Little Camp

The wind screamed at them, balled up its fists and battered them for hours. Their little camp was under attack and couldn't take another night of this. The canvas that Cready had nailed over the entryway was torn and streaming and Sullivan was trying to keep his blackening fingertips from the doc. Frostbite was feeling into every crack and Sullivan was its favored target.

Having the dogs inside with them was a help—to man and dog—but then there was the food problem. Rations for one more month, if all went well. And that meant cutting everything very close. The weather didn't look kindly on men with rigid schedules. The weather delighted in taking men like that down a peg or two. Calling forth an avalanche, turning up the volume on a gale. But proper organization was the only thing that would get them out of here and back home.

The entire expedition was in disarray. Two dead (James and Fitch), two wounded, not including Sullivan's frostbite, the extent of which was not yet known, and several on the precipice of apathetic rebellion. Everyone needed to be sharp, each man a harpoon, direct and sure. The weather, the relentless wind, the driving snow, and above all the hellish cold, honed some men's spirits and blunted others. If only there were a way to tell one from the other, before inserting them into the jaws of a place like this.

The dogs slept so placidly Markham thought once or twice they had all frozen solid during the night. They came alive in conditions like this, each one keen for the challenge, each one full of hope and the prospect of pleasing its driver. Those sterling dogs. The canvas covering tore down the middle and Cready was up with a curse, orders all around. He hammered it back down and added extra rope on the posts. Then he deliberately cut three inch slits along the face of it. A sailor's the man for any tight spot. Cready knew their home would come apart if they tried to stand pat against this wind. Yield the battle to win the fight.