Things grew worse and worse with us: the old difficulty of breathing came back again, and our feet swelled1 to such an extent that we were obliged to cut open our canvas boots. But the symptom which gave me most uneasiness was our inability to sleep. A form of low fever which hung by us when at work had been kept down by the thoroughness of our daily rest; all my hopes of escape were in the refreshing2 influences of the halt.
It was at this crisis of our fortunes that we saw a large seal floating—as is the custom of these animals—on a small patch of ice, and seemingly asleep. It was an ussuk, and so large that I at first mistook it for a walrus3. Signal was made for the Hope to follow astern, and, trembling with anxiety, we prepared to crawl down upon him.
Petersen, with the large English rifle, was stationed in the bow, and stockings were drawn4 over the oars5 as mufflers. As we neared the animal, our excitement became so intense that the men could hardly keep stroke. I had a set of signals for such occasions, which spared us the noise of the voice; and when about three hundred yards off, the oars were taken in, and we moved on in deep silence with a single scull astern.
? 223 ?
He was not asleep, for he reared his head when we were almost within rifle-shot; and to this day I can remember the hard, care-worn, almost despairing expression of the men’s thin faces as they saw him move: their lives depended on his capture.
Capturing a Seal
I depressed7 my hand nervously8, as a signal for Petersen to fire. M’Gary hung upon his oar6, and the boat, slowly but noiselessly sagging9 ahead, seemed to me without certain range. Looking at Petersen, I saw that the poor fellow was paralysed by his anxiety, trying vainly to obtain a rest for his gun against the cut-water of the boat. The seal rose on his four-flippers, gazed at us for a moment with frightened curiosity, and coiled himself for a plunge10. At that instant, simultaneously11 with the crack of our rifle, he relaxed his long length on the ice, and, at the very brink12 of the water, his head fell helpless to one side.
I would have ordered another shot, but no discipline could have controlled the men. With a wild yell, each vociferating according to his own impulse, they urged both boats upon the floes. A crowd of hands seized the seal and bore him up to safer ice. The men seemed half crazy; I had not realised how much we were reduced by absolute famine. They ran over the floe13, crying and laughing, and brandishing14 their knives. It was not five minutes before every man was sucking his bloody15 fingers or eating long strips of raw blubber.
That night, on the large halting-floe, to which, in contempt of the dangers of drifting, we happy men had hauled our boats, two entire planks16 of the Red Eric were devoted17 to a grand cooking-fire, and we enjoyed a rare and savage18 feast.
This was our last experience of the disagreeable effects of hunger. In the words of George Stephenson, “the ? 224 ? charm was broken, and the dogs were safe.” The dogs I have said little about, for none of us liked to think of them. The poor creatures, Toodla and Whitey, had been taken with us as last resources against starvation. They were, as M’Gary worded it, “meat on the hoof,” and “able to carry their own fat over the floes.” Once, near Weary Man’s Rest, I had been on the point of killing19 them; but they had been the leaders of our winter’s team, and we could not bear the sacrifice.
I need not detail our journey any further. Within a day or two we shot another seal, and from that time forward had a full supply of food.
And now, with the apparent certainty of reaching our homes, came that nervous apprehension20 which follows upon hope long deferred21. I could not trust myself to take the outside passage, but timidly sought the quiet-water channels running deep into the archipelago which forms a sort of labyrinth22 along the coast.
Thus it was that at one of our sleeping-halts upon the rocks—for we still adhered to the old routine—Petersen awoke me with a story. He had just seen and recognised a native, who, in his frail23 kayack, was evidently seeking eider-down among the islands. The man had once been an inmate24 of his family. “Paul Zacharias, don’t you know me? I’m Carl Petersen!” “No,” said the man; “his wife says he’s dead;” and, with a stolid25 expression of wonder, he stared for a moment at the long beard that loomed26 at him through the fog, and paddled away with all the energy of fright.
Two days after this, a mist had settled down upon the islands which embayed us, and when it lifted we found ourselves rowing, in lazy time, under the shadow of Karkamoot. Just then a familiar sound came to us over the ? 225 ? water. We had often listened to the screeching27 of the gulls28 or the bark of the fox, and mistaken it for the “Huk” of the Esquimaux; but this had about it an inflection not to be mistaken, for it died away in the familiar cadence29 of a “halloo.”
“Listen, Petersen! oars, men!” “What is it?”—and he listened quietly at first, and then, trembling, said, in a half whisper, “Dannemarkers!”
Carlie Mossyn
By-and-by—for we must have been pulling a good half-hour—the single mast of a small shallop showed itself; and Petersen, who had been very quiet and grave, burst out into an incoherent fit of crying, only relieved by broken exclamations30 of mingled31 Danish and English. “Tis the Upernavik oil-boat! The Fraulein Flaischer! Carlie Mossyn, the cooper, must be on his road to Kingatok for blubber.”
It was Carlie Mossyn, sure enough. The quiet routine of a Danish settlement is the same, year after year, and Petersen had hit upon the exact state of things. The Mariane was at Proven, and Carlie Mossyn had come up in the Fraulein Flaischer to get the year’s supply of blubber from Kingatok.
Here we first got our cloudy, vague idea of what had passed in the big world during our absence. The friction32 of its fierce rotation33 had not much disturbed this little outpost of civilisation34, and we thought it a sort of blunder as he told us that France and England were leagued with the Mussulman against the Greek Church. He was a good Lutheran, this assistant cooper, and all news with him had a theological complexion35.
“What of America, eh, Petersen?”—and we all looked, waiting for him to interpret the answer.
“America?” said Carlie; “we don’t know much of that ? 226 ? country here, for they have no whalers on the coast; but a steamer and a barque passed up a fortnight ago, and have gone out into the ice to seek your party.”
How gently all the lore36 of this man oozed37 out of him! he seemed an oracle38, as, with hot-tingling fingers pressed against the gunwale of the boat, we listened to his words. “Sebastopol is not taken.” Where and what was Sebastopol?
But “Sir John Franklin?” There we were at home again,—our own delusive39 little speciality rose uppermost. Franklin’s party, or traces of the dead which represented it, had been found nearly a thousand miles to the south of where we had been searching for them. He knew it; for the priest had a German newspaper which told all about it. And so we “out oars” again, and rowed into the fogs.
Another sleeping-halt has passed, and we have all washed clean at the fresh-water basins, and furbished up our ragged40 furs and woollens. Kasarsoak, the snow top of Sanderson’s Hope, shows itself above the mists, and we hear the yelling of the dogs. Petersen had been foreman of the settlement, and he calls my attention, with a sort of pride, to the tolling41 of the workmen’s bell. It is six o’clock. We are nearing the end of our trials. Can it be a dream?
We hugged the land by the big harbour, turned the corner by the old brew-house, and, in the midst of a crowd of children, hauled our boats for the last time upon the rocks.
For eighty-four days we had lived in the open air. Our habits were hard and weather-worn. We could not remain within the four walls of a house without a distressing42 sense of suffocation43. But we drank coffee that night before many a hospitable44 threshold, and listened again and again to the hymn45 of welcome, which, sung by many voices, greeted our deliverance.
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1
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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walrus
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| n.海象 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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7
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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12
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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floe
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| n.大片浮冰 | |
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14
brandishing
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| v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 )；炫耀 | |
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15
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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17
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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19
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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20
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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21
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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23
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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24
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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25
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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26
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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27
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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28
gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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29
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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30
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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31
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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32
friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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33
rotation
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| n.旋转；循环，轮流 | |
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34
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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35
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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37
oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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38
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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39
delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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40
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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41
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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42
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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43
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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44
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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45
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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