Chapter 31

When the dim light of dawn fell upon the sea I looked over the gray waters through the telescope. The mist had faded away, and the snow had ceased to fall. A fresh breeze from the low east brought a faint glimmer of sunshine with it. But though I searched the horizon, and the wide intervening space of sea, yet could I discover nothing of the boat, and Fair Isle was nowhere to be seen.

Looking for that island--which I knew to be the nearest land--I remembered the islanders and thought how little chance there now remained of the Falcon rendering them assistance in their need of provisions. I saw no possibility of reaching Fair Isle; for, as I had seen it on the previous day, it appeared but a small rock; and being out of all my reckoning, and, as I supposed, a considerable distance to leeward, I did not think it wise to waste much time in the vain effort to reach the island, the exact position of which I was ignorant of. I might have beat about for two or three days, perhaps, without sighting it, and yet I knew not what other land to make for.

The wind, which was now blowing east-southeast, was unfavourable in an attempt to make for the Orkneys. The only alternative that I could see, therefore, was to head the schooner round on the port tack and bear northward to the Shetlands.

I went below to look at the chart to determine my position and the course I should take; and, to prepare myself for difficulties I foresaw, I lighted a fire and made myself some coffee and cooked some bacon for breakfast. When I had eaten a good meal and warmed myself, a drowsiness came over me again, and I threw myself on the skipper's bed to rest for a little while.

I must have slept very soundly; for when I awoke the fire was out, and I saw by the chronometer that it was nearly eleven o'clock. But my sleep had done me great good, and I hurried on deck and looked round.

The schooner was labouring aimlessly for the want of the helm to guide her and keep her on her course; but soon I brought her to again and she went scudding along bravely. I made no doubt that at the rate she was sailing I should sight Sumburgh Head early the next morning.

What troubled me most was that she appeared to be making a good deal of leeway. This was my one danger, for if I should be taken so much to leeward as to miss the southern point of the Shetland Mainland, then I should lose my chance of making Lerwick. Thus I might possibly be driven northward beyond the islands, and so find myself in a worse plight than if I had tried to regain the Orkneys.

The sight of a few fishing smacks on the far east inspired me with renewed hope. They were making north, but they were too far away for me to signal them. As a precaution, however, I hoisted a signal of distress in case any passing ship should see the Falcon whilst I was below or asleep at any time. But this was of no avail as it happened, for all the rest of that day I saw not another sail.

The next night was spent in weariness on deck, with a cold rain falling. I managed to keep awake without much difficulty, for I did not take any more spirits, but had a can of hot coffee beside me at the tiller, and went below several times to keep the fire alight and the kettle on the boil. At about midnight I saw a ship's light to windward, but it soon dropped below the horizon. It showed me that I was still on the sea track between Orkney and Shetland, and I kept a sharp lookout towards morning for the Sumburgh light.

Day broke with a haze over the water and a cloudy sky. The wind shifted to the northeast, bringing snow. At midday the wind was due north, and several inches of snow lay on the schooner's deck. I boiled some potatoes for my dinner, and thought that I had something to be thankful for in having a good store of provisions on board. I was beginning to think that I should need them, for I had not yet sighted the land.

Again the night came, and still I had seen no more sails. I had seen no land. The rays of the Sumburgh light never reached the poor Falcon. I felt that I was drifting to westward, being carried away in the grip of one of those mysterious ocean currents that are the terror of the northern latitudes.

On the fourth day of my lonely voyage I was oppressed by a deep sense of the danger of my situation. I realized that I had missed the Shetlands; that I could now do no more than abandon myself to the will of the wind, and trust to falling in with some vessel that might be making for the Faroe Islands or for Iceland. If I had had a companion to take watch about with me I might have got along fairly well; but with my hard work of trimming the sails, and battling with the fitful winds, I could not do without sleep, and during my hours of sleep the schooner always fell off her course, and I could make no reckoning.

Day followed day, and my situation underwent no visible change, excepting only that the temperature became ever colder and colder, that the snow fell more constantly, and that the mist hemmed me in more closely. Sometimes at midday the mist would lift and I saw around me the great wide stretch of desolate sea, with an ice floe floating here and there. On one such occasion I fancied I saw land on the windward bow, a white mountainous peak rose high in air, and, not knowing where I might be, I took it to be one of the joekulls of Iceland. But, alas! it proved to be but an immense iceberg.

In my solitude I naturally thought much of my home, now so far away, and of my dear mother and sister, and their prayers for my safety. For their sakes I dreaded to think that I might never return to them again.

I thought, too, of Thora, and wondered many times if she was better, or if her illness had taken her away.

I had before found comfort in the thought that she was protected by the viking's stone. But, probably, I now needed its mystic help even more than she.

One afternoon--I think it must have been about the twentieth day of my loneliness--I had been asleep for some three hours, and in a kind of waking dream I saw a strange vague vision. A number of persons, whose faces I could not rightly discern, were in a large room. Amongst them was Thora, looking more beautiful than I had ever seen her in my life, and she stood pointing with an accusing finger at her brother Tom, at whose feet there crouched a lean dog, snarling at him.

I was awakened from my half sleep by the noise of a crackling and scraping of ice upon the schooner's sides. I had seen many floating pieces of ice during the past few days, but this, from the noise it made, seemed to be an unusually large piece. I feared it might even be an iceberg, and I hastened up on deck.

I shall never forget the sight that greeted me.

The whole sky was aglow with the light of the aurora borealis--or the Merry Dancers, as we call the phenomenon in Orkney. A beautiful crimson curtain, fringed with flickering streamers, spanned the northern sky. From east to west there passed a succession of trembling waves of light, many coloured, from faint rose to palest yellow and delicate green. A heavy cloud of inky blackness hung high above, and from its upper margin rays of fiery light flashed far across the sky, casting their reflections upon the sea.

Two ghostly icebergs, floating about a mile apart, reared their snowy peaks on high, and in the channel between them--most welcome sight of all--there sailed a ship.

The vessel's sails were hanging stiff about the spars and her timbers were coated with ice and snow. I steered the schooner towards her, and we slowly approached. When I was near enough I hailed her and waited, listening for an answer to my call. No answer came.

A feeling of awe crept over me. There was something strangely desolate about her. No hand seemed to be guiding her helm. Not a man was to be seen on her snow-covered decks. She sailed aimlessly along, as though all on board had ceased to care when or how she reached her destination.

I brought the schooner close in to the stranger's side until we touched, and then I got the large boat hook out and fixed it in her chains. None of the ship's crew appeared to have remarked my approach. What could they be doing? Perhaps, I thought, they were all below decks.

I climbed upon the Falcon's gunwale and looked through an open porthole into the vessel's after cabin. I saw there a man seated at a table, with his back towards me, apparently writing.

"Hello in there! D'ye keep no watch aboard?" I cried.

He appeared not to hear me, but held the pen in his hand as though in deep meditation.

I clambered up the vessel's side and got over the quarter rail, taking with me the end of a stout rope with which to secure the two ships together. The snow was deep on the stranger's decks, and bore no trace of footsteps. All was quiet. .

I crossed over to the companion ladder, and found my way down to the door of the cabin. I knocked with my knuckles, but no voice answered, and I went within. The man still sat at the table, without turning at my entrance. The atmosphere was cold and musty; there was no fire in the stove, although yet another man sat crouched before it. I went behind the man at the table and touched him on the shoulder.

"D'ye not hear me, sir?" I said. "Are ye deaf? or what has gone wrong?"

He did not move.

I looked down into his face.

"Heavens!" I exclaimed, drawing back in horror at the grim sight.

What did it mean? I made bold to look again, though I felt myself trembling. A green damp mould covered his cheek and forehead, and hung in a ghastly fringe over his open eyes. The man was a frozen corpse!

Terrified at the sight, I fled up the stairs with my heart wildly beating. Regaining the deck I looked about me, but there was no sign of life anywhere on the ship. Afraid to make any further search, I clambered down into the Falcon and rushed below. I cast myself before the fire, trembling and unable to realize anything for the mortal fear that was upon me. I tried to forget the sight of that face of death, with its horribly grim and mouldy features, but it haunted me with terrible clearness.

I roused up my fire and made some strong tea, and, drinking it, I wondered why I had not thought of pushing off the schooner from this death ship. It was now growing dark, and the thought of spending a whole night alone in the near presence of dead men, whose ghosts, for all I knew, might visit me, filled my mind with strange and awful fancies. Even the sound of the wind whispering in the ropes struck me with nervous fear. But the drink of tea and what little I ate helped to revive my spirits, and gradually my sense of awe was overcome by a curiosity that came upon me--a curiosity to go aboard the vessel again and discover something more of her singular condition.

It was now wearing on towards night and I trimmed my lamps. Lighting a small lantern, I carried it with me on deck. I made the two vessels still more secure by means of a hawser rope, and then went aboard the barque. As I began to climb up her side I was conscious that she seemed to be deeper in the water than she had been when I came alongside of her, but the discovery did not at the moment trouble me.

I carried my lantern across her quarterdeck, and with timid steps again descended into the after cabin. The lantern shed a ghostly light upon the figure of the man at the table. I walked round to the opposite side from that at which he sat and turned the light upon his face. His long beard was overgrown with the same green mould that hung over his glassy blue eyes, and yet there was a look of life about his features.

I chanced to look at the ink pot in front of him. A little black dust was all that it contained. Then I had a wish to see what he had been writing in his log book. I drew the volume towards me and turned it that I might read. The words were in English; they seemed to have been written by a cold and trembling hand. The last lines on the open page were in themselves a revelation. They were as follows:

"It is now seventeen days since we were shut up in the ice. The fire went out yesterday, and our captain has since tried to light it again. His wife died this morning. There is no more hope."

I pondered over these words for some time, trying to realize their sad meaning.

"There is no more hope!"

How long since had that sentence been written? How long had the ice imprisoned this vessel in its cold, hard grip?

I turned back a few pages in search of some recorded date, and found this entry:

"New Year's Day, 1831:--The ice still closing in on us. Opened last bag of biscuits. Murray died this morning."

So long ago! the year 1831! and now it was the year 1844! The ship, then, had been lost for thirteen years!

I turned the light upon the man crouching over the stove. His features, like those of his companion, were covered with green mould, and his beard was fringed with the same grim mildew.

Taking my lantern I went through into the stateroom, and there I found the body of a woman laid upon a bed. Her features were still fresh and lifelike, but her black hair was powdered with the damp green growth. Before her a young man was seated on the floor, holding a flint in one hand and a steel in the other. A few sticks of hard wood were piled up in front of him. I could but surmise that these were the captain and his wife.

From the stateroom I turned into the pantry. Not a sign of provisions of any sort could I discover, either here or in any other part of the ship. The galley fireplace was empty of fuel, a few pieces of charred wood were the only remains of a fire.

Before leaving the ship I went forward into the fore cabin. A dog was stretched out as though asleep at the foot of the ladder, and several sailors lay in their hammocks. They also were reposing in the sleep of death. They all appeared to have died very peacefully; but whether from the want of food alone or, as I have since thought possible, from want of air, being shut up in the heart of an iceberg, I had no means of knowing.

I did not further continue my search of the vessel that night, but went on board the Falcon, feeling sick and nervous. I could eat nothing; but having taken a drink of hot coffee, I sat before a good fire, thinking over what I had just seen, and planning what I should do.

If any one of those poor men could, in his dire need, have had a drink of my coffee, or a spoonful of the good porridge I had made but could not myself eat, heavens! how he would have relished it! Here was I, with a schooner well loaded with provisions. Some strange fate had brought me to this ship. But all that I could have supplied was useless to the sufferers now. They had perished of starvation and cold, and my food and fire were of no avail, for I had come thirteen years too late!