The Best Adventure and Exploration Stories Ever Told

by Stephen Brennan

  Ah! How I should have loved to have waited to have received the congratulations of these generous enemies.

  There were fifty of them in sight, and not one who was not waving his hand and shouting. They are not really such a phlegmatic race, the English. A gallant deed in war or sport will always warm their hearts. As to the old huntsman, he was the nearest to me, and I could see with my own eyes how overcome he was by what he had seen. He was like a man paralysed, his mouth open, his hand, with out-spread fingers, raised in the air. For a moment my inclination was to return and to embrace him.

  But already the call of duty was sounding in my ears, and these English, in spite of all the fraternity which exits among sportsmen, would certainly have made me prisoner. There was no hope for my mission now, and I had done all that I could do. I could see the lines of Massena’s camp no very great distance off, for by a lucky chance, the chase had taken us in that direction.

  I turned from the dead fox, saluted with my sabre, and galloped away.

  But they would not leave me so easily, these gallant huntsmen. I was the fox now, and the chase swept bravely over the plain. It was only at the moment when I started for the camp that they could have known that I was a Frenchman, and mow the whole swarm of them were at my heels. We were within gunshot of our pickets before they would halt, and then they stood in knots and would not go away, but shouted and waved their hands at me. No, I will not think that it was in enmity. Rather would I fancy that a glow of admiration filled their breasts, and that their one desire was to embrace the stranger who had carried himself so gallantly and well.

  HUNTING MUSK-OXEN NEAR THE POLE

  LIEUTENANT R. E. PERRY, USN

  On the fifteenth of May, 1895, the storm ceased which had held Lee, Hensen and myself prisoners for two days upon the Independence Bay moraine, the northern shore of the “Great Ice,” more than four thousand feet above the level of the sea. Then, in a very short time, I completed all the preparations for a trip down over the land in search of the musk-oxen which would be our salvation. Matt and all the dogs were to accompany me.

  I took the little “Chopsie” sledge, our rifles, four days’ supply of tea, biscuits and oil—we had had no meat for several days—and the remainder of the dogfood, which was a lump of frozen walrus meat somewhat larger than a man’s head. Lee was to remain at the tent during our absence.

  The almost total lack of snow on this northern land was a surprise as well as an annoyance to me, since it threatened to damage my sledges seriously. But by keeping well ahead of the dogs, I was able to pick out a fairly good though circuitous path along the numerous snow drifts which lay on the leeward side of the hills and mountains.

  After some twelve hours of steady marching, we were close to Musk-Ox Valley, where, three years before, Astrup and myself had first seen and killed some of these animals.

  Leaving Matt with the sledge and dogs, I took my rifle and entered the valley, hoping to find them there again. So far we had not seen the slightest indication of musk-oxen though we had followed the same route, where, on my previous visit, their traces had been visible on almost every square rod of ground.

  In the valley I found no trace of their presence, and I returned to the sledge in a gloomy mood. Could it be that the musk-oxen of this region were migratory? Did they retreat southward along the east coast in the autumn, and return in early summer, and were we too early for them? Or had the sight and smell of us and our dogs, and the sound of our guns and the sight of carcasses of the oxen we had slain three years before, terrified the others so that they had deserted this region completely?

  These questions disturbed me deeply. We had now been marching for a long time; we were tired with the unaccustomed work of climbing up and down hills, and were weak and hungry from our long and scant diet of tea and biscuits.

  Our hunger was partially appeased by the dog-food. True, this was a frozen mixture of walrus meat, blubber, hair, sand, and various other foreign substances, but we had to eat something, and the fact that the meat was “high” and the blubber more or less rancid did not deter us. Yet we dared not satisfy ourselves, even with dog-food, as we were dependent on the dogs, and they were more in need of food than we.

  A few miles beyond Musk-Ox valley I saw a fresh hare-track leading in the same direction in which we were going; and within five minutes I saw the hare itself squatting among the rocks a few paces distant. I called to Matt, who was some little distance back, to stop the dogs and come up with his rifle.

  He was so affected by the prospect of a good dinner that his first and second bullets missed the mark, although usually he was a good marksman. But at the third shot the beautiful, spotless little animal collapsed into a shapeless mass, and on the instant gaunt hunger took from us the power of further endurance. We must stop at once and cook the hare.

  Near us was a little pond surrounded by high banks. This offered the advantages of ice, from which to melt water for cooking purposes. So here we camped, lit our lamp, and cooked and ate the entire hare. It was the first full meal we had had for nearly six weeks—the first meal furnishing sufficient substance and nourishment for the doing of a heavy day’s work.

  Ease from hunger and pleasure in the process of digestion made us drowsy. Lying down as we were, upon the snow-covered shore of the little pond, without tent or sleeping-bag or anything except the clothes we wore, we slept the sleep of tired children in their cosy beds, though the snowflakes were falling thickly upon us.

  The next morning we pushed on for a valley near Navy Cliff, where Astrup and myself had seen numerous musk-ox tracks. At the entrance of this valley I came upon a track, so indistinct that it might have been made the previous autumn. Following it a short distance, I saw the accompanying tracks of a calf, showing at once that the tracks were of this season; and a little farther on there were traces but a few days old.

  Fastening our dogs securely to a rock and muzzling them so that they could neither gnaw themselves loose or make a noise to disturb the muskoxen, we passed rapidly down the valley, Winchesters in hand, with our eyes fixed eagerly upon the tracks. Soon we reached the feeding-ground of the herd on the preceding day, and knew by their tracks and the places where they had dug away the snow in search of grass and moss that there was quite a herd of them.

  We circled the feeding-ground as rapidly as we could, and at length found the tracks of the herd leading out of the labyrinth and up the slopes of the surrounding mountains. Following these, our eyes were soon gladdened by sight of a group of black spots on a little terrace just below the crest of the mountain.

  Looking through the field-glass, we saw that some of the animals were lying down. Evidently the herd was beginning its midday snooze. We moved cautiously up to the edge of the terrace to leeward of the animals and sought shelter behind a big boulder. The musk-oxen were about two hundred yards distant and numbered twenty-two.

  I wonder if one of my readers knows what hunger is. Hensen and I were worn to the bone with scant rations and hard work, which had left little on our bones except lean, tense muscles and wires of sinew. The supper from the hare—that meal of fresh, hot, luscious meat—the first adequate meal in nearly six hundred miles of snow-shoeing, had wakened every merciless hunger-fang that during the previous weeks had been gradually dulled into insensibility.

  Gazing on the big black animals before us, we saw not game, but meat; and every nerve and fibre in my gaunt body was vibrating with a furious and savage hunger for that meat—meat that should be soft and warm; meat into which the teeth could sink and tear and rend; meat that would not blister the lips and tongue with its frost, nor ring like rock against the teeth.

  Panting and quivering with excitement we lay for a few moments. We could not risk a shot at that distance.

  “Do you think they will come for us?” said Matt.

  “God knows I hope so, boy, for then we are sure of some of them. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come on, then.”


  Rising one of us one side of the boulder, the other on the other side, we dashed across the rocks and snow straight toward them.

  There was a snort and stamp from the big bull guarding the herd, and the next instant every animal was on his feet, facing us, thank God! The next moment they were in close line, with lowered heads and horns. I could have yelled for joy if I had had the breath to spare.

  Everyone one of us has read thrilling stories of deer chased by hungry wolves, and it is in the nature of man to sympathise with the creatures that are trying to escape. But did any of us ever stop to think how those other poor creatures, the wolves, were feeling? I know now just what their feelings are, and I cannot help sympathising with them. I was no better than a wolf myself at that moment.

  We were within less than fifty yards of the herd when the big bull with a quick motion lowered his horns still more. Instinct, Providence—call it what you will—told me it was the signal for the herd to charge. Without slackening my pace, I pulled my Winchester to my shoulder and sent a bullet at the back of his neck over the white, impervious shield of the great horns.

  Heart and soul and brain and eyes went with that singing bullet. I felt that I was strong enough, and hungry enough, and wild enough so that, had the bull been alone, I could have sprung upon him barehanded and somehow made meat of him. But against the entire herd we should have been powerless; once the black avalanche had gained momentum, we should have been crushed by it like the crunching snow crystals under our feet.

  As the bull fell upon his knees the herd wavered. A cow half turned and, as Matt’s rifle cracked, fell with a bullet back of her fore-shoulder. Without raising my rifle above my hips another one dropped. Then another, for Matt; then the herd broke, and we hurried in pursuit.

  A wounded cow wheeled and, with lowered head, was about to charge me; again Matt’s rifle cracked, and she fell. As I rushed past her he shouted, “That was my last cartridge!”

  A short distance beyond, the remainder of the herd faced about again and I put a bullet into the breast of another bull, but it did not stop him, and the herd broke again and disappeared over a sharp ridge. I had neither wind nor strength to follow.

  Suddenly the back of one of the animals appeared above the ridge. I whirled and fired. I did not see the sights—I think I scarcely saw my rifle, but felt my aim as I would with harpoon or stone. I heard the thud of the bullet. I knew the beast was hit behind the fore-shoulder. As the animal disappeared I sank down on the snow, quite unable to go farther.

  But after a little rest I was able to move. Matt came up. We instantly set about bleeding the last beast I had killed. How delicious that tender, raw, warm meat was—a mouthful here and a mouthful there, cut from the animal as we skinned it! It seems dreadful and loathsome to have made such a meal. But I wish those who stay at home at ease to realise what hunger drives men to. This was the barbarism out of which our race has risen. Matt and I were savages for the time. I ate till I dared eat no more, although still unsatisfied.

  Then Matt went back to bring up the dogs and sledge, while I began removing the skins from our game. With Matt’s return came the supremest luxury of all! That was to toss great lumps of meat to the gaunt shadows which we called dogs, till they, too, could eat no more, and lay gorged and quiet upon the rocks.

  The removal of the great shaggy, black pelts of the musk-oxen was neither an easy nor a rapid job. By the time it was completed it was midnight; the sun was low over the mountains in the north, and a biting wind whistled about our airy location.

  We were glad to drag the skins to a central place, construct a wind guard with the assistance of the sledge, a few stones and a couple of the skins, and make a bed of the other on the lee side of it.

  We built up a little stone shelter for our cooking lamp, and then, stretched upon our luxurious, thick, soft, warm couch, we were, for the first time, able to spare the time to make ourselves some tea, and cook some of the delicious musk-ox meat.

  Then, with the savage, sombre northern land lying like a map below us— the barren rocks, mottled here and there with eternal snowdrifts; with the summits of the distant mountains disappearing in a mist of driving snow; with the biting breath of the “Great Ice” following us even here and drifting the fine snow over and about our shelter, we slept again as tired children—nay as tired savages—sleep.

  LION-HUNTING

  ALFRED H. MILES

  All hunted animals are wild. The popular belief is that they are hunted because they are wild, the truth is, they are wild because they are hunted.

  Men and women would become wild under similar circumstances.

  The same causes which stir up strife among men make animals fight, and these are, hunger, jealousy and danger, the struggle for existence, and the care of the dependent.

  The lion does not appear to have any particular antipathy to man, and at close quarters often shows him a generosity but rarely reciprocated. Why men should take pleasure in killing such an animal for the mere sake of killing him, it is difficult to understand. It is popularly put down to a love of “sport,” surely it is more often the result of vanity or the love of self.

  Sir William Jardine tells a story of a Dutchman named Diederik Muller who encountered a lion at close quarters. The man fired and missed. The lion faced him, and on his proceeding to reload, approached him. The man then lowered his gun, and the lion turned to make off. On looking round the lion saw that the man was again proceeding to reload, whereupon he again turned and made towards him. The man again dropped his gun, and the lion once more made off. This occurred several times, until the lion finally made good his escape. From this it would seem that the lion had some idea of the use of the gun, but had no desire to injure the man, and though not in any way afraid of his enemy, was too wise to face a union of forces which he knew he could not withstand. This was not weak cowardice, but generous prudence.

  That lions are capable of great affection for those who show them kindness is well known, and there is nothing more beautiful in living phenomena than the union of love and strength.

  Notwithstanding what is alleged by some lion tamers as to the necessity of governing their charges by fear, it cannot be admitted that fear is capable of accomplishing half so much as kindness in establishing safe relations between man and beast. The lion tamer has to compel his animal to go through certain performances night after night, performances quite foreign to their nature, and often when the animal is more or less out of sorts. He can only do this by conquering the will of the animal. This involves him in constant danger, especially when unusual causes make the animals very irritable. If the public were content to see the lion as he might be, in affectionate frolic with his keeper in the same kind of play that is so entertaining in a kitten—which is only a small member of his family—it might be delighted and edified by the spectacle of what love can do to tame the savage instinct born of long ages of the struggle for existence, but which need not survive the necessity for that struggle. But the public will pay a penny more if the lion roars, so the lion must be prodded until he does, in order that be may earn the extra penny.

  Men and women would show the same resentment if they were continually stimulated by pin pricks to dance for the delight of animals.

  The Youth’s Companion of America gives an interesting account of an interview with the late Rosa Bonheur and her pet lion, which shows the way in which the lion will repay kindness with affection.

  “After the ‘Horse Fair’ (says that journal) there is perhaps no picture of Rosa Bonheur’s more often reproduced and more popular with the public than that called ‘An Old Monarch’—the head of a superb lion, which gazes from the canvas with a look of dignity, tranquility, and power, that impresses alike the critic and the child. No one can look at it without believing that the artist understood the nature, no less than the form and colour, of her noble model.

  “Indeed, Mlle. Bonheur was fond of lions. She owned many at different times which she kept in easy c
aptivity at her beautiful country estate of By, consoled for imprisonment by her own affection and the society—at a respectful distance—of enough other animals, wild and tame, to people a fair-sized forest.

  “Cats, dogs, sheep, deer, goats, bulls, ponies, horses, monkeys, leopards and panthers have been at different times, and sometimes simultaneously, dwellers in the chateau and park of By, subjects of the quiet little lady with bright eyes and odd masculine line dress—half—cavalier, half-peasant, which she has found most convenient for her work—who ruled over them gently and fearlessly.

  “A journalist who once visited By found her the proud possessor of a new lion from Africa, which had already become so attached to her that she petted the great creature as if it were an ordinary cat, while it writhed its tawny body and stretched itself luxuriously under her hand, purring a tremendous purr as she rubbed and fondled its enormous head; but even while caressing her new pet. Mlle. Bonheur regretfully related the career of the first lion she ever owned.

  “He was named Nero, and had the reputation of being untamably ferocious when she bought him; but after being comfortably established in a suitable residence in her garden, he soon learned to know and love his mistress. She kept him there several years. Then, because she was about to travel, she sold him to the Jardin des Plantes (the Paris ‘Zoo’), supposing he would be better cared for there than anywhere else. Unfortunately, she was mistaken. Returning two years later from her wanderings, she went to see him, and found that through accident or carelessness in his treatment his eyes had become inflamed, then entirely sightless.