The crashing and cracking sounds which rent the air seemed to justify the man’s cry. It was true the ice pack was being driven in sharply by the wind, which had greatly increased during the past hour. It pressed on the side of the ship with telling force, and all those outside heard several timbers give way inside and collapse.
But just at the crucial moment the work the men had been doing proved its worth. The ice began to crack and split a little deeper down, and suddenly the Ice King gave a start upward.
“I think she is coming up!” cried Dr. Slade, and even as he spoke the steamer rose up higher as part of the ice pack got under the hull. Then came a swishing sound, some water spurted up into the air, and the vessel came up still higher, while the ice appeared to close in solidly under the keel.
“Saved!” roared Captain Williamson, and his face showed his relief.
“Are you sure?” asked Andy, anxiously.
“Yes, my lad. The Ice King is now riding on top of the ice instead of between it. Any additional move of the ice pack will simply force us upward.”
“She may tip over on her side!” cried Chet.
“We can easily guard against that, Chet. Yes, we are saved, and I am mighty glad of it.”
“And so am I,” added Barwell Dawson.
The grinding of the ice pack continued for several days, and the vessel was squeezed several inches higher. But the pressure on the side was gone completely, and the ship’s carpenter was set to work to repair the damage done. One of the timbers running across the boys’ stateroom had been snapped in twain, and the lads viewed the wreckage in deep concern.
“If we had been sleeping in here when that happened, we might have been killed,” said Chet, and his chum agreed with him.
During the following three weeks it snowed a great deal. It was, however, clear on Christmas Day, and the boys went out for a walk in the vicinity of the vessel. All hands were treated to a dinner of wild duck and plum pudding, and something of a church service was held by the captain, assisted by Dr. Slade, who had a good tenor voice, and had once sung in a church choir.
“Makes a fellow feel just a little bit less like a heathen,” remarked Chet, after the church service had come to an end.
“Indeed, that is true,” answered Andy. At Pine Run he had attended the village chapel whenever he had the chance to do so.
As Professor Jeffer had predicted, it grew steadily colder, and there were many days between Christmas and the middle of January when the boys did not care to venture outside. Outdoor work was out of the question, and all hands busied themselves within as best they could. The men smoked and played games, and sometimes got up boxing matches. The boys often took part in the games, and Chet showed his skill as a boxer by flooring two of the tars hand-running.
Yet with it all the time passed slowly, and both Andy and Chet were anxious for the Long Night to come to an end. The darkness was beginning to tell on many of the party, and Pep Loggermore especially began to act strangely. Once he began to sing hysterically, and the doctor had to give him some medicine to quiet him.
“He’s a strange Dick, that chap,” said Captain Williamson. “I am sorry I had him sign articles with me. He’s one of the old-fashioned superstitious kind that I don’t like.”
The boys were glad when the full moon shone down on the ship, for then it was almost as bright as day. The moonshine made the distant cliffs and peaks of ice look like castles of white, and added a rare beauty to the scene. Professor Jeffer took several photographs in the moonlight,—of the ship, the hut and storehouse, and of different members of the party. To pass the time, some of these films and plates were developed on the ship, and the boys aided in printing the pictures, many of which proved very good.
One moonlight night Andy and Chet determined to take a short walk to a point some distance behind the storehouse, and in the direction of the igloos of the Esquimaux. So far, they had not seen the inside of any of the houses of ice, and they were a bit curious to know just how the natives lived.
They soon met Olalola, who had been on a hunt, and he invited them inside his temporary home, and one after another they crawled through the passageway that answered for a vestibule.
Inside, the igloo was about ten feet in diameter, and rounding upward into a dome a foot or two above their heads. Here lived six of the Esquimaux. They had some dirty skins on the floor and in the center was a tiny fire, resting on some flat stones, the smoke escaping through some small holes in the top of the dome.
The smell was something awful in the place, coming from some seal meat that was cooking over the fire, and also from the pipes of the Esquimaux, who were all smoking stuff that the lads later on learned was a combination of plug tobacco and seal hair—the hair being added to the tobacco to make the latter last longer.
Olalola could speak a few words of English, and he invited the lads to have some of the stew that was being made. Just for the novelty each lad tried a mouthful. But to swallow the nauseating mess was impossible, and they had to spit it out. At this all of the Esquimaux laughed loudly. They were not in the least offended because the boys did not like the food.
“Boy no eat, me eat,” said Olalola, and filled his mouth with great gusto. Then the youths excused themselves and got out as fast as possible.
“Phew! talk about fresh air!” cried Chet, when he and his chum were in the open. “Wouldn’t you think the Esquimaux would die in that kind of rot?”
“I don’t believe they are very healthy,” answered Andy. “Dr. Slade says they are not.”
“They all need a bath, and need it badly,” said Chet, in deep disgust. It was his first and last visit to the igloos.
When it was clear the Esquimaux often played games. One was leapfrog, and another was of the “snap-the-whip” variety. In the latter sport they would roar loudly when the last man was sent whirling over and over on the ice.
“You’d think he’d break his head,” was Andy’s comment, as he saw one unfortunate land with a crash on a hummock of ice.
“Well, they are rough fellows, and so their sports must be rough,” answered Professor Jeffer.
Nearly every Esquimau is skillful with the dog-whip, and one of their pastimes amused the boys very deeply. The men would gather around in a big circle, and in the center of this a small object, usually of wood, would be half buried in the snow. Then the men, each with his long dog-lash, would try to “snap” the object from the ring. Crack! would go the lash, making a report like a pistol, and the snow would come up in a little whirl, and sometimes the object would come with it.
“Pretty good shots, some of them,” said Andy.
“Wait until we get on the road with the sledges,” answered Barwell Dawson. “Then you’ll see some fancy doings with the whips. Some of those chaps can reach a dog twenty feet away, and take a nip out of his hide as quick as a wink. That’s the way they get the dogs under such perfect control.”
“I wish I could learn how to drive the dogs,” said Andy.
“You’ll have plenty of chance, when we get on the move again,” returned the explorer.
Two days later, Andy was walking from the storehouse to the ship when, in the dim light from the lamp near the hut, he saw something unusual that attracted his attention. A man was crawling along on all-fours, muttering wildly to himself.
“Whatever can that fellow be up to?” asked the boy of himself. For the instant he thought he might be mistaken, and that the form was that of some wild beast.
His curiosity aroused to a high pitch, the lad stopped short, and then made a detour, coming up on the opposite side of the storehouse. Here he found the man, still on all-fours, bending over a case of some sort.
“Oh, this darkness! Why don’t the sun shine?” the man was muttering to himself. “I must have light! I will have light!”
“It is Pep Loggermore, and he is as crazy as a loon!” murmured Andy. “I had better tell the captain of this at once! The sailor may hurt somebody if I don’t!”
Andy turned around, to make a quick run toward the ship, when he heard the scratching of a match. A tiny flash of flame followed, and in that little flare of light he saw the crazed sailor bending over what looked to be a can of oil!
“He is going to set something on fire!” thought Andy. “Maybe the storehouse! That’s his crazy idea of getting light!”
Andy was right, Loggermore was trying to set fire to the storehouse. Already he was pouring oil from the can over a number of boxes, the ends of which formed that side of the shelter.
“If I run to the ship, it will take time,” reasoned Andy. “By the time I get back with some of the others it may be too late. What shall I do?”
It was a hard question to answer. He had no desire to tackle the crazy sailor alone. But even while he stood debating with himself he saw Loggermore strike another match.
“Stop! Don’t light that, Loggermore!”
So shouting, Andy leaped toward the man, who was still crouched down, mumbling to himself about wanting a light. At the sound of the youth’s voice, the sailor turned, and something like a snarl broke from his lips.
“Go away! Go away!” he shrieked.
“Loggermore, you mustn’t set anything on fire.”
“I want light! I must have light! I hate the darkness!” growled the crazed sailor.
“You’ll burn up all our stores. If you do that, we’ll starve to death!” continued Andy, as he drew closer.
“I want light!” went on Loggermore, doggedly. “The darkness hurts my head—I can’t think straight. Stand back and see what a fine light I’ll soon have!” And so speaking, he lit another match, for the other had fallen in the snow and gone out.
“Help! help!” yelled Andy, at the top of his lungs. He could think of nothing else to do. “Help! help!”
“Shut up!” cried the crazed sailor. “Shut up!” And now, dropping the match he had just struck, he leaped at Andy and caught him by the shoulder and the arm.
The grip of the crazy fellow was like steel, and do his best, the boy could not break away. Pep Loggermore whirled him around and sent him crashing up against the boxes of the storehouse. There both stood, panting heavily, with the sailor’s eyes glowing like two balls of fire.
“Le—let me go!” gasped Andy. “Loggermore, you are crazy—you don’t know what you are doing. Don’t be so foolish, that’s a good fellow——”
“No, no, I’ll not let you go! You are a Jonah, Andy Graham! You shot the geese, you and that other lad, and you’ve brought us all kinds of trouble! I’ll not let you go!” shrieked Loggermore and then he slammed Andy against the boxes once more. The feet of both came down on the can and on the box of matches the sailor had dropped, smashing each down into the ice and snow.
Then suddenly a light flared up, coming from the broken box of matches. They spluttered an instant and set fire to the oil, and also to the clothing of the man and the boy. Loggermore was too crazy to mind this, but Andy was filled with horror.
“Let go!” yelled the youth, and struggled in vain to release himself. But he could not break that awful hold, and so he dragged the tar with him, and both rolled over and over in the snow. Andy tried to kick out the fire around his legs, and in the meanwhile Loggermore got a grip on his windpipe as if to strangle him. The boy tried to fight the man off, but could not, and presently all grew dark around him, and then he knew no more.
Down in the cabin of the Ice King, close to a roaring fire, Captain Williamson and Barwell Dawson were playing a game of checkers—the captain’s favorite amusement. Chet had been watching with interest, but had now gone on deck for a few minutes, to get the fresh air and to see what had become of his chum.
Suddenly through the stillness of the Arctic night Chet heard Andy’s cry for aid. He strained his eyes and saw the flicker of a light, as Loggermore struck one of the matches.
“Something is wrong,” cried Chet to himself, and then tumbled down the companionway in a hurry.
“What’s the matter?” exclaimed Captain Williamson, startled by the youth’s abrupt entrance.
“Something is wrong with Andy—he is calling for help!” answered Chet.
Both the captain and the explorer leaped up, scattering the checkers in all directions. Each ran for his fur coat and mitts, and each caught up a gun, and Chet did the same. Then they scrambled up on deck in double-quick haste, and leaped over the side of the steamer on to the uneven ice below.
“Where is he?” asked Barwell Dawson.
“Up at the storehouse. He yelled——Look, the place is on fire!”
Both men gazed in the direction, and then Captain Williamson let out a yell that could be heard throughout the entire ship: “All hands turn out to fight fire!”
Chet started on a run, with Barwell Dawson at his heels, the captain remaining behind to rouse the hands to action, for in a twinkling he realized what it would mean were the stores burned.
When Chet reached his chum, Andy lay flat on his back in the snow, motionless. Pep Loggermore was dancing before the ever-increasing flames, shouting gleefully.
“Light at last! I told you I’d have light!” shrieked the crazed sailor.
“Andy, what is it?” asked Chet, and bent over his chum. Then he saw some sparks on Andy’s clothing, and saw that part of his lower garments had been burnt off. Loggermore had had sense enough to extinguish the blaze on his own clothing.
Soon half a dozen of the sailors and Esquimaux were on the scene, and they began to put out the flames by throwing snow and cakes of ice on the storehouse. In the meantime Chet pulled Andy to a safe distance. As he did this the latter opened his eyes and started up.
“Le—let go, Loggermore!” he gasped.
“It’s all right, Andy.”
“Oh, is that you, Chet! Whe—where is Loggermore?”
“Dancing around like a maniac.”
“He is crazy. He—he tried to burn me and strangle me!” panted Andy.
“What in the world made him crazy?”
“The darkness. He wanted a light, so he set fire to the storehouse.”
By this time Andy felt a little better. But he was very weak, and Chet had to help him back to the steamer. Here he sat down and told his tale. Then Chet went out to relate what he had heard to Captain Williamson and the others.
It took but a few minutes of energetic work to put out the fire. When the commander of the Ice King saw the battered oil can and box of matches he was furious.
“The man who did this ought to be strung up on the yardarm!” he exclaimed.
“Loggermore did it, but he is not accountable,” said Chet, and told what Andy had had to say.
“Where is Loggermore?” asked Dr. Slade. “I’ll have to take him in hand.”
A hurried search was made for the crazed man, but he had run away. A party was sent out for him, and he was found nearly a mile from the ship, dancing on the ice, singing loudly, and tearing his clothing to shreds. It was with difficulty that he was brought back and placed in the ship’s brig. Then Dr. Slade gave him a sleeping potion and he sank into a profound slumber. When he came out of his sleep, he said he had had some bad dreams, but he could not remember anything of the fire or of his attack on Andy.
“He is not to be trusted,” said the ship’s physician. “You can give him his liberty, but I advise that an eye be kept on him.”
“We’ll keep an eye on him, never fear,” answered Captain Williamson, grimly.
Andy suffered very little from the attack of the frenzied sailor, and in a day or two he felt as well as ever.
“But I’ll never trust Loggermore again,” he told Chet. “After this he must keep his distance.”
Day after day passed, and at last the Long Night came to an end. There was general rejoicing, and when Andy saw the sun once more he threw up his cap in his delight, and fairly danced a jig.
“It’s grand, Chet!” he cried.
“Grand doesn’t express it,” was Chet’s answer. “It’s sublime! Andy, I don’t know how you feel, but I don’t want to go through another such spell of darkness.”
“Nor I,—not for a hundred thousand dollars! Oh, a fellow doesn’t know how good sunshine is until he can’t have it!”
Preparations for the departure northward had been going on steadily, the Esquimaux getting their dogs and sledges in readiness, and Barwell Dawson and the others going over the supplies to be taken along. Of the supplies the greater portion was pemmican, over a thousand pounds being placed on the sledges. They also had bear meat, peas, beans, bacon, and a small quantity of coffee and tea, with salt, sugar, and pepper. They likewise carried a portable alcohol stove with some tins of alcohol, matches in water-tight boxes, and such cooking utensils as were absolutely necessary. Professor Jeffer had the scientific instruments, including a high-grade sextant, thermometer, and barometer, and also a good film camera with numerous rolls of films. Four shotguns were taken along, and three rifles, with a large quantity of ammunition. Dr. Slade carried his medicine case.
As soon as the Long Night was at an end, more Esquimaux put in an appearance, with their dogs and sledges. One of these was named Estankawak, and Barwell Dawson learned that he was considered one of the best dog-drivers in the Arctic region.
“Then we must have Estankawak by all means,” said the explorer, and interviewed the fellow without delay. When he came back from the interview, his face showed his excitement.
“I have just heard great news!” he cried, to Professor Jeffer and Dr. Slade.
“What is it?” asked the professor, while the boys listened with interest.
“According to what this fellow Estankawak says, Dr. Frederick Cook reached the North Pole last Spring.”
“Reached the North Pole!” exclaimed Professor Jeffer and Dr. Slade in a breath.
“Yes. He got there April 21, 1908, and he is now on his way back to the United States to break the news.”
“Was the Esquimau able to give you any particulars?” questioned the doctor.
“Some, but not a great many. He says Dr. Cook left Annootok about the middle of February, taking with him eleven natives with their sledges, and over a hundred dogs. The party pushed on steadily day after day, across Ellesmere Land to the Garfield Coast, hunting considerably on the way. From Nansen Sound Dr. Cook made almost a bee-line for the Pole, a distance of about eight degrees, or, roughly speaking, five hundred and fifty miles. On his final dash, he had with him only two Esquimaux, the others being sent back at various times.”
“And where is he now?” questioned Andy.
“He is getting back to civilization as fast as possible, to send word home. If what Estankawak says is true, Dr. Cook has done a wonderful thing—something for which explorers have been striving for ages.”
“Then we won’t be the first at the Pole!” said Chet, ruefully.
“Never mind, Chet, if we get there, we’ll be the first boys at the Pole!” answered Andy, quickly.
“That’s so,” answered Chet, and looked a little relieved.
“Did you ask the Esquimau if he knew anything about Commander Peary’s trip this year?” questioned Dr. Slade.
“Yes. He tells me that Peary is north of us, at Cape Sheridan, and has been there since the middle of last September. He, too, is going to make a dash for the Pole, and may even now be on the way.”
“Perhaps we’ll meet him!” cried Andy.
“It is not likely with so many miles of snow and ice between us,” answered Barwell Dawson.
The news concerning Dr. Cook made the explorer more anxious than ever to be on the way, and one bright Wednesday afternoon it was announced that the expedition would start northward on the following morning. The party was to consist of Mr. Dawson, the professor, Dr. Slade, Mr. Camdal, and the two boys, and eight Esquimaux. The natives were to drive eight of their best sledges drawn by ninety-six dogs. They were to travel northward to Grant Land, and then make a straight dash for the Pole. Captain Williamson and his men were to remain as near them along the coast as the weather would permit, awaiting their return.
“And I hope with all my heart that you all come back safe and sound,” said the commander of the Ice King.
“Wish you were going along, Captain,” said Andy.
“So do I, lad; but my place is by the ship. You’ll want the Ice King when you get back.”
At last came the moment for leaving. All the sledges were packed, and the dogs harnessed and ready for action. At the side of the leading team stood Estankawak, long whip in hand.
“All ready!” shouted Barwell Dawson, after a general handshaking.
“Good luck to you!” cried Captain Williamson. “Be sure and bring that North Pole back with you!”
“Sure—on our shoulders!” answered Andy, gleefully.
The explorer motioned to the Esquimau. Crack! went Estankawak’s long whip, and off the leading sledge started. The others followed in rapid succession. There was a cheer from those left behind, and an answering cheer from those who were leaving.
“It’s North Pole or bust!” said Chet, with a curiously dogged look on his face.
“North Pole or bust!” answered Andy.
“Do not be too sanguine,” said Dr. Slade. “Because Dr. Cook has reached that point does not say that we shall be equally successful.”
“Don’t you think we’ll get there, Doctor?” asked Chet, quickly.
“I hope so, but I am prepared to take what comes. I do not believe that you boys understand the dangers and difficulties of the trip before us. We may not reach the Pole, and we may not even get back alive. Arctic explorations have, in the past, cost many hundreds of lives.”
“Don’t discourage the lads,” broke in Professor Jeffer, briskly. “We shall succeed—I know it, I feel it. And when we stand on the apex of the world,—where there is no east, no west, no north, only south—ah, what a glorious prospect!” And he waved his arms enthusiastically.
“That’s the talk!” shouted Andy. “We’ll get there somehow, and don’t you forget it!”
“It’s North Pole or bust!” repeated Chet, “North Pole or bust!”
It was Barwell Dawson’s intention to strike out directly for Cape Richards, the most northerly point of Grant Land. It may be added that this locality was only a short distance west of the point from which Commander Peary made his successful dash for the Pole. Dr. Cook’s route was still further westward, so Mr. Dawson’s trail lay almost midway between those of the world-renowned Pole-seekers.
It was a clear, mild day, and for the first few miles the going was excellent. Everybody was in the best of humor, and the boys felt like whistling. Estankawak was in the lead with his sledge, and Olalola followed him, while the others came behind in a bunch. The dogs trotted along evenly, and the drivers had little trouble with them.
“This weather is fine,” remarked Barwell Dawson. “I only trust it continues.”
“Well, it will continue for a few days, that is certain,” answered Professor Jeffer. “But after that——” He shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll have to take what comes.”
For several days the expedition traveled through the heart of Ellesmere Land, and there found excellent hunting. Polar bears, musk oxen, and caribou were there in plenty, and the party also laid low many Arctic hares and foxes, and likewise a few Arctic petrel.
“We must hunt while we have the chance,” said Barwell Dawson. “The more meat we secure now, the greater will be our stock of provisions when we get to where there is nothing but ice and snow.” And all understood this, and hunted to the best possible advantage.
By the time the north shore of Grant Land was reached it was much colder, and now they occasionally encountered snowstorms, but fortunately these were of short duration. Reaching the vicinity of Cape Richards, they went into a temporary camp, to rest up and repair some of the sledges which had become broken.
“I am going on another hunt tomorrow—possibly our last,” announced Barwell Dawson. “Do you boys want to go along?”
Both were eager to go, and the start was made directly after breakfast. They took with them two rifles and a shotgun, and provisions to last for four meals.
After skirting a small hill of ice, they came upon a narrow lead of clear blue water and following this, reached a point where the ice had been driven in a tight pack for miles. Here they saw the traces of a polar bear, and were soon hot on the trail, which led them along the lead, and then into the interior.
“I see him!” whispered Andy, after nearly a mile had been covered. “He is lying down behind yonder hummock!”
Andy was right, but before they could reach his bearship, the animal scented them and hobbled away.
“He is lame!” cried Chet. “I think we can catch him! Anyway, let us try.”
The others were willing, and away they went over the ice, which soon became comparatively smooth. Once Chet lost his footing and went flat. But he soon got up and continued after the others.
Finding he could not escape those who were pursuing him, the polar bear turned as if to attack them. Both Andy and Barwell Dawson fired at the beast, and he rolled over in a death convulsion, and was speedily put out of his misery by Chet with his hunting knife.
“See, his forefoot is gone,” said Andy, as they surrounded the game. “Looks to me as if some other animal had chewed it off.”
“If it hadn’t been for that, he would have outrun us,” answered Mr. Dawson.
They spent the remainder of the day looking for more game, and toward nightfall started for camp, dragging the bear after them.
“We’ll take him as far as possible, and then send the Esquimaux out for him with a sledge,” said the explorer.
All thought they knew the direction of the camp, but in looking for game they had become more or less turned around, and now Barwell Dawson called a halt.
“We may as well camp here for tonight,” he said. “We don’t want to tire ourselves out when it isn’t necessary.”
Some snow was scraped up, and a hut constructed, and they went inside and had supper. It was a cold meal, but they were hungry, and enjoyed every mouthful. Then they fixed the snow hut a little better, and lay down to sleep.
They had been resting for about three hours, when Chet awoke with a start. A loud barking had awakened him.
“Dogs!” he murmured. “Must be one of the Esquimaux has come for us.”
The barking had also awakened the others, and getting up, the three crawled out of the snow hut.
“They are not dogs, they are foxes!” cried Barwell Dawson.
“Yes, and look at the number!” ejaculated Andy. “Must be fifty at least!”
“Fifty?” repeated Chet. “All of a hundred, or else I don’t know how to count!”
Chet was right—there were all of a hundred foxes outside, sitting in a bunch, with their heads thrown back barking lustily. They had followed the blood-stained trail of the polar bear, and wanted to get at the game.
“This is very unpleasant,” said the explorer, gravely. “I didn’t think we’d meet foxes so far north. They can’t get much to eat up here, and they must be very hungry.”
“Do you fancy they will attack us?” questioned Andy.
“I don’t know what they will do. They want the bear, that’s certain.”
“If we only had a good campfire that would keep them at a distance.”
“Yes, but there is nothing here with which to build a fire.”
“Supposing we give ’em a dose of shot?” suggested Chet.
“You can try it.”
Chet had the shotgun, and taking careful aim at the pack of foxes, he fired. The flash of the firearm was followed by a wild yelp from the animals, and three leaped up, and then fell on the ice badly wounded. The others of the pack retreated for a few minutes, then came back to their former position, barking more loudly than ever.
“They are certainly game,” said Mr. Dawson. “Killing off a few of them don’t scare the others.”
“What are we to do?” asked Chet, dubiously. He had fancied the foxes would disappear at the discharge of the shotgun—for that was what foxes usually did down in Maine.
“We’ll do our best to stand them off until it grows lighter,” answered Barwell Dawson.
“Do you think they will run away if we go out after them?”
“Not if they are very hungry. Remember, a hungry animal is always desperate.”
Sleep was now out of the question, and they took turns in watching the foxes from the entrance to the snow hut. It was too cold to remain outside long.
“They are coming closer,” announced Andy, after two hours had passed. The foxes had stopped barking some time previously.
The report was true. The beasts were coming up stealthily, moving a foot or two, and then stopping to reconnoiter.
“I’ll give them another shot from the gun,” said Chet, and was as good as his word. This time two of the foxes were killed, and almost immediately their companions fell upon the carcasses, and began to tear them apart.
“That shows how hungry they are,” declared Barwell Dawson.
“Shall we give up the bear to them?” asked Chet.
“Not yet—but we may have to do so in order to escape them,” answered the explorer, with a doubtful shake of his head.
Another hour went by slowly, and by shouting they managed to make the foxes keep their distance. But then the animals commenced to come closer once more, slowly but surely encircling the snow hut.
It was a perilous situation to be in, and the youths realized it fully, as did Mr. Dawson. At any moment the foxes might make a concerted attack, and what could three persons do against ninety or more of such beasts?
But now it was growing lighter, for which those in the hut were thankful. As the glow of the morning sun shone in the sky, Andy set up a loud shout and flung a fair-sized cake of ice at the foxes. The ice went gliding along, and struck one fox in the forelegs, wounding him severely.
“Hurrah! why didn’t we think of that before!” cried Chet.
“A good idea,” put in Barwell Dawson. “We’ll treat them as if they were ten-pins!”
Some loose ice was handy, and taking aim at the foxes, they sent piece after piece bowling over the icy surface on which they stood. The animals had again gathered in a pack, so they could not be missed. If one leaped out of the way, the chunk of ice hit the next, and soon there were howls of pain from several. Then the foxes retreated, and when Chet fired another shot, they suddenly turned tail, and trotted off, around a distant hill and out of sight.
“They didn’t like the ice and the daylight,” said Barwell Dawson. “I doubt if they come back very soon. They may try it again tonight, but we’ll be in camp by that time.”
Again they took up the march for camp, dragging the bear behind them as before. Going was fairly easy, and dragging the bear over the smooth surface was not much work, but whether they were heading just right was a question. Many times Barwell Dawson tried to get his bearings, but without success.
“I think I’ll have to climb yonder hill and take a look around,” said he, when the sun was fairly high. “We ought to be able to locate the camp from there.”
“We’ll go along,” said Andy, who did not care to be left alone in such a field of desolation.
“Yes, I would like to take a look around myself—just to see how the land—or, rather, ice—lies,” added his chum.
Leaving the bear where it was, the three started to climb the icy hill on their left. The snow on the side aided them, and they reached the summit with little difficulty.
“Phew! here is where one feels the wind!” cried Andy, as he drew his coat closer.
“Cuts like a knife, doesn’t it?” answered Chet. “Wonder what it will be up at the Pole.”
“Colder than this—you may be sure of that,” answered Barwell Dawson.
All gazed around them. To the east and west, as well as the south, lay the long stretches of snow and ice. Northward were the same ice and snow, with numerous leads of clear, bluish water.
“There is our camp,” said the explorer, pointing to some dark objects in the distance.
“How far is it?” asked Chet.
“I can’t say exactly. Probably two miles. Distances are very deceiving in this atmosphere.”
“There is that lead of water we must have followed yesterday,” said Andy, pointing.
“Yes,” answered Barwell Dawson. “We won’t go back that way, though—we’ll try the route over yonder.”
They were soon down the hill again, and making for the spot where they had left the polar bear. Resuming the load, they struck off as best they could in the direction of the camp.
About half the distance had been covered when they found themselves quite unexpectedly on the edge of some “young” ice,—that is, ice recently frozen. It did not seem safe, and Barwell Dawson decided to turn back, in the direction of the route they had followed when leaving camp. This brought them to the lead of the day previous, and they were surprised to note that the water was much wider than before.
“The ice must be moving,” said Barwell Dawson. “I think the sooner we get back to camp the better.”
They had a small hill of ice before them, and started to skirt this. Andy was in the lead, and as he passed a rise of ice and snow, he heard a sudden roar that made him jump.
“What was that?” he cried, in alarm.
“A walrus!” answered Barwell Dawson. “And close at hand, too. Get your guns ready, boys!”
In less than a quarter of a minute more they came in sight of the walrus, stretched out on the ice close to the lead. It was a large specimen, weighing a good many hundred pounds, and as awkward as it was heavy.
At the sight of the man and boys the beast raised itself up slightly and started as if to turn back into the water. As it did this, Barwell Dawson raised the rifle, took steady aim, and sent a bullet through its head.
“That’s a fine shot!” exclaimed Andy as the walrus fell back, uttering a roar of pain. “Shall I give it another?”
“Might as well,” was the explorer’s answer, and the lad quickly complied, the shot scattering into the walrus’s head, killing it almost instantly.
Scarcely had the echo of the discharge penetrated the air, when there came a number of loud roars from a little further around the icy hill. The hunters advanced, and Chet uttered a yell:
“Look! look! Did you ever see so many walruses in your life!”
He pointed ahead, but there was no need to do this, for all saw, only a couple of hundred feet away, a veritable herd of walruses numbering at least a hundred if not twice that number. They had heard the death-cry of their mate, and were lumbering forward to see what was the matter.
“We can’t fight such a crowd as that!” exclaimed Andy, aghast. “We had better clear out.”
“I wish the Esquimaux were here,” returned Barwell Dawson. “We could make a mighty haul of walrus meat, and that is what we need.” He looked at the boys. “Who is the better runner of you two?” he asked.
“Andy,” answered Chet, promptly. “He can outrun me twice over.”
“Then supposing you leg it for camp just as hard as you can,” continued the explorer. “Tell the Esquimaux and Mr. Camdal to come as quickly as possible.”
Without waiting for more words, Andy was off like a shot, directly past the walruses, who simply raised themselves up to gaze stupidly at him. The others had withdrawn from sight, and when the beasts saw Andy running away they thought themselves alone. Slowly they lumbered over the ice and surrounded their dead companion, uttering hoarse roars that could be heard a long way off.
Andy had the direction of the camp well in mind, and made as straight a run for it as the nature of the ice permitted. With such heavy clothing a record run was impossible, yet he covered the distance in good time.
He found the Esquimaux outside of their igloos, listening to the roaring of the walruses, which could be heard far away over the ice. He soon made them acquainted with what was wanted, and with a glad shout they started off with their spears and bows and arrows. Then he aroused Mr. Camdal, and the latter got his shotgun and an ax.
“An ax is sometimes better than a gun,” explained Mr. Camdal. “You can sometimes crush a walrus’s skull with one well-aimed blow from an ax.”
The Esquimaux were ahead, but the others soon caught up with them. The walruses were still roaring and bellowing. One of the natives said this was a sign that they were getting ready to move.
As they drew closer, the Esquimaux spread out in a semicircle, and held up their spears ready for use. Olalola was in the lead, for he was considered by all to be the best hunter.
The walruses were found almost where they had been when Andy went for aid. A few surrounded the dead beast, sniffing the carcass suspiciously. Evidently they had never been hunted, and did not know the meaning of a gunshot.
As soon as the Esquimaux were sufficiently close, they threw their spears, and followed these up with a number of arrows. In the meantime the others discharged their firearms, and then Mr. Camdal rushed in boldly with his ax. By this means eight of the huge creatures were laid low before they could help themselves. The others turned to gain the open water, and went sousing in, sending the icy spray in all directions.
In his enthusiasm, Chet had drawn close to the lead, and before he knew it he found two of the walruses confronting him. He dodged one, but the other beast knocked him flat with one blow of a flipper. It looked as if his life would be crushed out a moment later.
Andy saw his chum fall, and for the moment his heart leaped into his throat. Then he jumped to the front, and sent a bullet into the breast of the walrus. But this was not fatal, and the walrus still lurched forward.
“Pull Chet away!” yelled Mr. Dawson, and fired from a distance, the bullet hitting the walrus just below the head. Then a spear whizzed through the air, thrown by Olalola. This caught the beast in the mouth, and went part way down its throat. The walrus flopped backward, and at that moment Andy caught his chum by the leg, and dragged him out of danger. Then Mr. Camdal came to the front, and a blow from the ax finished the beast.
The battle was now practically over, for the walruses that were alive had taken to the water. Those that were badly wounded could not swim very well, and the Esquimaux went after them, bringing in two. The total killing amounted to thirteen.
“That’s a lucky thirteen,” was Barwell Dawson’s comment, after the excitement was over. “The meat is just what we want, for the Esquimaux and the dogs, and the hides will come in handy, for footwear and harness.”
It was no easy task to get the walruses and the polar bear to the camp, and several of the dog sledges had to be brought up for that purpose. Then two days were spent in getting the meat ready for use, and in preparing the hides.
It was a clear, cold day when the next start northward was made. A light wind blew from the westward. Barwell Dawson calculated that they might cover twenty, if not twenty-five, miles.
“From now on we must do our best,” said he. “We can afford no more delays, otherwise our food supply may give out before we get back.”
Fortunately all were in the best of health, although Professor Jeffer suffered a little from snow-blindness. He at once donned a pair of smoked goggles, and several of the others did likewise.
The end of the week found them a hundred and fifteen miles closer to the Pole. They had encountered two leads, but had managed to get across without great difficulty. One of the sledges had been badly damaged, and it was resolved to break it up, and use the parts in repairing the other turnouts. Two of the dogs were sick, and had to be killed.
The next day the weather changed, and for forty-eight hours they struggled on through a heavy snowstorm, with the wind fortunately on their backs. During this storm one of the sledges fell into some open water, and three dogs were drowned, while a small portion of the outfit went out of sight into the Arctic Sea.
“All hands must be more careful after this,” said Barwell Dawson. “As we advance, going will probably become more treacherous. Keep your eyes wide open.”
As soon as it cleared off, Professor Jeffer brought out his sextant and his artificial horizon (a pan of mercury), and took an observation. He announced that they were close to the eighty-fourth degree of north latitude.
“That means we have but six more degrees to cover,—about four hundred miles,” said Chet.
“Professor, will you explain how you take the observation?” asked Andy.
“To be sure, certainly,” was the reply of the scientist. “It is very easy when one knows how. Here is the sextant, shaped, as you can see, like a piece of pie. The curved side has a scale on it, which is just one-sixth of a circle, hence the name of the instrument. Here is a telescope which is adjustable, and here are two glasses, one for the rays of the sun, or a star, and one for the horizon. At sea, I would use the natural horizon, but that is impossible here amongst the ice and snow, and so I use an artificial horizon made of a pan of mercury.
“When I want to take an observation, I watch my chronometer and wait until it is exactly twelve o’clock. Then I point the sextant in such a fashion that the rays of the sun, reflected downward, seem to meet or ‘kiss’ the horizon. As soon as I have the light of the sun in a direct range with the horizon, I use this thumbscrew, which sets the scale below, which, as you see, is divided into degrees, minutes, and seconds. As soon as I have read the scale by means of this magnifying glass, I consult this book I carry, the Ephemeris, or Nautical Almanac, and knowing the altitude of the sun, I readily calculate just where we are located, in degrees, minutes, and seconds north latitude.”
“It’s certainly a great instrument,” said Andy. “I’d like to try it some day.”
“You shall do so,” answered Professor Jeffer, and the very next day he allowed Andy to aid him in getting a true sight, and showed the boy how to work out the necessary calculations, and also make some allowances,—for such observations are not absolutely perfect in themselves.
They had now to advance with more caution than ever, and several days later came to some open water that looked as if it would bar all further progress. The lead was six or seven hundred feet wide, and ran east and west as far as eye could reach.
“Looks as if we were stumped,” murmured Chet. “How are we ever going to get across?”
A consultation was held, and then Barwell Dawson sent one party of Esquimaux to the eastward, and another to the westward, to look for a crossing place.
The Esquimaux were gone for two days, and during that time a fierce snowstorm came up, blotting out the landscape on all sides. It was so cold that the boys could do nothing outside, and were glad enough to crouch in an igloo for warmth. During the snowstorm, more of the dogs became sick, and four of the finest of the animals died.
“Something is wrong with them,” said Barwell Dawson, and had Dr. Slade make an examination. It was then learned that the dogs had been poisoned by eating tainted seal meat. The meat was inspected, and over a hundred pounds thrown away.
When the natives who had been sent out came back, they reported that to the east and the west the lead was wider than ever.
“Any smooth, floating ice?” asked Barwell Dawson.
Yes, some smooth ice had been seen, and the explorer went out the next day to investigate. As a result some large cakes were floated close to the temporary camp, and these were lashed together with walrus thongs.
“What do you intend to do with those?” questioned Professor Jeffer.
“I am going to try to get across to the other side,” answered Barwell Dawson. “We’ll use the flat ice for a ferry.”
“It’s a dangerous piece of business, sir.”
“I know it. But we must do something,” was the firm answer.
Two of the Esquimaux agreed to get on the floating cakes of ice, taking with them one of the teams and a sledge. It was no easy matter to induce the dogs to go aboard, as it might be called, and the natives were a good hour getting started. But once afloat, they crossed the lead without serious danger, and then began the task of getting the rest of the expedition over. This took all of that day, and also the next. On one of the trips an Esquimau went overboard, and Dr. Slade also took an icy bath, but both were quickly rescued, and bundled up in clothing that was dry and warm.
“There, I am glad we are over that lead!” exclaimed Barwell Dawson, when the last of the men and sledges had crossed. “I trust we don’t have any more of the sort to cross.”
“I am afraid we’ll have a great many,” answered Professor Jeffer. “Getting to the North Pole is going to be the hardest kind of a struggle.”
“We’ll get there—if we keep our health, and the provisions last,” said the explorer, confidently.
Once again they turned northward, into that vast region of ice, and snow, and solitude. It was certainly a gigantic undertaking. Would they succeed, or would all their struggles go for naught?
“One hundred and thirty miles more, Andy!”
“Who said so?”
“Professor Jeffer. He just took an observation,” answered Chet, as he crawled into the igloo and slapped his mittened hands to get them warm.
Andy shook his head slowly. “Chet, it doesn’t look as if we’d make it, does it?”
“Barwell Dawson says we are going to make it, or die in the attempt.”
“Well, I’m just as eager, almost, as he is. But eagerness isn’t going to make these leads close up, and isn’t going to give us extra food and drink.”
“Getting sick of pemmican and walrus meat?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Rather—but there is no use in kicking.”
“Say, do you know what day this is?”
“No.”
“The first of April. Maybe some folks would call us April fools, to try to reach the Pole.”
Here the two boys became silent, for both were too tired and too cold to do much talking.
The last few weeks of traveling had been very bad,—so bad in fact that half of the Esquimaux had been turned back, to make a camp and wait the return of the others. Mr. Camdal had been taken sick, and he had been left behind, and now Dr. Slade was ailing, and so were two of the natives. Sixteen of the dogs had perished, and their bodies had been fed to the other canines.
The hardships had been beyond the power of pen to describe. They had encountered numerous snowstorms, and a cutting west wind had for three days made traveling impossible. The smooth ice had given way to little hills and ridges that battered the sledges frightfully. One more had gone to pieces, and the parts had been used for mending purposes, as before.
The effects of the hardships were beginning to tell on everybody. The boys were thin and hollow-eyed, and when they walked, or, rather, toiled along, their legs felt like lead. To get up any speed was impossible, and if in ten hours’ walking they managed to cover fifteen or twenty miles they thought they were doing well. The glare on the ice and snow also affected them, so that their eyes appeared like little slits. Professor Jeffer had been in danger of having his nose frost-bitten, but the boys had noticed it just in time, and come to the old scientist’s rescue by rubbing the member with soft snow, thus putting the blood again in circulation.
“Well, lads, how do you feel?” asked Barwell Dawson, as he entered the igloo, followed by Professor Jeffer. “Dead tired, I suppose.”
“Tired doesn’t fit it,” answered Chet, with a sickly grin. “I am next-door to being utterly played out.”
“Perhaps I had better leave you two boys behind, while Professor Jeffer and myself, with one sledge, make the final dash.”
“No; now I’ve come so far I’m going to stick it out,” answered Chet, grittily.
“And so am I,” added Andy. “I guess we’ll feel better after a good sleep,” he went on, hopefully.
A few minutes later all sank into a profound slumber, from which they did not awaken until well in the morning. Then the barking of the dogs and the shouting of one of the Esquimaux made them leap up and crawl outside.
“Olalola says the wind has died down,” said Barwell Dawson. “We may as well make the most of it.”
A hasty breakfast was prepared, and inside of half an hour they were again on the way, toiling over ice that was rough in the extreme. They pushed on steadily until noon, when, it being bright sunlight, Professor Jeffer took another observation.
“One hundred and sixteen miles more,” he said, after his calculations were complete. “We are gradually lessening the distance! We shall make it after all!” And his face showed his enthusiasm. To such a scientist as the professor, gaining the Pole meant far more than it did to the boys.
In the middle of the afternoon came another setback. Another lead came into view, broad, and with the water flowing swiftly. At this the Esquimaux shook their heads dismally.
“We cannot go over that,” said one, in his native tongue.
“We must,” answered Barwell Dawson, briefly. With the North Pole so close at hand, he was determined that nothing should keep him from reaching the goal.
The party gathered at the edge of the lead, and there found the ice cracked and uncertain. Andy was with Olalola, who had a sledge drawn now by but six dogs.
Suddenly, as the men were walking up and down the shore looking for some means of crossing the water, there came an ominous cracking. Andy tried to leap back, and so did Olalola, but ere they could do so the ice upon which they and the dogs and sledge were located broke away from the main field, and floated out into the lead.
“Look out, there!” exclaimed Chet, in horror.
“Throw us a rope!” yelled Andy, while Olalola uttered a cry in his native language.
But no rope was handy, and in a few seconds the strong current of the water carried the cake of ice far out into the lead. It still kept its balance, but there was no telling how soon it might turn over and send Andy, the Esquimau, and the dogs to their death.
“Oh, we must save Andy!” screamed Chet. “What can we do?”
“We’ll do all we can,” answered the explorer.
He ran to one of the loads and tore from it a long rope. Then he hurried along the edge of the lead, in the direction whence the current was carrying the flat cake of ice with its human freight.
Andy and Olalola saw the movement, and both understood at once that they must make some sort of a fastening for the rope, should they be able to catch it. With a sharp-pointed knife, Andy picked away a small hole, and in it set a peg taken from the sledge.
While the lad was doing this, Barwell Dawson curled up the rope as if it were a lasso. His outings on the plains now stood him in good stead, and he threw the end of the rope with the skill of a cowboy lassoing cattle. Olalola caught it and slipped it over the peg, and then he and Andy did all they could to hold the peg in the ice.
It now became a question if the explorer could haul the floating ice in, or if the current would be too strong for him. Chet came to his aid, and so did two of the Esquimaux.
“Beware of where you stand!” sang out Chet. “The shore is cracked all along here!”
This was true, and all were in danger of going down. The ice was the most rotten they had yet encountered—why, they could not tell.
Working with care, they at last turned the floating mass shoreward, until it bumped lightly. But just as they did this, the ice at their feet began to give way.
“Jump for it! Don’t wait!” yelled Barwell Dawson, and Andy jumped, and so did Olalola. The latter tried to drive the dogs, but ere he could do so the peg came up, allowing the rope to free itself, and off floated the big cake again, carrying the dogs, sledge, and supplies with it. Andy and Olalola got into water up to their knees, but managed to throw themselves headlong on the firm ice and roll over and over to safety.
“I’m glad to see you safe,” said Mr. Dawson, “but it’s too bad about those dogs and the supplies.”
“Can’t we get them in?” asked Professor Jeffers.
“We can try it.”
They did try it. But just below where they stood the lead widened out, and another lead cut crosswise, so their further progress was barred. They stood on the edge of the ice watching the dogs and sledge disappear around a hill to the north of the lead. The dogs howled dismally, as if knowing they were doomed.
The loss of so many dogs and so much of their outfit sobered the entire party, and Estankawak berated Olalola soundly for allowing the team to get away from him. Estankawak had been faint-hearted for several days, and now he came to Barwell Dawson and advised that all turn back.
“We cannot reach the Big Nail,” said he. “We have not enough food and not enough dogs.” By the “Big Nail” he meant the North Pole.
“We have certainly suffered a severe loss, but I think we can reach the Pole anyway,” answered Mr. Dawson.
“Estankawak wants to go back.”
“Very well, you can go back if you want to,—but you’ll have to go alone.”
This, of course, did not suit the Esquimau at all. He said he wanted the other Esquimaux to go with him, and walked away, grumbling to himself.
“He’ll have to be watched,” said Chet to Andy, when he heard of this talk.
“Right you are,” answered his chum. Andy had not suffered from his adventure, but it must be confessed that he had been badly scared.
On the following morning, while they were still trying to get over the lead, a strong wind came up from the northeast. This began to move the ice on the north shore, and in less than six hours the lead was completely choked up with it. When they looked at this transformation, the boys could scarcely believe their eyesight.
“Now is our chance!” cried Barwell Dawson. “Olalola says it is perfectly safe to cross the ice, although it will be a terribly rough journey.”
They went forward, Estankawak most unwillingly, and inside of two hours left the lead behind them. They now struck ice that was comparatively smooth, so progress became more rapid. By the next day they were within just a hundred miles of their goal.
“We’ll get there!” cried Andy, but in less than ten hours his tune changed, for it commenced to snow furiously, while the wind became a perfect gale. All hands were glad enough to crawl into some hastily-constructed igloos, and even the dogs sought whatever shelter they could find.
They were thus stormbound for several days. To make any move whatever would have been folly, and Barwell Dawson attempted none. Yet he chafed roundly at the delay, the more so as he saw his stock of supplies rapidly diminishing.
“We must go on shorter rations,” said the explorer, and cut down the quantities that very day. This led to increased dissatisfaction on the part of Estankawak, and he conversed earnestly with another of his tribe, Muckaloo by name, but not in the hearing of Olalola.
“He is up to no good, and we must watch him,” whispered Andy to Chet. “Maybe he will try to bolt, and take some of our things with him.”
This was just what Estankawak had in mind to do, and he readily got Muckaloo to join in the scheme. Early in the morning of the next day, when the weather showed signs of clearing, the two Esquimaux crawled out of their hut and sneaked over to one of the sledges and harnessed up the team of six dogs. On the sledge they placed such of the stores as were handy.
The boys were watching them, and Andy immediately notified Barwell Dawson.
“Going to mutiny, eh?” cried the explorer, and snatching up a shotgun he ran outside without waiting to don his fur coat. He saw Estankawak and Muckaloo at the sledge, just ready to drive off.
“Stop, you rascals!” he roared, in the native tongue. “Go a step, and I’ll shoot you down!”
The Esquimaux were startled, for they had not dreamed that any one outside of themselves was stirring in the camp. They looked at Barwell Dawson, and at the leveled shotgun, and Estankawak dropped the whip he had raised, while Muckaloo hung his head.
“You are going to stay with us,” went on the explorer. “If you want to leave, you must go without any of our things.”
“It is death to try to reach the Big Nail,” growled Estankawak.
“It will be death if you try to run off with any of my things,” replied Barwell Dawson, grimly. “Go back to your igloo, and stay there until I call you.” And at the point of the shotgun he made the mutinous natives retire to one of the ice huts.