The Giant of the North: Pokings Round the Pole by R. M. Ballantyne (best historical biographies TXT) đź“•
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- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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The bear made no reply, but turned to examine the contents of the ice-cave. First he went to the hatchet and smelt it. In doing so he cut his nose. With a growl he gave the weapon an angry pat, and in so doing cut his toes. We fear that Benjy rejoiced at the sight of blood, for he chuckled and made the sarcastic remark, “That comes of losing your temper, old fellow!”
That bear either understood English, or the very sound of the human voice caused it irritation, for it turned and rushed at the ice-ledge with such fury that Benjy’s heart again leaped into his throat. He had, however, recovered sufficiently to enable him to act with promptitude and discretion. Sitting down with his right foot ready, and his hands resting firmly on the ice behind him, he prepared to receive the charge in the only available manner. So fierce was the onset that the monster ran up the ice-cliff like a cat, and succeeded in fixing the terrible claws of both feet on the edge of the shelf, but the boy delivered his right heel with such force that the left paw slipped off. The left heel followed like lightning, and the right paw also slipped, letting the bear again fall heavily on the ice below.
This was more than even a bear could bear. He rushed savagely about the cavern, growling hideously, dashing the sledge about as if it had been a mere toy, and doing all the mischief he could, yet always avoiding the axe with particular care—thus showing that polar bears, not less than men, are quite awake to personal danger, even when supposed to be blind with rage! At last he lay down to recover himself, and lick his bloody nose and paw.
While Benjy sat contemplating this creature, and wondering what was to be the end of it all, a bright idea occurred to him. He rose quickly, took the electrical machine out of its box, and happily found it to be in good working order—thanks to Alf, who had special charge of the scientific instruments, and prided himself on the care with which he attended to them. The bear watched him narrowly with its wicked little eyes, though it did not see fit to cease its paw-licking.
Having arranged the machine, Benjy took the two handles in his left hand, pressed his knee on the board of the instrument to hold it steady, and with his right hand caused it to revolve. Then he held down the handles as if inviting the bear to come and take them.
The challenge was accepted at once. Bruin cantered up, rose on his hind legs, and stretched his neck to its utmost, but could not reach the handles, though the boy stretched downward as far as possible to accommodate him. The dirty-white monster whined and snickered with intense feeling at thus finding itself so near, and yet so far, from the attainment of its object.
Sympathising with its desires, Benjy changed his posture, and managed just to touch the nose of his enemy. The bear shrank back with a sort of gasp, appalled—at least shocked—by the result! After a little, not feeling much the worse for it, the brute returned as if to invite another electric shock—perhaps with some sinister design in view. But another and a brighter idea had entered Benjy’s brain. Instead of giving the bear a shock, he tore off a small bit of seal-blubber from the mass at his side, which he dropped into its mouth. It swallowed that morsel with satisfaction, and waited for more. Benjy gave it more. Still it wanted more.
“You shall have it, my boy,” said Benjy, whose eyes assumed that peculiar glare of glee which always presaged some desperate intention.
He opened another small box, and found what he wanted. It was a small object scarcely a couple of inches in length. He fastened the wires of the electric machine quickly to it, and then imbedded it in a small piece of blubber which he lowered, as before, to the bear.
“You’ll probably break the wires or smash the machine, but I’ll risk that,” muttered Benjy through his set teeth. “I only hope you won’t chew it, because dynamite mayn’t be palatable. There—down with it!”
The bear happily bolted the morsel. The wires seemed to perplex him a little, but before he had time to examine the mystery, the boy gave the instrument a furious turn.
Instantly there was a stupendous crash like a very thunderbolt. The bear burst like an overcharged cannon! Benjy and the berg collided, and at that moment everything seemed to the former to vanish away in smoke, leaving not even a wrack behind!
When the catastrophe described in the last chapter occurred, Captain Vane and his friends, following hard on the heels of the runaway, chanced to be within two miles of the berg in the bosom of which Benjy had found refuge.
“There he is!” shouted the Captain joyfully, as the flash of the explosion reached his eyes and the roar of the report his ears. “Blessed evidence! He’s up to mischief of some sort still, and that’s proof positive that he’s alive.”
“But he may have perished in this piece of mischief,” said Alf, anxiously glancing up at the kite, which was dragging the heavily-laden sledge rather slowly over the rough ice.
“I hope not, Alf. Shake the regulator, Butterface, and see that it’s clear.”
“All right, Massa. Steam’s on de berry strongest what’s possible.”
“Heave some o’ the cargo overboard, Alf. We must make haste. Not the meat, lad, not the meat; everything else before that. So. Mind your helm, Chingatok; she’ll steer wildish when lightened.”
Captain Vane was right. When Alf had tumbled some of the heavier portions of lading off the sledge, it burst away like a wild-horse let go free, rendering it difficult at first for Chingatok to steady it. In a few minutes, however, he had it again under control, and they soon reached the berg.
“The dynamite must have gone off by accident,” said the Captain to Alf, as they stumbled over masses of ice which the explosion had brought down from the roof of the cavern. “It’s lucky it didn’t happen in summer, else the berg might have been blown to atoms. Hallo! what’s this? Bits of a polar bear, I do believe—and—what! not Benjy!”
It was indeed Benjy, flat on his back like a spread-eagle, and covered with blood and brains; but his appearance was the worst of his case, though it took a considerable time to convince his horrified friends of that fact.
“I tell you I’m all right, father,” said the poor boy, on recovering from the state of insensibility into which his fall had thrown him.
“But you’re covered from head to foot with blood,” exclaimed the anxious father, examining him all over, “though I can’t find a cut of any sort about you—only one or two bruises.”
“You’ll find a bump on the top of my head, father, the size of a cocoa-nut. That’s what knocked the senses out o’ me, but the blood and brains belong to the bear. I lay no claim to them.”
“Where is the bear?” asked Alf, looking round.
“Where is he?” echoed Benjy, bursting into a wild laugh.
“Oh! Massa Benjy, don’t laugh,” said Butterface solemnly; “you hab no notion wot a awful look you got when you laugh wid sitch a bloody face.”
This made Benjy laugh more than ever. His mirth became catching, and the negro’s solemn visage relaxed into an irrepressible grin.
“Oh, you japan-jawed porpoise!” cried Benjy, “you should have seen that bear go off—with such a crack too! I only wish I’d been able to hold up for two seconds longer to see it properly, but my shelf went down, and I had to go along with it. Blown to bits! No—he was blown to a thousand atoms! Count ’em if you can.”
Again Benjy burst into uproarious laughter.
There was indeed some ground for the boy’s way of putting the case. The colossal creature had been so terribly shattered by the dynamite cartridge, that there was scarcely a piece of him larger than a man’s hand left to tell the tale.
“Well, well,” said the Captain, assisting his son to rise, “I’m thankful it’s no worse.”
“Worse, father! why, it couldn’t be worse, unless, indeed, his spirit were brought alive again and allowed to contemplate the humbling condition of his body.”
“I don’t refer to the bear, Benjy, but to yourself, lad. You might have been killed, you know, and I’m very thankful you were not—though you half-deserve to be. But come, we must encamp here for the night and return home to-morrow, for the wind has been shifting a little, and will be favourable, I think, in the morning.”
The wind was indeed favourable next morning, we may say almost too favourable, for it blew a stiff breeze from the south, which steadily increased to a gale during the day. Afterwards the sky became overcast and the darkness intense, rendering it necessary to attend to the kite’s regulator with the utmost care, and advance with the greatest caution.
Now, while the Captain and his friends were struggling back to their Polar home, Leo Vandervell happened to be caught by the same gale when out hunting. Being of a bold, sanguine, and somewhat reckless disposition, this Nimrod of the party paid little attention to the weather until it became difficult to walk and next to impossible to see. Then, having shot nothing that day, he turned towards the Pole with a feeling of disappointment.
But when the gale increased so that he could hardly face it, and the sky became obliterated by falling and drifting snow, disappointment gave place to anxiety, and he soon realised the fact that he had lost his direction. To advance in such circumstances was out of the question, he therefore set about building a miniature hut of snow. Being by that time expert at such masonry, he soon erected a dome-shaped shelter, in which he sat down on his empty game-bag after closing the entrance with a block of hard snow.
The position of our hunter was not enviable. The hut was barely high enough to let him sit up, and long enough to let him lie down—not to stretch out. The small allowance of pemmican with which he had set out had long ago been consumed. It was so dark that he could not see his hand when close before his eyes. He was somewhat fatigued and rather cold, and had no water to drink. It was depressing to think of going to bed in such circumstances with the yelling of an Arctic storm for a lullaby.
However, Leo had a buoyant spirit, and resolved to “make the best of it.” First of all he groped in his game-bag for a small stove lamp, which he set up before him, and arranged blubber and a wick in it, using the sense of touch in default of sight. Then he struck a light, but not with matches. The Englishmen’s small stock of congreves had long since been exhausted, and they were obliged to procure fire by the Eskimo method, namely, a little piece of wood worked like a drill, with a thong of leather, against another piece of wood until the friction produced fire. When a light had been thus laboriously obtained, he applied it to the wick of his lamp, and wished fervently for something to cook.
It is proverbial that wishing does not usually achieve much. After a deep sigh, therefore, Leo turned his wallet inside out. Besides a few crumbs, it contained a small lump of narwhal blubber and a little packet. The former, in its frozen state, somewhat resembled hard butter. The latter contained a little coffee—not the genuine article, however. That, like the matches, had long ago been used up, and our discoverers were reduced to roasted biscuit-crumbs. The substitute
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