Days and days were spent exploring the coast southward, the party landing wherever there was an opportunity offered by a likely spot; but the most southern point of the mountain land was reached without a sign, and several walrus boats were spoken by way of obtaining news, but without result. Then, as the ice was densely packed, preventing any attempt being made to search the eastern shore, a course was laid for the great neighbouring island, the Hvalross sailing steadily north-east a short distance from the pack.
They had had a good evening’s shooting the night before, and to the great delight of Andrew, Hamish, and the cook quite a load of fine ducks had been brought on board by the boat; but as Steve was going forward to take a favourite position of his by the bowsprit, he found that another member of the crew was not so highly pleased, for Watty was seated outside the galley door with a goose in his lap and a bucket by his side, busily plucking out the feathers and down, which, partly from the angry energy with which he was working, partly from the breeze, were flying in all directions, and especially all over his blue jersey and into his shock hair, which had been well anointed with the bear’s grease he had carefully saved up from the day when the fat was boiled.
When Steve approached Watty seemed to be singing as he plucked, for there was a mumbling, burring noise, and Steve turned to Andrew, who happened to be close at hand seated upon the deck, fastening a line to the edge of a sail.
“Why, Andra,” he said, “do you hear that?”
“Oh ay, she hears it,” replied the sailor.
“Do you know what it puts me in mind of?”
“Na, she dinna ken, Meester Stevey. A coo waiting for the lassie with the milk-pail, maype.”
“No,” said Steve; “it’s just like the drone of your pipes heard in the cuddy with the hatch on.”
“Fwhat? Na, na, she’ll not pe a pit like tat. Ta pipes is music—coot music, Meester Stevey; for there’s na music like ta pagpipes—ta gran’ Hielan’ pagpipes. But she kens she’s chust cracking a choke with me.”
“No, I’m not. Listen; it does sound just like it.”
“Na, na, laddie,” said Andrew after a pause to listen; “she’s mair like ta collie tog when she sees a cat, or maype it’s mair like ta bummel-bees among ta heather upo’ ta hills in bonnie Scotland.”
“Well, it sounds very comic whatever it’s like. Look here’s Skeny coming up to see what’s the matter; look how he’s cocking his ears.”
“Oh ay, she thinks it’s a coo wants driving hame.”
“No, he knows it’s Watty. Look at him.”
“Ay, she can see ta tog. An’ it’s a fine tog, eh, Skene? Come alang, and I’ll gie ye a pinch o’ sneeshin’.”
“No, no, don’t tease the dog!” cried Steve, as Andrew took out an old snuff-mull, opened it, and held it out to the dog.
“Nay, she’ll na tease the tyke. Skene hasna larnt to tak’ ta sneeshing. But it’s ferra coot for ta nose, Skeny.”
And all the while Watty’s peculiar burring sound kept on and increased, the dog looking hard at him with his ears up, and finally giving a short, sharp bark. “Do you hear that, Watty?” said Steve.
“Ay; she heart ta tyke.”
“Skene wants the second verse of the song.”
“Then he’ll ha’e to wait,” said the boy; and he went on again with the monotonous burring sound which had first attracted Steve’s attention.
“What’s the matter with him, Andra?”
“She’s making up a lang story spout ta cook. She’s been retty to fecht, and ta cook said she’d ding her het again’ ta galley if she tidn’t pick ta goose.”
“Ay, but she’ll mak’ my ploot poil pefore she’s tone,” cried Watty fiercely, and scattering a handful of feathers so that some of them and the down flew on to Steve.
“Make your ploot poil?” cried Steve, laughing.
“Ay; and it poils now!” cried Watty, scattering some more feathers purposely, so that they should adhere to his trousers.
“There, I told you he was singing, Andra. His ploot poils, and he was singing like a kettle.”
“My mither sent me to sea to learn to pe a sailor, and ta skipper’s made me ta cook’s poy!” cried Watty vehemently.
“Then you shouldn’t have been such a coward, Watty. There, don’t be in a temper, and I’ll speak to the captain to let you come back to the other duties.”
“Hey, put she’s a puir feckless potie, and dinna ken the when she’s well off. She wishes ta captain wad pit her in ta galley, to get ta fairst wee tasties of all ta gravies and good things ta cook potie mak’s.”
“But he’s tired of it now, Andra. I say, Watty, look here; you’re smothering me with that fluff!”
“Then she should get ower to ta ither side of ta fessel.”
“I’ll knock you to the other side of the vessel if you’re saucy!” cried Steve hotly. “See if I speak to the captain for you now!”
“She dinna want ye to speak. She can speak her ainsel’ when she wants, and she ton’t want; for she’ll stop in ta galley the noo till we get pack to Glasgie and goo pefore ta magistrates aboot it. There!”
This last word was accompanied by a handful of down thrown in the air so that it might be wafted right over Steve.
This was too much for the boy’s equanimity, and, hot with passion, he snatched a handful of the down from the pail and rubbed it in Watty’s shock head, to Andrew’s great delight.
“Weel tone, laddie!” he cried; “tat’s ponnie. Gie her anither handfu’ of the saft doon.”
Now, for some time past Watty, for reasons best known to himself, had been nursing up feelings of the nature that would, in other conditions, have developed into a regular Highland feud. He was jealous of Steve in every way. It annoyed him that a boy younger than he should be dressed better, work less, and live in the cabin, while he had to share the meals of the men when the cook did not make him eat in the galley. In addition, after long brooding over what he called his “wrangs,” and in his dislike to the lad who had shown himself to be more plucky, and brought him, as he called it, to shame, he had nursed up the idea that Steve was only a coward at heart, that all his acts were put on for show, and that if he could only find a chance he would risk getting into trouble if it should reach the captain’s ears, and give the object of his dislike a good thrashing.
And now the opportunity had come, and there was plenty of excuse. Steve had dared to rub all that down into his sacred, well-greased, red locks; and springing up and looking as if his “ploot really tit poil,” he swung round the goose he was plucking, and, using it as if it were an elastic war-club, he brought it with excellent aim bang against Steve’s head.
More blood began to boil now, for, with a cry of rage at what, forgetting his own provocation, he looked upon as a daring insult, Steve ran two or three steps—ran away, Watty thought; and exulting in his imaginary triumph, he followed to strike his adversary again with his absurd weapon; but to his utter astonishment, before the blow could fall, Steve, who seemed to be stooping to avoid the attack, sprang up, and, raising both hands, struck downward.
The result was curious. As Steve struck downwards Watty, in delivering his blow, leaned forwards, placing his head just in the proper position to receive the weapon and its contents with which the English lad had armed himself. That weapon was the bucket full of feathers, and Steve’s anger went off like a flash, for he had completely extinguished Watty, who staggered back, dropping the bird, blinded, half suffocated by the down, and so confused for a few moments that even when he had thrust off the bucket from his head he stood coughing and sneezing, staggering about in his blind endeavours to escape.
“Weel done, laddie; tat’s prave. Gie it ta saucy callant again. She’ll sweep up ta feathers when she’s tone,” cried Andrew in ecstasy.
But now Watty’s blood boiled right over, and as soon as his eyes were clear he rushed at Steve with an angry yell, fists doubled, teeth set; and, regardless of the goose hurled in his face, he continued his charge right home and up to his adversary’s guard.
The next minute they were fighting hard, blow succeeding blow in the most unscientific way; but the end was not to be then, for Andrew cried in a hoarse whisper:
“Rin, laddie, rin! Here’s ta skipper.”
Watty heard the terrible words—words awful to him—and he did “rin.”
Not far. The galley door was open, and close at hand. Into it he darted like a fox into its hole, and Steve stood alone, covered with feathers, to face the captain and Mr Handscombe, who, hearing the scuffling forward, hurried up to see the cause.
“Highly creditable, upon my word!” cried Captain Marsham, frowning. “Could not you find anything more sensible to do than to get into this disgraceful quarrel with the ship’s boy?”
Steve stood breathing hard, flushed with anger and mortification.
“I’d try a sweep next time, Stephen,” said the doctor sarcastically; “he would not come off worse upon you than this fellow has done.”
“He insulted and struck me,” stammered Steve. “You would not have had me stand still and submit to that, sir?”
“I don’t want to hear anything about it,” said the captain sternly; “it is disgraceful, and I gave you credit for knowing better.”
The captain walked back to the companion hatch and descended to the cabin, leaving Steve, the doctor, Hamish, and Andrew looking at each other.
“Well, sir,” said the doctor, “you’ve done it this time. Have you any idea what an object you look?”
“No,” said Steve, in a tone of voice which told of his mortification.
“Go to your cabin, then, and look in the glass. I should prescribe a little water, too!”
“Hadn’t I better jump overboard for it, then?” cried Steve bitterly.
“Bah! Rubbish! Don’t talk nonsense!” cried the doctor, catching the lad by the arm.
“Why, what’s the matter?” said the mate, coming up hurriedly.
“Oh, nothing much. We’ve had an accident, and spilt some feathers about the deck, and it has made the captain angry about the way in which it was done. Have them cleared up, man. Come along, Steve lad; and don’t look like that,” he whispered, as he half dragged the lad away.
“How easy it is to get into trouble!” said Steve; “and what a watch one has to keep over one’s self! There I was, as happy and contented as could be, only a little while ago, and now everything’s miserable. I wouldn’t care if the captain had not spoken to me like that.”
“Go and tell him you’re sorry,” said the doctor.
“I can’t.”
“But you must, my lad. You were in the wrong, weren’t you?”
“I don’t think so. It was all a bit of fun. I never expected that the boy would turn like that.”
“Well, wasn’t it foolish of you to go making a playmate of such a rough, common lad? I’m not snobbish, Steve, but I think people get on better who make friends in their own class; and if your poor father could have seen you fighting a—”
“Oh, don’t, don’t!” cried Steve, “pray! I know I behaved like a blackguard, and it served me right.”
“There, now you’re behaving like a human donkey, my lad, and talking nonsense. Put it aside now. You’re hot and excited. Let me give you a sedative draught.”
“Oh, Mr Handscombe!” cried the lad passionately. “To talk of physic at a time like this!”
“There you go again!” cried the doctor, unconsciously using Watty Links’s expression. “You’ve made your blood boil, and it wants cooling down.”
“Then I’ll drink some water or suck a lump of ice,” said Steve bitterly. “I can’t take physic now.”
“Nonsense, you excitable young donkey!” cried the doctor. “I meant a mental sedative draught. I want you to hear reason, if you will listen to me.”
“I don’t want to listen; I only want to be alone, sir.”
“Yes, to get into a stupid, morbid state, when a little bit of brave surgery—moral surgery—on your part would set all right.”
“There you go again, sir!” cried Steve querulously. “One minute you want to give me pills and a draught, the next you want to begin cutting me to pieces.”
The doctor burst out laughing.
“That’s right,” cried Steve, “laugh at me; I deserve it;” and at that moment he wished that he was a little child again, so that he could go and hide himself away, and relieve his feelings by crying fit to break his heart. But he did not say to himself “cry”; he put it as “blubber like a great girl.”
“Be quiet, my lad; and, believe me, I can feel for you and want to help you. I’m a doctor, and I talked metaphorically, as, of course, you know. By moral surgery I meant one brave bit of mastery over self, and cutting the trouble right out. There’s no hiding the fact; you, as a gentleman’s son, ought not to have been found fighting with the ship’s boy, and under such ludicrous circumstances; now, ought you?”
“No, I suppose not,” replied Steve; “but—”
“Never mind the ‘buts,’ my lad. You own that you are in the wrong?”
“Yes.”
“Then go and wash your face and brush all that fluff off your jacket. Then pluck up, and like a man go in to the captain; keep cool—you’ll be cooler by that time—and tell him exactly how it all was; say you are sorry, and— Don’t keep on shaking your head like that, sir; you’ll be doing some injury to your spinal column.”
“But I can’t go and tell him that, after the way in which he looked and spoke to me.”
“Yes, you can, sir.”
“No.”
“There you go, shaking your head again. Tell him you were in the wrong.”
“That I’ll be a good boy, and won’t do so any more.”
“Well, is there anything to be ashamed of in that, sir?”
“I couldn’t do it—I wouldn’t do it.”
“Then you’re a coward.”
“No, I’m not,” retorted Steve angrily.
“You are—a miserable moral coward; and I thought you had more pluck in you—more of the honest, manly pluck of an English boy who is brave enough to own to a fault.”
“I’m not a coward,” muttered Steve. “I’d show you if there was any occasion,” and he stood frowning.
“Bah! Any big, strong, stupid fellow, with no brains to boast about, can jump overboard to save any one or do anything of that kind. I want to see you act like a brave fellow who is ready to make a bit of sacrifice of his own feelings, and behave in a manly way. Come, I’m giving you good advice. We shall have bad weather enough to deal with out in the open; we don’t want any moral bad weather in the cabin. Go to the captain, and speak out frankly. Do you know what he will do?”
“Look at me, as he did just now.”
“That’s insulting a brave man and my friend, sir,” said the doctor sternly. “I know Captain Marsham better than you do, then. He will do nothing of the kind. He will listen calmly and dispassionately to all you have to say, and then perhaps point out a few things.”
“To humiliate me!” cried Steve.
“There you go again, blazing out. No, hardly to humiliate you; but, even if he does, who the salts of tartar are you, sir, that you are not to be spoken to and humiliated a bit when you have gone wrong?”
“Oh, I’m nobody,” said Steve bitterly; “I’m a donkey and an ass.”
“Yes,” said the doctor quietly, “but that is rather running wild; a donkey and an ass are the same thing, Stevey, my lad. If the captain says a few things to cut your comb a little, they will do you good; and I am as certain as that I am sitting here that he will end by saying, ‘There, my boy, then, that’s an end of it. Let it be a lesson to you. Now shake hands.’”
“He wouldn’t say that. He’d send me out of the cabin feeling more miserable than I feel now.”
“I know better than that, my lad. You’re punishing yourself.”
“Then, if a boy strikes me I’m not to strike him again?” cried Steve.
“Humph! Well, I did not say that, my lad, exactly.”
“What was I to do, sir? Was I to let that miserable, disagreeable young rascal, who has been insulting and sneering at me ever since we started from Nordoe, knock me about, and I not retaliate?”
The doctor looked puzzled.
“Go in and shake hands with the captain; he’s in his cabin.”
“No, he isn’t. I heard him go on deck, sir. But you didn’t answer me.”
“I told you that you couldn’t fight with a boy like that. Look at your clothes.”
“Oh yes, I know, sir. I’m all over feathers; but you don’t say anything about what I asked: was I to let him knock me about and crow over me?”
“Well—er,” said the doctor, “you might have kicked him.”
“And that would have been cowardly, and he would have kicked me again. It’s worse to fight with the feet than it is to fight with the hands.”
“Humph! Well, yes, I suppose it is,” muttered the doctor; “but never mind that. Go on deck as soon as you’re decent, and talk to the captain there.”
“I can’t, sir.”
“Then will you go to him when he comes down?”
Steve shook his head, and the doctor began to grow warm.
“Now, don’t be absurd and obstinate, sir,” he cried; “do as I advise you, and let’s get this miserable trouble out of the way. The cabin’s too small, and we all want to help one another too much, for our little commonwealth to be at sixes and sevens. Come, pitch all that shame and cowardice overboard.”
“Do you mean to say, sir, that I did wrong in pitching—I mean in hitting that hot-headed Scotch boy again when he hit me?”
“I did not bring you down here to argue out questions of that kind, sir.”
“But you might answer me, sir. I want to know whether I really was in the wrong.”
“Take it that you were,” said the doctor.
“No, sir, I can’t. I don’t feel convinced. If you had been in my place—”
“I’m not going to answer any such questions, Steve, and you have no right to put them to me. I tell you I am not going to be cross-examined by you, sir, on all kinds of pros and cons. This is a matter that I want settled at once for both of your sakes—there, for all our sakes. Now go.”
Steve shook his head again.
“I don’t feel as if I can.”
“Then you’re a more stubborn fellow than I took you to be; and I can assure you, Steve, I feel that, with a lad whom I have always tried to make my friend. Now, have I not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then do as I say, Steve. Come, like a man.”
“I can’t now.”
“There you go again, repeating this obstinate can’t, can’t, can’t, when all the time you can.”
“But tell me this, sir. Supposing—”
“Look here, boy, am I your doctor, or am I not?”
“No, sir, I haven’t been ill,” said Steve drily.
“You’re ill now. Your nerves are all jarred, your head’s in an unwonted state of excitement, and your pulse is going—though I have not felt it—far above its normal rate. You are ill, sir, bodily and mentally, in a regular peevish state of excitement; and as your doctor, speaking perfectly honestly and straightforwardly, I say to you that the medicine you require is mental; that you have only to go to the captain and have a few words based on my advice, and you will be well again directly.”
“I’m not ill,” said Steve coldly.
“You are, sir; and mental illness is worse than an ordinary bodily ailment. Now, will you go?”
“Will you answer me this one question, sir, first?”
“No. Well, yes, I will, if it’s a sensible one; and then I shall expect you to go at once to make yourself tidy and see the captain. Now, then, it’s very weak of me, but I’ll do it this once. What is it?”
“Suppose, sir—”
“Oh, hang your supposes; let’s have facts!”
“Suppose, sir,” continued Steve, watching the doctor intently the while, “you were a boy like I am.”
“What nonsense! Well, go on, boy.”
“And a big rough-headed Scotch lad, after annoying you in all kinds of ways, hit you in a most insulting manner. What would you do?”
“I’d try and knock his head off!” cried the doctor hotly. “I—that is—I mean—I don’t approve of fighting—I—hang the boy! How stupid of me! I mean I think I should have complained to the captain, and asked him to have the fellow flogged.”
“Captains on board ships like this can’t have the boys flogged,” said Steve drily.
“Punished, then.”
“You said what you would do, sir, at first, and then turned it off. I did the same, and you’ve been blaming me.”
“Well, well; yes, yes, Steve, I did; but let’s leave that question alone, my lad. It’s one that has never yet been thoroughly settled on account of its difficulty. I don’t approve of fighting, but there are times when—that is—you see it’s a very awkward question that we had better leave. I spoke hastily, and I’m afraid that I have done more harm than good. Come, you’ll shake hands with me?”
Steve eagerly held out his.
“That’s right,” said the doctor, gripping the extended palm. “And you’ll take my advice?”
Steve shook his head.
“I can’t yet, sir.”
“Steve, my boy, you send quite a chill through me,” cried the doctor angrily. “I’m as cold as if the weather had suddenly changed and a biting wind were coming off the ice.”
“My head’s quite hot, sir; but it does feel as if it were cold.”
“Of course. Nerves, Steve, nerves; unwonted excitement. Hah! Here’s the captain coming into the cabin. Now’s your time.”
Steve shook his head.
“You must go now. Here, I’ll run and tell him you want to speak to him.”
“No, sir; pray don’t.”
The door opened, and Captain Marsham came in quickly.
“Come on deck, Handscombe,” he said, as he stood at the door putting on a pea-jacket. “You had better have a coat, for there is a remarkable change. The wind has turned nearly due north, and I’m afraid we are going to have a heavy snow-blast. Quick! the change is worth seeing.”
He did not even glance at Steve, but turned away, and the doctor followed, to stop at the door.
“There, go and wash yourself, my lad. It has turned cold, but let’s get this over; we have no time for quarrelling here on board ship.”
He hurried out, and left Steve in the cabin alone with his bitter thoughts.
“All this trouble about nothing,” muttered Steve, as soon as he was alone; and he mechanically went to the little washing-sink to remove the traces of the fight.
His actions were slow for a few moments, but they soon grew quicker, for he could hear Captain Marsham giving orders in a sharp, peremptory way.
There was an icy wind blowing through the open window and a peculiar whistling sound in the air, and as he hurriedly washed he knew by the rattling noises, faintly as they reached his ears, that the men were getting the furnace going and shovelling on coals.
By the time he was fit to be seen he had heard order after order given, and the men hurrying about, so that when he went on deck he was not surprised to find that they had shortened sail and were reefing those which were left. But the next instant he was startled by the change which had taken place since he went below.
Away to the north beyond the ice cliffs all had been bright and dazzling; now the sky was overcast, the sun had disappeared, and though a little blue sky was visible to the south it was a dingy kind of blue, fast becoming grey.
The whistling he had heard below had gone on increasing till the wind sang through the cordage, and made the canvas tug and strain at the ropes which held it. Then it died away to a faint whisper, like a sigh of weariness at the exertion.
The ice to the north was only dimly seen after a few minutes, for a thick haze appeared to be gathering in that direction, but high up, and not in any way resembling the fog which had come down upon them twice and appeared to be resting on the sea.
Steve had hardly grasped the state of affairs when Captain Marsham caught sight of him.
“Here, Steve, my lad,” he cried, quite in his old manner, “you had better get on your fur cap and mackintosh if you are going to stay on deck. Sharp! we shall have the storm upon us in a few minutes.”
Those words were quite cheering, and the lad hurried down to make the change suggested, noting, before he went into the cabin, that their course was altered, and the Hvalross’s head lay to the south-east.
“He doesn’t want to be near the ice in a storm,” thought Steve; and, strange enough as it appeared to him, he felt comparatively happy, a big, real trouble making the petty affair over which he had felt so despondent begin to fade away.
When he reappeared Captain Marsham was forward seeing to the extra lashing of the boats, which were drawn on board, and a glance showed him that Johannes and Andrew were at the wheel—that is, one was holding the spokes, while the other had been ordered there ready to render aid if it were required.
“Going to be much of a storm, Johannes?” asked Steve.
“Yes, sir, a fierce, heavy snowstorm, with a great wind from the north.”
“Ay, awm thenking she’ll have ferry dirty weather for twa or three days, Meester Steve,” added Andrew. “Well, lad, ye’ve got rid of all ta feathers, hey?”
“Yes,” said Steve shortly, as if he did not want to hear any allusion to the morning’s trouble. “But tell me, Johannes, can’t we get into any sheltered bay till the storm has passed?”
“Not without running a great deal of risk of being caught in the ice, sir. We couldn’t beat back to the west coast with this wind rising; and even if we could, I fear that the ice would be drifting down and stopping us.”
“Ay, she’d never get roond the cape this weather,” grunted Andrew. “Look ahint ye, my lad. She’s hat some ferry douce weather lately; now she’s coing to have some ferry pad weather. But she’s a coot poat, and she can ride oot the gale if she ton’t go to ta pottom.”
“Well, you’re a pretty sort of a Job’s comforter, Andra,” said Steve, trying to be cheerful under depressing circumstances. “But I say, if we do take to the boats, mind and not forget the pipes.”
“Ta pipes, Meester Steve, sir? She needna have anny fear apoot tat. They shan’t pe trooned.”
“What do you say, Johannes?” cried Steve, laughing.
“The captain knows his business, sir,” said the man gravely, “and he has a good crew. He is having the steam got up so that we can get right away from the ice. With plenty of room the Hvalross will not hurt.”
Every one was busy now save the doctor and Steve, who, being the non-combatants in the fight about to take place with the coming storm, felt both of them rather in the way; and as birds of a feather are said to flock together, they, after their fashion, flocked; in other words, they naturally joined company to talk about the outlook.
“Glad you and the captain are all right again, Steve,” said the former. “Matters look too serious now for petty troubles, eh?”
“It did not seem to be a petty trouble to me, sir,” replied Steve quietly.
“No, no, of course not; but that’s all over now. I’m afraid we are going to have a bad storm.”
“Think so, sir?”
“Look at the captain. He does; or he would not be taking all these precautions. I suppose we can do nothing?”
“Only get out of the way,” replied Steve. “Every one looks as if he wishes we would go below.”
“Then every one will be disappointed,” said the doctor shortly. “If I’m to be drowned, it shall be from the deck. I’m not going to be battened down under hatches, nor you neither, eh?”
“No, I shall stop on deck,” said Steve stoutly. “How dark it’s getting!”
“Yes, my lad. It looks very beautiful in the bright sunshine, with the ice and snow glittering; but Nature certainly seems to have drawn her line up here in the north, to show us that this part of the world was never meant for ordinary human habitation. If ever the North Pole is reached it will only be a scientific feat, and no valuable result can follow for enterprising man. Whew!” he added with a shiver; “did you feel that?”
For an icy puff of wind struck them suddenly and then passed on, leaving the air as calm as it was before its coming.
“No one could help feeling it,” said Steve, buttoning his mackintosh tightly.
“Part of the advance-guard of the storm, my lad. Yes, we’re going to have it soon. Let’s see, you thought one day that it was horribly hot down below, didn’t you?”
Steve nodded.
“I’m thinking that we shall be glad to go down and visit the engine-room, and not be above turning stokers.”
Another icy blast put an end to the doctor’s remarks; and as it passed on toward the south, after making the ship heel over and then race onward, the captain gave sharp orders for reducing the small amount of sail even more, Johannes giving one of his fellow-Norsemen a satisfied nod of the head, which Steve read to mean:
“All right; he knows his business.”
And all the while the men were busy below, hurrying on the furnaces and adding to the darkness astern by making the low, wide funnel send out a great black cloud of smoke, which, instead of trailing astern like a plume, gathered together and followed the vessel, shutting off the view northward, save when one of the chilling blasts dispersed it, driving it onward and leaving all clear.
“Getting snug by degrees,” said the captain, joining the two idlers for a few moments before hurrying off in a fresh direction. “If it will hold up another quarter of an hour, I think we shall be ready to say to it, ‘Do your worst.’”
“Oh, it will last that time.”
The captain did not answer, but went to where the men were furling a sail, and he had hardly reached them when a puff of wind seemed to dash down and seize the portion of the great fore-and-aft canvas unsecured, fill it out balloon-fashion, and swing round the heavy yard, which was about to be laid along the top, level with the boom below.
Two men went backwards on the deck.
“Two more hands here!” roared the captain. “Lay on to it, my lads;” and as two of the Norwegians sprang to help, and the two men who had been sent sprawling on the deck regained their feet, Steve shouted, “Come on, Mr Handscombe!” and ran and climbed on to the swinging yard to help bear it down.
Five minutes’ hard fight, and the sail was bound down with its yard firmly on to the great boom which lay horizontally level with the bulwarks, and a stout rope was passed round and round and made fast before the next puff came. For these began to succeed each other more rapidly now, following the advance-guard of the boreal enemy like a band of skirmishers trying to make an easy way for the main army close upon their track.
The sail reduced, all but that which was absolutely necessary, and which, small as was its surface, was sufficient to make the Hvalross race along during the time the blasts endured, the captain directed his attention to the hatches’ battening down, spreading tarpaulins, and having them nailed over, till at last he turned to where the doctor and Steve stood gazing astern at the grim, black wall, which appeared to be following about a mile away.
“There,” he said, “I think we are ready for the fight now. A pretty good lesson this in having everything shipshape, so as to be prepared for emergencies.”
“I think it has been wonderful,” said the doctor. “How well the men seconded you!”
“Yes; not forgetting the doctor and Steve. That was very brave of you, my lad. A sailor of twenty years’ experience could not have done better.”
“What, in getting astride of that yard to bear it down? Why, it seemed just the thing to do!”
“Exactly; but it was the doing it speedily, before it did any mischief.”
“Perhaps we shall ride on before the storm now, and not be much affected by it,” said the doctor tentatively; but the captain shook his head.
“We shall have it directly. Look how the water is beginning to foam away yonder! What I fear is that it may not keep on from the north, but veer about and change. We want more sea room.”
“But we have come miles away from the ice already.”
“Yes; but I should like to be another fifty. Hark!” The command was not needed, for those he addressed listened awe-stricken to a deep, crashing roar which now came from astern.
“Thunder?” asked Steve.
“Wind, and breaking up of the ice,” said the captain quietly. “If we had stopped in one of the bays of Spitzbergen, we should have had shelter, found the way open after the gale is over, and been able to get round the north of the great island.”
“Here it comes!” cried Steve, as there was another of the fierce rushes of wind, this time so heavy that the air smote him in the face, and he had to turn away, panting, to breathe.
“Yes, we have it now!” cried the captain. “Stand fast there, you two by the wheel!”
“Ay, ay, sir!” came in a deep growl from Johannes, as he and Andrew grasped the spokes side by side.
“And now,” said the captain to his companions in a low voice, “you two had better go below.”
“No!” cried the doctor and Steve at one and the same moment.
“Very well. Get under shelter of the bulwarks, then. The fight has begun.”
He was right, for the storm was upon them with a wild, shrieking, hissing, deafening roar that nearly took Steve off his legs, and sent the doctor staggering forward to clutch at the nearest object that would offer a hold. In an instant the deck was white with a fine, powdery dust that bit and stung and filled the hair, penetrating to the skin. Voices were inaudible, but there was a weird chorus from the ropes and stays, and then a loud report as one of the storm sails burst into ribbons and was torn piecemeal out of the bolt ropes.
Steve turned to see what effect this had upon the captain, and to learn whether it meant danger; but the blinding snow hid him from sight, as well as the men at the wheel; and all he knew was that no one stirred save the doctor, who had crawled to the shelter of the bulwark, and crouched down by his side, to grasp his arm, and place his lips close to his ear and shout:
“What do you think of this?”
Steve made no answer, for the noise, the rush of the snow, the swaying motion of the ship, and the darkness combined to stun his senses. All he could do was to struggle for his breath, gasping, glad to get his hands over his mouth and nostrils as he realised how easily any one might be suffocated in such a storm.
The Hvalross was almost on her beam ends for a few minutes; then she righted and tore through the water, which was nearly smooth, the hurricane cutting off the tops of the waves, to mingle with the snow-dust in a spray which froze instantly, and beat against everything it encountered with painful violence, or covered the masts, sails, and ropes with a thick coating of ice.
Then all was darkness and confusion, deafening, bewildering, and strange. The captain made his way to the wheel, and the rest clustered forward, sheltering themselves in front of the galley, for nothing could be done then. The only men who could do anything for their safety were those at the wheel, and the engineer and fireman, who, sheltered in the warmth below, worked on to get up a head of steam ready against it was wanted; but that did not seem probable for some time to come, the vessel racing on under almost bare poles into a continuation of the semi-darkness which surrounded them.
And now Steve thoroughly realised how helpless man, with all his ingenuity, became in the midst of such a storm. Absolutely nothing could be done but trust themselves to the hands of God, and wait patiently for the end.
As soon as the lad could collect his thoughts, he began to wonder what the consequences would be if they overtook some other unfortunate vessel. Again, how far it was to the Siberian coast, toward which they were being driven; and whether Captain Marsham would be able to tell in the midst of that deafening clamour and blinding darkness of the elements how far they might go before being able to turn ship and try to hold his own by the help of the steam in the teeth of the gale. Then, suffering an intensity of cold such as was perfectly new to him, he crouched there, stunned, bewildered, and unable to move.
He was conscious, after a space of what must have been hours, that some change had taken place, for the vessel appeared to be struck again by the storm, but from the other quarter, and just then the wind seemed to pluck and drag at him, as if to tear him from where he crouched, while a short time after the Hvalross heeled over again to such an extent that she seemed as if she would never recover herself.
At last Steve became conscious of some one touching him, grasping his arm, and shaking him; but he could hardly move. Then he felt himself dragged over the ice—for it did not seem like the deck—to the way down to the engine-room, and heard a voice shouting, “No, it would be dangerous—cabin!”
How he was helped down he did not know, but he revived a little to the fact that the doctor and captain were by him, and in spite of the din it was possible to hear what was said.
“Is he frost-bitten?”
“No, I think not.”
“Keep him down here, then, and stay yourself.”
“Are you going back on deck?”
“Of course.”
“But one moment. Tell me—I felt a shock. Are we running right for the coast, due south?”
“I wish we were,” said the captain gravely. “No; the storm seemed to swing round, and is blowing almost in a contrary direction. We are running north-east, and unless I can get her head to wind and the steam well up we shall soon be amongst the drifting ice.”
He hurried out of the cabin and closed the door after him, while the doctor hastened to get Steve’s mackintosh from his stiffened body and arms, and helped him to put on a fur-lined coat.
“That’s better,” said the doctor.
Steve nodded.
“How are your feet—numbed?”
“No,” said Steve, rather faintly, “I think they are all right. I was crouched together sitting on them.”
“And your hands?”
“They were in my breast. There’s nothing the matter now. I only felt confused, and as if I could not think or do anything.”
“I felt the same, my lad. It is very awful. I never thought such a storm was possible. Do you think you can venture to go on deck again?”
“Oh yes, I’m ready. I shan’t feel the cold so in this coat.”
“Then come and help me. I want to do something to comfort the men if I can. Let’s make our way to the galley.”
“Yes.”
“I want to get the cook to make a quantity of hot tea. The poor fellows must have something, or they will perish.”
“I’m ready, sir,” cried Steve; “come along.”
“Wait a minute. Which will be the best way?”
“Get to the bulwarks at once, and creep along till we’re opposite the galley. It will be easy enough then.”
“I doubt it, my lad.”
Then the door was opened, for a blinding cloud of powdery snow to rush in; and as they stood together out there once more in the wild shrieking and yelling of the storm, while the ship shivered and creaked and throbbed, they had hard work to close the door after them before making their way on hands and knees through the thick snow to the weather bulwark, and along by this they crept till abreast of the galley without coming across a soul. They paused here for a few moments, and then Steve placed his lips to the doctor’s ear.
“Come on!” he said; and leading the way once more he crossed to the end of the galley in a blind struggle against the wind, which seemed to pounce upon him and try to tear him away. But he crept on, with the doctor close to him, and became aware that he was touching something cold, which moved and then seized him with a hoarse:
“Wha’s this?”
“I, Hamish!” shouted the boy. “We want to get into the galley.”
“Gang below, laddie. Ta fire’s oot, and there’s naebody there.”
“Come back,” said the doctor in Steve’s ear; and the boy followed, too much stunned and confused by the wind and driving ice powder to propose any other plan. But as he turned to follow the doctor he became aware that several men were huddled together there in the slight shelter afforded by the cook-house, and this confused him more, for the men were at the wrong end, and not where he knew they had taken refuge before.
And now he recalled the sudden change which had taken place, and grasped the fact that they were head to wind, or nearly so, while a vibration beneath his feet told him that the engine was hard at work.
The next minute—how he did not know—they were by the way down into the engine-room, the doctor’s snowy figure being visible in a misty light which struck upward as he descended, Steve following breathless and panting, to find in the glow shed by the fires the cook on one side and Watty Links on the other, while even here the snow-dust was whirling down and melting at once into a rain, which ascended as a thick steam.
“Hadn’t you better have kept in the cabin, sir?” said the engineer to Steve; and then he turned to the doctor, “Come down for a warm, sir?”
“No! I wanted to try and get some hot drink to the men on deck—some hot coffee.”
“Couldn’t be done, sir,” said the cook.
“Let’s say that when we’ve tried and failed,” cried Steve. “You can get hot water here; I’ll fetch coffee and sugar.”
“Very well, sir, I’ll try; but how are we to get it to them on deck?”
“Bottles, man, bottles!” cried the doctor. “Where there’s a will there’s a way.”
The energy displayed by the new-comers, aided by the warmth, had its effect upon the man; the engineer remembered that he had two clean bottles in a locker, and Steve and the doctor fought their way again over the slippery, snowy deck to the cabin, from which they emerged again well laden, and in another quarter of an hour they were on their way first to the wheel, holding on tightly to prevent their being swept heavily across the poop, and they felt, more than saw, the two men, and by them the captain and mate.
They did not speak their mission, but told it dumbly by pressing a bottle of hot coffee in each man’s hand, waiting while it was consumed, and then returning to get the bottles refilled, their thanks being a warm, hearty pressure and a shouted warning from the captain to take care as they turned to creep back under such shelter as they could get, Steve having hard work once to save himself from being driven forward by the wind, which seemed to come from all quarters at once.
The men huddled forward on deck were now relieved in the same way, this taking two journeys, after which they joined the engineer in partaking of the hot, steaming compound, and prepared to return on deck.
“Hadn’t you better stay below here, sir?” said the man; “there’s nothing to be done on deck.”
“We’ll come down again,” replied the doctor. “Why, Steve,” he cried, “Captain Marsham is on the bridge!”
For at that moment there was a sharp ting upon the gong just overhead, which the engineer responded to by seizing the lever and altering the number of revolutions per minute of the screw. The next moment he staggered, and would have fallen but for his grasp of the lever, the doctor staggered up against the side, and Steve caught hold of the engineer, while Watty Links was pitched from his seat on to the iron flooring, and evidently uttered a yell, though it was not heard in the terrific noise of the storm; neither did they hear a tremendous crash; but all knew that they had struck something, for there was a fearful shock, and a peculiar thrill ran through the vessel just as if she were being shaken to pieces and her timbers were about to fall apart.
The doctor seized and pressed Steve’s hand in silence as he hurried up on deck to struggle aft to the captain, fully expecting that they were going down. But he was invisible in the driving snow. They made out somehow, though, that he was on the bridge in company with the mate; and, unable to reach and question him, they crept together right aft to the wheel, where Steve found himself at Johannes’ feet.
The big Norseman did not wait to be questioned. He knew why the lad had come, and, bending down, he roared in his ear:
“Ice—struck bows!”
That was all, and the man stood immovable once more at his post.
“Come away!” cried the doctor. “We have no business here.”
Closely as his lips were pressed to Steve’s ear, the words were hardly heard; but the movement he made was suggestive, and though he longed to stay there by the big Norseman, he felt that it was right, and he followed his companion, stopping just under the bridge, and, unable to resist the desire, he began to creep up the steps.
The wind pressure was fearful, and everything he touched was coated with ice; but he persevered till he could touch the captain’s leg. In an instant he had stooped down to the boy, to shout, as loudly as he could:
“Go down!”
It seemed hard to the boy, when the touch only meant a desire to show that he was thinking about the man so bravely facing the fierce storm; but he obeyed, and, somehow or other, he hardly knew how, reached the cabin, where the doctor, after several tries, lit the lamp.
As the light shone out Steve stared in wonder at his companion, and then around him at what should have been the snugly furnished cabin. Now all was changed; the white snow had penetrated through door-cracks and the ventilator, covering everything.
But they could breathe and talk here as they rubbed the snow from their faces and hair; though their coats were like so much armour, and were too stiff to bend.
“Awful, Steve, my boy! Awful!” shouted the doctor. “What a fearful storm!”
The noise increased just then, for the door was quickly opened, but as quickly shut, and a white figure stood before them; and for the moment they thought it was the captain; then the icy helmet upon the man’s head was with some difficulty taken off, revealing the face of Mr Lowe, the mate.
“The captain says you are not to run such a risk again, my lad. You can do us no good, and it troubles him when he wants all his energy to save the ship.”
“Then we are in great danger?” cried Steve.
“Yes, my lad, I think so,” was the reply; “but the captain will save us if it is to be done.”
“What was that awful crash?”
“Ice beneath our bows. We have it all round now, and it is impossible to avoid it. All we can do is to keep her head to the wind, and drift. We can make no headway with full steam on, and we dare not if we could.”
“But—”
“Can’t stop,” was the reply; “going forward to the men;” and the mate replaced his ice-laden cap and passed out into the storm.
“The captain was thinking of your safety, Steve, my lad; but we must think for him and the crew. Exposure such as they are going through is murderous. Let’s wait for a bit, and then take them all some more hot drink.”
He led the way out of the whitened cabin, and they struggled back through the driving snow to the engine-room, down into whose warm glow they crept just as there was another blow, which jarred the whole ship. Then the gong sounded.
“Slower,” said the engineer, as he moved the lever. “There, that’s about as little as we can do. Just enough to give her steering power.”
No more was said, and Steve looked round, as he warmed his numbed hands, to see that Watty was lying with his face in his hands, close to the side.
“Asleep?” said Steve, with his lips to the cook’s ear; but the man shook his head.
“Fright!” he replied.
A few minutes later one of the Norwegians and three of the crew came down all covered with ice, and one of the furnace doors was opened to send out a genial glow, lighting up the whole place, which was now dripping wet with thawed snow, and the stream rose up to float out through the hatch.
“Mate sent us down for a warm,” said one of the men. “To stay half an hour, and then relieve some more. We can do nothing on deck.”
“Let’s leave them,” said the doctor in Steve’s ear; and after warning the cook to be ready with the refreshment in half an hour, they made their way back to the cabin.
Those refreshments were not taken to the men on deck, for in turn all were sent down to the engine-room for warmth and food; and at last, to Steve’s great delight, the captain entered the cabin, to reply to the grips of the hand given him, and then drink with avidity the hot coffee ready on the table.
“I don’t like leaving the deck,” he said cheerfully; “but I must have coal and water for my engine, or I cannot work. No, no, don’t question me; I have no news. We are in an awful storm, and are being carried with the drifting ice, Heaven only knows where.”
That storm lasted forty-eight hours—hours of as great trial as man could go through, and live. Steve had borne up till, in spite of the danger, his eyes would keep open no longer, and then he had slept a troubled nightmare-like sleep to dream of shipwreck and struggling with the wind and waves. Every now and then he would start awake suffering from cold, and draw the great skin rug in which he had nestled closer round him, and drop off again into what was almost a stupor.
There was one time, or else he dreamed it—he never quite knew which—when he crept all about the deck again, to find it deeply encumbered with snow. Then he was back in the cabin lying on a locker, and he opened his eyes and saw the captain rolled up in a blanket lying asleep on the table. The next minute he was looking about again, to find that the captain had gone, and that the doctor only was there. Once it was Mr Lowe, but he, too, disappeared, and then all was blank, till he started into wakefulness, to find that the deafening rush and roar had ceased, and that a peculiar weird light was forcing its way into the cabin; while at intervals there came a curious grinding, cracking sound, followed every now and then by a loud, rending crash. The ship was rolling slowly upon a heaving sea, and steaming slowly, for the vibration of the screw made the things in the cabin quiver. Then there was more light in the cabin, for the door was opened with a crackling sound, as of moving broken ice, and the captain, glistening and white, entered the cabin.
“Awake, Steve?” he said in a low, weary voice.
“Yes, I’m so ashamed. Then the storm is over?”
“Yes, my lad,” said the captain, sinking down on the locker with his great oil-skin coat crackling loudly; “at last, thank God!”
There was a deep, heartfelt ring in Captain Marsham’s voice as he uttered those words, and for some moments Steve was silent, conscious now that the doctor was lying on the cabin floor sleeping soundly.
“And we ought to have been on deck to help you, sir,” said Steve at last.
“No, my lad, I sent word for you to stay below; man or boy could not help us then. We could only wait.”
“But we are safe?”
“For the present, yes.”
“And where are we?”
The captain smiled faintly.
“Where are we?” he said. “That’s more than I can tell. In the ice, Steve, and for aught I can tell, right up somewhere toward the North Pole.”