There
was now some three to five miles between me and the north side of the
bay. There, immense pans of Arctic ice, surging to and fro on the
heavy ground seas, were thundering into the cliffs like medieval
battering-rams. It was evident that, even if seen, I could hope for no
help from that quarter before night. No boat could live through the
surf.
Unwinding the sealskin traces from my waist, round which I had wound
them to keep the dogs from eating them, I made a slip-knot, passed it
over the first dog's head, tied it round my foot close to his neck,
threw him on his back, and stabbed him in the heart. Poor beast! I
loved him like a friend,--a beautiful dog,--but we could not all hope
to live. In fact, I had no hope any of us would, at that time, but it
seemed better to die fighting.
In spite of my care the struggling dog bit me rather badly in the leg.
I suppose my numb hands prevented my holding his throat as I could
ordinarily do. Moreover, I must hold the knife in the wound to the
end, as blood on the fur would freeze solid and make the skin useless.
In this way I sacrificed two more large dogs, receiving only one more
bite, though I fully expected that the pan I was on would break up in
the struggle. The other dogs, who were licking their coats and trying
to get dry, apparently took no notice of the fate of their
comrades,--but I was very careful to prevent the dying dogs crying
out, for the noise of fighting would probably have been followed by
the rest attacking the down dog, and that was too close to me to be
pleasant.
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