And on that day the last piece of coal on board was thrown into the stove.
XXVII
The Great Cold at Christmas
For a moment he had a feeling of despair. The thought of death, and death by cold, appeared in all its horror; this last piece of coal burned with an ominous splutter; the fire seemed about to go out, and the temperature of the room fell noticeably. But Johnson went to get some of the new fuel which the marine animals had furnished to them, and with it he filled the stove; he added to it some tow filled with frozen oil, and soon obtained sufficient heat. The odor was almost unendurable; but how get rid of it? They had to get used to it. Johnson agreed that his plan was defective, and that it would not be considered a success in Liverpool.
“And yet,” he added, “this unpleasant smell will, perhaps, produce good results.”
“What are they?” asked the carpenter.
“It will doubtless attract the bears this way, for they are fond of the smell.”
“Well,” continued Bell, “what is the need of having bears?”
“Bell,” replied Johnson, “we can’t count on seals any longer; they’re gone away, and for a long time; if bears don’t come in their place to supply us with their share of fuel, I don’t know what is to become of us.”
“True, Johnson, our fate is very uncertain; our position is a most alarming one. And if this sort of fuel gives out, I don’t see how—”
“There might be another—”
“Another?” asked Bell.
“Yes, Bell! in despair on account of—but the captain would never—but yet we shall perhaps have to come to it.”
And Johnson shook his head sadly, and fell to thinking gloomily. Bell did not interrupt him. He knew that the supply of fat, which it had been so hard to acquire, would only last a week, even with the strictest economy.
The boatswain was right. A great many bears, attracted by the scent, were seen to leeward of the Forward; the healthy men gave chase; but these animals are very swift of foot, and crafty enough to escape most stratagems; it was impossible to get near them, and the most skilful gunners could not hit them.
The crew of the brig was in great danger of dying from the cold; it could not withstand, for forty-eight hours, such a temperature as would exist in the common-room. Everyone looked forward with terror to getting to the end of the fuel.
Now this happened December 20th, at three o’clock in the afternoon; the fire went out; the sailors, grouped about the empty stove, gazed at one another with haggard eyes. Hatteras remained without moving in his corner; the doctor, as usual, paced up and down excitedly; he did not know what was to be done.
The temperature in the room fell at once to −7°.
But if the doctor was baffled and did not know what they should turn their hands to, others knew very well. So Shandon, cold and resolute, Pen, with wrath in his eyes, and two or three of his companions, such as he could induce to accompany him, walked towards Hatteras.
“Captain!” said Shandon.
Hatteras, absorbed in his thoughts, did not hear him.
“Captain!” repeated Shandon, touching him with his hand.
Hatteras arose.
“Sir,” he said.
“Captain, the fire is out.”
“Well?” continued Hatteras.
“If you intend that we shall freeze to death,” Shandon went on with grim irony, “we should be glad if you would tell us.”
“My intention,” answered Hatteras with a deep voice, “is that every man shall do his duty to the end.”
“There’s something superior to duty, Captain,” answered his first officer, “and that is the right of self-preservation. I repeat it, we have no fire; and if this goes on, in two days not one of us will be alive.”
“I have no wood,” answered Hatteras, gloomily.
“Well,” shouted Pen, violently, “when the wood gives out, we must go cut it where it grows!”
Hatteras grew pale with anger.
“Where is that?” he asked.
“On board,” answered the sailor, insolently.
“On board!” repeated the captain, with clinched fists and sparkling eyes.
“Of course,” answered Pen, “when the ship can’t carry the crew, the ship ought to be burned.”
At the beginning of this sentence Hatteras had grasped an axe; at its end, this axe was raised above Pen’s head.
“Wretch!” he cried.
The doctor sprang in front of Pen, and thrust him back; the axe fell on the floor, making a deep gash. Johnson, Bell, and Simpson gathered around Hatteras, and seemed determined to support him. But plaintive, grievous cries arose from the berths, transformed into deathbeds.
“Fire, fire!” they cried, shivering beneath their now insufficient covering.
Hatteras by a violent effort controlled himself, and after a few moments of silence, he said calmly—
“If we destroy the ship, how shall we get back to England?”
“Sir,” answered Johnson, “perhaps we can without doing any material damage burn the less important parts, the bulwarks, the nettings—”
“The small boats will be left,” said Shandon; “and besides, why might we not make a smaller vessel out of what is left of the old one?”
“Never!” answered Hatteras.
“But—” interposed many of the men, shouting together.
“We have a large quantity of spirits of wine,” suggested Hatteras; “burn all of that.”
“All right; we’ll take the spirits of wine!” answered Johnson, assuming an air of confidence which he was far from feeling.
And with the aid of long wicks, dipped into this liquid of which the pale flame licked the walls of the stove, he was able to raise the temperature of the room a few degrees.
In the following days the wind came from the south again and the thermometer rose; the snow, however, kept falling. Some of the men were able to leave the ship for the driest hours of the day; but ophthalmia and scurvy kept most of them on board; besides, neither hunting nor fishing was possible.
But this was only a respite in the fearful severity of the cold, and on the 25th, after a sudden change of wind, the frozen mercury disappeared again in the bulb of
