Part 23 (1/2)

”There's a name of some kind written here,” said Bolton, as he carefully scrutinized the spoon. ”Look here, Fred, your eyes are better than mine, see if you can make it out.”

Fred took it with a trembling hand, for a strange feeling of dread had seized possession of his heart, and he could scarcely bring himself to look upon it. He summoned up courage, however; but at the first glance his hand fell down by his side, and a dimness came over his eyes, for the word ”_POLE STAR_” was engraven on the handle. He would have fallen to the ground had not Bolton caught him.

”Don't give way, lad, the s.h.i.+p may be all right. Perhaps this is one o'

the crew that died.”

Fred did not answer, but recovering himself with a strong effort, he said, ”Pull down the stones, men.”

The men obeyed in silence, and the poor boy sat down on a rock to await the result in trembling anxiety. A few minutes sufficed to disentomb the skeleton, for the men sympathized with their young comrade, and worked with all their energies.

”Cheer up, Fred,” said Bolton, coming and laying his hand on the youth's shoulder; ”it's _not_ your father. There is a bit of _black_ hair sticking to the scalp.”

With a fervent expression of thankfulness Fred rose and examined the skeleton, which had been placed in a sort of sack of skin, but was dest.i.tute of clothing. It was quite dry, and must have been there a long time. Nothing else was found, but from the appearance of the skull and the presence of the plate and spoon, there could be no doubt that it was that of one of the _Pole Star's_ crew.

It was now resolved that they should proceed along the coast and examine every creek and bay for traces of the lost vessel.

”O Bolton! my heart misgives me,” said Fred, as they drove along; ”I fear that they have all perished.”

”Niver a bit, sir,” said O'Riley, in a sympathizing tone; ”yon chap must have died and been buried here be the crew as they wint past.”

”You forget that sailors don't bury men under mounds of stone, with pewter plates and spoons beside them.”

O'Riley was silenced, for the remark was unanswerable.

”He may ha' bin left or lost on the sh.o.r.e, and been found by the Esquimaux,” suggested Peter Grim.

”Is that not another tomb?” inquired one of the men, pointing towards an object which stood on the end of a point or cape towards which they were approaching.

Ere any one could reply, their ears were saluted by the well-known bark of a pack of Esquimau dogs. In another moment they dashed into the midst of a snow village, and were immediately surrounded by the excited natives. For some time no information could be gleaned from their interpreter, who was too excited to make use of his meagre amount of English. They observed, however, that the natives, although much excited, did not seem to be so much surprised at the appearance of white men amongst them as those were whom they had first met with near the s.h.i.+p. In a short time Meetuck, apparently, had expended all he had to say to his friends, and turned to make explanations to Bolton in a very excited tone; but little more could be made out than that what he said had some reference to white men. At length, in desperation, he pointed to a large hut, which seemed to be the princ.i.p.al one of the village, and dragging the mate towards it, made signs to him to enter.

Bolton hesitated an instant.

”He wants you to see the chief of the tribe, no doubt,” said Fred; ”you'd better go in at once.”

A loud voice shouted something in the Esquimau language from within the hut. At the sound Fred's heart beat violently, and pus.h.i.+ng past the mate he crept through the tunnelled entrance and stood within. There was little furniture in this rude dwelling. A dull flame flickered in a stone lamp which hung from the roof, and revealed the figure of a large Esquimau reclining on a couch of skins at the raised side of the hut.

The man looked up hastily as Fred entered, and uttered a few unintelligible words.

”Father!” cried Fred, gasping for breath, and springing forward.

Captain Ellice, for it was indeed he, started with apparent difficulty and pain into a sitting posture, and throwing back his hood revealed a face whose open, hearty, benignant expression shone through a coat of dark brown which long months of toil and exposure had imprinted on it.

It was thin, however, and careworn, and wore an expression that seemed to be the result of long-continued suffering.

”Father!” he exclaimed in an earnest tone; ”who calls me father?”

”Don't you know me, father?--don't you remember Fred?--look at--”

Fred checked himself, for the wild look of his father frightened him.