intelligent boatman accosted them, hoisted them on

board, and they landed at Ferrada.

“A frightful journey, was it not? But Zambecarri was a brave and

energetic man. Scarcely recovered from his sufferings, he resumed his

ascensions. During one of them he struck against a tree; his

spirit-lamp was broken on his clothes; he was enveloped in fire, his

balloon began to catch the flames, and he came down half consumed.

“At last, on the 21st of September, 1812, he made another ascension at

Boulogne. The balloon clung to a tree, and his lamp again set it on

fire. Zambecarri fell, and was killed! And in presence of these facts,

we would still hesitate! No. The higher we go, the more glorious will

be our death!”

[Illustration: “Zambecarri fell, and was killed!”]

The balloon being now entirely relieved of ballast and of all it

contained, we were carried to an enormous height. It vibrated in the

atmosphere. The least noise resounded in the vaults of heaven. Our

globe, the only object which caught my view in immensity, seemed ready

to be annihilated, and above us the depths of the starry skies were

lost in thick darkness.

I saw my companion rise up before me.

“The hour is come!” he said. “We must die. We are rejected of men. They

despise us. Let us crush them!”

“Mercy!” I cried.

“Let us cut these cords! Let this car be abandoned in space. The

attractive force will change its direction, and we shall approach the

sun!”

Despair galvanized me. I threw myself upon the madman, we struggled

together, and a terrible conflict took place. But I was thrown down,

and while he held me under his knee, the madman was cutting the cords

of the car.

“One!” he cried.

“My God!”

“Two! Three!”

I made a superhuman effort, rose up, and violently repulsed the madman.

“Four!”

The car fell, but I instinctively clung to the cords and hoisted myself

into the meshes of the netting.

The madman disappeared in space!

[Illustration: The madman disappeared in space!]

The balloon was raised to an immeasurable height. A horrible cracking

was heard. The gas, too much dilated, had burst the balloon. I shut my

eyes—

Some instants after, a damp warmth revived me. I was in the midst of

clouds on fire. The balloon turned over with dizzy velocity. Taken by

the wind, it made a hundred leagues an hour in a horizontal course, the

lightning flashing around it.

Meanwhile my fall was not a very rapid one. When I opened my eyes, I

saw the country. I was two miles from the sea, and the tempest was

driving me violently towards it, when an abrupt shock forced me to

loosen my hold. My hands opened, a cord slipped swiftly between my

fingers, and I found myself on the solid earth!

It was the cord of the anchor, which, sweeping along the surface of the

ground, was caught in a crevice; and my balloon, unballasted for the

last time, careered off to lose itself beyond the sea.

When I came to myself, I was in bed in a peasant’s cottage, at

Harderwick, a village of La Gueldre, fifteen leagues from Amsterdam, on

the shores of the Zuyder-Zee.

A miracle had saved my life, but my voyage had been a series of

imprudences, committed by a lunatic, and I had not been able to prevent

them.

May this terrible narrative, though instructing those who read it, not

discourage the explorers of the air.

A WINTER AMID THE ICE

CHAPTER I

THE BLACK FLAG

The curé of the ancient church of Dunkirk rose at five o’clock on the

12th of May, 18—, to perform, according to his custom, low mass for the

benefit of a few pious sinners.

Attired in his priestly robes, he was about to proceed to the altar,

when a man entered the sacristy, at once joyous and frightened. He was

a sailor of some sixty years, but still vigorous and sturdy, with, an

open, honest countenance.

“Monsieur the curé,” said he, “stop a moment, if you please.”

[Illustration: “Monsieur the curé,” said he, “stop a moment, if you

please.”]

“What do you want so early in the morning, Jean Cornbutte?” asked the

curé.

“What do I want? Why, to embrace you in my arms, i’ faith!”

“Well, after the mass at which you are going to be present—”

“The mass?” returned the old sailor, laughing. “Do you think you are

going to say your mass now, and that I will let you do so?”

“And why should I not say my mass?” asked the curé. “Explain yourself.

The third bell has sounded—”

“Whether it has or not,” replied Jean Cornbutte, “it will sound many

more times to-day, monsieur the curé, for you have promised me that you

will bless, with your own hands, the marriage of my son Louis and my

niece Marie!”

“He has arrived, then,” said the curé “joyfully.

“It is nearly the same thing,” replied Cornbutte, rubbing his hands.

“Our brig was signalled from the look out at sunrise,—our brig, which

you yourself christened by the good name of the ‘Jeune-Hardie’!”

“I congratulate you with all my heart, Cornbutte,” said the curé,

taking off his chasuble and stole. “I remember our agreement. The vicar

will take my place, and I will put myself at your disposal against your

dear son’s arrival.”

“And I promise you that he will not make you fast long,” replied the

sailor. “You have already published the banns, and you will only have

to absolve him from the sins he may have committed between sky and

water, in the Northern Ocean. I had a good idea, that the marriage

should be celebrated the very day he arrived, and that my son Louis

should leave his ship to repair at once to the church.”

“Go, then, and arrange everything, Cornbutte.”

“I fly, monsieur the curé. Good morning!”

The sailor hastened with rapid steps to his house, which stood on the

quay, whence could be seen the Northern Ocean, of which he seemed so

proud.

Jean Cornbutte had amassed a comfortable sum at his calling. After

having long commanded the vessels of a rich shipowner of Havre, he had

settled down in his native town, where he had caused the brig

“Jeune-Hardie” to be constructed at his own expense. Several successful

voyages had been made in the North, and the ship always found a good

sale for its cargoes of wood, iron, and tar. Jean Cornbutte then gave

up the command of her to his son Louis, a fine sailor of thirty, who,

according to all the coasting captains, was the boldest mariner in

Dunkirk.

Louis Cornbutte had gone away deeply attached to Marie, his father’s

niece, who found the time of his absence very long and weary. Marie was

scarcely twenty. She was a pretty Flemish girl, with some Dutch blood

in her veins. Her mother, when she was dying, had confided her to her

brother, Jean Cornbutte. The brave old sailor loved her as a daughter,

and saw in her proposed union with Louis a source of real and durable

happiness.

The arrival of the ship, already signalled off the coast, completed an

important business operation, from which Jean Cornbutte expected large

profits. The “Jeune-Hardie,” which had left three months before, came

last from Bodoë, on the west coast of Norway, and had made a quick

voyage thence.

On returning home, Jean Cornbutte found the whole house alive. Marie,

with radiant face, had assumed her wedding-dress.

“I hope the ship will not arrive before we are ready!” she said.

“Hurry, little one,” replied Jean Cornbutte, “for the wind is north,

and she sails well, you know, when she goes freely.”

“Have our friends been told, uncle?” asked Marie.

“They have.”

“The notary, and the curé?”

“Rest easy. You alone are keeping us waiting.”

At this moment Clerbaut, an old crony, came in.

“Well, old Cornbutte,” cried he, “here’s luck! Your ship has arrived at

the very moment that the government has decided to contract for a large

quantity of wood for the navy!”

“What is that to me?” replied Jean Cornbutte. “What care I for the

government?”

“You see, Monsieur Clerbaut,” said Marie, “one thing only absorbs

us,—Louis’s return.”

“I don’t dispute that,” replied Clerbaut. “But—in short—this purchase

of wood—”

“And you shall be at the wedding,” replied Jean Cornbutte, interrupting

the merchant, and shaking his hand as if he would crush it.

“This purchase of wood—”

“And with all our friends, landsmen and seamen, Clerbaut. I have

already informed everybody, and I shall invite the whole crew of the

ship.”

“And shall we go and await them on the pier?” asked Marie.

“Indeed we will,” replied Jean Cornbutte. “We will defile, two by two,

with the violins at the head.”

Jean Cornbutte’s invited guests soon arrived. Though it was very early,

not a single one failed to appear. All congratulated the honest old

sailor whom they loved. Meanwhile Marie, kneeling down, changed her

prayers to God into thanksgivings. She soon returned, lovely and decked

out, to the company; and all the women kissed her on the check, while

the men vigorously grasped her by the hand. Then Jean Cornbutte gave

the signal of departure.

It was a curious sight to see this joyous group taking its way, at

sunrise, towards the sea. The news of the ship’s arrival had spread

through the port, and many heads, in nightcaps, appeared at the windows

and at the half-opened doors. Sincere compliments and pleasant nods

came from every side.

The party reached the pier in the midst of a concert of praise and

blessings. The weather was magnificent, and the sun seemed to take part

in the festivity. A fresh north wind made the waves foam; and some

fishing-smacks, their sails trimmed for leaving port, streaked the sea

with their rapid wakes between the breakwaters.

The two piers of Dunkirk stretch far out into the sea. The

wedding-party occupied the whole width of the northern pier, and soon

reached a small house situated at its extremity, inhabited by the

harbour-master. The wind freshened, and the “Jeune-Hardie” ran swiftly

under her topsails, mizzen, brigantine, gallant, and royal. There was

evidently rejoicing on board as well as on land. Jean Cornbutte,

spy-glass in hand, responded merrily to the questions of his friends.

“See my ship!” he cried; “clean and steady as if she had been rigged at

Dunkirk! Not a bit of damage done,—not a rope wanting!”

“Do you see your son, the captain?” asked one.

“No, not yet. Why, he’s at his business!”

“Why doesn’t he run up his flag?” asked Clerbaut.

“I scarcely know, old friend. He has a reason for it, no doubt.”

“Your spy-glass, uncle?” said Marie, taking it from him. “I want to be

the first to see him.”

“But he is my son, mademoiselle!”

“He has been your son for thirty years,” answered the young girl,

laughing, “and he has only been my betrothed for two!”

The “Jeune-Hardie” was now entirely visible. Already the crew were

preparing to cast anchor. The upper sails had been reefed. The sailors

who were among the rigging might be recognized. But neither Marie nor

Jean Cornbutte had yet been able to wave their hands at the captain of

the ship.

“Faith! there’s the first mate, André Vasling,” cried Clerbaut.

“And there’s Fidèle Misonne, the carpenter,” said another.

“And our friend Penellan,” said a third, saluting the sailor named.

The “Jeune-Hardie” was only three cables’ lengths from the shore, when

a black flag ascended to the gaff of the brigantine. There was mourning

on board!

A shudder of terror seized the party and the heart of the young girl.

The ship sadly swayed into port, and an icy silence reigned on its

deck. Soon it had passed the end of the pier. Marie, Jean Cornbutte,

and all their friends hurried towards the quay at which she was to

anchor, and in a moment found themselves on board.

“My son!” said Jean Cornbutte, who could only articulate these words.

The sailors, with uncovered heads, pointed to the mourning flag.

Marie uttered a cry of anguish, and fell into old Cornbutte’s arms.

André Vasling had brought back the “Jeune-Hardie,” but Louis Cornbutte,

Marie’s betrothed, was not on board.

CHAPTER II.

JEAN CORNBUTTE’S PROJECT.

As soon as the young girl, confided to the care of the sympathizing

friends, had left the ship, André Vasling, the mate, apprised Jean

Cornbutte of the dreadful event which had deprived him of his son,

narrated in the ship’s journal as follows:—

[Illustration: André Vasling, the mate, apprised Jean Cornbutte of

the dreadful event]

“At the height of the Maëlstrom, on the 26th of April, the ship,

putting for the cape, by reason of bad weather and south-west winds,

perceived signals of distress made by a schooner to the leeward. This

schooner, deprived of its mizzen-mast, was running towards the

whirlpool, under bare poles. Captain Louis Cornbutte, seeing that this

vessel was hastening into imminent danger, resolved to go on board her.

Despite the remonstrances of his crew, he had the long-boat lowered

into the sea, and got into it, with the sailor Courtois and the

helmsman Pierre Nouquet. The crew watched them until they disappeared

in the fog. Night came on. The sea became more and more boisterous. The

“Jeune-Hardie”, drawn by the currents in those parts, was in danger of

being engulfed by the Maëlstrom. She was obliged to fly before the

wind. For several days she hovered near the place of the disaster, but

in vain. The long-boat, the schooner, Captain Louis, and the two

sailors did not reappear. André Vasling then called the crew together,

took command of the ship, and set sail for Dunkirk.”

After reading this dry narrative, Jean Cornbutte wept for a long time;

and if he had any consolation, it was the thought that his son had died

in attempting to save his fellow-men. Then the poor father left the

ship, the sight of which made him wretched, and returned to his

desolate home.

The sad news soon spread throughout Dunkirk. The many friends of the

old sailor came to bring him their cordial and sincere sympathy. Then

the sailors of the “Jeune-Hardie” gave a more particular account of the

event, and André Vasling told Marie, at great length, of the devotion

of her betrothed to the last.

When he ceased weeping, Jean Cornbutte thought over the matter, and the

next day after the ship’s arrival, when Andre came to see him, said,—

“Are you very sure, André, that my son has perished?”

“Alas, yes, Monsieur Jean,” replied the mate.

“And you made all possible search for him?”

“All, Monsieur Cornbutte. But it is unhappily but too certain that he

and the two sailors were sucked down in the whirlpool of the

Maëlstrom.”

“Would you like, André, to keep the second command of the ship?”

“That will depend upon the captain, Monsieur Cornbutte.”

“I shall be the captain,” replied the old sailor. “I am going to

discharge the cargo with all speed, make up my crew, and sail in search

of my son.”

“Your son is dead!” said André obstinately.

“It is possible, Andre,” replied Jean Cornbutte sharply, “but it is

also possible that he saved himself. I am going to rummage all the

ports of Norway whither he might have been driven, and when I am fully

convinced that I shall never see him again, I will return here to die!”

André Vasling, seeing that this decision was irrevocable, did not

insist further, but went away.

Jean Cornbutte at once apprised his niece of his intention, and he saw

a few rays of hope glisten across her tears. It had not seemed to the

young girl that her lover’s death might be doubtful; but scarcely had

this new hope entered her heart, than she embraced it without reserve.

The old sailor determined that the “Jeune-Hardie” should put to sea

without delay. The solidly built ship had no need of repairs. Jean

Cornbutte gave his sailors notice that if they wished to re-embark, no

change in the crew would be made. He alone replaced his son in the

command of the brig. None of the comrades of Louis Cornbutte failed to

respond to his call, and there were hardy tars among them,—Alaine

Turquiette, Fidèle Misonne the carpenter, Penellan the Breton, who

replaced Pierre Nouquet as helmsman, and Gradlin, Aupic, and Gervique,

courageous and well-tried mariners.

Jean Cornbutte again offered André Vasling his old rank on board. The

first mate was an able officer, who had proved his skill in bringing

the “Jeune-Hardie” into port. Yet, from what motive could not be told,

André made some difficulties and asked time for reflection.

“As you will, André Vasling,” replied Cornbutte. “Only remember that if

you accept, you will be welcome among us.”

Jean had a devoted sailor in Penellan the Breton, who had long been his

fellow-voyager. In times gone by, little Marie was wont to pass the

long winter evenings in the helmsman’s arms, when he was on shore. He

felt a fatherly friendship for her, and she had for him ah affection

quite filial. Penellan hastened the fitting out of the ship with all

his energy, all the more because, according to his opinion, André

Vasling had not perhaps made every effort possible to find the

castaways, although he was excusable from the responsibility which

weighed upon him as captain.

Within a week the “Jeune-Hardie” was ready to put to sea. Instead of

merchandise, she was completely provided with salt meats, biscuits,

barrels of flour, potatoes, pork, wine, brandy, coffee, tea, and

tobacco.

The departure was fixed for the 22nd of May. On the evening before,

André Vasling, who had not yet given his answer to Jean Cornbutte, came

to his house. He was still undecided, and did not know which course to

take.

Jean was not at home, though the house-door was open. André went into

the passage, next to Marie’s chamber, where the sound of an animated

conversation struck his ear. He listened attentively, and recognized

the voices of Penellan and Marie.

The discussion had no doubt been going on for some time, for the young

girl seemed to be stoutly opposing what the Breton sailor said.

“How old is my uncle Cornbutte?” said Marie.

“Something about sixty years,” replied Penellan.

“Well, is he not going to brave danger to find his son?”

“Our captain is still a sturdy man,” returned the sailor. “He has a

body of oak and muscles as hard as a spare spar. So I am not afraid to

have him go to sea again!’”

“My good Penellan,” said Marie, “one is strong when one loves! Besides,

I have full confidence in the aid of Heaven. You understand me, and

will help me.”

“No!” said Penellan. “It is impossible, Marie. Who knows whither we

shall drift, or what we must suffer? How many vigorous men have I seen

lose their lives in these seas!”

“Penellan,” returned the young girl, “if you refuse me, I shall believe

that you do not love me any longer.”

André Vasling understood the young girl’s resolution. He reflected a

moment, and his course was determined on.

“Jean Cornbutte,” said he, advancing towards the old sailor, who now

entered, “I will go with you. The cause of my hesitation has

disappeared, and you may count upon my devotion.”

“I have never doubted you, André Vasling,” replied Jean Cornbutte,

grasping him by the hand. “Marie, my child!” he added, calling in a

loud voice.

Marie and Penellan made their appearance.

“We shall set sail to-morrow at daybreak, with the outgoing tide,” said

Jean. “My poor Marie, this is the last evening that we shall pass

together.

“Uncle!” cried Marie, throwing herself into his arms.

“Marie, by the help of God, I will bring your lover back to you!”

“Yes, we will find Louis,” added André Vasling.

“You are going with us, then?” asked Penellan quickly.

“Yes, Penellan, André Vasling is to be my first mate,” answered Jean.

“Oh, oh!” ejaculated the Breton, in a singular tone.

“And his advice will be useful to us, for he is able and enterprising.

“And yourself, captain,” said André. “You will set us all a good

example, for you have still as much vigour as experience.”

“Well, my friends, good-bye till to-morrow. Go on board and make the

final arrangements. Good-bye, André; good-bye, Penellan.”

The mate and the sailor went out together, and Jean and Marie remained

alone. Many bitter tears were shed during that sad evening. Jean

Cornbutte, seeing Marie so wretched, resolved to spare her the pain of

separation by leaving the house on the morrow without her knowledge. So

he gave her a last kiss that evening, and at three o’clock next morning

was up and away.

The departure of the brig had attracted all the old sailor’s friends to

the pier. The curé, who was to have blessed Marie’s union with Louis,

came to give a last benediction on the ship. Rough grasps of the hand

were silently exchanged, and Jean went on board.

The crew were all there. André Vasling gave the last orders. The sails

were spread, and the brig rapidly passed out under a stiff north-west

breeze, whilst the cure, upright in the midst of the kneeling

spectators, committed the vessel to the hands of God.

Whither goes this ship? She follows the perilous route upon which so

many castaways have been lost! She has no certain destination. She must

expect every peril, and be able to brave them without hesitating. God

alone knows where it will be her fate to anchor. May God guide her!

CHAPTER III.

A RAY OF HOPE.

At that time of the year the season was favourable, and the crew might

hope promptly to reach the scene of the shipwreck.

Jean Cornbutte’s plan was naturally traced out. He counted on stopping

at the Feroë Islands, whither the north wind might have carried the

castaways; then, if he was convinced that they had not been received in

any of the ports of that locality, he would continue his search beyond

the Northern Ocean, ransack the whole western coast of Norway as far as

Bodoë, the place nearest the scene of the shipwreck; and, if necessary,

farther still.

André Vasling thought, contrary to the captain’s opinion, that the

coast of Iceland should be explored; but Penellan observed that, at the

time of the catastrophe, the gale came from the west; which, while it

gave hope that the unfortunates had not been forced towards the gulf of

the Maëlstrom, gave ground for supposing that they might have been

thrown on the Norwegian coast.

It was determined, then, that this coast should be followed as closely

as possible, so as to recognize any traces of them that might appear.

The day after sailing, Jean Cornbutte, intent upon a map, was absorbed

in reflection, when a small hand touched his shoulder, and a soft voice

said in his ear,—

“Have good courage, uncle.”

[Illustration: A soft voice said in his ear, “Have good courage,

uncle.”]

He turned, and was stupefied. Marie embraced him.

“Marie, my daughter, on board!” he cried.

“The wife may well go in search of her husband, when the father embarks

to save his child.”

“Unhappy Marie! How wilt thou support our fatigues! Dost thou know that

thy presence may be injurious to our search?”

“No, uncle, for I am strong.”

“Who knows whither we shall be forced to go, Marie? Look at this map.

We are approaching places dangerous even for us sailors, hardened

though we are to the difficulties of the sea. And thou, frail child?”

“But, uncle, I come from a family of sailors. I am used to stories of

combats and tempests. I am with you and my old friend Penellan!”

“Penellan! It was he who concealed you on board?”

“Yes, uncle; but only when he saw that I was determined to come without

his help.”

“Penellan!” cried Jean.

Penellan entered.

“It is not possible to undo what you have done, Penellan; but remember

that you are responsible for Marie’s life.”

“Rest easy, captain,” replied Penellan. “The little one has force and

courage, and will be our guardian angel. And then, captain, you know it

is my theory, that all in this world happens for the best.”

The young girl was installed in a cabin, which the sailors soon got

ready for her, and which they made as comfortable as possible.

A week later the “Jeune-Hardie” stopped at the Feroë Islands, but the

most minute search was fruitless. No wreck, or fragments of a ship had

come upon these coasts. Even the news of the event was quite unknown.

The brig resumed its voyage, after a stay of ten days, about the 10th

of June. The sea was calm, and the winds were favourable. The ship sped

rapidly towards the Norwegian coast, which it explored without better

result.

Jean Cornbutte determined to proceed to Bodoë. Perhaps he would there

learn the name of the shipwrecked schooner to succour which Louis and

the sailors had sacrificed themselves.

On the 30th of June the brig cast anchor in that port.

The authorities of Bodoë gave Jean Cornbutte a bottle found on the

coast, which contained a document bearing these words:—

“This 26th April, on board the ‘Froöern,’ after being accosted by the

long-boat of the ‘Jeune-Hardie,’ we were drawn by the currents towards

the ice. God have pity on us!”

Jean Cornbutte’s first impulse was to thank Heaven. He thought himself

on his son’s track. The “Froöern” was a Norwegian sloop of which there

had been no news, but which had evidently been drawn northward.

Not a day was to be lost. The “Jeune-Hardie” was at once put in

condition to brave the perils of the polar seas. Fidèle Misonne, the

carpenter, carefully examined her, and assured himself that her solid

construction might resist the shock of the ice-masses.

Penellan, who had already engaged in whale-fishing in the arctic

waters, took care that woollen and fur coverings, many sealskin

moccassins, and wood for the making of sledges with which to cross the

ice-fields were put on board. The amount of provisions was increased,

and spirits and charcoal were added; for it might be that they would

have to winter at some point on the Greenland coast. They also

procured, with much difficulty and at a high price, a quantity of

lemons, for preventing or curing the scurvy, that terrible disease

which decimates crews in the icy regions. The ship’s hold was filled

with salt meat, biscuits, brandy, etc., as the steward’s room no longer

sufficed. They provided themselves, moreover, with a large quantity of

“pemmican,” an Indian preparation which concentrates a great deal of

nutrition within a small volume.

By order of the captain, some saws were put on board for cutting the

ice-fields, as well as picks and wedges for separating them. The

captain determined to procure some dogs for drawing the sledges on the

Greenland coast.

The whole crew was engaged in these preparations, and displayed great

activity. The sailors Aupic, Gervique, and Gradlin zealously obeyed

Penellan’s orders; and he admonished them not to accustom themselves to

woollen garments, though the temperature in this latitude, situated

just beyond the polar circle, was very low.

Penellan, though he said nothing, narrowly watched every action of

André Vasling. This man was Dutch by birth, came from no one knew

whither, but was at least a good sailor, having made two voyages on

board the “Jeune-Hardie”. Penellan would not as yet accuse him of

anything, unless it was that he kept near Marie too constantly, but he

did not let him out of his sight.

Thanks to the energy of the crew, the brig was equipped by the 16th of

July, a fortnight after its arrival at Bodoë. It was then the

favourable season for attempting explorations in the Arctic Seas. The

thaw had been going on for two months, and the search might be carried

farther north. The “Jeune-Hardie” set sail, and directed her way

towards Cape Brewster, on the eastern coast of Greenland, near the 70th

degree of latitude.

CHAPTER IV.

IN THE PASSES.

About the 23rd of July a reflection, raised above the sea, announced

the presence of the first icebergs, which, emerging from Davis’

Straits, advanced into the ocean. From this moment a vigilant watch was

ordered to the look-out men, for it was important not to come into

collision with these enormous masses.

The crew was divided into two watches. The first was composed of Fidèle

Misonne, Gradlin, and Gervique; and the second of Andre Vasling, Aupic,

and Penellan. These watches were to last only two hours, for in those

cold regions a man’s strength is diminished one-half. Though the

“Jeune-Hardie” was not yet beyond the 63rd degree of latitude, the

thermometer already stood at nine degrees centigrade below zero.

Rain and snow often fell abundantly. On fair days, when the wind was

not too violent, Marie remained on deck, and her eyes became accustomed

to the uncouth scenes of the Polar Seas.

On the 1st of August she was promenading aft, and talking with her

uncle, Penellan, and André Vasling. The ship was then entering a

channel three miles wide, across which broken masses of ice were

rapidly descending southwards.

“When shall we see land?” asked the young girl.

“In three or four days at the latest,” replied Jean Cornbutte.

“But shall we find there fresh traces of my poor Louis?”

“Perhaps so, my daughter; but I fear that we are still far from the end

of our voyage. It is to be feared that the ‘Froöern’ was driven farther

northward.”

“That may be,” added André Vasling, “for the squall which separated us

from the Norwegian boat lasted three days, and in three days a ship

makes good headway when it is no longer able to resist the wind.”

“Permit me to tell you, Monsieur Vasling.” replied Penellan, “that that

was in April, that the thaw had not then begun, and that therefore the

‘Froöern’ must have been soon arrested by the ice.”

“And no doubt dashed into a thousand pieces,” said the mate, “as her

crew could not manage her.”

“But these ice-fields,” returned Penellan, “gave her an easy means of

reaching land, from which she could not have been far distant.”

“Let us hope so,” said Jean Cornbutte, interrupting the discussion,

which was daily renewed between the mate and the helmsman. “I think we

shall see land before long.”

“There it is!” cried Marie. “See those mountains!”

“No, my child,” replied her uncle. “Those are mountains of ice, the

first we have met with. They would shatter us like glass if we got

entangled between them. Penellan and Vasling, overlook the men.”

These floating masses, more than fifty of which now appeared at the

horizon, came nearer and nearer to the brig. Penellan took the helm,

and Jean Cornbutte, mounted on the gallant, indicated the route to

take.

Towards evening the brig was entirely surrounded by these moving rocks,

the crushing force of which is irresistible. It was necessary, then, to

cross this fleet of mountains, for prudence prompted them to keep

straight ahead. Another difficulty was added to these perils. The

direction of the ship could not be accurately determined, as all the

surrounding points constantly changed position, and thus failed to

afford a fixed perspective. The darkness soon increased with the fog.

Marie descended to her cabin, and the whole crew, by the captain’s

orders, remained on deck. They were armed with long boat-poles, with

iron spikes, to preserve the ship from collision with the ice.

The ship soon entered a strait so narrow that often the ends of her

yards were grazed by the drifting mountains, and her booms seemed about

to be driven in. They were even forced to trim the mainyard so as to

touch the shrouds. Happily these precautions did not deprive, the

vessel of any of its speed, for the wind could only reach the upper

sails, and these sufficed to carry her forward rapidly. Thanks to her

slender hull, she passed through these valleys, which were filled with

whirlpools of rain, whilst the icebergs crushed against each other with

sharp cracking and splitting.

Jean Cornbutte returned to the deck. His eyes could not penetrate the

surrounding darkness. It became necessary to furl the upper sails, for

the ship threatened to ground, and if she did so she was lost.

“Cursed voyage!” growled André Vasling among the sailors, who, forward,

were avoiding the most menacing ice-blocks with their boat-hooks.

“Truly, if we escape we shall owe a fine candle to Our Lady of the

Ice!” replied Aupic.

“Who knows how many floating mountains we have got to pass through

yet?” added the mate.

“And who can guess what we shall find beyond them?” replied the sailor.

“Don’t talk so much, prattler,” said Gervique, “and look out on your

side. When we have got by them, it’ll be time to grumble. Look out for

your boat-hook!”

At this moment an enormous block of ice, in the narrow strait through

which the brig was passing, came rapidly down upon her, and it seemed

impossible to avoid it, for it barred the whole width of the channel,

and the brig could not heave-to.

“Do you feel the tiller?” asked Cornbutte of Penellan.

“No, captain. The ship does not answer the helm any longer.”

“_Ohé_, boys!” cried the captain to the crew; “don’t be afraid, and

buttress your hooks against the gunwale.”

The block was nearly sixty feet high, and if it threw itself upon the

brig she would be crushed. There was an undefinable moment of suspense,

and the crew retreated backward, abandoning their posts despite the

captain’s orders.

But at the instant when the block was not more than half a cable’s

length from the “Jeune-Hardie,” a dull sound was heard, and a veritable

waterspout fell upon the bow of the vessel, which then rose on the back

of an enormous billow.

The sailors uttered a cry of terror; but when they looked before them

the block had disappeared, the passage was free, and beyond an immense

plain of water, illumined by the rays of the declining sun, assured

them of an easy navigation.

“All’s well!” cried Penellan. “Let’s trim our topsails and mizzen!”

An incident very common in those parts had just occurred. When these

masses are detached from one another in the thawing season, they float

in a perfect equilibrium; but on reaching the ocean, where the water is

relatively warmer, they are speedily undermined at the base, which

melts little by little, and which is also shaken by the shock of other

ice-masses. A moment comes when the centre of gravity of these masses

is displaced, and then they are completely overturned. Only, if this

block had turned over two minutes later, it would have fallen on the

brig and carried her down in its fall.

CHAPTER V.

LIVERPOOL ISLAND.

The brig now sailed in a sea which was almost entirely open. At the

horizon only, a whitish light, this time motionless, indicated the

presence of fixed plains of ice.

Jean Cornbutte now directed the “Jeune-Hardie” towards Cape Brewster.

They were already approaching the regions where the temperature is

excessively cold, for the sun’s rays, owing to their obliquity when

they reach them, are very feeble.

On the 3rd of August the brig confronted immoveable and united

ice-masses. The passages were seldom more than a cable’s length in

width, and the ship was forced to make many turnings, which sometimes

placed her heading the wind.

Penellan watched over Marie with paternal care, and, despite the cold,

prevailed upon her to spend two or three hours every day on deck, for

exercise had become one of the indispensable conditions of health.

Marie’s courage did not falter. She even comforted the sailors with her

cheerful talk, and all of them became warmly attached to her. André

Vasling showed himself more attentive than ever, and seized every

occasion to be in her company; but the young girl, with a sort of

presentiment, accepted his services with some coldness. It may be

easily conjectured that André’s conversation referred more to the

future than to the present, and that he did not conceal the slight

probability there was of saving the castaways. He was convinced that

they were lost, and the young girl ought thenceforth to confide her

existence to some one else.

[Illustration: André Vasling showed himself more attentive than ever.]

Marie had not as yet comprehended André’s designs, for, to his great

disgust, he could never find an opportunity to talk long with her

alone. Penellan had always an excuse for interfering, and destroying

the effect of Andre’s words by the hopeful opinions he expressed.

Marie, meanwhile, did not remain idle. Acting on the helmsman’s advice,

she set to work on her winter garments; for it was necessary that she

should completely change her clothing. The cut of her dresses was not

suitable for these cold latitudes. She made, therefore, a sort of

furred pantaloons, the ends of which were lined with seal-skin; and her

narrow skirts came only to her knees, so as not to be in contact with

the layers of snow with which the winter would cover the ice-fields. A

fur mantle, fitting closely to the figure and supplied with a hood,

protected the upper part of her body.

In the intervals of their work, the sailors, too, prepared clothing

with which to shelter themselves from the cold. They made a quantity of

high seal-skin boots, with which to cross the snow during their

explorations. They worked thus all the time that the navigation in the

straits lasted.

André Vasling, who was an excellent shot, several times brought down

aquatic birds with his gun; innumerable flocks of these were always

careering about the ship. A kind of eider-duck provided the crew with

very palatable food, which relieved the monotony of the salt meat.

At last the brig, after many turnings, came in sight of Cape Brewster.

A long-boat was put to sea. Jean Cornbutte and Penellan reached the

coast, which was entirely deserted.

The ship at once directed its course towards Liverpool Island,

discovered in 1821 by Captain Scoresby, and the crew gave a hearty

cheer when they saw the natives running along the shore. Communication

was speedily established with them, thanks to Penellan’s knowledge of a

few words of their language, and some phrases which the natives

themselves had learnt of the whalers who frequented those parts.

These Greenlanders were small and squat; they were not more than four

feet ten inches high; they had red, round faces, and low foreheads;

their hair, flat and black, fell over their shoulders; their teeth were

decayed, and they seemed to be affected by the sort of leprosy which is

peculiar to ichthyophagous tribes.

In exchange for pieces of iron and brass, of which they are extremely

covetous, these poor creatures brought bear furs, the skins of

sea-calves, sea-dogs, sea-wolves, and all the animals generally known

as seals. Jean Cornbutte obtained these at a low price, and they were

certain to become most useful.

The captain then made the natives understand that he was in search of a

shipwrecked vessel, and asked them if they had heard of it. One of them

immediately drew something like a ship on the snow, and indicated that

a vessel of that sort had been carried northward three months before:

he also managed to make it understood that the thaw and breaking up of

the ice-fields had prevented the Greenlanders from going in search of

it; and, indeed, their very light canoes, which they managed with

paddles, could not go to sea at that time.

This news, though meagre, restored hope to the hearts of the sailors,

and Jean Cornbutte had no difficulty in persuading them to advance

farther in the polar seas.

Before quitting Liverpool Island, the captain purchased a pack of six

Esquimaux dogs, which were soon acclimatised on board. The ship weighed

anchor on the morning of the 10th of August, and entered the northern

straits under a brisk wind.

The longest days of the year had now arrived; that is, the sun, in

these high latitudes, did not set, and reached the highest point of the

spirals which it described above the horizon.

This total absence of night was not, however, very apparent, for the

fog, rain, and snow sometimes enveloped the ship in real darkness.

Jean Cornbutte, who was resolved to advance as far as possible, began

to take measures of health. The space between decks was securely

enclosed, and every morning care was taken to ventilate it with fresh

air. The stoves were installed, and the pipes so disposed as to yield

as much heat as possible. The sailors were advised to wear only one

woollen shirt over their cotton shirts, and to hermetically close their

seal cloaks. The fires were not yet lighted, for it was important to

reserve the wood and charcoal for the most intense cold.

Warm beverages, such as coffee and tea, were regularly distributed to

the sailors morning and evening; and as it was important to live on

meat, they shot ducks and teal, which abounded in these parts.

Jean Cornbutte also placed at the summit of the mainmast a “crow’s

nest,” a sort of cask staved in at one end, in which a look-out

remained constantly, to observe the icefields.

Two days after the brig had lost sight of Liverpool Island the

temperature became suddenly colder under the influence of a dry wind.

Some indications of winter were perceived. The ship had not a moment to

lose, for soon the way would be entirely closed to her. She advanced

across the straits, among which lay ice-plains thirty feet thick.

On the morning of the 3rd of September the “Jeune-Hardie” reached the

head of Gaël-Hamkes Bay. Land was then thirty miles to the leeward. It

was the first time that the brig had stopped before a mass of ice which

offered no outlet, and which was at least a mile wide. The saws must

now be used to cut the ice. Penellan, Aupic, Gradlin, and Turquiette

were chosen to work the saws, which had been carried outside the ship.

The direction of the cutting was so determined that the current might

carry off the pieces detached from the mass. The whole crew worked at

this task for nearly twenty hours. They found it very painful to remain

on the ice, and were often obliged to plunge into the water up to their

middle; their seal-skin garments protected them but imperfectly from

the damp.

Moreover all excessive toil in those high latitudes is soon followed by

an overwhelming weariness; for the breath soon fails, and the strongest

are forced to rest at frequent intervals.

At last the navigation became free, and the brig was towed beyond the

mass which had so long obstructed her course.

CHAPTER VI.

THE QUAKING OF THE ICE.

For several days the “Jeune-Hardie” struggled against formidable

obstacles. The crew were almost all the time at work with the saws, and

often powder had to be used to blow up the enormous blocks of ice which

closed the way.

On the 12th of September the sea consisted of one solid plain, without

outlet or passage, surrounding the vessel on all sides, so that she

could neither advance nor retreat. The temperature remained at an

average of sixteen degrees below zero. The winter season had come on,

with its sufferings and dangers.

[Illustration: On the 12th of September the sea consisted of one

solid plain.]

The “Jeune-Hardie” was then near the 21st degree of longitude west and

the 76th degree of latitude north, at the entrance of Gaël-Hamkes Bay.

Jean Cornbutte made his preliminary preparations for wintering. He

first searched for a creek whose position would shelter the ship from

the wind and breaking up of the ice. Land, which was probably thirty

miles west, could alone offer him secure shelter, and he resolved to

attempt to reach it.

He set out on the 12th of September, accompanied by André Vasling,

Penellan, and the two sailors Gradlin and Turquiette. Each man carried

provisions for two days, for it was not likely that their expedition

would occupy a longer time, and they were supplied with skins on which

to sleep.

Snow had fallen in great abundance and was not yet frozen over; and

this delayed them seriously. They often sank to their waists, and could

only advance very cautiously, for fear of falling into crevices.

Penellan, who walked in front, carefully sounded each depression with

his iron-pointed staff.

About five in the evening the fog began to thicken, and the little band

were forced to stop. Penellan looked about for an iceberg which might

shelter them from the wind, and after refreshing themselves, with

regrets that they had no warm drink, they spread their skins on the

snow, wrapped themselves up, lay close to each other, and soon dropped

asleep from sheer fatigue.

The next morning Jean Cornbutte and his companions were buried beneath

a bed of snow more than a foot deep. Happily their skins, perfectly

impermeable, had preserved them, and the snow itself had aided in

retaining their heat, which it prevented from escaping.

The captain gave the signal of departure, and about noon they at last

descried the coast, which at first they could scarcely distinguish.

High ledges of ice, cut perpendicularly, rose on the shore; their

variegated summits, of all forms and shapes, reproduced on a large

scale the phenomena of crystallization. Myriads of aquatic fowl flew

about at the approach of the party, and the seals, lazily lying on the

ice, plunged hurriedly into the depths.

“I’ faith!” said Penellan, “we shall not want for either furs or game!”

“Those animals,” returned Cornbutte, “give every evidence of having

been already visited by men; for in places totally uninhabited they

would not be so wild.”

“None but Greenlanders frequent these parts,” said André Vasling.

“I see no trace of their passage, however; neither any encampment nor

the smallest hut,” said Penellan, who had climbed up a high peak. “O

captain!” he continued, “come here! I see a point of land which will

shelter us splendidly from the north-east wind.”

“Come along, boys!” said Jean Cornbutte.

His companions followed him, and they soon rejoined Penellan. The

sailor had said what was true. An elevated point of land jutted out

like a promontory, and curving towards the coast, formed a little inlet

of a mile in width at most. Some moving ice-blocks, broken by this

point, floated in the midst, and the sea, sheltered from the colder

winds, was not yet entirely frozen over.

This was an excellent spot for wintering, and it only remained to get

the ship thither. Jean Cornbutte remarked that the neighbouring

ice-field was very thick, and it seemed very difficult to cut a canal

to bring the brig to its destination. Some other creek, then, must be

found; it was in vain that he explored northward. The coast remained

steep and abrupt for a long distance, and beyond the point it was

directly exposed to the attacks of the east-wind. The circumstance

disconcerted the captain all the more because André Vasling used strong

arguments to show how bad the situation was. Penellan, in this dilemma,

found it difficult to convince himself that all was for the best.

But one chance remained—to seek a shelter on the southern side of the

coast. This was to return on their path, but hesitation was useless.

The little band returned rapidly in the direction of the ship, as their

provisions had begun to run short. Jean Cornbutte searched for some

practicable passage, or at least some fissure by which a canal might be

cut across the ice-fields, all along the route, but in vain.

Towards evening the sailors came to the same place where they had

encamped over night. There had been no snow during the day, and they

could recognize the imprint of their bodies on the ice. They again

disposed themselves to sleep with their furs.

Penellan, much disturbed by the bad success of the expedition, was

sleeping restlessly, when, at a waking moment, his attention was

attracted by a dull rumbling. He listened attentively, and the rumbling

seemed so strange that he nudged Jean Cornbutte with his elbow.

“What is that?” said the latter, whose mind, according to a sailor’s

habit, was awake as soon as his body.

“Listen, captain.”

The noise increased, with perceptible violence.

“It cannot be thunder, in so high a latitude,” said Cornbutte, rising.

“I think we have come across some white bears,” replied Penellan.

“The devil! We have not seen any yet.”

“Sooner or later, we must have expected a visit from them. Let us give

them a good reception.”

Penellan, armed with a gun, lightly crossed the ledge which sheltered

them. The darkness was very dense; he could discover nothing; but a new

incident soon showed him that the cause of the noise did not proceed

from around them.

Jean Cornbutte rejoined him, and they observed with terror that this

rumbling, which awakened their companions, came from beneath them.

A new kind of peril menaced them. To the noise, which resembled peals

of thunder, was added a distinct undulating motion of the ice-field.

Several of the party lost their balance and fell.

“Attention!” cried Penellan.

“Yes!” some one responded.

“Turquiette! Gradlin! where are you?”

“Here I am!” responded Turquiette, shaking off the snow with which he

was covered.

“This way, Vasling,” cried Cornbutte to the mate. “And Gradlin?”

“Present, captain. But we are lost!” shouted Gradlin, in fright.

“No!” said Penellan. “Perhaps we are saved!”

Hardly had he uttered these words when a frightful cracking noise was

heard. The ice-field broke clear through, and the sailors were forced

to cling to the block which was quivering just by them. Despite the

helmsman’s words, they found themselves in a most perilous position,

for an ice-quake had occurred. The ice masses had just “weighed

anchor,” as the sailors say. The movement lasted nearly two minutes,

and it was to be feared that the crevice would yawn at the very feet of

the unhappy sailors. They anxiously awaited daylight in the midst of

continuous shocks, for they could not, without risk of death, move a

step, and had to remain stretched out at full length to avoid being

engulfed.

[Illustration: they found themselves in a most perilous position, for

an ice-quake had occurred.]

As soon as it was daylight a very different aspect presented itself to

their eyes. The vast plain, a compact mass the evening before, was now

separated in a thousand places, and the waves, raised by some submarine

commotion, had broken the thick layer which sheltered them.

The thought of his ship occurred to Jean Cornbutte’s mind.

“My poor brig!” he cried. “It must have perished!”

The deepest despair began to overcast the faces of his companions. The

loss of the ship inevitably preceded their own deaths.

“Courage, friends,” said Penellan. “Reflect that this night’s disaster

has opened us a path across the ice, which will enable us to bring our

ship to the bay for wintering! And, stop! I am not mistaken. There is

the ‘Jeune-Hardie,’ a mile nearer to us!”

All hurried forward, and so imprudently, that Turquiette slipped into a

fissure, and would have certainly perished, had not Jean Cornbutte

seized him by his hood. He got off with a rather cold bath.

The brig was indeed floating two miles away. After infinite trouble,

the little band reached her. She was in good condition; but her rudder,

which they had neglected to lift, had been broken by the ice.

CHAPTER VII.

SETTLING FOR THE WINTER.

Penellan was once more right; all was for the best, and this ice-quake

had opened a practicable channel for the ship to the bay. The sailors

had only to make skilful use of the currents to conduct her thither.

On the 19th of September the brig was at last moored in her bay for

wintering, two cables’ lengths from the shore, securely anchored on a

good bottom. The ice began the next day to form around her hull; it

soon became strong enough to bear a man’s weight, and they could

establish a communication with land.

The rigging, as is customary in arctic navigation, remained as it was;

the sails were carefully furled on the yards and covered with their

casings, and the “crow’s-nest” remained in place, as much to enable

them to make distant observations as to attract attention to the ship.

The sun now scarcely rose above the horizon. Since the June solstice,

the spirals which it had described descended lower and lower; and it

would soon disappear altogether.

The crew hastened to make the necessary preparations. Penellan

supervised the whole. The ice was soon thick around the ship, and it

was to be feared that its pressure might become dangerous; but Penellan

waited until, by reason of the going and coming of the floating

ice-masses and their adherence, it had reached a thickness of twenty

feet; he then had it cut around the hull, so that it united under the

ship, the form of which it assumed; thus enclosed in a mould, the brig

had no longer to fear the pressure of the ice, which could make no

movement.

The sailors then elevated along the wales, to the height of the

nettings, a snow wall five or six feet thick, which soon froze as hard

as a rock. This envelope did not allow the interior heat to escape

outside. A canvas tent, covered with skins and hermetically closed, was

stretched aver the whole length of the deck, and formed a sort of walk

for the sailors.

They also constructed on the ice a storehouse of snow, in which

articles which embarrassed the ship were stowed away. The partitions of

the cabins were taken down, so as to form a single vast apartment

forward, as well as aft. This single room, besides, was more easy to

warm, as the ice and damp found fewer corners in which to take refuge.

It was also less difficult to ventilate it, by means of canvas funnels

which opened without.

Each sailor exerted great energy in these preparations, and about the

25th of September they were completed. André Vasling had not shown

himself the least active in this task. He devoted himself with especial

zeal to the young girl’s comfort, and if she, absorbed in thoughts of

her poor Louis, did not perceive this, Jean Cornbutte did not fail soon

to remark it. He spoke of it to Penellan; he recalled several incidents

which completely enlightened him regarding his mate’s intentions; André

Vasling loved Marie, and reckoned on asking her uncle for her hand, as

soon as it was proved beyond doubt that the castaways were irrevocably

lost; they would return then to Dunkirk, and André Vasling would be

well satisfied to wed a rich and pretty girl, who would then be the

sole heiress of Jean Cornbutte.

But André, in his impatience, was often imprudent. He had several times

declared that the search for the castaways was useless, when some new

trace contradicted him, and enabled Penellan to exult over him. The

mate, therefore, cordially detested the helmsman, who returned his

dislike heartily. Penellan only feared that André might sow seeds of

dissension among the crew, and persuaded Jean Cornbutte to answer him

evasively on the first occasion.

When the preparations for the winter were completed, the captain took

measures to preserve the health of the crew. Every morning the men were

ordered to air their berths, and carefully clean the interior walls, to

get rid of the night’s dampness. They received boiling tea or coffee,

which are excellent cordials to use against the cold, morning and

evening; then they were divided into hunting-parties, who should

procure as much fresh nourishment as possible for every day.

Each one also took healthy exercise every day, so as not to expose

himself without motion to the cold; for in a temperature thirty degrees

below zero, some part of the body might suddenly become frozen. In such

cases friction of the snow was used, which alone could heal the

affected part.

Penellan also strongly advised cold ablutions every morning. It

required some courage to plunge the hands and face in the snow, which

had to be melted within. But Penellan bravely set the example, and

Marie was not the last to imitate him.

Jean Cornbutte did not forget to have readings and prayers, for it was

needful that the hearts of his comrades should not give way to despair

or weariness. Nothing is more dangerous in these desolate latitudes.

The sky, always gloomy, filled the soul with sadness. A thick snow,

lashed by violent winds, added to the horrors of their situation. The

sun would soon altogether disappear. Had the clouds not gathered in

masses above their heads, they might have enjoyed the moonlight, which

was about to become really their sun during the long polar night; but,

with the west winds, the snow did not cease to fall. Every morning it

was necessary to clear off the sides of the ship, and to cut a new

stairway in the ice to enable them to reach the ice-field. They easily

succeeded in doing this with snow-knives; the steps once cut, a little

water was thrown over them, and they at once hardened.

Penellan had a hole cut in the ice, not far from the ship. Every day

the new crust which formed over its top was broken, and the water which

was drawn thence, from a certain depth, was less cold than that at the

surface.

All these preparations occupied about three weeks. It was then time to

go forward with the search. The ship was imprisoned for six or seven

months, and only the next thaw could open a new route across the ice.

It was wise, then, to profit by this delay, and extend their

explorations northward.

CHAPTER VIII.

PLAN OF THE EXPLORATIONS.

On the 9th of October, Jean Cornbutte held a council to settle the plan

of his operations, to which, that there might be union, zeal, and

courage on the part of every one, he admitted the whole crew. Map in

hand, he clearly explained their situation.

[Illustration: Map in hand, he clearly explained their situation.]

The eastern coast of Greenland advances perpendicularly northward. The

discoveries of the navigators have given the exact boundaries of those

parts. In the extent of five hundred leagues, which separates Greenland

from Spitzbergen, no land has been found. An island (Shannon Island)

lay a hundred miles north of Gaël-Hamkes Bay, where the “Jeune-Hardie”

was wintering.

If the Norwegian schooner, as was most probable, had been driven in

this direction, supposing that she could not reach Shannon Island, it

was here that Louis Cornbutte and his comrades must have sought for a

winter asylum.

This opinion prevailed, despite André Vasling’s opposition; and it was

decided to direct the explorations on the side towards Shannon Island.

Arrangements for this were at once begun. A sledge like that used by

the Esquimaux had been procured on the Norwegian coast. This was

constructed of planks curved before and behind, and was made to slide

over the snow and ice. It was twelve feet long and four wide, and could

therefore carry provisions, if need were, for several weeks. Fidèle

Misonne soon put it in order, working upon it in the snow storehouse,

whither his tools had been carried. For the first time a coal-stove was

set up in this storehouse, without which all labour there would have

been impossible. The pipe was carried out through one of the lateral

walls, by a hole pierced in the snow; but a grave inconvenience

resulted from this,—for the heat of the stove, little by little, melted

the snow where it came in contact with it; and the opening visibly

increased. Jean Cornbutte contrived to surround this part of the pipe

with some metallic canvas, which is impermeable by heat. This succeeded

completely.

While Misonne was at work upon the sledge, Penellan, aided by Marie,

was preparing the clothing necessary for the expedition. Seal-skin

boots they had, fortunately, in plenty. Jean Cornbutte and André

Vasling occupied themselves with the provisions. They chose a small

barrel of spirits-of-wine for heating a portable chafing-dish; reserves

of coffee and tea in ample quantity were packed; a small box of

biscuits, two hundred pounds of pemmican, and some gourds of brandy

completed the stock of viands. The guns would bring down some fresh

game every day. A quantity of powder was divided between several bags;

the compass, sextant, and spy-glass were put carefully out of the way

of injury.

On the 11th of October the sun no longer appeared above the horizon.

They were obliged to keep a lighted lamp in the lodgings of the crew

all the time. There was no time to lose; the explorations must be

begun. For this reason: in the month of January it would become so cold

that it would be impossible to venture out without peril of life. For

two months at least the crew would be condemned to the most complete

imprisonment; then the thaw would begin, and continue till the time

when the ship should quit the ice. This thaw would, of course, prevent

any explorations. On the other hand, if Louis Cornbutte and his

comrades were still in existence, it was not probable that they would

be able to resist the severities of the arctic winter. They must

therefore be saved beforehand, or all hope would be lost. André Vasling

knew all this better than any one. He therefore resolved to put every

possible obstacle in the way of the expedition.

The preparations for the journey were completed about the 20th of

October. It remained to select the men who should compose the party.

The young girl could not be deprived of the protection of Jean

Cornbutte or of Penellan; neither of these could, on the other hand, be

spared from the expedition.

The question, then, was whether Marie could bear the fatigues of such a

journey. She had already passed through rough experiences without

seeming to suffer from them, for she was a sailor’s daughter, used from

infancy to the fatigues of the sea, and even Penellan was not dismayed

to see her struggling in the midst of this severe climate, against the

dangers of the polar seas.

It was decided, therefore, after a long discussion, that she should go

with them, and that a place should be reserved for her, at need, on the

sledge, on which a little wooden hut was constructed, closed in

hermetically. As for Marie, she was delighted, for she dreaded to be

left alone without her two protectors.

The expedition was thus formed: Marie, Jean Cornbutte, Penellan, André

Vasling, Aupic, and Fidèle Misonne were to go. Alaine Turquiette

remained in charge of the brig, and Gervique and Gradlin stayed behind

with him. New provisions of all kinds were carried; for Jean Cornbutte,

in order to carry the exploration as far as possible, had resolved to

establish depôts along the route, at each seven or eight days’ march.

When the sledge was ready it was at once fitted up, and covered with a

skin tent. The whole weighed some seven hundred pounds, which a pack of

five dogs might easily carry over the ice.

On the 22nd of October, as the captain had foretold, a sudden change

took place in the temperature. The sky cleared, the stars emitted an

extraordinary light, and the moon shone above the horizon, no longer to

leave the heavens for a fortnight. The thermometer descended to

twenty-five degrees below zero.

The departure was fixed for the following day.

CHAPTER IX.

THE HOUSE OF SNOW.

On the 23rd of October, at eleven in the morning, in a fine moonlight,

the caravan set out. Precautions were this time taken that the journey

might be a long one, if necessary. Jean Cornbutte followed the coast,

and ascended northward. The steps of the travellers made no impression

on the hard ice. Jean was forced to guide himself by points which he

selected at a distance; sometimes he fixed upon a hill bristling with

peaks; sometimes on a vast iceberg which pressure had raised above the

plain.

[Illustration: The caravan set out]

At the first halt, after going fifteen miles, Penellan prepared to

encamp. The tent was erected against an ice-block. Marie had not

suffered seriously with the extreme cold, for luckily the breeze had

subsided, and was much more bearable; but the young girl had several

times been obliged to descend from her sledge to avert numbness from

impeding the circulation of her blood. Otherwise, her little hut, hung

with skins, afforded her all the comfort possible under the

circumstances.

When night, or rather sleeping-time, came, the little hut was carried

under the tent, where it served as a bed-room for Marie. The evening

repast was composed of fresh meat, pemmican, and hot tea. Jean

Cornbutte, to avert danger of the scurvy, distributed to each of the

party a few drops of lemon-juice. Then all slept under God’s

protection.

After eight hours of repose, they got ready to resume their march. A

substantial breakfast was provided to the men and the dogs; then they

set out. The ice, exceedingly compact, enabled these animals to draw

the sledge easily. The party sometimes found it difficult to keep up

with them.

But the sailors soon began to suffer one discomfort—that of being

dazzled. Ophthalmia betrayed itself in Aupic and Misonne. The moon’s

light, striking on these vast white plains, burnt the eyesight, and

gave the eyes insupportable pain.

There was thus produced a very singular effect of refraction. As they

walked, when they thought they were about to put foot on a hillock,

they stepped down lower, which often occasioned falls, happily so

little serious that Penellan made them occasions for bantering. Still,

he told them never to take a step without sounding the ground with the

ferruled staff with which each was equipped.

About the 1st of November, ten days after they had set out, the caravan

had gone fifty leagues to the northward. Weariness pressed heavily on

all. Jean Cornbutte was painfully dazzled, and his sight sensibly

changed. Aupic and Misonne had to feel their way: for their eyes,

rimmed with red, seemed burnt by the white reflection. Marie had been

preserved from this misfortune by remaining within her hut, to which

she confined herself as much as possible. Penellan, sustained by an

indomitable courage, resisted all fatigue. But it was André Vasling who

bore himself best, and upon whom the cold and dazzling seemed to

produce no effect. His iron frame was equal to every hardship; and he

was secretly pleased to see the most robust of his companions becoming

discouraged, and already foresaw the moment when they would be forced

to retreat to the ship again.

On the 1st of November it became absolutely necessary to halt for a day

or two. As soon as the place for the encampment had been selected, they

proceeded to arrange it. It was determined to erect a house of snow,

which should be supported against one of the rocks of the promontory.

Misonne at once marked out the foundations, which measured fifteen feet

long by five wide. Penellan, Aupic, and Misonne, by aid of their

knives, cut out great blocks of ice, which they carried to the chosen

spot and set up, as masons would have built stone walls. The sides of

the foundation were soon raised to a height and thickness of about five

feet; for the materials were abundant, and the structure was intended

to be sufficiently solid to last several days. The four walls were

completed in eight hours; an opening had been left on the southern

side, and the canvas of the tent, placed on these four walls, fell over

the opening and sheltered it. It only remained to cover the whole with

large blocks, to form the roof of this temporary structure.

After three more hours of hard work, the house was done; and they all

went into it, overcome with weariness and discouragement. Jean

Cornbutte suffered so much that he could not walk, and André Vasling so

skilfully aggravated his gloomy feelings, that he forced from him a

promise not to pursue his search farther in those frightful solitudes.

Penellan did not know which saint to invoke. He thought it unworthy and

craven to give up his companions for reasons which had little weight,

and tried to upset them; but in vain.

Meanwhile, though it had been decided to return, rest had become so

necessary that for three days no preparations for departure were made.

On the 4th of November, Jean Cornbutte began to bury on a point of the

coast the provisions for which there was no use. A stake indicated the

place of the deposit, in the improbable event that new explorations

should be made in that direction. Every day since they had set out

similar deposits had been made, so that they were assured of ample

sustenance on the return, without the trouble of carrying them on the

sledge.

The departure was fixed for ten in the morning, on the 5th. The most

profound sadness filled the little band. Marie with difficulty

restrained her tears, when she saw her uncle so completely discouraged.

So many useless sufferings! so much labour lost! Penellan himself

became ferocious in his ill-humour; he consigned everybody to the

nether regions, and did not cease to wax angry at the weakness and

cowardice of his comrades, who were more timid and tired, he said, than

Marie, who would have gone to the end of the world without complaint.

André Vasling could not disguise the pleasure which this decision gave

him. He showed himself more attentive than ever to the young girl, to

whom he even held out hopes that a new search should be made when the

winter was over; knowing well that it would then be too late!

CHAPTER X.

BURIED ALIVE.

The evening before the departure, just as they were about to take

supper, Penellan was breaking up some empty casks for firewood, when he

was suddenly suffocated by a thick smoke. At the same instant the

snow-house was shaken as if by an earthquake. The party uttered a cry

of terror, and Penellan hurried outside.

It was entirely dark. A frightful tempest—for it was not a thaw—was

raging, whirlwinds of snow careered around, and it was so exceedingly

cold that the helmsman felt his hands rapidly freezing. He was obliged

to go in again, after rubbing himself violently with snow.

“It is a tempest,” said he. “May heaven grant that our house may

withstand it, for, if the storm should destroy it, we should be lost!”

At the same time with the gusts of wind a noise was heard beneath the

frozen soil; icebergs, broken from the promontory, dashed away noisily,

and fell upon one another; the wind blew with such violence that it

seemed sometimes as if the whole house moved from its foundation;

phosphorescent lights, inexplicable in that latitude, flashed across

the whirlwinds of the snow.

“Marie! Marie!” cried Penellan, seizing the young girl’s hands.

“We are in a bad case!” said Misonne.

“And I know not whether we shall escape,” replied Aupic.

“Let us quit this snow-house!” said André Vasling.

“Impossible!” returned Penellan. “The cold outside is terrible; perhaps

we can bear it by staying here.”

“Give me the thermometer,” demanded Vasling.

Aupic handed it to him. It showed ten degrees below zero inside the

house, though the fire was lighted. Vasling raised the canvas which

covered the opening, and pushed it aside hastily; for he would have

been lacerated by the fall of ice which the wind hurled around, and

which fell in a perfect hail-storm.

“Well, Vasling,” said Penellan, “will you go out, then? You see that we

are more safe here.”