It was not until August 30th that they at last left the chaos of mountains, of which one can form no idea from the mountains of lower zones, but they left it half dead. The doctor could no longer cheer up his companions, and he felt himself breaking down. The Trauter Mountains ended in a sort of rugged plain, heaped up at the time of the formation of the mountains. There they were compelled to take a few days of rest; the men could not set one foot before another; two of the dogs had died of exhaustion. They sheltered themselves behind a piece of ice, at a temperature of −2°; no one dared put up the tent. Their food had become very scanty, and, in spite of their extreme economy with their rations, they had a supply for but a week more; game became rarer, having left for a milder climate. Starvation threatened these exhausted men.
Altamont, who all along had shown great devotion and unselfishness, took advantage of the strength he had left, and resolved to procure by hunting some food for his companions. He took his gun, called Duke, and strode off for the plains to the north; the doctor, Johnson, and Bell saw him go away without much interest. For an hour they did not once hear his gun, and they saw him returning without firing a single shot; but he was running as if in great alarm.
“What is the matter?” asked the doctor.
“There! under the snow!” answered Altamont in great alarm, indicating a point in the horizon.
“What?”
“A whole band of men—”
“Alive?”
“Dead—frozen—and even—”
The American durst not finish his sentence, but his face expressed clearly his horror. The doctor, Johnson, Bell, aroused by this incident, were able to rise, and drag themselves along in Altamont’s footprints to the part of the plain to which he had pointed. They soon reached a narrow space, at the bottom of a deep ravine, and there a terrible sight met their eyes.
Bodies were lying half buried beneath the snow; here an arm, there a leg, or clinched hands, and faces still preserving an expression of despair.
The doctor drew near; then he stepped back, pale and agitated, while Duke barked mournfully.
“Horror!” he said.
“Well?” asked the boatswain.
“Didn’t you recognize them?” said the doctor in a strange voice.
“What do you mean?”
“Look!”
This ravine had been the scene of the last struggle between the men and the climate, despair, and hunger, for from some horrible signs it was easy to see that they had been obliged to eat human flesh. Among them the doctor had recognized Shandon, Pen, and the wretched crew of the Forward; their strength and food had failed them; their launch had probably been crushed by an avalanche, or carried into some ravine, and they could not take to the open sea; probably they were lost among these unknown continents. Besides, men who had left in mutiny could not long be united with the closeness which is necessary for the accomplishment of great things. A ringleader of a revolt has never more than a doubtful authority in his hands. And, without doubt, Shandon was promptly deposed.
However that may have been, the crew had evidently undergone a thousand tortures, a thousand despairs, to end with this terrible catastrophe; but the secret of their sufferings is forever buried beneath the arctic snows.
“Let us flee!” cried the doctor.
And he dragged his companions far from the scene of the disaster. Horror lent them momentary strength. They set out again.
XXVII
Conclusion
Why linger over the perpetual sufferings of the survivors? They themselves could never recall to their memory a clear vision of what had happened in the week after their horrible discovery of the remains of the crew. However, September 9th, by a miracle of energy, they reached Cape Horsburgh, at the end of North Devon.
They were dying of hunger; they had not eaten for forty-eight hours, and their last meal had been the flesh of their last Eskimo dog. Bell could go no farther, and old Johnson felt ready to die. They were on the shore of Baffin’s Bay, on the way to Europe. Three miles from land the waves were breaking on the edges of the ice-field. They had to await the uncertain passage of a whaler, and how many days yet?
But Heaven took pity on them, for the next day Altamont clearly saw a sail. The anguish which follows such an appearance of a sail, the tortures of disappointment, are well known. The ship seemed to approach and then to recede. Terrible are the alternations of hope and despair, and too often at the moment the castaways consider themselves saved the sail sinks beneath the horizon.
The doctor and his companions went through all these emotions; they had reached the western limit of the ice-field, and yet they saw the ship disappear, taking no note of their presence. They shouted, but in vain.
Then the doctor had a last inspiration of that busy mind which had served him in such good stead.
A floe had drifted against the ice-field.
“That floe!” he said, pointing to it.
They did not catch his meaning.
“Let us get on it!” he cried.
They saw his plan at once.
“Ah, Clawbonny, Dr. Clawbonny!” cried Johnson, kissing the doctor’s hands.
Bell, with Altamont’s aid, ran to the sledge; he brought one of the uprights, stood it up on the floe for a mast, making it fast with ropes; the tent was torn up for a sail. The wind was fair; the poor castaways put out to sea on this frail raft.
Two hours later, after unheard-of efforts, the last men of the Forward were taken aboard the Danish whaler Hans Christian, which was sailing to Davis Strait. The captain received kindly these spectres who had lost their semblance to human beings; when he saw their sufferings he understood their history; he gave them every attention, and managed to save their lives. Ten days later, Clawbonny, Johnson, Bell, Altamont, and Captain Hatteras landed
