The Giant of the North: Pokings Round the Pole, R. M. Ballantyne [7 ebook reader .TXT] 📗

There are times, probably, in all conditions of life, when men feel a species of desolate sadness creeping over their spirits, which they find it hard to shake off or subdue. Such a time arrived to our Arctic adventurers the night after they had parted from the crew of the wrecked Whitebear. Nearly everything around, and much within, them was calculated to foster that feeling.

They were seated on the rocky point on the extremity of which their yacht had been driven. Behind them were the deep ravines, broad valleys, black beetling cliffs, grand mountains, stupendous glaciers, and dreary desolation of Greenland. To right and left, and in front of them, lay the chaotic ice-pack of the Arctic sea, with lanes and pools of water visible here and there like lines and spots of ink. Icebergs innumerable rose against the sky, which at the time was entirely covered with grey and gloomy clouds. Gusts of wind swept over the frozen waste now and then, as if a squall which had recently passed, were sighing at the thought of leaving anything undestroyed behind it. When we add to this, that the wanderers were thinking of the comrades who had just left them—the last link, as it were, with the civilised world from which they were self-exiled, of the unknown dangers and difficulties that lay before them, and of the all but forlorn hope they had undertaken, there need be little wonder that for some time they all looked rather grave, and were disposed to silence.

But life is made up of opposites, light and shade, hard and soft, hot and cold, sweet and sour, for the purpose, no doubt, of placing man between two moral battledores so as to drive the weak and erring shuttlecock of his will right and left, and thus keep it in the middle course of rectitude. No sooner had our adventurers sunk to the profoundest depths of gloom, than the battledore of brighter influences began to play upon them. It did not, however, achieve the end at once.

“I’m in the lowest, bluest, dreariest, grumpiest, and most utterly miserable state of mind I ever was in in all my life,” said poor little Benjy Vane, thrusting his hands into his pockets, sitting down on a rock, and gazing round on the waste wilderness, which had only just ceased howling, the very personification of despair.

“So’s I, massa,” said Butterface, looking up from a compound of wet coal and driftwood which he had been vainly trying to coax into a flame for cooking purposes; “I’s most ’orribly miserable!”

There was a beaming grin on the negro’s visage that gave the lie direct to his words.

“That’s always the way with you, Benjy,” said the Captain, “either bubblin’ over with jollity an’ mischief, or down in the deepest blues.”

“Blues! father,” cried the boy, “don’t talk of blues—it’s the blacks I’m in, the very blackest of blacks.”

“Ha! jus’ like me,” muttered Butterface, sticking out his thick lips at the unwilling fire, and giving a blow that any grampus might have envied.

The result was that a column of almost solid smoke, which had been for some time rising thicker and thicker from the coals, burst into a bright flame. This was the first of the sweet influences before referred to.

“Mind your wool, Flatnose,” cried Benjy, as the negro drew quickly back.

It may be remarked here that the mysterious bond of sympathy which united the spirits of Benjy Vane and the black steward found expression in kindly respect on the part of the man, and in various eccentric courses on the part of the boy—among others, in a habit of patting him on the back, and giving him a choice selection of impromptu names, such as Black-mug, Yellow-eyes, Square-jaws, and the like.

“What have you got in the kettle?” asked Leo Vandervell, who came up with some dry driftwood at the moment.

“Bubble-um-squeak,” replied the cook.

“What sort o’ squeak is that?” asked Leo, as he bent his tall strong frame over the fire to investigate the contents of the kettle.

“What am it, massa? Why, it am a bit o’ salt pork, an’ a bit o’ dat bear you shooted troo de nose yes’rday, an’ a junk o’ walrus, an’ two puffins, an’ some injin corn, a leetil pepper, an’ a leetil salt.”

“Good, that sounds well,” said Leo. “I’ll go fetch you some more driftwood, for it’ll take a deal of boiling, that will, to make it eatable.”

The driftwood referred to was merely some pieces of the yacht which had been cast ashore by the hurly-burly of ice and water that had occurred during the last tide. No other species of driftwood was to be found on that coast, for the neighbouring region was utterly destitute of trees.

“Where has Alf gone to?” asked the Captain, as Leo was moving away.

“Oh, he’s looking for plants and shells, as usual,” answered Leo, with a smile. “You know his heart is set upon these things.”

“He’ll have to set his heart on helping wi’ the cargo after supper,” said the Captain, drawing a small notebook and pencil from his pocket.

A few more of the sweet and reviving influences of life now began to circle round the wanderers. Among them was the savoury odour that arose from the pot of bubble-um-squeak, also the improved appearance of the sky.

It was night, almost midnight, nevertheless the sun was blazing in the heavens, and as the storm-clouds had rolled away like a dark curtain, his cheering rays were by that time gilding the icebergs, and rendering the land-cliffs ruddily. The travellers had enjoyed perpetual daylight for several weeks already, and at that high latitude they could count on many more to come. By the time supper was ready, the depressing influences were gone, and the spirits of all had recovered their wonted tone. Indeed it was not to the discredit of the party that they were so much cast down on that occasion, for the parting, perhaps for ever, from the friends with whom they had hitherto voyaged, had much more to do with their sadness than surrounding circumstances or future trials.

“What plan do you intend to follow out, uncle?” asked Alphonse Vandervell, as they sat at supper that night round the kettle.

“That depends on many things, lad,” replied the Captain, laying down his spoon, and leaning his back against a convenient rock. “If the ice moves off, I shall adopt one course; if it holds fast I shall try another. Then, if you insist on gathering and carrying along with you such pocket-loads of specimens, plants, rocks, etcetera, as you’ve brought in this evening, I’ll have to build a sort of Noah’s ark, or omnibus on sledge-runners, to carry them.”

“And suppose I don’t insist on carrying these things, what then?”

“Well,” replied the Captain, “in that case I would—well, let me see—a little more of the bubble, Benjy.”

“Wouldn’t you rather some of the squeak?” asked the boy.

“Both, lad, both—some of everything. Well, as I was saying—and you’ve a right to know what’s running in my head, seeing that you have to help me carry out the plans—I’ll give you a rough notion of ’em.”

The Captain became more serious as he explained his plans. “The Eskimos, you know,” he continued, “have gone by what I may call the shore ice, two days’ journey in advance of this spot, taking our dogs along with them. It was my intention to have proceeded to the same point in our yacht, and there, if the sea was open, to have taken on board that magnificent Eskimo giant, Chingatok, with his family, and steered away due north. In the event of the pack being impassable, I had intended to have laid the yacht up in some safe harbour; hunted and fished until we had a stock of dried and salted provisions, enough to last us two years, and then to have started northward in sledges, under the guidance of Chingatok, with a few picked men, leaving the rest and the yacht in charge of the mate. The wreck of the Whitebear has, however, forced me to modify these plans. I shall now secure as much of our cargo as we have been able to save, and leave it here en cache—”

“What sort of cash is that, father?” asked Benjy.

“You are the best linguist among us, Leo, tell him,” said the Captain, turning to his nephew.

“‘En cache’ is French for ‘in hiding,’” returned Leo, with a laugh.

“Why do you speak French to Englishmen, father?” said Benjy in a pathetic tone, but with a pert look.

“’Cause the expression is a common one on this side the Atlantic, lad, and you ought to know it. Now, don’t interrupt me again. Well, having placed the cargo in security,” (“En cache,” muttered Benjy with a glance at Butterface.) “I shall rig up the sledges brought from England, load them with what we require, and follow up the Eskimos. You’re sure, Anders, that you understood Chingatok’s description of the place?”

The interpreter declared that he was quite sure.

“After that,” resumed the Captain, “I’ll act according to the information the said Eskimos can give me. D’ye know, I have a strong suspicion that our Arctic giant Chingatok is a philosopher, if I may judge from one or two questions he put and observations he made when we first met. He says he has come from a fine country which lies far—very far—to the north of this; so far that I feel quite interested and hopeful about it. I expect to have more talk with him soon on the subject. A little more o’ the bubble, lad; really, Butterface, your powers in the way of cookery are wonderful.”

“Chingatok seems to me quite a remarkable fellow for an Eskimo,” observed Leo, scraping the bottom of the kettle with his spoon, and looking inquiringly into it. “I, too, had some talk with him—through Anders—when we first met, and from what he said I can’t help thinking that he has come from the remote north solely on a voyage of discovery into what must be to him the unknown regions of the south. Evidently he has an inquiring mind.”

“Much like yourself, Leo, to judge from the way you peer into that kettle,” said Benjy; “please don’t scrape the bottom out of it. There’s not much tin to mend it with, you know, in these regions.”

“Brass will do quite as well,” retorted Leo, “and there can be no lack of that while you are here.”

“Come now, Benjy,” said Alf, “that insolent remark should put you on your mettle.”

“So it does, but I won’t open my lips, because I feel that I should speak ironically if I were to reply,” returned the boy, gazing dreamily into the quiet countenance of the steward. “What are you thinking of, you lump of charcoal?”

“Me, massa? me tink dere ’pears to be room for more wittles inside ob me; but as all de grub’s eated up, p’r’aps it would be as well to be goin’ an’ tacklin’ suffin’ else now.”

“You’re right, Butterface,” cried the Captain, rousing himself from a reverie. “What say you, comrades? Shall we turn in an’ have a nap? It’s past midnight.”

“I’m not inclined for sleep,” said Alf, looking up from some of the botanical specimens he had collected.

“No more am I,” said Leo, lifting up his arms and stretching his stalwart frame, which, notwithstanding his youth, had already developed to almost the full proportions of a powerful man.

“I vote that we sit up all night,” said Benjy, “the sun does it, and why shouldn’t we?”

“Well, I’ve no objection,” rejoined the Captain, “but we must work if we don’t sleep—so, come along.”

Setting the example, Captain Vane began to shoulder the bags and boxes which lay scattered around with the energy of an enthusiastic railway porter. The other