Part 11

He was seated in the stern, and must have suited the action to the word, for I felt the bow, where I was, rise, and looking back saw Gale holding on for dear life to keep from spilling out behind. He did not look contented, and evidently had changed his mind about a through ticket. Like Uncle Laxart, he was willing to wait for the next balloon, or to walk, or to go in any way that was quieter. Ferratoni and Sturritt were also sawing at the side ropes, and I quickly got my knife ready to sever the single rope at the bow last. Mr. Sturritt succeeded in getting the ropes on his side cut off first, and for some moments our boat, or rather our sled, for it was that now, was pitching or rolling through the drifts on side or bottom, just as it happened. Then we seemed to right, and I guessed, though I could not see, that Ferratoni had in some manner got his ropes cut away. Our sled was being pulled now by its single cord up hill and down dale, helter-skelter, lickety-split, bounding, leaping, plunging, and courting destruction. From out of the madness of it all came Gale’s voice.

“Here we come! Head us, somebody! Dern our fool souls, we’re runnin’ away!” And a second later, “Cut her, Nick, cut her! I can’t stick on any longer!”

I had been holding the edge of my knife to the rope, hesitating to cut, for the reason that we appeared to have slowed down somewhat, and were yet making such excellent time. Now, with a slash, we were free.

There was a sudden halting, a plunge, a wild medley of legs and arms and ropes and Antarctic snow, and over all a tightly fitting cover, and blackness.

The cover was the overturned boat. The blackness, the inside of it, where I was. I was half stunned at first, however, and did not realize just what had occurred. Then I heard Gale’s voice outside.

“Ring up the curtain, and let’s see what’s left.”

I braced my back against whatever was above me and it rose. Then the light came under, and I saw Gale. Together we pushed and pulled up the boat and righted it. Under the boat with me had fallen both Mr. Sturritt and Ferratoni. The latter was gasping and getting his wind. The former was white and senseless, but opened his eyes almost immediately, and sat up. Gale, who had rolled out behind into a comfortable drift, was quite merry.

“Look yonder,” he laughed.

I looked to the south and upward, as he pointed, and saw a dark spot against the sky. It was the bag of the Cloudcrest.

“If you get there before we do,” sang Gale.

“Chauncey Gale,” I said, “if every exploring party had a man like you along there would be no such thing as failure.”

“I think we’d better talk a little to Johnnie if the telephone’s working,” he said. “She may think we’ve gone to sleep.”

We found the apparatus buried in the snow, but apparently uninjured. The little bell on it rang as soon as the snow was poked away.

“Hello,” called Gale, “that you, Johnnie? Matter? With us? Why, nothing. We’ve been busy, that’s all.—No, not quite so loud as it was.—Yes. Bell didn’t ring, maybe.—Noise you heard? Oh, slacking down the propeller I guess. Or maybe Nick singing. We’ve camped for the night.—No. Nick thought it best now we’ve got where it’s warm. Didn’t know what we might get into, you know.—Yes, bully!—Yes, had to let out some gas. We’ll have to throw out ballast of course in the morning.—Good place? Oh, yes,—nice and clean.—No, not _too_ warm.—No, no trees yet.—Oh, why—we—we hitched it to—that is—we tied it to—to”—Gale slipped his hand over the transmitter and turned to me helplessly. “Nick, what under heavens did we hitch the balloon to, for the night? Tell me quick!”

“A—a peculiar petrified formation,” I said hastily. “Might have been a tree, at one time, you know.”

“Nick says it’s a petrified tree.—Yes, only a few of ’em left.—No. Tell Biff to hold the fort.—Yes, we must camp, now. Good-by!” He turned to me again. “Nick,” he said, “that was a good petrified lie of yours, and it worked in bully. No use to worry the little girl,” he added, “she’ll think about us enough, anyway.”

We prepared for the night. There was still a feeble sun in the west, and we made haste to get into comfortable quarters before it left us. I had learned something of navigation on the vessel, and securing an angle I calculated that we had made somewhat more than one hundred and sixty miles during the five hours of aerial travel. We were convinced now that the snow surface sloped to the southward. Our horizon showed this when we ascended to the top of the highest drifts, and the temperature also indicated our approach to a warmer zone. That the frozen crust was getting thinner we had no doubt, but the end of it seemed yet far distant, and the temperature about us was by no means of a sort to suggest a summer wardrobe.

The mechanical skill of Chauncey Gale now became manifest. Inverting our boat once more, there appeared folded legs which when pulled down formed short uprights. Also, there was a canvas that dropped around these, and made a continuous wall, with a flap door in front. On the snow floor inside we spread our furs, and at the opening there was presently a little electric stove going, on which Mr. Sturritt was busily melting snow and preparing tea. This with some sandwiches and a generous round of lozenges formed our evening meal. We ate it, reclining on our furs, and were really quite cozy and comfortable. I had a presentiment that I could not adopt Mr. Sturritt’s condensed food as a continuous diet. It would have been treason, however, to say so at this stage. Gale was very delicate in the matter.

“What’s a picnic without peanuts!” he said, as he lit a cigar, and lay back in the darkness. “And, by the way, Bill, how many of those sandwiches have we got?”

“Why, I think plenty for—er—to-morrow—that is—at the present rate of consumption.”

“Um—well, maybe we’d better begin tapering to-morrow then. One a meal, instead of two. We don’t want to break in on tablets too suddenly, you know.”

We crept into our sleeping bags—Gale and I together. We heard the clatter of fine drifting snow on our roof and canvas wall. We were not cold, and drowsiness presently came stealing over me—the reaction after all the excitement of the day.

Then out of the darkness came the face of Edith Gale. We were far apart for the first time in a year. Long, desolate, frozen miles lay between us. To-morrow night the distance would be still greater. She did not know our plight—of that I was glad. Yet, in the end, it might be no worse than hers. The Billowcrest might never escape from her ice-locked harbor. And it was I who had brought all of this to pass. We were both isolated in this great frozen world, and all through a mad dream of my boyhood. I had an inclination to toss on my pillow, but the limits of the sleeping-bag did not permit this luxury. From out of the darkness at the other end of the boat came the voice of Ferratoni.

“It will avail nothing to disturb yourself,” he said gently, “and a good-night word would be comforting.”

I had forgotten the telephone. I reached out an arm for it now, and touched the call button. Almost immediately it answered, and then came Edith’s voice.

“Hello! Who is it?”

“It’s me—we’re just going to sleep and want to say good night.”

“Are you really warm and nice? And is Daddy comfortable?”

“Yes, he’s asleep, I think.”

“No, he isn’t,” said Gale. “Give me that phone a minute.”

“Hi, Johnnie, that you?—Yes. You better go, too.—Can’t sleep? Why?—Oh, pshaw! we’re snug as a bug. Go on, now. Say your prayers over twice, and get Zar to sing ‘Brown Cows’ to you! Good night!”

He handed me the transmitter.

“Good night,” I said.

“Good night, dear,” she called, “and God bless you!”

A sweet peace and comfort came upon me.

“Ferratoni,” I said, “you deserve a crown!” But he did not answer.

Drowsiness once more came down like a soft curtain. Then the sleepy voice of Gale:

“Bill!”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did it happen, when you cut the rope to-day and the balloon shot up, that your weight didn’t jerk us all out? I didn’t feel any jerk.”

“No, sir—I—I—had grabbed—that is—seized hold quite firmly of the bit of rope above, sir.”

There was another silence, and then I half-heard, mingled with a dream that was just beginning, the far-off sleepy voice of Gale, whispering,

“Bully old Bill!”

XXIV. THE GREAT WHITE WAY.

Sept. 21. All day we have been pushing our boat-sleigh, and to-night we are between fifteen and twenty miles farther south than last. We made fairly good progress in spite of the drifts, because of the general down-slope, which in some places was such that we got into our boat and the wind carried us along. Gale and Ferratoni are fixing up a sail to use to-morrow. It will be rigged between two of the uprights, forward. The wings of our propeller were smashed in the fall. We are all very tired to-night, and very hungry, for our light ration of sandwiches does not go far, and the food lozenges become unpleasant when eaten in any quantity. Mr. Sturritt explains that we do not quite follow instructions, but I noticed this evening a very sad look on his face, so perhaps he is experiencing some difficulty with them himself, as a steady diet, for he still persistently declines the sandwiches. I hope we shall reach somewhere or something to-morrow. Otherwise we shall be in very bad straits in the matter of food. Fortunately we have plenty of tea and coffee. The air has grown warmer, and a soft snow is falling. It is what we would call good winter weather in northern Nebraska.

Sept. 22. Another day of pushing and sailing our boat-sledge. The sail is a success, and a great help. We have made good time, but there is no sign of dry land yet, and our last sandwiches are gone. To-morrow it will be tablets or nothing. We have not confessed it to each other, but I think it will be _nothing_. Even Mr. Sturritt looks wretched when it comes mealtime. He steadily refuses the sandwiches, however.

It is clear and cold to-night, but it was much warmer through the day than yesterday. We are almost too warm, in fact, when we are pushing the boat. Gale never loses heart. He keeps up the deception with Edith, though this is not so easy as it would seem. He told her to-day that we were “laying up,” because of adverse winds. Her voice in the telephone seems weaker than it was, perhaps because of our reaching a lower level, and the increasing distance. Like the Marconi system, this may require that one end of the circuit should be much higher than the other in order to get the best results. Ferratoni thinks the jar of our fall may have affected the instrument, too. I hope and pray that it will not fail us altogether, for the voices from the ship are our greatest comfort. Last night, just as I was dozing off I heard my name called gently.

“Nicholas!”

It was Edith’s voice, and close to my ear. I answered softly, for the others were already sleeping. Then she said:

“Nicholas, Zar is going to sing to me, don’t you want to hear, too?”

“Oh, yes, I should love to.”

There came a mumble of protest in the receiver. Evidently Zar did not altogether approve of singing us both to sleep at once, even though so many frozen miles lay between. Then this ceased, and a moment later, vibrating across the wastes in a rich, crooning chant, came her song of the “Old Brown Cows.”[2]

Footnote 2:

Words and Music, Copyright, 1901, by the Author.

“Dark come down an’ dey ain’ come home— Dark come down an’ dey ain’ come home— Dark come down an’ dey ain’ come home- Ole brown cows. Ole brown cows— Straying away from de mastah’s gate, Ole brown cows.

“Look way down to to de pastur’ lot— Call way down th’ough the clovah fiel’— Hunt way down by de cattle pon’ Foh ole brown cows. Ole brown cows— Call ’em home to de mastah’s gate, Ole brown cows.

“What dat tinkle-in’ th’ough de wood? What dat browserin’ ’long de haidge? What dat shuffle-in’ down de lane? Ole brown cows. Ole brown cows— All come home to de mastah’s gate— Ole brown cows.”

Sept. 23. The wind keeps with us, and whenever we find a decently smooth place we can sail. Otherwise, we should make little progress, for we are too weak from weariness and lack of food to do much at pushing the boat. We kept up to-day on coffee and tea. We can’t eat any more tablets, and Mr. Sturritt, who forced down a number of them, had something like nervous spasms afterwards. To-night, when he stopped for camp, he sat down and cried. Gale comforted him.

“Poor Bill,” he said “poor old Bill. _Don’t_ break down. We’ll get out of this mess some way. We always have, you know.”

“It isn’t that,” moaned Sturritt, “I’m not afraid. It’s the tab—that is—the lozenges. They’ve failed me. I—I can’t eat ’em, myself!”

Sept. 24. Strange what will come out of this white desolation. Last night, after the others were asleep, Ferratoni and I talked softly of evolution and immortality. He believes in transmigration, and that the horse is the next step before man. I was barely awake at last, and closed my eyes to a vision of four jaded horses that were dragging a heavy boat across the sun-bright snow.

Sept. 25. This morning a white bird—the first life we have seen—lighted near our camp, and Gale shot it with his revolver. It was a fine shot, for the bird was not large—barely a good bite apiece. It revived us more than would seem possible, and encouraged us in the belief that we are nearing bare ground. We pushed on to the south, though very slowly. We have made no more than twenty miles in the past three days. Other birds passed, but neither Gale nor the rest of us could hit them. We were soon wretchedly hungry again, and desperate.

About noon Gale was taken quite unexpectedly with a religious turn, and offered a prayer. It seemed fervent enough, but on the whole I did not think much of it. He said:

“Oh, Lord, we seem to have run the lines of this addition wrong. We’ve made a poor survey and we can’t find any corner-stones. There’s no use trying to get back to the ship, and we don’t seem to be able to get anywhere else. We’re hungry, Lord, too, and we can’t eat any more of Bill’s tablets. He can’t eat ’em himself. I’ve tried to shoot birds, but I only hit one, and I think that was an accident. I’ve shot and shot and used up about all my ammunition. I can’t hit a thing, Lord, and the other boys shoot worse than I do. It’s your turn now, Lord. Amen.”

It may be that this prayer did some good, for in the afternoon a whole flock of birds lit near us, and Gale threw his revolver among them, killing two. We feel sure these birds indicate bare earth not far away. But we must reach it soon. Gale is, as ever, full of cheer. Ferratoni does not seem to flag, while I am buoyed up by hope, and still have, though it comes each day more faintly, the voice of the woman I love, to give me strength and courage. But poor old Sturritt, who is heart-broken over the failure of his food lozenge, won’t last long as things are. I gave him my part of the last birds to-day. I divided them, so he didn’t know the difference.

XXV. WHERE THE WAY ENDS.

But now came a great day.

It began with a discovery. My pockets had been full of lozenges which I could not eat, and I had emptied them out on the snow. It seems, however, that I had left two in my coat pocket—a white one and a brown one. I had such a gnawing hunger after we started that when I felt these there, I put them both in my mouth together, thinking to hold them a moment and then take them out before they sickened me.

But, strangely enough, they did not do so. As they dissolved I swallowed them, and when they were gone I felt strengthened. Then I asked Mr. Sturritt if he had ever tried this particular combination. He shook his head sadly and said no, but that it was no use. I then told him what I had done, and he made the experiment. Presently we were all consuming brown and white lozenges, and satisfying what the advertisements refer to as a “long-felt want.” Mr. Sturritt was almost mad with delight. He grew ten years younger in as many minutes, and capered about in the snow until he caught his foot in one of the runners and fell head-first into a drift. Then we all laughed, and got hold of the boat and sent it ahead faster than it had gone since we landed. The brown was the medicated lozenge, intended for extreme cold and exhaustion. Combined with the white soup lozenge, it formed an acceptable nourishment, and we had an ample store of both colors.

The next event of the day came about eleven o’clock. Gale, who was looking ahead, stopped suddenly.

“Hey! Black snow on the port bow!” he called.

We all looked where he pointed. Then I gave a whoop.

“Not snow!” I cried, “but land!”

We ran forward like boys. No, it was not land, after all, but the next thing to it—a great black expanse of bare, wind-swept rock! We could not tell, of course, how high it rose above the normal surface, but we did not believe it could be many feet. Looking ahead with the glass we saw many other black patches, stretching away and blending together, as it seemed, on the horizon. We made all haste forward, and when we stopped for our noon rest I made a calculation of our position. We were not quite to the eighty-third parallel, and a little more than two hundred miles from the Billowcrest. I had calculated that the habitable zone would begin here, but it appeared that I had been in error. The cold from the sea reached farther inland than I had supposed. Still, I reflected, this place might be altogether clear of snow a month later, and only uninhabitable because of barrenness.

Immediately after our coffee we pushed on again. All at once I made out what seemed to be the opening, or chasm, among the bare patches to the right. Leaving the others, I ran over to investigate and came back shouting and breathless.

“A river! a river!” I called, “and smooth ice. We can sail on it!”

We steered our boat-sled over there as rapidly as possible. It was difficult getting down to the surface, some forty feet below, but we managed it at last. Then we stopped for breath and observation.

“I’ll bet this is _our_ river,” said Gale, “and that we haven’t been more than a mile from it since we started.”

“No doubt of it,” I said, “and we even may have been on top of it part of the time. Of course it’s filled level full of snow somewhere below here, and we shouldn’t have known the difference. It is a channel that cuts through and carries the melting snow to the sea. If it didn’t the center of the Antarctic Continent would be a big circular pond. There may be many of these rivers.”

“Well, one is enough for us, just now,” said Gale. Then he promptly confessed to Edith that we had “abandoned” our balloon bag, owing to “adverse winds,” but that we didn’t care, for we had reached a river and “good sailing.” She didn’t appear to notice any discrepancy in this statement, and we decided that it would be unsafe to attempt to mend it. The “good sailing,” at least, was true, for the wind continued favorable, and we were presently going up-stream at a fair rate of speed. Gale leaned back and lit a cigar.

“This beats pushing,” he said. “Good boat, good crowd, good cigar. What is joy without a jews-harp!”

By nightfall—it fell much later now—the snowbanks on either side were no more than ten feet high on a level, and when we stopped for camp we found the country above almost more black than white—the bare rocks showing in masses in all directions.

We rejoiced greatly, and fondly hoped to be out of the snow altogether by the following evening, though I was a bit uneasy about the rock. If the Antarctic Continent proved to be nothing but barren granite it would be of as little value as if it were a waste of snow. Still, a circle of nearly a thousand miles in diameter could hardly be the same throughout.

Our failing telephone, however, was a real sorrow. Though still distinct, the voices were very faint, now. Unless Ferratoni could do something, it would fail us altogether, soon. He believed its condition due mainly to our lower altitude, and the vast obstruction that was now lying between us and the Billowcrest. But it had been a great comfort to us all through our hardest hours, and I would be content. The mental vibrations from the vessel, Ferratoni said, were similarly affected, and much confused.

Another day of discovery followed. The wind and weather being too good to waste, by five o’clock we were on our way up the river. The snow crust thinned out rapidly, until, by ten o’clock, there was no more than a foot on the banks above, and we were sailing between shores of genuine stone and clay, the first soil we had seen for a year. Flocks of birds became plentiful, and at one place we saw some strange, brown animals, about the size and shape of rabbits, but with very long hind legs and with a method of locomotion similar to that of a frog. Gale named them “Skipteroons” because of their lightsome mode of travel, and shot at them, without success.

The temperature was barely freezing, now, and we were altogether happy. So much so that we confessed to Edith all the affair of the balloon, and our subsequent difficulties. She was less surprised than we had expected. She had suspected, it seems, that all was not so well as we had pretended, and of course our statements _had_ been a trifle contradictory at times. But she rejoiced now in the reality of good fortune that had come to us, the genuineness of which could not be mistaken, even through our fast failing telephone.

Several times we halted and climbed up on the shore to look at the country for possible inhabitants, but there was as yet no human sign, though much bird life, and some more of the funny half-rabbit creatures, one of which Gale succeeded in killing at last, a welcome addition to our bill-of-fare. All at once, about four o’clock, Ferratoni held out his hand. “Listen!” he said.

We listened very hard, and thought we heard a roaring sound ahead, but as the wind was blowing in that direction, we could not be sure. It grew stronger, however, as we ascended, and was steady and continuous. We decided that it was a fall, and not far away. Hardly had we made this conclusion when there was a cracking sound beneath us, followed by a crash of ice and a splash of water, and our boat-sleigh was no longer a sleigh at all, but a genuine boat, battling with a strong current and broken ice. Our momentum had sent us ahead a few feet, but our sail was too small to stem the current and we were drifting back to the jagged ice. This time it was Ferratoni who saved the situation. He had foreseen just such an emergency and had at hand the little propeller wheel for water. With a quick movement, now, he plunged it beneath the surface at the stern, and deftly slipping and locking it into place, pressed the button of the dynamo. We were off, like a trolley car. The thin ice ahead parted before our sharp bow, and in a few moments we were in open water, heading up-stream under both electricity and sail.

“Like gettin’ money from home,” said Gale. “Look here, Nick, where would your boat scheme have been, anyway, without Tony and me to help you out?”

Certainly the propeller was a success, and I approved it heartily.