In the Land of the Great Snow Bear: A Tale of Love and Heroism

Chapter Seventeen
Wild Sports of the Far North – An Arctic Storm – Breaking up of the Sea of Ice

It was a matter of no small wonderment to the men of the Icebear why Dr Barrett should now, in a great measure, forsake the mine, where it seemed that wealth could be accumulated, slow though it might be in coming.

But the worthy surgeon “ken’t his ain ken,” as the Scotch say; in other words, he knew what he was about. He was not a gold-digger nor a silver-miner: he was sent out for the purpose of scientific discovery; not to load the Icebear with the spoils of this frozen wilderness, but to spy out the richness of the land.

Was it not possible, he argued with himself, that at some future day an expedition might be sent out, and a company formed to work mines here. It would give him, Dr Barrett, the greatest pleasure to be in charge of it Meanwhile he was very busy indeed.

Dr Barrett’s character and habits were such as might well be imitated by the youth of the rising generation, both male and female. Let me give one or two examples of it.

One. He was never idle unless taking wholesome healthful recreation.

Two. He considered the strict performance of duty as a part and parcel of his religion, and its neglect a grievous and cowardly sin.

Three. He was always ahead of the work he had to perform, and therefore always easy in his mind.

Four. He had method and exactness in carrying on his work.

Five. Having done his duty he trusted all else to that kind Providence who guides and rules everything here below.

Yes, the doctor was busy and kept his men busy.

As long as the snow lay on the ground sledging expeditions were made every day, if it did not blow too high, or if the drifting snow was not blinding.

Very pleasant and delightful, sometimes, were those sledging trips, very dangerous at others. The sledges were large and strong; they had been built specially for the purpose, and were furnished, not only with plenty of provisions, but with all that would be necessary in an extended tour of, say, a week, though three days was generally about the limit the doctor gave himself. He was hardy himself, and cared little for fatigue; he was, in fact, an enthusiast, but he hesitated to expose his men too much. Besides, he had sick patients on board, and an accident might happen at any time.

There was plenty of capital sport to be got in these rambles. The animals that had returned to this country, however, were not yet very numerous. Bears there were, but they could certainly as yet have but little to eat. They growled about among the rocks, and wandered by the side of ice-water swollen streams. Probably they caught fish, perhaps they lived on love; but there they were, lean, long, and hungry looking, their great shaggy coats alone preventing them from having the appearance of downright starvation.

But precisely in the ratio of their hunger was their ferocity. The very sight of a man made them howl with anger.

“Come on!” they seemed to cry. “I won’t run away; I’m not afraid of such as you. Come on, and be eaten up.”

There were two “hands” in the ship who took great delight in these pleasure parties; one was Paddy, the other the boy Bounce, and both constituted themselves Dr Barrett’s special attendants and body-guard. Paddy, of course, carried a rifle; and, after some preliminary training, boy Bounce was permitted to do so likewise. And right proud was the lad to march at his master’s heels with his gun and his shot-belts.

His master was terribly absent-minded.

Boy Bounce used to relate of an evening, to his special friend – on board – the cook, how many times a day he saved his master’s life.

“Blowed if he wouldn’t walk right into the river sometimes!” said boy Bounce, “if I didn’t holler at ’im; or over a cliff, if I didn’t pull ’im back by the coat-tails.”

One fine sunny day the doctor was sitting sketching a pretty snow scene – ice, mountain, glen, and waterfall, and the boy Bounce was lying not far from his feet, facing him.

“Ahem!” began the boy. “I say, sir.”

“Well, well, well?” cried the doctor, impatiently.

“It’s a dee-licious morning – ain’t it, sir?”

The surgeon made no reply, but went on sketching.

“Think the frost’ll hold, sir?”

The doctor looked up now – he knew boy Bounce’s ways.

“What else have you to say, boy, eh? Out with it.”

“Oh, nothing sir, only there’s been a bear a-squatting yonder, and a-lookin’ at ye for the last five minutes, and maybe he’s going to spring.”

Dr Barrett sprang first though. The monster was within thirty yards of him. He seized boy Bounce’s rifle, and next moment Bruin rolled over the ledge dead at their feet.

“Why didn’t you hit him, you young goose?”

“Cause as ’ow, sir,” said boy Bounce, coolly, “you told me never to do nought ’athout first consulting you.”

“Is it a bear?” said Paddy, rushing to the scene of action.

“Well,” replied the doctor, smiling as he resumed his work, “it is something very like it, Paddy.”

“Sure and it’s meself ought to have killed him, and not that young spalpeen Bounce.”

Boy Bounce smiled and took all the credit, and Paddy at once set about taking Bruin out of his jacket, singing to himself some wild Irish lilt as he did so.

There was one other individual who attached himself to these sleighing expeditions, who had really no business there, namely, the noble deerhound Fingal.

I have no idea what induced him to do so, unless it was to constitute himself captain over the two teams of dogs, and to enjoy good sport among the Arctic foxes, to say nothing of the grand galloping he had.

Fingal used to fly along at the head of the foremost team, keeping well beyond reach, however, of the leader’s fangs and of the driver’s cracking thong. He used to hunt the foxes on his own account all day, and spent his whole night in keeping them off the camp.

There is no end to the impudence these little animals possess, especially when snow is on the ground. They are then mostly white. I have an idea that, like Scotch hares, they change their colour with the season of the year; at all events, in summer they are of many different hues, and they then keep farther away from the habitations of men.

At night, in snow time, they are singularly annoying. They yelp and yap, and howl and fight, and unless you are very tired indeed, sleep is all but impossible. If you fire at one and wound it, the chances are he will not run off if he could. You march up to club him, and he grins and whines and fawns at you in the most ridiculous manner; in fact, he argues with you. Well, what can you do with a wounded animal who argues with you? You cannot brain him. No, you simply retire, feeling mightily ashamed of yourself for having fired at him.

Wounded monkeys have this same trick, and several other animals I could name.

Camping out by the River Thames in the sweet summer-time, and camping in the shelter of a rock on the snowfields of the far north, are two very different things. The members of Dr Barrett’s sledging parties and the doctor himself slept in the sledges; slept with their bodies in warm flannel-lined bags, with rags over this, and rags right over their heads. Even then it was bitterly, oppressively cold.

The men of the Icebear used to envy Jack and Joe, the Eskimo Indians, who slept on the snow near their dogs with no other covering except the clothes they had worn during the day.

Fingal, poor fellow, never rested by night – if night I dare call it, with the sun ablaze in the sky – he was constantly roaming round the camp doing sentry duty, and keeping off the gangs of foxes. Often a horrid yelling would awaken all hands, and, on looking up, Fingal would be seen shaking a fox as Sarah Jane shakes a mat or a carpet skin.

One evening in May, when the sun was declining, or taking his dip towards the lower part of the northern sky, clouds began to bank rapidly up from the south-west. It had been clear and frosty before this.

It soon grew quite dusk. The clouds were very dense and very black – in great rolling masses that certainly threatened something most unusual.

Dr Barrett gazed with some uneasiness at the gathering storm.

In less than half an hour the sky was entirely obscured, and the wind, which had blown at first as if to place the clouds in position, fell dead. So for a time matters remained, the clouds still in shapeless masses rolling around among each other without any apparent cause. Gradually, however, they lost shape, and the whole firmament merged into one unbroken vault of darkest grey. Then pellets of snow, not bigger than millet seeds, began to fall, faster and faster and faster.

Dr Barrett gave orders for the camp to be made up at once, and supper to be cooked.

The snow-pellets merged into great flakes larger than crown pieces, and it grew darker and darker.

Then there was a thunder-clap that appeared to shake the very earth.

Darker still. What with the gloom of this abnormal night, and the falling snow, the men could hardly see each other’s faces. The thunder was now loud, awful, incessant; the lightning spread all round among the still fast-descending snow. It was lightning of a sort you never see except in Greenland. You are enveloped in the blaze; it is around and above you everywhere – a white, dazzling bath of flame.

Poor Byarnie knelt beside the sledge, and buried his head in his hands. The giant was praying, Paddy crossed himself, and boy Bounce began to cry. Meanwhile the doctor sat on a bundle of bags, stolidly smoking, and Fingal crouched close to his feet; and ever, in the intervals of the thunder-claps and their awful reverberation among the mountains, was heard the melancholy howling of the sledge dogs.

“D’ye think, sorr,” said Paddy O’Connell, touching the doctor gently on the sleeve, – “d’ye think there’s any danger at all, at all?”

“The danger is this, Paddy,” replied the doctor: “the snow is very soft and powdery. We are thirty miles from the ship; and if it comes on to blow, we will never reach her alive.”

“Then, the Lord help me mother and me poor sister Biddy,” said Paddy, piously.

But some time after midnight the thunderstorm retired, growling over the distant hills, and with it went every cloud.

Then oh! to see the beauty of the newly fallen snow, its purity, its whiteness, its stars of many shapes and ever-changing colours of light and radiance.

After two days of a wind that blew steadily from the south, the silence of that great inland sea was suddenly broken.

You might have imagined you were on some great battle-field, there was a constant series of rifle-like reports in all directions, with now and then a louder report, as if a piece of artillery had been discharged. And amid these ominous sounds you could hear, as it were, the shrieks of the wounded and the groans of the dying.

It was the breaking up of the inland sea of ice, and the noise continued for a whole day, and still the soft wind blew from the south.

Chapter Eighteen
“Summer Comes with one Glad Bound” – Fire!

Spring or early summer is to all a season of hope and joy, but no one who has never lived in the drear cold regions around the Pole in winter could understand or appreciate the glad feeling that is born in the heart when the sun once more ascends his throne and rules triumphant in all the land.

Some reason or other may be ascribed for all religions and forms of worship, even the most heathenish; and I have never been astonished to see a pious Eskimo Indian with his family kneel or throw himself on his face before the god of day, though I have felt sorry for him and for them.

 
“But yonder comes the powerful king of day,
Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud,
The kindling azure, and the mountains’ brow
Illumed with fluid gold, his near approach
Betoken glad.
He looks in boundless majesty abroad
And sheds the shining day, that burnished play,
On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering streams
High-gleaming from afar.”
 

Summer seemed to come to the rocks and hills around the sea of Dunallan with one glad bound. There were some few days of fog or mist, so dense that it was impossible even to see the point of the jibboom. This fog was, as it were, the curtain of Nature’s great theatre, dropped for a time while the grand transformation scene was being put on the stage behind it.

Then it was withdrawn – lifted, and behold summer on the hills, summer in the glens. Glad streams and cataracts sparkling in the sunshine, the mountain-tops capped in silvery snow, streaks of silver running down their brown, white-flecked sides, but the ground all carpeted with green, which in a few days burst forth into the most charming variety of colours.

The sea itself was scarcely rippled by the gentle breeze that blew steadily from the west; the air was so fresh and balmy that it was a pleasure to breathe it. Everything seemed to feel the touch of the newly come summer, and to rejoice. Flocks of birds of innumerable varieties went wheeling and circling round the ship, or floated on the water; there was music even in their wild glad shrieks.

Many a black head, too, popped up out of the water, some tusked and bearded, some as awful as a nightmare. And seals basked on the sunny side of the rocks, or on the sandy beach; while bears by the dozen and score prowled round, warily watching their chance to spring upon and make prey of these innocents. The bears seemed now to have no fear of man. Nor did they appear anxious to attack any one; they were no longer an-hungered.

The snow awnings were now taken down from the decks, a general spring cleaning was instituted, and, after this, even winter garments were put aside, and the men looked gay and felt happy in consequence. But for all this, the temperature was seldom a degree above 45 degrees; and if ever it reached 50 degrees, the men thought it uncomfortably hot.

Alba, the snow-bird, had pined a great deal during the long, dark winter day, and seldom cared to leave the cabin; but now she went screaming and flying all round the ship as if mad with joy, and hardly could Claude tell her from the other birds of the same genus, only she usually came when called.

Fingal, when not on the war-path, used to lie on the snow-white deck and gasp, with about a quarter of a yard of crimson tongue lolling indolently out of his mouth.

The doctor continued busy as ever, only the sledges were put away, and all expeditions had now to be undertaken on foot.

Very much to Claude’s surprise, they came one day in their wanderings, while a very long way from the ship, on a herd of tiny horned bisons quietly browsing on the sweet mosses in a wild glen.

The strange creatures lifted their heads and sniffed the air as Claude and Paddy O’Connell approached, but it was surprise, not fear, they exhibited.

Claude waited till the doctor and his party came up.

“What are they, in the name of mystery?” asked Claude.

“They are musk oxen, without a doubt,” was the reply; “but I never saw such small ones before. They are dwarfs of their species. Truly this is a land of wonders. There is certainly,” he continued, “no geological reason why these animals should not be here, only – ”

“Look here, doctor,” cried Claude, “while you are preaching to Paddy there, I’ll have a shot.”

“By all means, let us have a specimen.”

“And troth,” said Paddy, “we’ll have a specimen for the cook’s coppers, doctor dear, as well as for the good of science.”

At the very first rifle shot, one of their number bit the dust; but, strange to say, the others fled not. They looked wild and startled, and in dread terror they sniffed at the blood of their dead companion, but they stood still.

Another was shot, and another; then at last there was a wild stampede, not from, but down towards our sportsmen.

Were they charging to take revenge on the murderers of their companions?

Claude thought so. The surgeon knew better.

“Stand aside quickly!” he cried.

Hardly had they rushed a little way up the bank ere the whole herd rolled past.

Paddy had a parting shot, but missed, and looked very foolish.

Fingal could scarcely be restrained from going in pursuit. He thought he could easily pull at least one down, seeing they were but little bigger than Newfoundland dogs.

Deer there were now among the hills in abundance, hares, and a strange kind of rabbit, that even Dr Barrett had never seen before.

On the great lake itself, sport was to be had in abundance. Jack and Joe astonished every one by their marvellous dexterity in harpooning the huge and ferocious bladder-nose seal (Stemmatopus Crisatus), the sea bear (Ursus Marinus), the little Atak, and the walrus himself.

Not from the boats of the Icebear, however, did these wonderful Indians work. No, for they built themselves kayaks, or light canoes, made principally of hide, and so light you could lift one with a single hand or wear it as a hat. In these frail skiffs they would venture for miles out to sea, and they seldom came back without an animal of some kind.

But once Jack came home without Joe.

“Where is Joe?” asked Claude.

“Joe? You asked for my brooder?”

“Yes, your brother,” replied Claude.

“Oh!” said Jack, indifferently, “he toomble up plenty quick. No can turn hims kayak again. P’r’aps he go drown, ha! ha?”

It had never occurred to Jack to go to his brother’s assistance. When taxed with his callousness —

“What for I go?” he replied. “No plenty good. P’r’aps Jack he catchee my kayak, and den we bof on us toomble. No, no, not plenty good enough.”

“Call away the whalers,” bawled Claude.

“Call both away, Mr Lloyd.”

There was a trampling of feet, and a rattling of blocks and tackle, and in two minutes both took the water with a plash.

“A guinea to the first boat that reaches the kayak,” cried Claude.

There was a race on then – a very exciting one, though only to save the life of a poor Eskimo Indian.

The kayak could be distinctly seen from the masthead, with poor deserted Joe clinging to it.

Claude went himself to the crow’s-nest, to guide the boats by means of the long fan used for such purpose by Greenland-going ships.

The poor fellow was at length rescued, very much exhausted.

By the time he had reached the ship, however, what with the warm sunshine and a stimulant the Spectioneer had administered to him, Joe was all right and smiling.

But his brother Jack, as soon as Joe came on board, pointed at him a stern finger of reproof.

“I ’shamed o’ you,” he said. “I ’shamed o’ you proper. You not can turn your kayak, ha! ha! You no true Indian. Suppose one shark snap your two legs off, dat do you plenty mooch good. Bah!”

The summer passed away only too quickly; it passed, but not in vain, for Dr Barrett had done much good for the cause of science; and, reader, science always does or always should bring us nearer to Him who made all things and rules over them by unchangeable laws that He knows are good, whatever we finite beings may dare to imagine.

The summer passed; Claude and all his crew had enjoyed splendid sport. I wish I had space to tell of the adventures they had, some of them wild enough in all conscience. But while enjoying themselves there had been no neglect of duty, with one sad, solitary exception presently to be mentioned.

“I am very glad to say,” remarked Dr Barrett, one evening at dinner, “that I have succeeded in doing about all I believe that our learned friends in England wanted me to do, thanks to your good judgment, Captain Alwyn, in steering us to this wondrous country.”

“And so am I glad also,” replied Claude. He was thinking of home just then. “Let me see,” continued the doctor, musingly, “I have collected quite a museum of specimens of Arctic flora and even fauna. To the lichen world I have, I think, added not a few species hitherto unknown. I have taken observations of every conceivable kind; there is a record of them in my notes. I have, or, pardon me for my egotism, we have discovered coal – that is of little use, perhaps; iron – that exists everywhere; tin – that is more to the purpose; silver and gold, and these are better still. We have also,” he went on, “found the bones of extinct mammals, and the evidences on all sides that at one time the hills around us, or hills like them, were covered with forest and fern, and inhabited by a race of animals that we human beings too often, I think, call inferior. We have, moreover – ”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the steward. “May I speak to you half a minute?”

The doctor followed him into the steerage.

He soon returned, looking serious and vexed.

“Beast!” he muttered.

“I hope,” said Claude, “there is no one in this ship deserves that title, doctor.”

“Will you come and see for yourself, sir?”

“I will.”

Claude followed the doctor out to the steerage and into the dispensary. There he pointed to an almost empty bottle of brandy.

He said nothing.

“Do you mean me to infer,” said Claude, “that one of my crew has been guilty of a theft so vile?”

The doctor nodded.

“And who?”

“Who but Datchet?”

“Mr Lloyd,” shouted Alwyn, “bring Datchet before me to-morrow morning.”

Datchet was duly punished, Dr Barrett, however, begging mitigation of sentence on the plea that he had left temptation in the man’s way.

Time went on, and everything was got ready for a start. In a few more days the order would be, “Up anchor, and hey for Merrie England!”

All hands were happy. Small wonder at that. It was Friday night. The Icebear would sail on the Monday, the stores having still to be got on board from the house on shore.

Friday night is, in many northern ships, held somewhat en gala, as the day is a salt-fish day, so to-night there was a huge sea-pie cooked for the half-deck officers, and several such for the men forward.

Everything seemed propitious as regards the weather, for though dense fogs had prevailed for a week or two – it was early in August – the sky was now clear and the glass slowly but steadily rising. So the men were right merry. Paddy O’Connell had never appeared to such advantage. The boy Bounce was even allowed to tell a story and sing a London street ballad; while big Byarnie sat in a corner, beaming over with gigantic smiles.

But by ten o’clock sounds were hushed, and all hands in bed fore and aft. There was not now a sound to break the stillness, for the solitary sentry had gone below to smoke by the galley fire.

An hour passed away; then a solitary figure might have been seen creeping aft on hands and knees.

Two hours. The captain is sleeping sound; his hand is over the coverlet. Into this hand a cold wet nose is thrust.

“Go away and sleep, Fingal,” he mutters.

But the dog whines, and finally barks, and then Claude starts up, fully awake now.

See, across the cabin yonder is the reflection of a strange light in the glass!

He springs to the deck and rushes to the door, which is open.

There is fire in the store-closet between his cabin and the wardroom.

Fire in the spirit-store!

Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, went the bell two strokes to the second.

Ding, ding, ding, ding, and in a minute the whole ship is alive.