Chapter I: A Strange Discovery--Sheelah and Taffy

“She is bound to be,” said Captain Mayne Brace, a day or two before the good ship _Walrus_ reached Kerguelen. “Bound to be, Mr. Armstrong. She is the better craft of the two, you know.”

He was talking to Ingomar and Walter, one evening in October, while they all sat together in the cosy saloon, not a mile away from the stove.

Ingomar and Brace were smoking the pipe of peace, and sipping their coffee (which they placed, to keep warm, on top of the stove), between each longdrawn sip. Walter was reading one of Scott’s novels, or trying to, for he was listening to the conversation all the same. Charlie was missing to-night. I rather think he would have been found, if any one had cared to look for him, forward in the galley, listening to the men’s yarns, or playing a hornpipe to please them.

“Well, yes, she is bound to be, in the natural course of events, because, as you say, she has faster sailing qualities, and all that; but----”

“Ah!” interrupted Mayne Brace, with a smile, and another hearty pull at his coffee; “we must not think of the ‘might be,’ or the ‘may be.’ Else we’d go on thinking and get nervous, and end in believing, that because we did not meet the _Sea Elephant_ somewhere to the east of Dougherty Islands, she has been taken aback in a squall, and gone down stern foremost, with all hands. Or that she had, at the very least, broken her screw.”

“Steward!”

“Ay, ay, sir!”

“Put more coals on the fire.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And just replenish our cups of coffee. Fresh ground, isn’t it?”

“That it be, sir.

“Dumpty always roasts it himself, and I grinds it. A main good hand Dumpty is, sir, at roasting coffee. A little morsel of lard in the bottom of the pan to keep the beans from burning, a good clear fire, and keep them moving and moving; and there you be, sir.”

“Steward!”

“Sir to you again, sir.”

“Ever anybody ask you for a recipe for roasting coffee?”

“Milk and sugar, sir?”

The milk was another invention of the steward. It was a fresh gull’s egg, beaten and mixed with hot water, and sweetened with pure preserved milk.

On the whole, everybody did his best on board the old _Walrus_.

The men forward to-night were very jolly, for, being so near to the end of their exceedingly long voyage, the captain had spliced the main brace, that is, he had added one modest glass of rum to their nightly allowance. I don’t believe in rum myself, but when one is writing a sea story, one must adhere to the truth. The man who does not face realities and the naked truth, is like the fabled ostrich that hid its head in the sand when danger approached.

The men drank “sweethearts and wives,” or “wives and sweethearts,” in the real good old British fashion. The married men, you know, drank “_wives_ and sweethearts.” The bachelors, and they were nearly all of that persuasion, put the “sweethearts” to the front.

They had mixed the grog with a good deal of hot water and sugar to make it last. But they toasted each other also; and it was, “Here’s to you, Jack;” or, “Here’s to you, Bill,” or Tom or Joe, as the case might be. And “We’ve been shipmates now more’n a year, and never a word atween us, bar a sea-boot now and then.”

And they toasted “The Captain.” “And he _is_ a good fellow,” was the remark of one sailor, “though a stickler for duty.”

“Ah! Well, Sconce, dooty is dooty all the world. Stick by that, and we’ll all do well.”

“Dooty,” said another, “is the needle wot points to the Pole, and the Pole is Heaven itself.”

“Very good sentiment for _you_, Jack. Here’s to dooty!”

“Now, sir”--this to Charlie--“touch her up, sir. Give us ‘Homeward Bound,’ and we’ll all chime in, from Dumpty downwards, to the nipper wot tends the dogs.”

“Homeward Bound” was given with glee; but, of course, it was only a make-believe, because there wasn’t much home life about Kerguelen.

They sighted the island after passing McDonald and Heard Isles.

Charlie again. He had been determined to be first to see land.

Before the entrance to the creek or natural harbour, where the men and animals were, is a spit of rocky land, a rugged kind of breakwater, and had the _Sea Elephant_ been the first inside, her top-masts would have shown over this.

But here was never a ship’s mast to be seen.

On the shore, high up on a braeside, was an outlook, and the _Walrus’s_ people saw both American and British ensigns dipped to welcome the _Walrus_.

The _Walrus_ returned the salute.

Then flags of all kinds were set in motion, and the signalmen on board and on shore were very busy indeed, for a time.

“Yes, all was well, now,” said the signalman on shore, “but two dogs dead, and one Innuit. _Sea Elephant_ had never been seen.”

The anchor was hardly let go when the officer’s boat was alongside, and he was heartily welcomed down below to exchange experiences.

He and his men had been very busy all the time, and they were ably assisted and supported by the kindly Yak-Yaks. He spoke in the very highest terms of Slap-dash, the chief. In the dreary days of winter, when the island was deep in snow, snow-shoe expeditions were got up; but sleighing, especially with the bears, who were better suited to the rough work, was preferred. The Yak-Yak died of inflammation. One dog fell over a cliff and was killed at once. The other was found dead. Both were buried side by side, and cairns mark their resting-place. “There is a cairn also,” said Slator, “on the poor Yak-Yak. I think we nearly all dropped some tears at his grave.”

I suppose they did, reader, for in the loneliness of such a place as this the heart is sometimes very near the throat. Sunshine brings mirth and happiness, gloom depresses, and there is always a certain amount of sadness in even the songs of northern nations, such as Iceland, Scotland, and Norway.

Both Charlie and Walt had some doubt as to how the Yak-Yak dogs would receive them again. But, accompanied by Ingomar, they boldly marched some distance into the interior, to the kennels. It was the afternoon of what had been a glorious day, and they had doffed their fur caps and coats.

The bears were not at home just then. Both bears and dogs, indeed, had gone away to roam the wilds nearly every day, but the Bruins, with the dogs, always came shambling or trotting back at eventide, to sleep and to eat.

They were away then at this moment, and Slap-dash proposed that, with the Newfoundlands and pet collie, they should all march forth to meet them.

Strangely enough, they had a rendezvous on a hill-top, where most of them met every night, and from this a beaten track to the camp.

To-day several of the dogs were already at the place of meeting, several were straggling up from seawards, and in front (for no dog was permitted to walk behind him) was Gruff, with his well-beloved wife Growley.

When within about seventy yards of the place, where Ingomar and the boys were standing, both stopped short and sniffed the air. Then Growley gave vent to a half-choked roar of rage, that shook the hills--well, if it didn’t shake the hills, it shook the hearts of Charlie and Walt.

“Strangers!” Growley seemed to shout. “I’ll tear ’em limb from limb!”

Gruff rounded on her at once, and promptly knocked her down.

Then Gruff came trotting on, and Nora and Nick and the collie ran off to meet them, our heroes following.

That was a _pas de joie_, a joy-dance, if ever there was a joy-dance in this world; and those sceptical creatures, who would class dogs and our other dumb friends as mere automata, would have been converted on the spot to the dear old doctrine, that animals have souls, had they but seen that dance.

It was too absurdly intrinsically droll for description. The other two bears, Grumpey and Meg, came up and joined, and presently all the rest of the bonnie dogs.

They went round and round our heroes in a hairy hurricane; they pretended to worry each other, they barked and roared, and grumbled and growled, till the boys’ sides were sore with laughing.

Surely such a scene of merriment was never before witnessed, and when all had quietened down somewhat, they went amicably back to the kennels.

This is not one of Grimms’ fairy tales, mind, rather is it a fairy tale of science and natural history, and these, readers mine, are all true.

* * * * *

A whole week passed away, but still no _Sea Elephant_.

Captain Mayne Brace had taken in more coals, and his arrangements were all complete, so he was becoming impatient; but at long last the ship hove in sight over the horizon, and the union was complete.

On comparing logs, it was found that they must have passed each other at night, and had been probably within ten nautical miles of each other.

The bigger ship had taken many observations, and done a much quicker voyage. But, knowing that he could be at Kerguelen much sooner than the _Walrus_, a happy thought had occurred to Captain Bell. He would run up to the Cape of Good Hope and endeavour to get a cargo of coals.

Although the war was raging, he succeeded, and now these were landed in case of emergency, each ship just taking enough for the grand new cruise.

I need hardly say that the meeting between Curtis and Ingomar was most cordial.

A grand ball was given on shore on the night of re-union.

Sailors are not sailors unless they can have a bit of fun.

It was a ball of a somewhat heterogeneous description, for men waltzed with men, though Slap-dash did some really graceful movements with Gruff and the other bears as partners. There were no ladies, you see, but all the more freedom and merriment.

Yet, stay; I must qualify this statement. The Eskimos, Yaks, Innuits, Teelies, or any other name you choose to give them, are droll creatures. They all dress alike in skins, and their faces are all about the same shape.

Now the very day before the _Walrus_ and _Sea Elephant_ sailed, all being then on board, except a change of men who were to remain at Kerguelen for observation duty, Slap-dash came up and saluted Captain Bell.

“Four of my rascals,” he said, “want to speak to you directly.”

Then the four “rascals” were led up and threw themselves on their faces before Captain Bell as if they had been worshipping the sun.

“Get up, get up,” said Bell, “and speak like men.”

They arose at once and stood before him, and two took a step in advance of the other two.

“We not all men-people, sir,” said one.

“We not all men-people,” said the other.

Captain Bell began to frown.

“Dis ees my ole woman-people,” said the first speaker.

“Dis ees my ole mudder-people,” said the other.

“Slap-dash,” cried Bell, “did you know this?”

“Not befo’ dis morning, sah; no, no.”

Captain Bell was puzzled and silent. He addressed Ross, the officer who had been left in charge at Kerguelen.

“No, sir,” said this gentleman; “I don’t see how we can send them on shore. We can’t want the whole four. They will pine and die if separated. That would be a dead certainty.”

“Very dead,” said Bell, smiling.

“Besides, though no one suspected their sex, that one called Sheelah is an excellent cook, and both are capital nurses. We were sick sometimes. We had green fever in winter, and certain I am that they nursed us back to life.”

The carpenter was next called for.

“Carpenter,” said Bell, “a small screen berth will be wanted below in some corner, a kind of l-l-ladies’ cabin. Do ye hear?”

“Well, sir, I do hear, because I’m not deaf; but I don’t understand.”

“Then just do as you are told, Mr. Inglis.”

“Certainly, sir, certainly.”

So a little privacy was obtained for Sheelah and Taffy, and, as it turned out afterwards, no one was the loser for the “women-people” being on board.

Do coming events throw their shadows before?

Perhaps they do. Anyhow, when the two ships looked their last on Kerguelen--the last for a long time, at all events--there was more silence on board than is usual with sailors going off to sea.

They knew the dangers they were going to encounter, but they were all quite acclimatized to the rigorous Antarctic climate by this time, and there was not a man on board, British or American, who was not prepared to do his best. Which of us can do more?