ON ANGRY WATERS
Ten o’clock that night, and the boys were stealing silently to the spot
where the longboat swung on creaking davits, rising and falling with the
rise and fall of the ship.
At last they were together, teeth chattering with mingled excitement and
cold, coat collars turned far up about their ears and caps pulled down
to meet them. They had appropriated all the warm clothing they could
find in the ship’s lockers.
They had learned in the course of their work on deck how to lower the
boats and raise them, and, with scarcely a word uttered between them,
they set to work.
In spite of the pressing need for haste and the biting cold that seemed
to search out their very marrow, they accomplished the feat neatly, the
boat landing with scarcely a splash in the water.
Once voices sounded close to them and they crouched close in the shadows
of the deck-house till the voices passed on.
Then, recognizing more than ever the need for haste, they slid, with as
little noise as possible, into the boat and cast her loose from the
schooner.
As they moved away, out into the darkness, adrift at last, they heard a
sudden exclamation, a quick call, and knew that the absence of the
longboat had been discovered.
“Didn’t get away any too soon,” said Fred, trying hard to keep his teeth
from chattering.
“We haven’t got away yet,” returned Bobby grimly. “Better not count our
chickens till they’re hatched.”
“Do you think they’ll chase us?” asked Mouser.
“No telling,” returned Bobby. “But whether they do or not, the thing for
us to do just now is to keep still and work.”
They did as he said, bending to the oars, grateful for work that would
keep the blood circulating in their veins.
Bobby, precious compass at hand, directed their course, occasionally
lighting a match to make sure they were keeping true to it.
And after a while, how long a time they had no way of knowing, they
became sure they were safe from pursuit. There was no human sound in the
dark, grim wastes about them, only the doleful rise and fall of the wind
and the brittle scraping of the ice against the sides of their little
boat.
“Well, I guess, fellows,” it was Bobby who broke the silence at last,
“that we’ve done it all right. We’re free again, anyway.”
“Free!” repeated Fred. “Say, make believe that word doesn’t sound good
to me!”
“I’ll say so,” agreed Mouser and Billy together, and for the moment all
doubt of the future was forgotten in a wild feeling of elation.
Free, free! What did anything matter, now that they had broken away from
Captain Garrish and his ship? They were free!
“All we have to do now,” cried Mouser jubilantly, “is to think about
getting home.” Strangely enough, instead of cheering them, this thought
put a sudden damper on their enthusiasm. Home! How unattainable and far
away it seemed! What would any one of them give to be sitting now in a
familiar room, before a glowing fire, with familiar faces surrounding
him?
Their imaginations dwelt longest on the fire. “Say, just think of it! A
crackling, joyful, leaping fire, in exchange for this deadly cold that
threatens to freeze our very bones!” exclaimed Fred.
For a long time after this remark the boys were silent, working hard to
fight off the feeling of drowsiness that was creeping upon them, blowing
upon their gloved hands now and then to drive the numbness from them.
“Home was never like this,” said Billy at last, in a tone he tried hard
to make cheerful.
“I never knew it could be so cold,” said Mouser. “I’ve read enough about
it,” said Fred, adding, with an attempt to stretch his stiff mouth into
a grin: “But it has to be seen to be appreciated.”
“Say,” said Bobby, putting out a match after another look at the
compass, “what’s the matter with you, Billy? Can’t you give us a joke or
something?”
“The last time I tried,” said Billy, wondering if his feet were still at
the end of his legs—he could not tell, for there seemed to be no feeling
in them whatever—“perhaps you remember that I was greeted with laughter
and ridicule—a large amount of it.”
“That’s all right, Billy; you’re perfectly safe now,” said Fred. “Nobody
could laugh at your rottenest attempt now. It can’t be done. I
know—because I’ve tried.”
“Well, if you’re sure you want to hear one—” began Billy, and for once,
as he hesitated, the other boys answered an enthusiastic affirmative.
Bad as Billy’s jokes usually were, they would be welcome now—anything to
make them forget, if even for a moment, how deadly cold they were.
“We-ell,” began Billy, between teeth that persisted in chattering, “a
young poet—at least he thought he was a poet—paid a compliment to a girl
with red hair one day when they were out walking together. She said she
thought his poems were fine, but asked him if he knew the difference
between them and her hair. He said he didn’t, but he’d like to. What do
you suppose her answer was?”
“Don’t know,” said Mouser.
“Too c-cold to think,” chattered Fred.
“Go ahead—shoot,” ordered Bobby.
“Well,” said the proud and almost happy Billy, “she said, ‘the
difference is that my hair’s red.’”
It took a minute for the pun to sink home, and then the boys groaned in
unison.
“It’s cruel,” protested Fred. “And on a night like this, too!”
“I’d pitch him overboard,” said Mouser, “only I’m too tender-hearted.
Say,” with a shiver, “doesn’t that water look cold?”
“It isn’t as cold as I am, I’ll bet,” said Billy, adding anxiously:
“Say, Bobby, isn’t it about time we were getting to shore?”
“Not for a little while yet, I guess,” said Bobby, looking once more at
the compass. “We’re keeping in the right direction, and if Takyak knew
what he was talking about we ought to reach there before long.”
“If we last long enough,” added Fred dolefully.
In parts of their bodies they had absolutely no feeling, and again and
again they were forced to fight off that insidious drowsiness that crept
upon them like a thief in the dark.
They knew, for they had read enough about persons dying from exposure,
that once they succumbed to the desire for sleep it would be all over
for them.
They must keep going, keep their muscles active and the blood
circulating in their veins. Some way they must keep their heavy eyes
open.
And then suddenly it seemed to them as though things had changed, the
waves, the very air seemed different, charged with a new menace.
As though driven by a common thought they looked upward at the sky—and
felt snow flakes on their faces!
Snowing! They were running headfirst into a storm—one of those terrific
arctic blizzards, perhaps. It was not imagination, either, that made
them think the waves were higher, that the wind was rising.
One incoming, ice-laden comber struck the side of their boat, listing it
crazily to starboard. There was a sharp cry from Bobby—a cry of such
utter surprise and dismay that it made the hearts of his hearers stand
still.
“The compass!” shouted Bobby, above the rising wind. “I’ve lost it
overboard! It’s gone!”