Part 16

I lay in the bow, which still lacked a few inches of touching the ice above. I had my eyes lifted as high as possible, looking ahead. The world weight of ice was coming down—down—the world of water rising, and steadily rising from below. Between, the space was narrowing from feet to inches, and the line of meeting seemed just ahead. Once I thought I saw there a tiny spark that was not of our own light. Then it disappeared, came again, disappeared—I could not look. I felt already that I was being crushed, smothered, drowned.

The ice above brushed against my hair. I lowered my head quickly until like the others I lay full length in the bottom of the boat.

“Gale—Sturritt,” I groaned, “forgive me! I got you into all this.”

Chauncey Gale’s smothered voice was first to answer.

“Not a word, Nick! We went into the game with our eyes open. Besides, this deal is mine.”

And from Mr. Sturritt:

“It’s—it’s all right. I—I’m with the Admiral!”

And now the bow was touching and sliding on the ice above. It was several inches higher than the stern, but presently that touched also. We were being pressed slowly, surely downward. I don’t know what the others were doing, but I was praying, hard.

Lower, and still lower. Water splashed cold against my face, and choked the good-by I was about to utter. Then came another splash, and another—then a great cold stream, and then——

A sharp grating above—a roaring of waters all about—a lifting—a tossing—and a burst of something that brought me suddenly upright to God’s daylight, and the fresh salt air of Bottle Bay!

Behind us, the rising tide was roaring into the opening of the tunnel, that was now open and now closed by the billows. Our boat was more than half filled with water and we were choking and gasping, but above us was blue sky, and before us, not two hundred yards away, our stanch, our noble, our beautiful Billowcrest. Somebody was on deck. Somebody with a peaked fur hood—somebody who gave a great shout that brought others from everywhere. And a moment later we were on board—welcomed by those who loved us!

“Biff,” said Gale, as he greeted him, “have you got up steam?”

“A little, and I can get up a good deal more in five minutes.”

“Well, get her up, and let’s pull out of here, quick!”

Then turning to me:

“Come, Nick, break away there, and let’s get these wet clothes off while Johnnie’s looking after something extra for dinner. I told you we’d get here in time.”

XXXVIII. STORM AND STRESS.

Upon our voyage to the north I shall not dwell. I have neither the time nor the willingness to do so. The memory of those days is weird and depressing. I would cover with all speed the place they occupy in this history.

From Bottle Bay we followed the great salt current eastward, as we did not believe it possible to work northward against it. For two days all went well, and we found happiness in our reunion and homeward progress. Then all the joyless misery of Antarctic lands and seas seemed to gather and shut us in.

For five weeks through this blinding fog, crashing ice, and imminent, sleep-destroying peril we crept, and toiled, and struggled, and battled our way toward open water. For days we did not remove our clothing to rest, but lay down ready for instant action, whether to save or desert the ship.

Depression seized upon us all. Edith Gale was ill much of the time and lost her appreciation of the beauties of nature. Even Gale himself found it hard to create cheer through this grim period. During moments of comparative calm he wandered about with his hands in his pockets, trying to whistle, but it was a dismal tune.

As for myself, I despaired utterly. More than ever I realized what I had done in bringing those who had trusted me into so dire a plight. And for what? To prove a theory that was worth nothing to them or to me, after all was told. To seek out a practically inaccessible land, and what now seemed to me a paltry, indolent race that added nothing to the world’s store of wealth or progress—to pay for it with our lives. I had promised a new world, perhaps wealth beyond our wildest dreams. I had found, instead, a land of dreams only, and of shadows. I had brought us all, at last, face to face with privation, suffering—death. Even should we eventually reach home, it seemed to me that I, still a penniless adventurer, could not presume to claim the hand of Edith Gale. Truly I was in the depths.

Whether we kept with the current, or what part it played in our struggles, we could not tell, but we reached at last the easier seas below Cape Horn, and here we were met by what seemed to us the King of All Storms, determined at last to destroy us for having penetrated the depths of his domain.

We were off the South Shetlands again, somewhere near the spot where, twenty years before, my uncle’s vessel had been last seen battling with a mighty tempest, and was supposed to have gone down. I reflected vaguely that it must have been another just such as this, and that it was a curious fate that had brought me with those I loved to find a grave in the same unfriendly waters.

There were nights, now, and the black sea and sky made this one a memory that divides as with a sable curtain all that went before it from all that followed after.

Once there came a heavy jar as our keel struck and grated over some hidden reef. We had no means of knowing where we were, and even had we known, the knowledge would have availed us little in these uncharted seas.

Suddenly, in the electric glow of our searchlight, there rose straight before us a black wall that was not the penetrable night. A great wave just then lifted us and bore us forward. An instant later there came a jar that threw us from our feet, and then the stanch old Billowcrest no longer tossed and pitched and battled, but lay rocking helplessly, as though wounded to the life.

There came first a quick order to lower the boats. Then another to hold them in readiness, but not to launch until the vessel gave signs of breaking up. It was better to remain where we were, as long as we could—to wait for daylight, if possible. Examined below, the Billowcrest showed as yet no opening, and seemed to be lying easily.

Morning dawned at last on a gray, desolate shore, with a sea as gray and desolate, between. But the King of Storms, satisfied, perhaps, that he had stranded us on a desert island, had gone his way.

Chauncey Gale came on deck presently with Edith, still pale and ill, but more animated than she had been for days. With Captain Biffer I had come out early to view the shore.

“Well, Biff,” greeted Gale, “you seem to have got us anchored some place at last. Don’t look much like the last place we stopped, but I s’pose it’s all in a day’s work. What do you call it?”

“One of the South Shetlands, I should say. I don’t know which.”

“How’s the ship? Any holes in her yet?”

“No, and she ain’t grinding any that I can hear. But she’s aground good and hard. She seems to be on a flat surface—mebbe sand. The sea’s running down, too, and I shouldn’t wonder if we were left high and dry before long.”

“Oh, can’t we go ashore?” asked Edith Gale, eagerly.

Poor girl, it was the first real land she had seen for more than a year, and even this cheerless coast seemed inviting.

Captain Biffer nodded grimly.

“We’ll have plenty of time to do that, ma’am,” he said, “before we get out of here, I’m thinking.”

“Oh, Nicholas, will you take me right away? I do so want to set foot on solid ground again.”

“We will go as soon as the Captain will let us,” I said, “and give us somebody to take us over.”

The sea continued to run down, and during the forenoon the Billowcrest listed, though far less than if she had been a deeper vessel. The weather cleared just before luncheon, and soon afterwards Chauncey and Edith Gale, with Officer Larkins and myself, and a small crew, made ready to set out in the launch for investigation. At the last moment, we heard somebody come puffing up the companion-way, and Zar, fully arrayed for the trip, stood before us.

“Look heah, I wan’ you take me in dat boat! I jes’ wan’ to set dis old foot on solidificated groun’ once more befo’ I die. I mighty tiahd dis ole ship dat toss, an’ tip, an’ spread-eagle, and doubleshuffle, an’ keep hit up foh six weeks at a stretch, an’ now tip ovah like a side-hill, so a’ old, fat ’ooman like me cain’t fin’ her balance, nohow. I wan’ go long, I tell you.”

So Zar accompanied us, and we landed presently at a shelving beach, where we were greeted by some noisy birds, and a few small hair-seals, who slipped into the water as we approached. Leaving the crew we made our way between barren hills to the country beyond.

The sun had come out, now, and being midsummer it seemed warm and genial, especially to those who had seen no other land for so long.

“Not much like our violet reception in the Antarctics, eh, Nick?” said Gale.

“Oh, but it’s land! land!” breathed Edith “Warm, solid land! Aren’t we glad to see it, Zar?” and it seemed to me that she grew well as I watched her.

“Yes, _ma’am_! We is _dat_! Hit’s a mighty po’ country, I spec’, but hit seem to me right now as fine an’ proliferous as ole Vaginny!”

Even Mr. Larkins seemed to joy in the land feeling, and said that it reminded him of places in Newfoundland, where as a boy he had found the bake-apple. He believed we could find it here, if we looked about a little.

We pushed our way inland, and farther down the coast. There was a sparse moss vegetation here and there, and on one sunny bank we found a considerable bed of this growth. Edith Gale dropped down upon it luxuriously, and the rest of us followed her example.

“Oh, how beautiful!” she cried, “and how I loathe the ship! It seems to me that I could stay here forever!”

Zar grunted approvingly, but Gale said:

“I’d be glad enough to hurry back to the old Billowcrest if she was only afloat. We’ll get tired enough of this, I’m thinking, before that happens.”

I made no comment on this, but called attention to a ledge of rocks just beyond.

“Looks as if somebody had been hammering on it,” I said. “I suppose nobody lives on these islands.”

“Not a soul crreature,” declared Mr. Larkins. “Forthy year ago they used to come here for the furr-seals, but they got the last of ’em in a shmall bit of a time. No pay in comin’ for the little hair fellies. ’Tis said they’s gold here, too, but I’ve never met the man that saw the color of it.”

We rose and walked on. We had grown a bit chilly, sitting, and would presently return to the vessel. All at once, Edith Gale stopped and held up her hand.

“Wait—listen!” she commanded.

Borne to us on a light breeze from the south, came the sound of a voice singing.

We looked at each other startled. There was something about it, most uncanny.

“My good lawd!” groaned Zar. “Dat’s a sho sperritt! Lemme get outen heah an’ back to dat boat.”

Mr. Larkins detained her.

“Wait,” he said. “There’s a bit of an echo hereabout. The singin’ ’ll be comin’ from the ship, I think.”

There was a wave of relief. Then Gale dissented.

“That’s not from the ship. The wind isn’t right. It’s from the land——”

We hurried to the top of a little rise, just ahead; here we halted and listened again. We could hear much more plainly now. Even the words came quite distinctly.

“I’m out of humanity’s reach— I must finish my journey alone. Afar from the music of speech— I start at the sound of my own.”

“Selkirk’s hymn,” I whispered. “I know it perfectly. My grandmother sang it to her children, and my mother to me.”

“I am monarch of all I survey— My right there is none to dispute— From the center all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute.”

“Yes! yes! and that, too!” I added, excitedly. “Some one is cast away in this place. Come, we must find him!”

“Oh, and quickly!” urged Edith; but the singing had begun again and we hesitated, to listen.

“There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found. They softly lie and sweetly sleep, Low in the ground.”

“The storm that wrecks the winter’s sky No more disturbs their sweet repose Than summer evening’s latest sigh That shuts the rose.

“I know that, too,” said Edith. “It is by James Montgomery. It is also a hymn.”

“And another of those I heard in childhood,” I answered eagerly. “The favorite of—of one who perished—Come on! everybody, I must see what this means!”

The singing had ceased now, but we hastily scrambled over the rocks in the direction from which it had come. Pushing out from behind a great bowlder we looked down a little slope upon what at first seemed to be a heap of bowlders. Then we saw that it was the construction of human hands—a habitation. We descended quickly, though almost in silence, only whispering caution to each other. A rolling stone, however, slipped from beneath my foot and went plunging to the side of the hut. A moment later there stepped out into view a curious fur-clad figure—tall, bearded, and with masses of grizzled hair upon his shoulders. An aged man he seemed, but bronzed, erect, and with the movement of strength.

A moment he looked at us as if doubting his vision. Then, flinging both arms in the air, he gave a great cry of welcome.

We rushed down and surrounded him. He seized our hands wildly.

“Who are you?” he cried. “Who are you? And why are you here?”

But I besought him with fierce eagerness.

“Tell us, first, who _you_ are!” I commanded, “and why _you_ are here!”

“Oh, it does not matter,” he answered, “I have been dead twenty years! But when I was in the world of men I was called Nicholas Lovejoy.”

“Then,” I shouted, “you are my uncle—for I am Nicholas Chase!”

XXXIX. WHERE DREAMS BECOME REAL.

In the little hut which he had built, and where all the years he had lived alone, he told us his story. It was hardly more than a word. When the vessel went down, he had drifted with one other, on a spar, to this island. The other had died next day from exposure, and was buried not far away. And winter and summer for twenty-one years the survivor had waited for those who never came.

At first he had hoisted the spar with a signal, but long since he had lost hope, and when at last a wind blew it down he had not replaced it. His speech he had preserved by singing and reciting such things as he knew, and so comforted himself. Less than seventy years old, he was still a man of strength and vigor.

In return I informed him of our plight and briefly outlined our previous expedition. When I had finished my Uncle Nicholas regarded me for a moment in silence. Then, smiling:

“So, Nick, you found the warm South Pole. My boy, I have believed in it for fifty years.”

“I always thought of you in that way,” I said. “I knew you would have helped me. I even thought you might have gone there.”

“And so I might if my ship had come into port,” he sighed. Then, to Gale, “As for _your_ ship, I think she is safe enough. She is probably on the sand only. It makes in and out of that place as the winds change. You may have twenty feet of water there in a week.”

He set out with us for the vessel. At first sight of the Billowcrest, he paused and regarded her rapturously.

“Oh, that beautiful ship,” he cried. “How I have longed for this moment.”

It was with him as with Edith when she had welcomed his desert island. The Billowcrest was not really beautiful after her long battle with the elements, and perhaps later he might not altogether approve of her model, but now she seemed as a winged messenger from Paradise.

When we reached the launch the sailors regarded our companion with wonder, and as we drew near the Billowcrest a curious group gathered on the deck forward.

Foremost of these was Captain Biffer. I had never spoken to him of my sailor uncle. My former experiences in that line may have resulted in this delicacy, or it may have been out of consideration for my relative, whose skill as a navigator might have been judged by that of his nephew. Now, however, I ascended proudly to the deck.

“Captain Biffer,” I said, “I want to present to you my uncle, Captain Nicholas Lovejoy.”

With his deflected orb Captain Biffer pierced my innermost being, while with his good eye he searched deeply the soul of the man before him. He tried to speak, but at first his voice failed him. Then he said huskily:

“Captain Nick Lovejoy, don’t you know your old shipmate, Joe Biffer?”

My uncle, too, started and gasped.

“My God, yes!” he said, “it’s Joe—Joe Biffer of Boston!”

A moment later Captain Biffer turned and seized my hand.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded; “and say, Chase, I’ve learned to like a good many things about you since we’ve been together, but this is the best yet.”

At which Zar, who was standing by, added:

“An’ to think dat ole Aunt Artics o’ his turned out to be a’ uncle, aftah all!”

That night in my stateroom my Uncle Nicholas and I talked until near morning. I told him of events that had come and gone, and of family changes. Then more fully of our expedition, my love for Edith Gale, and how, as matters had turned out, I did not feel justified in claiming the promise she had made me.

He listened quietly and when I had finished, he said:

“It’s the money difference you feel most, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“I have only a few thousand dollars,” I said, “a mere drop with a man like Gale.”

He took my hand.

“Never mind, my boy. Money isn’t everything. You are about to give to the world a knowledge it has long hungered for, and true love is of more value than either. Besides you are—or would have been—my heir, if my ship had come into port. As it is, perhaps I can help a little. I have had a good deal of time to prospect, over yonder, during the past twenty years, and I have found indications that may develop something in the way of mining. We’ll go over to-morrow, and take a look. Good night, now—I mean good morning—you must try and rest some.”

I retired, but sleep seemed far from me. The events of the day had been too momentous. And then my uncle’s words had left in me a spark of comfort—of hope. Yet, from somewhere out of the spaces sleep did come, and the sun was pouring into the uptilted port-hole of my stateroom when I awoke.

We were off for the island again, immediately after breakfast. My uncle, trimmed, and arrayed in one of Captain Biffer’s uniforms, made now a most imposing figure, and this time Captain Biffer himself, with Chauncey and Edith Gale, completed the party.

As we passed the point of rock where I had noticed what had seemed to me signs of hammering, my uncle paused.

“Here is one place where I prospected,” he said. He pointed to a thread-like vein of yellow. “I believe that is gold. But I have never had tools to follow a ledge vein, and have done rather more at looking for placers, such as I saw in California, in the fifties.”

My hopes withered. The tiny yellow streak seemed to me so small and uncertain. As for “placers,” I only knew dimly that they were connected in some way with “pockets,” and “washing.”

We pushed on to his hut of stones. A very comfortable hut we had found it to be, and more roomy than it had appeared from without. My uncle entered first, and presently called to us. Within, he indicated seats on the stone benches ranged around the walls. He first exhibited a few curiosities he had gathered during his long exile, then also seating himself, he said:

“My nephew Nicholas confided to me last night a matter I take to be well understood by all present. It concerns chiefly himself and a certain young lady, who is not far away.” He looked toward Edith Gale, who blushed and smiled, but said nothing. “Nicholas told me further,” my uncle continued, “of his lack of fortune, and his unwillingness to hold her to a promise made with different prospects ahead.”

At this point Chauncey Gale started to speak, but my Uncle Nicholas checked him. I did not look at Edith, but she told me afterwards how she felt, and I sympathized with her. My uncle proceeded.

“I told my nephew that money was not all of life. That he would give to the world a treasure of information, and that love was still greater than either knowledge or riches.”

I began to grow uncomfortable. Also, less glad than I had been that we had discovered my uncle. True, he had not talked to anybody for so long that he was doubtless anxious to make up for lost time, but I wished he had selected some other subject. We waited the end in silence.

“He would have been my heir,” he went on, “had my ship come into port. He is my heir to-day of whatever of property or prospect I may leave behind. Of prospect I believe there is considerable on this island. Of property—well, as I told Nick, I have had a good deal of time on my hands during the past twenty-one years, and the result”—turning, he laid his hand on a great flat stone in the wall near him, and swung it aside—“it is in there—you can see it for yourselves.”

We leaned forward and looked into the opening made. Beyond, there was a sort of storehouse or small room, the floor smoothly covered with skins. In the center arose a heap or pyramid of what appeared to be irregular yellow lumps of earth, or pebbles, of varying sizes—some very small—others quite large. No one spoke, but we looked at him questioningly.

“Those are nuggets,” he said. “That pile contains, I believe, about two tons of solid gold!”

XL. CLAIMING THE REWARD.

For three weeks the Billowcrest lay a prisoner off the South Shetlands—just which of these islands, I do not consider it proper at this time to say. Assisted by Chauncey and Edith Gale, my uncle and I put the treasure into bags and had it conveyed to the vessel as “mineral specimens,” for we felt that we could not wholly trust our crew. Then at length a wind from the northwest set the currents a new pace and altered the sand drift. We found ourselves afloat one morning, and crowding on sail and steam made all speed northward, arriving safely in New York harbor on the evening of February second, after an absence of nearly eighteen months.

As we came in through the dusk, the splendid cities and the bridge between to us seemed gloriously illuminated; but if so, it was not in our honor. Nobody knew that we had returned, or even that we had gone.

We steamed up North River to our old dock, and Chauncey Gale set forth at once to catch a Broadway car for a certain down-town theater, which he greatly feared had been discontinued during our absence. Next morning I went with my uncle to establish some desirable banking connections, through which his treasure might be properly transferred, and converted into funds.

As to when and in what manner we should make our adventures, and the results of the expedition, public property, we were at first undecided. Newspaper notoriety was not a pleasant prospect, particularly as we were already contemplating a second voyage to the South. We therefore concluded to say nothing immediately, and meanwhile to have the old Billowcrest thoroughly overhauled and outfitted for the voyage to be undertaken in the late summer—not to the South Pole this time, but to the South Shetlands, to develop in the spot of his exile the mines which my uncle believes to be almost inexhaustible.

And so—to use the so-called Irish form—we have “continued to say nothing” through the spring and summer, during which period I have prepared the matter already in the proper hands for publication.