‘I’ve had it again! Just the same—the mate an’ me!’ Then, with a look
around, ‘I’m sorry to have roused ye up, mates. I’m all right now.’
Then, to myself, ‘How long afore we’re off the Horn, sir?’
‘About a week if the wind holds. Why?’
‘Because,’ replied he, lying back and rolling over in his blankets,
‘I’ve got a week longer to live.’
‘That was Jack Ashby, an’ he’s had his dream again,’ said the lookout
man in an awed voice as we hurried on deck, fearful of wandering
bergs.
Then (his name was Baker) he told me the whole story, and, in spite of
my utter incredulity, I became interested, and, having little to do,
watched closely the progress of the expected drama.
Also, after that night, I had many a talk with Ashby. I found him a
man rather above the average run of his class, and one open to reason
and argument; nor, on the whole, very superstitious. But on the
subject of his vision he was immovable.
‘You saw the land in your dreams, did you not?’ I once asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied he. ‘Big cliffs, not more ’n a mile away,’ and he
described its appearance, and the position of the vessel.
‘Well, then,’ I said, ‘it may interest you to know that the skipper
intends to keep well to the south’ard, and that we’re more likely to
sight the Shetlands than the Horn.’