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Page 6
A week passed, then another. There was no change, neither in the
character of the ice nor in the expedition's daily routine. Their toil
was incredible; at times an hour's unremitting struggle would gain but a
few yards. The dogs, instead of aiding them, were rapidly becoming mere
encumbrances. Four more had been killed, a fifth had been drowned, and
two, wandering from camp, had never returned. The second dog-sled had
been abandoned. The condition of McPherson's foot was such that no work
could be demanded from him. Hawes, the carpenter, was down with fever
and kept everybody awake all night by talking in his sleep. Worse than
all, however, Ferriss's right hand was again frostbitten, and this time
Dennison, the doctor, was obliged to amputate it above the wrist.
"... But I am no whit disheartened," wrote Bennett. "Succeed I must
and shall."
A few days after the operation on Ferriss's hand Bennett decided it
would be advisable to allow the party a full twenty-four hours' rest.
The march of the day before had been harder than any they had yet
experienced, and, in addition to McPherson and the carpenter, the doctor
himself was upon the sick list.
In the evening Bennett and Ferriss took a long walk or rather climb over
the ice to the southwest, picking out a course for the next day's march.
A great friendship, not to say affection, had sprung up between these
two men, a result of their long and close intimacy on board the Freja
and of the hardships and perils they had shared during the past few
weeks while leading the expedition in the retreat to the southward. When
they had decided upon the track of the morrow's advance they sat down
for a moment upon the crest of a hummock to breathe themselves, their
elbows on their knees, looking off to the south over the desolation of
broken ice.
With his one good hand Ferriss drew a pipe and a handful of tea leaves
wrapped in oiled paper from the breast of his deer-skin parkie.
"Do you mind filling this pipe for me, Ward?" he asked of Bennett.
Bennett glanced at the tea leaves and handed them back to Ferriss, and
in answer to his remonstrance produced a pouch of his own.
"Tobacco!" cried Ferriss, astonished; "why, I thought we smoked our last
aboard ship."
"No, I saved a little of mine."
"Oh, well," answered Ferriss, trying to interfere with Bennett, who was
filling his pipe, "I don't want your tobacco; this tea does very well."
"I tell you I have eight-tenths of a kilo left," lied Bennett, lighting
the pipe and handing it back to him. "Whenever you want a smoke you can
set to me."
Bennett lit a pipe of his own, and the two began to smoke.
"'M, ah!" murmured Ferriss, drawing upon the pipe ecstatically, "I
thought I never was going to taste good weed again till we should get
home."
Bennett said nothing. There was a long silence. Home! what did not that
word mean for them? To leave all this hideous, grisly waste of ice
behind, to have done with fighting, to rest, to forget responsibility,
to have no more anxiety, to be warm once more--warm and well fed and
dry--to see a tree again, to rub elbows with one's fellows, to know the
meaning of warm handclasps and the faces of one's friends.
"Dick," began Bennett abruptly after a long while, "if we get stuck here
in this damned ice I'm going to send you and probably Metz on ahead for
help. We'll make a two-man kyack for you to use when you reach the limit
of the pack, but besides the kyack you'll carry nothing but your
provisions, sleeping-bags, and rifle, and travel as fast as you can."
Bennett paused for a moment, then in a different voice continued: "I
wrote a letter last night that I was going to give you in case I should
have to send you on such a journey, but I think I might as well give it
to you now."
He drew from his pocket an envelope carefully wrapped in oilskin.
"If anything should happen to the expedition--to me--I want you to see
that this letter is delivered."
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