“We should have been comin’ on she,” said he. “I’m fearin’ we’re a bit too far t’ th’ s’uthard.”
He shifted his course somewhat. A moment later a huge bulk of ice appeared directly in front of them. Dan swerved the boat to port, but he was too late, and almost before they realized their danger the pan struck them with the rising swell, and nearly capsized the boat. Water at once poured in through a great rent in the starboard bow, and immediately it became apparent they were sinking.
Like a flash, painter in hand, Dan sprang upon the ice pan.
“Jump! Quick!” he shouted to Paul, who, without knowing how he did it, sprang to the pan, slipped, gained his feet, and was safe upon the ice.
“Take this! Hold on tight!” commanded Dan, passing the painter to Paul. Working like mad, while Paul steadied the boat, Dan transferred their belongings from boat to pan, save one sleeping bag and one oar, which were washed away in spite of him. The boat lightened of its burdens, he baled the water out, and drew its bow around to the ice.
“Now pull!” He had grabbed the bow of the boat. “Pull! Pull!” he encouraged, and their united strength drew the boat upon the pan.
Paul had not, until then, had an opportunity to appreciate their position. Now he looked about him, and with one glance took in the critical situation in which they were placed. The pan of ice was not over sixty feet in diameter, waves were breaking over its edges, they were out of reach of land, the boat was quite useless. Then came a flash of the imagination—lost in the dark water—struggling—drowning. All this he saw in an instant. Panic seized him—a wild, awful fear of impending death—and he screamed:
“Help! Help! Save us! Save us! We’re lost! Help! Help! Help!”
“That’s right,” said Dan, “holler. If the ship ain’t too far off they’ll hear,” and he joined his voice to Paul’s. But no answering call came out of the fog. At length Dan said:
“Tide’s risin’, wind’s n’uthard, an’ our drift’s strong t’ th’ s’uthard. They ain’t hearin’. Get your rifle, an’ I finds cartridges. We’ll be shootin’ signals.”
The outfit hastily thrown in a heap was pulled over by Dan. Paul was too excited and nervous to remember in which of his two bags the ammunition was packed, and Dan could not find the cartridges for his own carbine. Finally, after unpacking both bags, Dan discovered not only Paul’s cartridges but his own, which Paul had inadvertently thrown in one of his bags the previous day.
Paul’s rifle was quickly loaded, Dan fired, and they listened intently. No response came, and he fired again and again, until presently the welcome sound of a distant rifle shot came faintly out of the fog. Their hopes rose, but the distant shots in response to their own grew fainter and fainter, and at length could no longer be heard.
Dan finally laid down the rifle, with the remark:
“They ain’t no use shootin’ any more. Th’ wind’s comin’ down from th’ ship, an’ if we can’t hear they, sure no one will be hearin’ us. Th’ skipper’s not knowin’ we been wrecked, an’ he’ll not be sendin’ a boat. He’ll be thinkin’ we’ll pull for th’ ship with the shootin’ t’ guide us. ’T ain’t no use.”
Paul’s hope of rescue, which had become a certainty when he heard the shots, now gave place to despair, and he threw himself upon the ice, moaning:
“We’re lost! Oh, we’re lost! We’re lost!”
“Keep un nerve,” soothed Dan. “They ain’t no knowin’ what’ll happen. Dad tells un, ‘When you gets in a bad place, Dan, keep un nerve. More folks,’ says he, ‘dies from losin’ they nerve than dies from most anything else. Whilst they’s life they’s a chanst,’ says he.”
Finally Dan’s philosophy quieted Paul to some extent. Black darkness settled upon the sea. The fog, if possible, grew denser. It obscured the stars—everything, even the lapping waves which were steadily but surely eating away the edges of the ice pan.
CHAPTER VI
THE CASTAWAYS ABANDONED
“GLAD to see you! Glad to see you! What luck?” greeted Captain Bluntt as the boat with the returned caribou hunters pulled alongside the North Star, shortly after two o’clock.
“Hello, Captain!” Remington and Ainsworth called out in unison. “Got three,” said Remington in response to the Captain’s question. “What do you think of those heads?” straightening up three pairs of antlers for inspection.
“Fine! Fine! Where’d you get ’em? Have to go far? Get ’em far up country?”
“No, tramped over a lot of country but never got a shot till this morning, half a mile in,” explained Remington, mounting the ladder to the deck. “Came on a bunch of four just above here, and got three of them.”
“Good! Good! And you brought all the meat! Great treat! Caribou meat’s fine venison.”
“Yes, we had plenty of time to pack it down before the boat came. Where’s Paul?”
“Ashore. Went ashore with Dan Rudd the day you leaves. Told ’em to be back at two o’clock today. Two o’clock. No later! The rascals! It’s two-thirty an’ a fog’s settlin’! The rascals!”
“Why what can be keeping them? I hope they won’t get caught ashore in the fog.”
“Went up the river. Must have camped along the river. Didn’t you see ’em? Couldn’t have missed ’em if you came down the river.”
“We didn’t come down the river. We made a circuit and came down from the north. But that fog is settling fast! It looks bad!”
“Looks bad! Looks bad!” agreed Captain Bluntt. “Nasty weather ahead. Ice working up too. Lot of ice worked up from the north since you left. Want to get out of here. Told those rascals to be prompt. Never can depend on youngsters. Can’t depend on ’em.”
“They won’t miss the ship in the fog, will they, Captain?”
“No, no, they won’t miss us. Dan’ll find us. Yes, Dan’ll find us. Shoot to signal us. Can’t miss us.”
Before three o’clock the fog had settled into a heavy black pall, so intense that, standing at the companionway aft, Remington could scarcely make out the foremast. A strong breeze had also sprung up from the north, portending increased drift of ice southward.
“I wonder if Paul will ever learn to keep his appointments and be on time,” Remington remarked to Ainsworth.
“He seems to have no sense of responsibility,” said Ainsworth.
“I wish he were aboard. I’m worried at this delay. I hope nothing has happened to the boys.”
“Oh, I think there’s no cause to worry. Dan will take care that nothing goes wrong. Paul wasn’t ready to return when he was told, and thought an hour or two wouldn’t matter. It’s characteristic of him. They’ll be along pretty soon.”
Captain Bluntt was growing impatient and ill-humored. He had ordered steam up, and prepared for instant departure to the open sea the moment Paul and Dan came aboard. They were now an hour past due, an unheard of delinquency on Dan’s part.
“By the imps of the sea! I’ll wring those youngsters’ necks when I gets hold of ’em!” he exclaimed. “By the imps of the sea I will!”
“Could anything have happened to them?” asked Remington anxiously.
“No, just taking their time. Just taking their time, th’ rascals! Dan Rudd can take care of himself. Take care of the other youngster too. Yes, yes, they’re all right. Dan Rudd’ll see to that!”
Nevertheless Remington’s anxiety grew, and at the end of another half hour, when he approached Captain Bluntt again, he found the Captain’s face serious.
“Can’t fathom this! Can’t fathom it!” the Captain exclaimed. “Dan Rudd always sharp to the minute before! Never behind! Thought first the other youngster delayed him. Couldn’t delay him like this. Dan Rudd wouldn’t let him, with a fog settlin’, an’ a norther threatenin’. No, sir! No! Somethin’ ’s wrong. Somethin’ ’s gone wrong.”
“Do you think–”
“Listen! What’s that?” Captain Bluntt held up his hand.
Faintly they heard a rifle shot in the fog, and in a moment another, fainter and hardly distinguishable.
“Tom Hand! Jake Griggs! Here, you fellows! Man a boat! Be smart now!”
With quick, gruff commands Captain Bluntt had a boat in the water, with four seamen at the oars and another at the tiller, as quickly as man could do it.
“Pull for your lives now! Pull for your lives! Save those lads! Pull, pull, you men!”
“Get your gun, sir! Get your gun, and shoot signals!” he commanded Remington, and in a moment Remington had his rifle on deck, shooting at regular intervals.
Two or three shots were heard far away, and very faint, and then came silence. Remington, Ainsworth and Captain Bluntt, in a state of intense suspense, listened between the shots that Remington fired, and waited.
An hour passed, and another hour before they heard the clank of oarlocks, and presently the boat loomed up in the fog and gathering dusk.
“Did you find them? Did you find them, Tom Hand?” shouted Captain Bluntt.
“No, sir, they’s no findin’ un,” reported Tom. “They’s lost, sir. We picks up an oar an’ a sleepin’ bag, but we’s not seein’ th’ boat, sir.”
“Lost! Lost!” exclaimed Remington in consternation.
Captain Bluntt stood speechless and overcome. When Tom Hand reached deck, with the sleeping bag and oar, he examined the things critically, and asked:
“Where did you find these? Where’d you find ’em?”
“Full two miles t’ th’ s’uthard, sir. We hears shots an’ pulls for un, and then th’ shots stop. We keep pullin’ t’ the’ s’uthard till we most loses th’ sound o’ your shootin’, an’ here we picks up th’ oar, an’ a bit farther th’ sleepin’ bag. We hollers an’ hollers, but gets no answer, an’ we pulls around through th’ fog, but finds no more, an’ we comes back. ’Twere growin’ dusk, sir, an’ no use lookin’ farther sir.”
“No, ’twere no use lookin’ further. No use.” Turning to Remington, “They’s lost, sir. They’s lost,” and Captain Bluntt blew his nose on his handkerchief and gave an order to Tom Hand in as gruff a voice as he could assume, that he might hide his emotion.
“My God! Is it possible!” said Remington, quite stunned.
“This is awful! Awful!” Ainsworth exclaimed.
“I can never go back home without Paul—never! Never! How could I face his father?” Remington half moaned.
Ainsworth could offer no consolation. There was nothing to be done. No tragedy ever came more unexpectedly, and the young men were made sick with the realization of it.
“There’s nasty weather comin’, an’ we’ll move out into the open and lay to for th’ fog to clear,” explained Captain Bluntt a little later, to the two sportsmen whom he found sitting dejectedly in the cabin. “Barometer falling. Blow comin’. Hard blow comin’, I fears. Cruise to th’ s’uthard when fog clears and look for wrecked boat. No use though. No use!”
That night they drew out into deep water, and the next day lay to in the fog. Then the gradually rising wind increased in velocity, the fog was blown away, and a terrific northeast gale broke upon them. For two days and two nights it swept Hudson Bay with its fury, and when it ceased a jam of Arctic ice blocked the western coast of the bay, rendering any search for the wreckage of the boat quite useless.
A conference was held, and upon Captain Bluntt’s advice Remington, against his desires, however, finally agreed to turn homeward.
The passage of Ungava Bay and Hudson Straits, now blocked with a shifting ice pack, was accomplished without accident, and once in the open Atlantic the North Star steamed for St. Johns, putting in at a Newfoundland outport, en route, to permit Remington to cable Mr. Densmore in New York, to meet him at Sydney to receive bad news. This he did that the shock of Paul’s supposed death might not come to the parents too suddenly.
The two young sportsmen proceeded at once by train from St. Johns to Port a Basque, and when their steamer from that place reached Sydney, they found Mr. Densmore awaiting their arrival at the dock.
They boarded the train, and in a stateroom in the parlor car Remington gave the grief-stricken father a detailed account of what had occurred.
“It is a terrible blow to me, and his mother will be prostrated,” said Mr. Densmore. “But, Remington,” placing his hand on the young man’s shoulder, “rest assured I am satisfied everything possible was done to save my boy. You were guilty of no negligence, and I shall always have a kindly remembrance of the interest you took in Paul’s welfare.”
CHAPTER VII
ADRIFT ON AN ICE PAN
A STEADY and gradually strengthening breeze was blowing from the North. The boys, wet to the skin, huddled close together on the center of the drifting ice pan and in the lee of the boat. Presently Paul, less inured to cold and exposure than Dan, began to shiver, and Dan suggested:
“Get in your sleepin’ bag. ’Tis rare cold, an’ you shakes like un had th’ ague.”
“No, I’d be afraid to lie down,” objected Paul, “but maybe we could wrap a pair of the blankets around us. There are three pairs in my bag.”
“Now maybe we could be doin’ that,” said Dan. “I’ll get un.”
He felt in the dark among the things which had been piled together, and presently drew the inner pair of blankets from the bag. This they wrapped around their shoulders, drawing it close about them, with a camp bag for their seat and the boat at their back.
“Is there no help for us—no hope that the ship’s boat will pick us up in the morning?” asked Paul.
“I’m not sayin’ that,” comforted Dan. “Th’ ship’ll sure cruise t’ th’ s’uthard with daylight, an’ if th’ fog clears she’ll be findin’ us, an’ th’ ice holds together.”
“Do you think the ice will hold together until morning?”
“I’m hopin’ so. An’ with light I’ll be tryin’ my hand at fixin’ th’ boat, an’ I’m thinkin’ we may fix un.”
They were quiet for a long while, when Dan asked, softly:
“Sleepin’?”
“No.”
“Cold?”
“Freezing.”
“Snuggle closter.”
Paul drew very close to Dan, who drew the blanket tighter.
“Warmer?”
“Yes, that’s better.”
“Ain’t so scairt?”
“No—I don’t know—I’m getting used to it, I guess.”
“Yes, we’ll be gettin’ used to un before day, an’ then we’ll be doin’ somethin’. Dad says always keep un nerve an’ be plucky, an’ th’ worst fixes can be got out of someway.”
“This is a pretty bad fix, though. Guess your dad was never in a fix like this.”
“Oh, yes, he were. Dad were on th’ old Narwhal when she were nipped, an’ twelve of her crew were lost. He were adrift on th’ ice for a week before he were picked up. An’ he’s been on four vessels as were wrecked. Dad’s been in some wonderful bad places, but he always gets out of un for he always keeps his nerve—an’ when they ain’t nothin’ he can do for hisself, he prays. Dad’s a wonderful religious man.”
“Can you pray?”
“Oh, yes; I been prayin’ quiet to myself, settin’ here. Can you?”
“I know the Lord’s Prayer. Mother taught me to say it when I was little.”
“Say un to yourself. ’Twill do good.”
Another long silence, and Dan asked:
“Been prayin’?”
“It won’t do any good; I’m sure it won’t. I said it once but it don’t seem to belong to this fix.”
“’Twill help us if we prays the best we can. Dad says: ‘Do everything you sets your hand to the best un knows how; if ’tis workin’, work the best un can; if ’tis prayin’, pray the best un can.’”
“Oh, Dan, if I’d only stopped fishing when you called me! If I’d only gone back to the ship then, we’d have been all right! Oh, why didn’t I go! Why didn’t I go!”
“Maybe the Lord were plannin’ to have us go adrift, and He were keepin’ you fishin’. Dad says sometimes th’ Lord does such things to try folks out an’ see what they’ll be doin’ for theirselves.”
“No, Dan, it was my fault. Oh, why didn’t I go when you called me! Now we’ll both be drowned, and it’s all my fault.”
“Don’t be feelin’ so bad about un, Paul,” Dan soothed. “While they’s life they’s a chanst. Dad’s always sayin’ that, an’ he says, ‘If you ever gets in a tight fix, lad, do all you can to get out of un, an’ when they ain’t nothin’ more you can do, an’ you’re sartin’ they ain’t, then pray to th’ Lord, an’ leave un to He. But,’ says Dad, ‘don’t waste no time prayin’ an’ askin’ th’ Lord’s help when they’s anythin’ you can do yourself. He won’t pull you out of no scrape when you ain’t doin’ th’ things He’s laid out for you to do first.’”
“But what can we do?”
“Nothin’ but pray now. We hollered an’ fired th’ guns. I been tryin’ to think of everythin’, an’ they ain’t nothin’ else I can think of till ’tis light enough to see, an’ then maybe we’ll be findin’ a way to fix th’ boat; an’ maybe if we prays th’ Lord’ll show us a way to do un.”
The lads again lapsed into silence, to be broken finally by Paul.
“Dan?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it most morning?”
“’Tis a long while till mornin’ yet. I’m thinkin’ ’tis about two bells.”
“One o’clock?”
“Yes. I’ll strike a match, an’ you looks at your watch.”
The flash of the match disclosed the hour as ten minutes past twelve.
“Time goes wonderful slow.”
“Yes. I thought it was almost morning.”
“Were you sleepin’?”
“No.”
Another silence, and Dan remarked:
“You got a wonderful lot o’ ca’tridges in your bag. What you bringin’ so many for?”
“They’re what Mr. Remington gave me.”
“Wonderful lot of un. More ’n you’ll need in a year.”
They settled down again, and when Dan looked up a faint light was showing through the fog blanket. He stirred and Paul awoke.
“We been sleepin’, Paul, an’ day’ll soon be breakin’.”
“Where are we?” asked Paul, rubbing his eyes.
“Cruisin’ to th’ s’uthard on a bit of ice in Hudson Bay,” answered Dan, adding facetiously: “We ain’t got no log, an’ I’ve lost th’ reckonin’.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Paul, sitting up and looking around him. “I remember now! I was dreaming of home, and when I woke up I thought we were in camp. My, but I’m stiff and cold.”
“’Tis a kind of camp, but not a shore camp.”
As daylight grew the outlook appeared more dismal than ever. The fog if possible was more dense than the evening before, and while the boys slept a corner of the pan had broken off.
“Do you think we can mend the boat?” asked Paul.
“’Tis too dark yet,” answered Dan, “but we’ll be tryin’ soon as we can see.”
“I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten a thing since twelve o’clock yesterday.”
“So is I hungry, an’ we’ll be eatin’ while we can’t do nothin’ else.”
An investigation of the provision box disclosed a can of corned beef, three cans of baked beans, a small piece of bacon, a dozen ship’s biscuits, a few pounds of flour and some tea, left over from their fishing trip.
“We’ll open one of the cans of beans, and each have a biscuit,” suggested Dan, “but they ain’t nothin’ to drink.”
“That’s so; we can’t make tea without a fire.”
“No, an’ the water’s salt.”
“We’re up against it good and hard. Now you speak of water, I’m famishing for a drink,” said Paul as he ate.
“Th’ ice is sweet, an’ after you eats I’ll chip a cupful of un, an’ if you holds un under your jacket she’ll melt.”
“I never would have thought of that. These beans are mighty good. Let’s have another can. I’m not half satisfied.”
“No, we got to be careful of un. They’s no tellin’ how long ’t will be before we gets picked up, an’ we got to be careful of the grub.”
“I’m fearfully hungry, but I guess you’re right.”
“Yes, I knows I is. Dad’s often sayin’ to me, ‘Dan, if you ever gets in a tight place, an’ not much grub in sight, be wonderful careful of what you has, and make un last.’”
It was full light now. Dan chipped some ice with the axe, filled a cup, and Paul held it carefully beneath his jacket.
An examination of the boat was not reassuring. The forward planks on the port side were stove far in, and an attempt to repair the damage, even temporarily, appeared at first a hopeless task.
“I’m not seein’ just how to mend un,” remarked Dan, contemplating the damaged planks, “but Dad, he says to me, ‘Always try. Do un best. What looks like a hard job is very like to be an easy one in the end.’ He says to me, ‘Do all un can, anyhow, howsoever hard the job looks. The Lord may have you marked up to live to sixty or seventy year,’ says he, ‘and to die in bed, but if you gets in a tight place, and they’s somethin’ you might be doin’ to get out of un if you tries, and you lets un go without tryin’ because you’re not seein’ how to do un at first, the Lord’ll be sayin’ to the recordin’ angel, just change that feller’s markin’, and put he down to die now, and make un drownin’. Dad says the Lord’ll just be thinkin’ ’tain’t no use keepin’ a feller around the world what don’t care enough about livin’ to do what he can to save hisself, but leaves it all to the Lord to do.’”
Encouraged by this philosophy of his father’s, Dan worked with a will, and at the end of an hour succeeded in forcing the stove-in planking back into place.
In the meantime Paul’s ice had melted, and, refreshed by a half cup of slightly brackish water, he turned his attention to Dan’s success with the boat.
“Won’t that go all right without leaking much?” he asked.
“No, ’twill leak like a sieve,” answered Dan, surveying the boat. “I were seein’ that much to do from the first, but I weren’t seein’ how to make the planks hold where I put un, or how to make un tight, and I’m not seein’ ’t yet. Now if we had some bits of board and some nails, I’m thinkin’ we might make un tight.”
“There’s the grub box. Couldn’t we knock that to pieces, and use the boards and nails in it?”
“The grub box! Well there! And I never were thinkin’ of un!”
Dan soon had the box in pieces and the nails removed.
“I’m wonderful slow to think of things sometimes,” remarked he as he worked. “Now why weren’t I thinkin’ of this box first off?”
Cleats were fashioned by Dan from the pieces of box, with the axe as his one working tool, and he was finally ready to nail them in position, where they would hold the broken planks in place. Nails were few, and it was necessary that great economy be practiced in their use and that each be driven where it would do the most good.
The swell was increasing, the north wind was rising, and with every hour the position of the boys was becoming more dangerous. The first cleat had scarcely been nailed down when a wave broke over the pan, washing its whole surface, not deep enough to carry the things away, but suggesting the possibility that another one might presently do so. Dan had fortunately put his cleats in the boat as he made them, or the wave would certainly have carried off the light pieces of wood.
“Paul, you be loadin’ the things in the boat,” said Dan, “while I does th’ mendin’. Th’ next swell breakin’ over th’ pan may carry th’ bags overboard. Load th’ light bags first.”
Paul obeyed, and when the next wave, a little heavier than the first, broke over the pan the outfit was out of its reach.
It was well past noon when the last cleat was placed, and Dan began to caulk with strips torn from a shirt, using as his tool a wedge made from a piece of the box.
The caulking was not yet half done when the boys were startled by a loud report, like that of a gun.
“There she goes!” exclaimed Dan. “I were lookin’ for un! Th’ pan’s busted!”
And sure enough, fully a third of their pan had broken loose from the main body of ice which held them.
Heavier swells, now and again moving the boat slightly, swept the pan. Dan worked desperately at his caulking; Paul, sitting in the boat clinging to his seat, was expecting every moment to be washed from the ice. As he looked out into the fog and beheld the growing anger of the sea his apprehension grew. He realized fully their imminent peril, and he began to doubt the ability of the frail boat, even had it been free from damage, to weather the high piling waves.
All at once he thought he saw something in the distance, a faint splotch in the fog, and he called out:
“Dan! Dan! See there! What is that?”
Dan raised his eyes from his work and looked.
“Land! ’Tis th’ land!” he exclaimed. “’Tis th’ land and we’ll soon be ashore.”
The tide was carrying them in, and more and more distinct a rocky outline of coast loomed up. Dan did not stop his repairs, however, and presently the task of caulking was finished.
“There,” said he, “she’s caulked, an’ she’ll do to take us ashore.”
“Can’t we float her now and land?” asked Paul, in feverish excitement.
“That’s a p’int of land,” said Dan, “We’re driftin’ in around un, and I’m thinkin’ th’ tide’ll carry us to the lee, an’ we’ll have less sea to launch in, if we waits a bit.”
“Oh, but I want to get ashore!” exclaimed Paul. “Couldn’t we launch off here?”
“We might and we mightn’t,” answered Dan cautiously. “We can’t move th’ boat without unloadin’ she. If we launches on the lee, th’ ice’ll be likely to ram in, an’ smash un ag’in, before we gets free, an’ if we tries to launch on ary other side th’ waves’ll be smashin’ un ag’in’ th’ ice before we gets th’ outfit aboard. And anyway, if we unloads th’ outfit on th’ ice th’ sea’s like to work un overboard before we gets th’ boat launched. I’m thinkin’ we’d better tarry a bit.”
Dan’s surmise proved correct. The ice slowly swept past the point, and, carried upon the bosom of a rising tide, they gradually passed into a bay, and calmer water.
“Now,” announced Dan, who had been watching his opportunity, “we’ll try un.”
The things were taken out of the boat, the boat pushed off and alongside the pan and easily reloaded in the now gentle swell, and the boys with their outfit aboard shoved out into the bay.
The one remaining oar Dan took astern, dropped it between two pegs placed there for the purpose, and working the oar adeptly back and forth both propelled and steered the boat shoreward. The damaged bow was found to be so well repaired that it leaked very little, and in a few minutes a safe landing was made upon a sloping, gravelly bit of beach.
For several minutes the boys stood silent, looking toward the fog-enshrouded sea from which they had just been delivered. Dan at length broke silence:
“Thank the Lord, we’re safe ashore,” said he reverently.
“Yes, it’s almost too good to believe.” Tears of joy stood in Paul’s eyes as he spoke. “When the ship finds us and picks us up, Dan, I’m going to tell Captain Bluntt that it was all my fault we didn’t go aboard when he told us to, and I’m going to tell everybody how you saved our lives by mending the boat. We never could have got off the ice if you hadn’t mended the boat.”
“’Twere nothin’ to mend th’ boat,” deprecated Dan.
“Oh, yes, it was,” insisted Paul. “There aren’t many could have done it, and when the ship picks us up I’ll tell them all about it.”
But they were not to see the North Star again, and they were not to be picked up. They were destined to face the rigors of a sub-Arctic winter in the unknown wilderness upon whose shores they had drifted.