With some old tea leaves and two quarts of grain alcohol as their
entire food supply, the thirteen survivors gloomily resumed their
southward trek on October 7th. The snow was deep and still falling;
the weakened men ploughed through it to their waists. A little alcohol
mixed in water constituted dinner; a little more of the same was served
out for supper and night found them camping in the snow.
October 8th, underway again over thin ice, De Long sought a trail over
the wandering streams and through the multitude of islands where the
spreading Lena flattened out over the low delta lands and its surface
waters, churning in swirling eddies, were not yet completely frozen
over. More and more frequently the faltering men paused to rest; De
Long particularly, whose freezing immersion of a few days before had
sadly damaged his feet, was in worse condition than anyone save Lee,
whose weakening hips continually gave way, plunging him drunkenly into
the drifts every other step. Badly strung out, the line of starving
seamen staggered along with their captain in the rear, constantly
refusing the offers of his men to relieve him of the load he carried
and thus ease the way for him. When finally they halted for the night,
shelterless on the bleak and open tundra, his hungry men had once
again to be content with nothing more substantial to fill the aching
voids in their stomachs than hot water and half an ounce of alcohol.
De Long, watching them drop feebly in their tracks in the snow with Ku
Mark Surk still (as he thought) over twelve miles away, concluded sadly
that they could never all cover that last stretch alive. Without the
slightest chance now of getting food in the deserted delta, they would
soon in their weakened condition use up the last dregs of their fading
vitality and quickly freeze to death in their tracks. His only hope lay
in sending a few stronger men ahead for help, while in some shelter,
if they could find it now, the rest of them, fighting off starvation,
conserved their little remaining strength and awaited rescue. With that
resolve, he beckoned Nindemann to his side in the snow.
“Nindemann,” said the captain earnestly, “I’m sending you ahead
tomorrow to get through to Ku Mark Surk for aid. It should be only
twelve miles south now. You ought to do it in three days, maybe four at
the most, and get back in four more. Meanwhile, we’ll follow in your
trail. I’ll give you one of our two rifles, your share of the alcohol
for food, and you can take any man in the party with you except Alexey
to help you out. Alexey we must keep as a hunter. Who do you want?”
The quartermaster thought a moment, then answered,
“I’ll take Noros, captain.”
“Isn’t Iversen better?” asked De Long anxiously. “I think he’s
stronger.”
“No,” replied Nindemann, “he’s been complaining of his feet three days
now.”
“That’s right, captain,” broke in Dr. Ambler who was alongside the
skipper. “Noros is best.”
“All right; Noros then. Be ready, both of you in the morning.” Stiffly
De Long stretched himself out before the tiny camp fire crackling
feebly in the snow.
Morning found thirteen somber seamen looking anxiously off over the
frozen tangle of rivers and of islands to the south. Somewhere there
beyond that terrible delta land lay Ku Mark Surk and life, but all
about them was only the vast snow-crusted tundra, an Arctic waste of
wintry desolation and the promise of slow death. Solemnly De Long
shook Nindemann’s hand.
“You’ll do all a man can do to get us help, I know, Nindemann,” he
said. “God keep you safe and bring you soon again to us.”
“I ain’t got much hope of finding help, captain,” responded the
quartermaster gloomily. “It’s farther maybe to Ku Mark Surk than you
think.”
“Well, do the best you can. If you find assistance, come back to us
as quickly as possible. God knows we need it here! If you don’t—” The
captain’s voice broke at that implication, he paused a moment, then
concluded huskily, “Why then you’re still as well off as we; you see
the condition we are in.” He turned to Nindemann’s companion, standing
in the snow beside him,
“Noros, are you ready?”
“Yes, captain.”
De Long looked them over. They carried nothing but one rifle, forty
cartridges, and a small rubber bag with three ounces of alcohol, their
share of the party’s sole remaining substitute for food. Their clothes
were ragged, their sealskin trousers bare of fur, their boots full of
holes. The captain’s eyes lingered on the toes protruding from the
remnants of their footgear.
“Don’t wade in the river, men. Keep on the banks,” he finished gently.
There was a bustling in the little knot of men surrounding them, and
Collins suddenly pushed through to confront De Long.
“I’m the _New York Herald_ correspondent with this expedition,” he said
bruskly. “As James Gordon Bennett’s representative, I demand the right
to go with these men!”
De Long, surprised at the interruption, flushed slightly, then answered
evenly,
“Mr. Collins, we’ll settle that question with Mr. Bennett in New York.
At present, getting you or anybody through as a newspaper correspondent
interests me very little. And in any other capacity, just now you’re
only a hindrance to this expedition; you’re much too weak to keep up
with Nindemann. You wouldn’t last five miles!” and turning his back on
Collins, he gripped Noros’ hand, shook it warmly, and repeated,
“Remember, Noros. Keep out of the water! That’s all. Shove off now,
men!”
Bending forward against the wind, Noros and Nindemann staggered away
toward the south, the last forlorn hope of the eleven emaciated
castaways standing in the frozen drifts behind them, cheering them as
they vanished in the blinding snow.