At 7:30 on the morning of Monday, September 12, 1881, ninety-two days
since the loss of the _Jeannette_, we shoved off from Semenovski
Island for Cape Barkin on the Lena Delta, ninety-six miles away to the
southwest of us. The _Jeannette’s_ company was disposed as follows:
_First Cutter_
Lieut. Comdr. De Long
Surgeon Ambler
Mr. Collins
Lee
Nindemann
Noros
Erichsen
Kaack
Görtz
Dressler
Boyd
Iversen
Alexey
Ah Sam
(14)
_Second Cutter_
Lieut. Chipp
Mr. Dunbar
Sweetman
Warren
Johnson
Starr
Kuehne
Sharvell
(8)
_Whaleboat_
Chief Engineer
Melville
Lieut. Danenhower
Mr. Newcomb
Cole
Bartlett
Leach
Wilson
Manson
Lauterbach
Aneguin
Tong Sing
(11)
There was a fresh east wind blowing, the temperature was just below
freezing, and it appeared that we were in for a wintry passage. The
island behind us as we drew off was a mass of white snow standing out
from the dull gray sea. Whitecaps were running everywhere. As we had
anticipated, there was little floating ice in sight.
For the first hour, we made good progress, shielded somewhat by
Vasselevski Island to windward, this latter being a small island a
little to the southeast of Semenovski. By 9:30 A.M., however, we had
cleared Vasselevski and received the full force of the sea, careening
to it as the boats sped along with the taut sheets singing and our
dipping lug sails drawing full. For two hours we sailed on thus, the
first cutter leading, my whaleboat next, and Chipp in the second
cutter following me, all the boats tossing considerably. At noon, we
found ourselves running again through a moderately open drifting pack,
which since we had expected to encounter no ice south of Semenovski,
disturbed us exceedingly. But accepting what fate sent us, we seized
the opportunity, hauled in alongside a floe, and disembarked for
dinner—cold pemmican and hot tea boiled over alcohol stoves. I now had
five days’ short rations left in my boat, but this worried me little as
Chipp and I, stretching our legs on the ice for a few minutes before
reembarking, discussed our prospects. We were both very hopeful; with
the wind holding as it was from the east, we should make the last
eighty miles to Cape Barkin and the Lena Delta with only one night at
sea spent in our boats, and then good-by forever to hardship and to
pemmican!
“By the way, brother,” I asked, looking into Chipp’s wan face, so
thin now that the resemblance which he once bore to General Grant had
completely vanished (unless perhaps Grant also looked like that during
his Richmond campaign after the Wilderness), “have you taken aboard yet
that can of pemmican De Long is carrying for you? That’s your total
food supply from now on, you know.”
“No, the skipper’s still got it,” answered Chipp. “But I’m not
bothering; I’ll get it from him in the morning if we still need it,
which I doubt. Don’t worry, old fellow,” and jokingly he slapped me on
the back. “I never expect to have to eat that damned pemmican again!”
“Well, good luck and mind your sailing then, mate.” I shook Chipp’s
hand warmly. “We’ll stay reefed down so you can keep up with us.”
With a wave, I left him. Chipp was far and away the best seaman of us
all—no need to worry over him. I hastened back to my own boat, filled
up all our pots with freshly-fallen snow to be used for drinking
water on our voyage, and in a few minutes, we all shoved off and were
underway again, De Long’s last admonition to both of us being to keep
formation astern of him and hold our little squadron together.
The wind continually freshened and soon hauled to the northeast, dead
astern of us. This made the sailing more hazardous, for we now were
constantly exposed to the danger of jibing our sails, but for some
hours more, we bounced along over rough seas, on the whole grateful
for the occasional drifting floes we encountered because they tended
to break the waves. I managed to maneuver safely amongst these
floating menaces until four o’clock, when following the first cutter
through a narrow passage between two floes, a wave hurled my whaleboat
to leeward, staving in our starboard side against sharp ice and I
hurriedly had to haul the boat out on the floe to keep from losing
her. In fifteen minutes, while the other boats lay to in the lee of
that ice, I had her repaired by tacking a box cover over the hole, and
overboard again, we filled away to the southwest in regular formation.
That (though I soon had cause to regret it) was the last of the ice
pack we ever saw.
In the open Arctic finally, we ran on, the breeze freshening all the
time from the northeast and the sea picking up. Before long, Chipp
began to drop steadily astern, since both De Long’s cutter and my
whaleboat were far better sailors than his short cutter. To avoid
losing him, we had to reef sail, first taking one reef, and soon a
second, after which both the leading boats ran close-reefed while
Chipp, with his sail full out, barely managed to hold position in
column in my wake.
Jack Cole, who was my coxswain, had been steering since morning. Jack,
put in my boat by De Long because he had been such an excellent small
boat sailor, was, however, now a severe disappointment to me. For some
days he had been dull and apathetic, seeming hardly to know what was
going on in the boat. The weather we were facing required prompt and
vigorous action at the helm, so with some reluctance I relieved Cole of
the tiller, replacing him with Seaman Leach, and detailing Manson and
Wilson, good sailors both, to take the tricks following, intending to
relieve Leach in four hours.
As the late afternoon faded, the wind whipped up to gale force. Spray
came in over our stern, soaking all of us through and through, while
the freezing wind chilled us to the bone. Wet and miserable, buoyed
only by the thought that before that gale we should certainly make the
Lena and safety by morning, we struggled to hold position, my whaleboat
pitching and rolling badly, while ahead and astern of us, we could see
the other boats heaving even more crazily in the seas, a sight which
did little to encourage us. To keep from jibing, running free as we
were, I was forced to station a man with a boathook to hold out the
sail; and not daring to trust anyone else with the job, I manned the
sheet myself, hour after hour clinging to that freezing manila line.
Heavy spray began to break over our stern, and we started bailing.
But despite close reefs and frequently dousing sail to deaden headway,
we began to run ahead of the first cutter, which heavily laden as
that square-sterned boat was with the records of the expedition, its
stores, and more men than any other, proved a slower sailer than my
double-ended whaleboat. Vainly I tried to hold astern of the first
cutter, but each time I doused sail, the racing seas combing over our
stern came heavily aboard, forcing us to bail vigorously to avoid
waterlogging. By seven o’clock in the fading twilight with the wind
blowing a lively gale and the sea, already bad, rapidly getting worse,
I found my little boat in spite of all my efforts a thousand yards out
on the weather bow of the first cutter and steadily gaining on her.
At this moment, Manson sang out,
“Chief, Ay tank dat cutter ban making signals to us!”
Looking astern across the waves, I saw De Long waving to me, apparently
to come within hail. We were already close-reefed and there was no way
to achieve this except by dousing sail again and drifting while he
caught up, so I stationed several men to gather in the foot of the sail
(she was rigged with a single mast and a dipping lug sail) while the
yard came down. We partly doused sail and slackened speed, but as we
did so, a sea caught us and boarded our stern, flooding us all to our
hips in icy water. The men holding the foot of the sail, startled at
the fear of swamping, promptly let go and we had for a moment the chaos
of a flooded boat erratically heaving in the seas, a flapping sail
threatening to take the stick out of her, and every man bailing wildly
with any utensil at hand that would hold water.
We finally got her cleared and the sail hoisted to get some headway
and hold us before the seas, when we tried again. Once more we
were flooded, but while some bailed, the men at the sail, strongly
admonished to hang on no matter what happened, clung to it this time,
and we managed to drift almost within hail of De Long. I could see
him shouting to me from his cockpit, but whatever he said (I being
to windward of him) was lost in the roar of the gale. Just then
another sea rolled up and combed over both boats, nearly filling mine.
Instantly I jumped to my feet and bellowed down the wind to him,
“I can’t hold back, captain! It’s either run or swamp!”
Perhaps he heard me. I have a strong voice and I had the wind behind
me to carry my words along. At any rate, he could see the situation and
with another shout, also smothered in the wind, he waved energetically,
motioning me on.
I needed no more. Promptly loosing sail, we filled away, still bailing
our waterlogged craft, while I waved to him in acknowledgment. De Long
turned in his tossing cockpit, and I then saw him motioning violently
to Chipp, half a mile astern, possibly wanting him to come close enough
aboard to toss over that forty-five-pound can of pemmican, the only
food Chipp’s men would have, before the gale and the darkness separated
them.
But I had my hands full in my own boat and paid little attention.
We hoisted sail, shook out one reef, and shot ahead down the wind
before another sea could catch us and finish the job of swamping us
completely. Having gathered sufficient headway to maneuver a bit, I
hauled the boat a few points closer to the wind, so that instead of
heading southwest dead before it with the consequent grave danger of
jibing the sail and broaching to before the oncoming seas, we now ran
with the wind on our port quarter, heading roughly south and driving
hard amidst heavy seas. We had our canvas weathercloths up on both
sides, with the freezing men in the boat, their backs against the
cloths to hold them in position, themselves all standing poised with
pans ready to bail in the brief intervals when not actually bailing.
And indeed, had it not been for those canvas weathercloths, so
carefully fitted the day before at Semenovski, we should long since
have foundered. As it was, we huddled behind them, all save Leach at
the tiller, with huge seas rolling past our raised sides and sweeping
heavily along the billowing canvas screens, over which even so, spray
and some solid water from every crest dashed into the boat.
The sea was now running mountains. Our little boat was tossing wildly,
rising dizzily to every crest as it swept up, then plunging madly down
into the trough as the wave rolled by. The wind roared on, icy spray
cutting like a knife drove into the boat, our sheets and halliards sang
in the gale, while the mast in its step creaked dismally and our yard
whipped so violently in spite of a double-reefed sail, that with each
gust as we rose on a crest and the wind caught us squarely, I began to
fear that both mast and sail would go flying from us down the wind like
a suddenly released gull.
“Look!” shouted Leach at the tiller. “The skipper’s signalling us
again, chief!”
“Never mind him!” I growled. “Watch your steering, Leach. We’re on our
own now. Nobody sees any more signals for us!”
But nevertheless I looked aft myself through the twilight. We were fast
outdistancing the first cutter where half a mile to windward already, I
could see De Long gesticulating in the stern. But Leach was mistaken;
De Long seemed to be waving to Chipp a thousand yards to windward of
himself, and now a mile astern of us. As I stared, shielding my eyes
as best I could from the sharp spray, I saw the second cutter rise
against the sky on the crest of a breaking wave, then sink into the
trough. Again she rose, when an immense sea swept over her and she
broached, lying helplessly broadside to the gale! Instantly her sail
jibed and the yard swung over, binding yard and sail against the mast.
A man sprang up, sharply outlined against the horizon, struggling
frenziedly to clear the jammed sail from the mast, then the heeling
boat plunged broadside from my sight into the trough. The second cutter
had evidently swamped!
Suddenly sick, I watched that spot as wave after wave rolled by, but
nothing rose again, and only flying foam and breaking seas met my gaze.
Broken-hearted, I stared across that mile of raging sea at the scene of
that swift tragedy. There was nothing we could do. No boat could ever
beat a mile dead to windward against such waves; long before we could
even get our boat into the wind on the first tack, the icy waters and
the tumbling seas had ended the agony of the men in the second cutter.
I sank back in the sternsheets, sobbing for the shipmates I had lost.
Quiet, taciturn Chipp, who by sheer will power had conquered sickness
to lead his men across the pack; grizzled old Dunbar, who had broken
his health scouting paths for us over the ice; huge Starr, whose
herculean back had many a time lifted my jammed boat over the hummocks
in the pack; little Sharvell, whose comical seriousness had often
lightened our months of tedious drifting; Sweetman, Warren, Johnson,
Kuehne, good seamen every one—their struggles were forever ended. All
their agonizing labors to escape from death in the pack had brought
them only death in the foaming waves. Now their voyage over, they
were slowly sinking through the cold depths to unmarked graves in the
desolate Arctic Sea!
Chipp, the best seaman of us all, had swamped in the gale, and we were
soon like to follow, for what chance was there for us where his skill
was insufficient? But at least we in the whaleboat were still afloat.
What of the first cutter? Fearfully, I looked aft again for her.
Still half a mile off our starboard quarter, there she was, plunging
furiously along before the tumultuous waves, holding grimly to her
original course, southwest, dead before the gale for Cape Barkin. I
shook my head sadly. De Long should haul closer to the wind. As he
was heading, it would be a miracle if the square-sterned first cutter
lasted ten minutes, for one bad jibe would dismast his boat and broach
her also, needing only another wave to send her tumbling on her side
to follow in Chipp’s wake. But it made little difference. Regardless
of course now, every sea combing past seemed ready to swamp our two
insignificant cockle-shells. Chipp was already gone. Any minute now, I
confidently expected to feel that strangling water in my throat, after
a few feeble struggles to be overwhelmed by the breaking seas and,
still gasping for air, to sink numbly through the frigid water to join
Chipp on the bottom.
I saw no more of the first cutter. On different courses, she soon faded
from our view into the night, and we were left alone, eleven freezing
men huddling in a tiny whaleboat in a world of roaring winds, of
mountainous seas, and of utter blackness.
We drove along before the storm, the wind on our port quarter, the
rushing seas pressing madly against our port side, with the canvas
weathercloth there billowing and sagging inboard as the crests swept
along the canvas and poured in over the top. Each time we slid
sickeningly down into a trough, all hands bailed for dear life,
fighting to get the flood sloshing round beneath the thwarts overboard
before we rose to the next crest and more water pouring aboard from the
succeeding wave swamped us completely. Every pot and pan we had in the
boat was pressed into service, and except for Leach, who braced in the
sternsheets, clung to the tiller and steered, and except for me manning
sheet and sail myself to keep us from capsizing, the others in the boat
alternately pressed their shoulders back against the weatherscreen to
hold it up while rising to the crests, and leaned forward, bailing
furiously while sinking into the troughs.
Numbed fingers clung to ice-coated pans, icy water sloshed over our
heads and down our necks, our frozen feet had long since lost all
sensation, and the careening boat beneath us pitched, rolled, and
heaved so dizzily that only by clinging continuously to the thwarts did
we manage to escape being tossed bodily overboard.
Leach in the stern, the one man besides myself whose task required him
to stand motionless in one spot, did a miraculous job of steering. Had
he but once allowed her to swing off the course we should have broached
immediately and capsized. But clinging to the tiller in the darkness,
more by feel than by such vague sight as the foaming crests sweeping
by gave him of the direction of the sea, he kept the wind on the port
quarter, standing himself wholly unprotected, a fair target for each
smashing wave breaking over the stern to drench him completely.
Straining my eyes through the blackness as I clung to the sheet, I
watched the seas coming over and the men bailing. It was obvious that
we were fighting a losing battle. Even though Leach at the helm and I
at the sheet managed to keep her from broaching or jibing or both at
once, and thus instantly ending the struggle, it was evident that those
bailing could not indefinitely keep ahead of the water coming in over
our stern, and sooner or later we should fill and founder. Oh, for some
drifting floes! If only we might run into another field of ice which
would at least deaden the seas if not allow us to haul out on a floe!
The ice pack, which many times in the long months past I had cursed
vehemently, I now earnestly prayed for as our only sure salvation. But
we had long since dropped astern the last floe, and now we must battle
it out with the turbulent sea. There was only one thing more I could do
before my men, barely able now to keep us afloat by bailing, between
numbness and exhaustion found themselves unable to keep the water going
overboard as fast as the tempestuous seas poured it in. Regardless of
the hazard involved, I must come about, head into the crests, heave to,
and ride out the gale bows on, held that way by a sea anchor, while our
canvas-decked forecastle, instead of our open stern, took the brunt of
the oncoming waves.
But to heave to meant inviting quick destruction, for the maneuver
involved turning broadside to the waves for an instant as we swung our
bow about to head into the wind. To make matters worse, while in that
critical position we must use our oars to swing the boat and that meant
dropping our weathercloths down to the gunwales at the very instant
when most of all we needed every inch of freeboard possible to avoid
taking over a solid beam sea and foundering out of hand.
Just abaft me, huddled against the weathercloth was Danenhower. I
leaned over in the darkness and shouted into his ear,
“Dan, it’s blowing like blazes! We’d better heave to!”
Dan turned his face, with his bandage dripping water, toward me and
nodded,
“Yes, Melville. You should have done it long ago!” he yelled back.
That startled me, for if he thought so, Dan should certainly have made
the suggestion himself. Why had he chosen instead to keep his mouth
shut? But it was no time to argue why or wherefor. We must heave to.
“Get hold of Jack Cole!” I roared. “We’ll try it now!”
Soon in the sternsheets, Cole, Danenhower, and I were debating what we
should use for the sea anchor, or drag, to which the boat must ride.
Dan advised making the drag of three of our oars with our sail lashed
between them, but this I refused to do, for if we lost the sea anchor,
our oars and sails would both be gone and then we would be helpless
indeed. Canvassing what little else we had in the boat to stretch out
the sides of a drag, I hit on three brass-tipped tent poles, and these
I ordered used, with a section of tent cloth as the drag itself.
Working in the half-swamped boat, Cole and Manson together made
the drag, lashing the ends of the three tent poles into a six-foot
triangle, and then lacing inside it the piece of tent. Meantime
Danenhower unrove a small block and fall to get a line and from that
manila line made up a short three-legged bridle, one leg of which went
to each corner of the triangular drag, while all the rest of the line
was to serve as our anchor cable. The result of all this, when we were
through (which working under bad conditions in the darkness took two
hours) was that we had what looked like a large triangular kite at the
end of a long manila line, the main difference being that our kite or
sea anchor we were going to fly in water instead of in air, and as it
dragged vertically through the water, it was to hold us head to the
oncoming seas that we might ride them bows-on.
On one matter at the end of all this, Cole and I differed. The drag
had to be heavy enough to sink beneath the surface, for if it floated,
it would be ineffective. But if it were too heavy, it would sink too
far and instead of streaming out ahead of us, would hang vertically
beneath our bows, keeping them from rising to the seas, and helping to
swamp us. Cole stoutly maintained that the completed drag was not heavy
enough to sink. While somewhat inclined to agree, I refused to add more
weight, for to a buoyant drag I could always add more ballast, but it
was doubtful in that storm that I could ever get my hands again on a
sunken drag to remove excess weight, until the boat having swamped, I
caught up with the submerged drag on my own way to the bottom. However,
to appease Jack, I got a copper fire-pot ready to slide out on the line
if it should be necessary to add more weight, and we were ready to
proceed.
At this point, Lieutenant Danenhower, who had been busy making the
bridle, spoke up again.
“Melville!” he sang out in my ear above the howling wind. “Will you let
me heave her to?”
I hesitated. Dan was over half blinded. But, I thought to myself, in
this darkness that was no great handicap; he could probably see as
much as anyone. And certainly as a deck officer, he should know more
about handling a boat in a seaway than anyone else in her, including
me, an engineer. Our lives depended on that maneuver; I should be
derelict in my duty not to use the best talent available.
“Sure, Dan,” I replied, “go ahead and give the orders. We’ll all do
what you say.”
So to poor Danenhower, for nearly two years now nothing but a helpless
burden on the rest of us, had at last come opportunity to serve. The
crisp way in which he rattled out the orders, stationing the men,
infused new strength into the exhausted crew. To stocky Bartlett went
the most important task; he was posted in the bow with the drag, and
the anchor line was carefully coiled down at his feet, ready for
running freely out when he heaved the drag over at the word. Bosun
Cole stood by the halliards to douse sail, with Aneguin and Tong Sing
to gather in the canvas as it came down. I tended the sheet, Leach
steered, Manson stood by an oar poised high on the port side, and
Wilson an oar similarly ready to starboard. This left only Lauterbach
to tend to the bailing, for Newcomb, as always, was next to worthless
even though he now had the excuse of extreme seasickness to mask his
piddling efforts at real labor.
With a last all-hands dash to bail down as dry as possible, the men
took their stations. In silence and in darkness we waited, holding
up the weathercloths while several tremendous waves rolled by and we
rocked wildly to them. Judging then that we should have a momentarily
quieter sea, Danenhower bellowed,
“Out oars! Starboard the helm! Down sail!”
Down dropped the weathercloths, out shot the two oars, hard astarboard
went the tiller, and down came the flapping sail and yard as we swung
off to port, trying quickly to come about and head up into the sea.
Wilson to starboard gave way valiantly on his oar while Manson to port
backed heavily on his, endeavoring to get her spun about before the
next wave caught us broadside, when with the boat hardly more than a
quarter way round—Crash! came a wave tumbling in over our low gunwale
and flooding us to the thwarts!
Heaving to was forgotten. With might and main all hands dropped their
tasks to start bailing again except Leach and the oarsmen who struggled
desperately to straighten her out again on her old course before the
waterlogged whaleboat broached to the next wave and capsized. By the
grace of God we succeeded in that, and hearts in our mouths, bailed
madly while with the oars alone we kept away before the sea till the
boat was sufficiently dry to risk coming about once more.
After a hurried consultation with Dan, I stationed the men as before,
and we stood tensely by. Again we pitched crazily to a succession of
roaring crests and as we slid dizzily down the trough of the third one,
Dan once more sang out the orders.
This time, with oars thrashing the sea in desperation, we swung
more quickly, and before the next wave struck, we had the boat spun
about, head on to its breaking crest as our bow suddenly lifted to a
tremendous wave.
“Let go the drag!” bawled Dan, and Bartlett in the bow tossed over the
canvas triangle. At that instant, the bow dived sickeningly into the
next trough, and Bartlett, off balance, pitched headlong forward toward
the sea!
For an instant I thought he was gone completely with little chance of
our getting to him before the sea swept him away, but fortunately our
slacked halliards were streaming out over the bow and as Bartlett shot
overboard he got his right hand on the halliards, stopping his plunge.
The next second, as he hung there in air, the boat rose again to the
crest of a huge wave, the mast whipped back, and Bartlett came flying
inboard on the halliards against the mast to which he clung for dear
life as he slowly slid down to the thwarts.
Meanwhile other things were rapidly happening. Still manning the oars,
Manson and Wilson were holding us head to the seas while the drag line
ran out and I watched it anxiously till it brought up at the bitter
end. In disappointment, I saw that the drag was too light, coming
immediately to the surface and drifting down to leeward, holding us
not at all. We yawed badly, shipping water over both sides in spite of
all our two oars and the rudder could do to hold us bows on, and, as
expected, Jack Cole immediately piped up with,
“Shure, Mr. Melville, I tould yez so!”
“Right, Jack; you did!” I shouted. “And now we’ll fix it. Bartlett!
Send down that fire-pot!” Bartlett, again on his feet seized the copper
fire-pot and sent it sliding on a lashing out over the bow and down the
anchor line to the drag, which it promptly sank. A heavy strain came
immediately on the drag line as the sea anchor gripped the water and
in a few seconds we were riding head to the seas with our oars in, our
weathercloths once more raised on our bulwarks, our sail furled, and
the helmsman, as before, continuously steering to keep us from yawing
on the drag line.
My thumping heart quieted somewhat. Dan had done a fine job. We had
come about without capsizing and for the moment we were safe. All we
had to do now was to bail continuously to keep afloat, but so long as
our drag line held, we were secure. But as much vigilance as ever was
necessary, for if that line parted, and we went adrift, unless we were
immediately ready with the oars, our first yaw would probably also be
our last one.
By now it was ten o’clock and pitch dark. All through the rest of
that terrible night we tossed violently at the end of our sea anchor
line, bailing, always bailing. My hands were swollen by cold, blistered
from hanging on to the sheet while we sailed, and cracked and split
by freezing salt water, while my feet were both badly frozen. Leach,
who for the first time I now dared to relieve from his station at the
tiller, was as badly off as I, and the rest of the crew, not much
better. And now thirst was added to our sufferings, for we had not a
drop of fresh water, every bit of snow that originally we had in the
boat in our pots and kettles having long since been thoroughly soused
in sea water and spoiled.
The gale shrieked on, the waves rolled by, the cold spray dashed in
and froze on us, and in the darkness wearily and endlessly we bailed
the boat till at last came dawn to put the final touch to our misery
by adding to each man’s sense of his own suffering the sight of his
shipmates’ wretched state.
Cold, thirsty, and hungry after twelve excruciating hours of bailing,
my exhausted crew looked expectantly at me for their rations. In the
boat, there was nothing left in the way of food or drink but a little
pemmican.
Sadly I recalled Chipp’s last remark about his being through with
pemmican, only a jest when made, tragic now. Poor Chipp! Pemmican, in
truth, meant nothing to him any more. If only I had him and his second
cutter’s crew following astern of me again, how gladly would I divide
my meager supply of pemmican with them! Mournfully I looked at our tiny
stock. At the previous miserly rate of issue, it should last us five
days, but no longer did I dare to hope that Cape Barkin and rescue were
just over the horizon. Heaven alone knew where, drifting at the mercy
of wind and wave, we would be when the gale blew out. I must stretch
our food to the utmost. So in spite of grumbling from my ravenous
crew, I cut our already short ration squarely in half and issued for
our breakfast so small a piece of pemmican that not a man, after
swallowing his ration at a gulp, but growled for more.
At the end of that sea anchor line, our whaleboat weaved, twisted, and
leaped erratically about amongst the foaming waves, more terrifying now
that we could see the thundering crests sweeping down and breaking over
us, than even in the darkness. Monotonously we bailed; Aneguin, our
Indian hunter, and Charley Tong Sing, our Chinese steward, strangely
enough proving far more dextrous with the bailing pots than any sailor
in the boat. Almost helpless myself, with numbed hands and frozen feet
from long hours of hanging on to the sheet, I watched forward while
the endless task went on, keeping a weary eye on that thin manila line
going over our bow to our sea anchor, that thread to which our boat
rode head to the gale, our life line indeed.
And then mixed with the screaming of the winds, I caught a burst of
laughter. Laughter? I could hardly believe my ears. What in God’s name
could anyone see in our situation that was funny? Painfully I twisted
my ice-sheathed body round on the thwart to see, and then I groaned. On
the midship thwart sat Jack Cole no longer bailing, a maniacal gleam in
his eyes, rocking with childish glee in the spray of each wave as it
broke over the weathercloth and poured in on him, laughing, laughing
horribly. Jack Cole, our bosun, like a little child was splashing
playfully in the water!
Like a flash there came over me an understanding of Cole’s apathy and
inexplicable stupidity during the last few days. His mind had evidently
been going then; now after the horrors of the night, it was completely
gone!
That terrible laughter must not continue. With my whole crew near the
breaking point, a little more of that insane shrieking in the storm and
I would have only a boat-load of lunatics to depend on, if indeed I
did not soon become one myself. I dragged aft a bit, took Cole gently
by the hand.
“Come on, Jack,” I said kindly, “let’s go forward where we can see the
waves better and I can help you watch them.”
Jack stopped laughing, looked blankly at me, but offered no resistance
and together we dragged our frozen legs over the thwarts to the bow.
There, smiling happily, Jack started laughing again as a terrific sea
broke dead on our stem, nearly drowning me in foaming water.
In the midst of that insane cackle, I grabbed Cole suddenly by both
shoulders, pushed him heavily down beneath the thwart and shoved him in
under the canvas-covered forecastle forward of our mast, where at least
the canvas would muffle that ghastly laugh.
“Take a nap now, old fellow,” I said soothingly as possible. “You’re
tired!”
“Shure an’ I am that,” mumbled Cole from beneath the canvas. “But ye’ll
not be fergittin’ to call me agin soon so’s we kin watch thim waves?”
“No, Jack, I won’t,” I promised. “Just as soon as you’re rested.”
Without another word, Jack, half covered with the icy water sloshing
about in the bilges, went dead to the world, and I, turning wanly from
the gale, sagged back against the mast, staring at the haggard men in
the boat abaft me bailing, bailing, while the never-ending waves foamed
up and broke sickeningly over our bow.