  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 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 “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.” 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. “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 “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. |
|
