Blackburn and his dory-mate left their schooner in a driving snow-storm.
Before they had been at the trawls long the weather had become so thick
that they couldn’t see ten feet from the dory’s gunwale. The wind shifted
and put them to leeward of their vessel. There was never a sound of bell
or horn through the thickness, and, though they pulled to windward, where
they thought their skipper lay, the vessel could not be found. They were
lost, and the sea was rising. Then they anchored until dawn.
When the snow stopped falling, they saw the schooner’s light, a tiny
speck, miles to windward. To reach it was impossible. The situation was
desperate. Wave-crest after wave-crest swept into the dory, and all but
swamped her. Time after time she was baled out, until it seemed as if
human endurance could stand it no longer. Blackburn made a sea-anchor for
a drag, but in throwing it out lost his mittens overboard. It was horrible
enough to fear drowning in the icy sea, but as he felt his hands beginning
to freeze the effort seemed hopeless.
With hands frozen, Blackburn felt that he was useless, for his dory-mate
was already almost helpless with exposure. So he sat down to his oars and
bent his freezing fingers over the handles, getting as firm a clutch as
he could. There he sat patiently, calmly, keeping the dory up to the seas
meanwhile,--waiting for his hands to freeze to the oars. The dory became
covered with ice, and pieces of it knocked against the frozen hands and
beat off a little finger and a part of one of the palms. During the second
day Blackburn’s dory-mate gave it up, and Blackburn laid down beside him
to try and warm him. But it was useless. The dory-man froze to death where
he lay.