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!