‘Very attentive and considerate on your part,’ said Frank. ‘What is to become of me, if you please, when Bateson has chopped my bed into firewood?’
‘Can’t you guess?’
‘I suppose the cold has stupefied me. The riddle is beyond my reading. Suppose you give me a hint?’
‘Certainly. There will be beds to spare soon—there is to be a change at last in our wretched lives here. Do you see it now?’
Frank’s eyes sparkled. He sprang out of his berth and waved his fur cap in triumph.
‘See it?’ he exclaimed; ‘of course I do! The exploring party is to start at last. Do I go with the expedition?’
‘It is not very long since you were in the doctor’s hands, Frank,’ said Crayford, kindly.
‘I doubt if you are strong enough yet to make one of the exploring party.’
‘Strong enough or not,’ returned Frank, ‘any risk is better than pining and perishing here. Put me down, Crayford, among those who volunteer to go.
‘Volunteers will not be accepted in this case,’ said Crayford. ‘Captain Helding and Captain Ebsworth see serious objections, as we are situated, to that method of proceeding.’
‘Do they mean to keep the appointments in their own hands?’ asked Frank. ‘I, for one, object to that.’
‘Wait a little,’ said Crayford. ‘You were playing backgammon the other day with one of the officers. Does the board belong to him or to you?’
‘It belongs to me. I have got it in my locker here. What do you want with it?’
‘I want the dice and the box, for casting lots. The captains have arranged—most wisely, as I think—that Chance shall decide among us who goes with the expedition, and who stays behind in the huts. The officers and crew of the Wanderer will be here in a few minutes to cast the lots. Neither you nor any one can object to that way of settling the question. Officers and men alike take their chance together. Nobody can grumble.’
‘ I am quite satisfied,’ said Frank. ‘But I know of one man among the officers who is sure to make objections.’
‘Who is the man?’
‘You know him well enough too. The “Bear of the Expedition,” Richard Wardour.’
‘Frank! Frank! you have a bad habit of letting your tongue run away with you. Don’t repeat that stupid nickname when you talk of my good friend, Richard Wardour.’
‘Your good friend? Crayford! your liking for that man amazes me.
Crayford laid his hand kindly on Frank’s shoulder. Of all the officers of the Sea-Mew, Crayford’s favourite was Frank.
‘Why should it amaze you?’ he asked. ‘What opportunities have you had of judging?
You and Wardour have always belonged to different ships. I have never seen you in Wardour’s society for five minutes together. How can you form a fair estimate of his character?’
‘I take the general estimate of his character,’ Frank answered. ‘He has got his nickname because he is the most unpopular man in his ship. Nobody likes him—there must be some reason for that.’
‘There is only one reason for it,’ Crayford rejoined. ‘Nobody understands Richard Wardour. I am not talking at random. Remember I sailed from England with him in the Wanderer, and I was only transferred to the Sea-Mew long after we were locked up in the ice. I was Richard Wardour’s companion on board ship for months, and I learnt there to do him justice. Under all his outward defects, I tell you there beats a great and generous
heart. Suspend your opinion, my lad, until you know my friend as well as I do. No more of this now. Give me the dice and the box.’
Frank opened his locker. At the same time the silence of the snowy waste outside was broken by a shouting of voices hailing the hut—‘ Sea-Mew, a-hoy!’
VIII
The sailor on watch opened the outer door. There, plodding over the ghastly white snow, were the officers of the Wanderer approaching the hut. There, scattered under the merciless black sky, were the crew, with the dogs and the sledges, waiting the word which was to start them on their perilous and doubtful journey.
Captain Helding of the Wanderer, accompanied by his officers, entered the hut—in high spirits at the prospect of a change. Behind them, lounging in slowly by himself, was a dark, sullen, heavy-browed man. He neither spoke nor offered his hand to anybody; he was the one person present who seemed to be perfectly indifferent to the fate in store for him. This was the man whom his brother officers had nicknamed the Bear of the Expedition. In other words—Richard Wardour.
Crayford advanced to welcome Captain Helding. Frank—remembering the friendly reproof which he had just received—passed over the other officers of the Wanderer, and made a special effort to be civil to Crayford’s friend.
‘Good morning, Mr Wardour,’ he said. ‘We may congratulate each other on the chance of leaving this horrible place.’
‘You may think it horrible,’ Wardour retorted. ‘I like it.’
‘Like it? Good heavens! why?’
‘Because there are no women here.’
Frank turned to his brother officers, without making any further advances in the direction of Richard Wardour. The Bear of the Expedition was more unapproachable than ever.
In the meantime, the hut had become thronged by the able-bodied officers and men of the two ships. Captain Helding, standing in the midst of them, with Crayford by his side, proceeded to explain the purpose of the contemplated expedition to the audience which surrounded him.
He began in these words:
‘Brother officers and men of the Wanderer and Sea-Mew, it is my duty to tell you, very briefly, the reasons which have decided Captain Ebsworth and myself on despatching an exploring party in search of help. Without recalling all the hardships we have suffered for the last two years—the destruction, first of one of our ships, then of the other; the death of some of our bravest and best companions; the vain battles we have, been fighting with the ice and snow, and boundless desolation of these inhospitable regions—without dwelling on these things, it is my duty to remind you that this, the last place in which we have taken refuge, is far beyond the track of any previous expedition, and that consequently our chance of being discovered by any rescuing parties that may be sent to look after us is, to say the least of it, a chance of the most uncertain kind. You all agree with me, gentlemen, so far?’
The officers (with the exception of Wardour, who stood apart in sullen silence) all agreed, so far.
The Captain went on.
‘It is therefore urgently necessary that we should make another, and probably a last, effort to extricate ourselves. The winter is not far off, game is getting scarcer and scarcer, our stock of provisions is running low, and the sick—especially, I am sorry to say, the sick in the Wanderer’s hut—are increasing in number day by day. We must look to our own lives, and to the lives of those who are dependent on us, and we have no time to lose.’
The officers echoed the words cheerfully.
‘Right! right! No time to lose.’
Captain Helding resumed:
‘The plan proposed is, that a detachment of the able-bodied officers and men among us should set forth this very day, and make another effort to reach the nearest inhabited settlements, from which help and provisions may be despatched to those who remain here. The new direction to be taken, and the various precautions to be adopted, are all drawn out ready. The only question now before us is—Who is to stop here, and who is to undertake the journey?’
The officers answered the question with one accord—‘Volunteers!’
The men echoed their officers. ‘Aye, aye, volunteers.’
Wardour still preserved his sullen silence. Crayford noticed him, standing apart from the rest, and appealed to him personally.
‘Do you say nothing?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’
Wardour
answered. ‘Go or stay, it’s all one to me.’
‘I hope you don’t really mean that?’ said Crayford.
‘I
&nbs
p; do.’
‘I am sorry to hear it, Wardour.’
Captain Helding answered the general suggestion in favour of volunteering by a question which instantly checked the rising enthusiasm of the meeting. ‘Well,’ he said,
‘suppose we say volunteers. Who volunteers to stop in the huts?’ There was a dead silence. The officers and men looked at each other confusedly. The Captain continued.
‘You see we can’t settle it by volunteering. You all want to go. Every man among us who has the use of his limbs naturally wants to go. But what is to become of those who have not got the use of their limbs? Some of us must stay here and take care of the sick.’
Everybody admitted that this was true.
‘So we get back again,’ said the Captain, ‘to the old question—Who among the able-bodied is to go, and who is to stay? Captain Ebsworth says, and I say, let chance decide it. Here are dice. The numbers run as high as twelve—double sixes. All who throw under six, stay; all who throw over six, go. Officers of the Wanderer and the Sea-Mew, do you agree to that way of meeting the difficulty?’
All the officers agreed—with the one exception of Wardour, who still kept silence.
‘Men of the Wanderer and Sea-Mew, your officers agree to cast lots. Do you agree too?’
The men agreed without a dissentient voice. Crayford handed the box and the dice to Captain Helding.
‘You throw first, sir. Under six, “Stay.” Over six, “Go.”’
Captain Helding cast the dice; the top of the cask serving for a table. He threw seven.
‘Go,’ said Crayford. ‘I congratulate you, sir. Now for my own chance.’ He cast the dice in his turn. Three. ‘Stay! Ah, well! well! if I can do my duty and be of use to others, what does it matter whether I go or stay? Wardour, you are next, in the absence of your first lieutenant.’
Wardour prepared to cast without shaking the dice.
‘Shake the box, man!’ cried Crayford. ‘Give yourself a chance of luck!’
Wardour persisted in letting the dice fall out carelessly, just as they lay in box.
‘Not I!’ he muttered to himself. ‘I’ve done with luck.’ Saying those words, e threw down the empty box, and seated himself on the nearest chest, without to see how the dice had fallen.
Crayford examined them. ‘Six!’ he exclaimed. ‘There! you have a second chance, in spite of yourself. You are neither under nor over—you throw again.
‘Bah!’ growled the Bear. ‘It’s not worth the trouble of getting up far. Somebody else throw for me.’ He suddenly looked at Frank. ‘You! you have got what the women call a lucky face.’
Frank appealed to Crayford. ‘Shall I?’
‘Yes, if he wishes it,’ said Crayford.
Frank cast the dice. ‘Five! He stays! Wardour, I am sorry I have thrown against you.’
‘Go or stay,’ reiterated Wardour, ‘it’s all one to me. You will be luckier, young one, when you cast for yourself.’
Frank cast for himself.
‘Eight. Hurrah! I go!’
‘What did I tell you?’ said Wardour. ‘The chance was yours. You have thriven on my ill luck.’
He rose, as he spoke, to leave the hut. Crayford stopped him.
‘Have you anything particular to do, Richard?’
‘What has anybody to do here?’
‘Wait a little, then. I want to speak to you when this business is over.
‘Are you going to give me any more good advice?’
‘Don’t look at me in that sour way, Richard. I am going to ask you a question about something which concerns yourself.’
Wardour yielded without a word more. He returned to his chest, and cynically composed himself to slumber. The casting of the lots went on rapidly among the officers and men. In another half hour chance had decided the question of ‘Go’ or ‘Stay’ for all alike. The men left the hut. The officers entered the inner apartment for a last conference with the bedridden captain of the Sea-Mew. Wardour and Crayford were left together, alone.
IX
Crayford touched his friend on the shoulder to rouse him. Wardour looked up, impatiently, with a frown.
‘I was just asleep,’ he said. ‘Why do you wake me?’
‘Look round you, Richard. We are alone.’
‘Well—and what of that?’
‘I wish to speak to you privately, and this is my opportunity. You have disappointed and surprised me today. Why did you say it was all one to you whether you went or stayed? Why are you the only man among us who seems to be perfectly indifferent whether we are rescued or not?’
‘Can a man always give a reason for what is strange in his manner or his words?’
Wardour retorted.
‘He can try,’ said Crayford quietly, ‘when his friend asks him.’ Wardour’s manner softened.
‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘I will try. Do you remember the first night at sea, when we sailed from England in the Wanderer?’
‘As well as if it was yesterday.’
‘A calm, still night,’ the other went on, thoughtfully. ‘No clouds, no stars. Nothing in the sky but the broad moon, and hardly a ripple to break the path of light she made in the quiet water. Mine was the middle watch that night. You came on deck, and found me alone—’
He stopped. Crayford took his hand, and finished the sentence for him.
‘Alone—and in tears.’
‘The last I shall ever shed,’ Wardour added bitterly.
‘Don’t say that. There are times when a man is to be pitied, indeed, if he can shed no tears. Go on, Richard.’
Wardour proceeded—still following the old recollections, still preserving his gentler tones.
‘I should have quarrelled with any other man who had surprised me at that moment,’ he said. ‘There was something, I suppose, in your voice, when you asked my pardon for disturbing me, that softened my heart. I told you I had met with a disappointment which had broken me for life. There was no need to explain further. The only hopeless wretchedness in this world is the wretchedness that women cause.’
‘And the only unalloyed happiness,’ said Crayford, ‘the happiness that women bring.’
‘That may be your experience of them,’ Wardour answered. ‘Mine is different. All the devotion, the patience, the humility, the worship that there is in man I laid at the feet of a woman. She accepted the offering as women do—accepted it easily, gracefully, unfeelingly—accepted it as a matter of course. I left England to win a high place in my profession before I dared to win her. I braved danger and faced death. I staked my life in the fever-swamps of Africa to gain the promotion that I only desired for her sake—and gained it. I came back to give her all, and to ask nothing in return but to rest my weary heart in the sunshine of her smile. And her own lips—the lips I had kissed at parting—
told me that another man had robbed me of her. I spoke but few words when I heard that confession, and left her for ever. “The time may come,” I told her, “when I shall forgive you. But the man who has robbed me of you shall rue the day when you and he first met.”
Don’t ask me who he was! I have yet to discover him. The treachery had been kept secret; nobody could tell me where to find him; nobody could tell me who he was. What did it matter? When I had lived out the first agony, I could rely on myself—I could be patient and bide my time.
‘Your time? What time?’
‘The time when I and that man shall meet, face to face. I knew it then; I know it now—
it was written on my heart then, it is written on my heart now—we two shall meet and
know each other! With that conviction strong within me, I volunteered for this service, as I would have volunteered for anything that set work and hardship and danger, like ramparts, between my misery and me. With that conviction strong within me still, I tell you it is no matter whether I stay here with the sick or go hence with the strong. I shall live till I have met that man! There is a day of reckoning appointed between us. Here in the freezing cold, or awa
y in the deadly heat—in battle or in shipwreck—in the face of starvation, under the shadow of pestilence—I, though hundreds are falling round mc, I shall live! live for the coming of one day! live for the meeting with one man!’
He stopped, trembling, body and soul, under the hold that his own terrible superstition had fastened on him. Crayford drew back in silent horror. Wardour noticed the action—
he resented it—he appealed in defence of his one cherished conviction to Crayford’s own experience of him.
‘Look at me!’ he cried. ‘Look how I have lived and thriven, with the heartache gnawing at me at home, and the winds of the icy north whistling round me here! I am the strongest man among you. Why? I have fought through hardships that have laid the best-seasoned men of all our party on their backs. Why? What have I done, that my life should throb as bravely through every vein in my body at this minute, and in this deadly place, as ever it did in the wholesome breezes of home? What am I preserved for? I tell Ou again, for the coming of one day—for the meeting with one man.’
He paused once more. This time Crayford spoke.
‘Richard!’ he said, ‘since we first met I have believed in your better nature, against all outward appearance. I have believed in you firmly, truly, as your brother might. You are putting that belief to a hard test. If your enemy had told me that you had ever talked as you talk now, that you had ever looked as you look now, I would have turned my back on him as the utterer of a vile calumny against a just, a brave, an upright man. Oh! my friend, my friend, if ever I have deserved well of you, put away those thoughts from your heart! Face me again with the stainless look of a man who has trampled under his feet the bloody superstitions of revenge, and knows them no more! Never, never let the time come when I cannot offer you my hand as I offer it now—to the man I can still admire, to the brother I can still love!’
The heart that no other voice could touch felt that appeal. The fierce eyes, the hard voice, softened under Crayford’s influence. Richard Wardour’s head sank on his breast.