When the snow finally ceased, the captain, optimistic again, began to prepare for the day of our release. First of all, fires were discontinued in the stoves fore and aft, thus saving a little coal. Next, all hands and the cook were turned to on knocking down our portable deckhouse and clearing the main deck, so that looking like a ship once more, we might be able to spread sails and get underway when the wind served (provided, of course, the ice let go of us first). Several days’ hard work accomplished this task, and with the topside shipshape again, we needed only to hang our rudder to be fully ready to go, but here again we had to wait on the ice which still clung solidly to our rudder post.
Below, I got my machinery and boilers in shape to move. With no fear of dangerous temperatures any more, I connected up all piping, moved the engines by hand, secured all cylinder heads, and filled both boilers to the steaming level (through the sea cocks this time), and started generally to clean up the machinery spaces. For a small black gang, only six all told, this was slow work, so to avoid being caught with the pack suddenly parting and my machinery not ready to turn over, I pushed my gang hard. Consequently I was doubly annoyed when I noted several times that Nelse Iversen, one of my coalheavers and ordinarily a willing enough worker, showed decided signs of soldiering whenever my back was turned. I cautioned Bartlett who had charge of his watch, to get Iversen started, but after another hour, seeing he still tended to hide in the bunkers rather than scale rusty floorplates, I yanked Iversen up sharply for it.
“Come to now, Nelse, and get behind that scaling hammer! Or will it take a little extra duty to keep you out of that bunker and on the job?”
Iversen, now that I got a closer look at him, looked queer in the eyes, so when, his slow mind having digested my statement, he finally answered, I was quite ready to believe him.
“Ay tank, chief, Ay work so hard Ay can. Ay ban sick man. My belly, she ache bad!”
“So, eh?” I said sympathetically. “Why didn’t you tell Bartlett that an hour ago? Go up and see the doctor right away. What ails you, diarrhoea again?”
“No; de odder way.”
“Constipation, huh? Well, you’re lucky. On this bucket, that’s a better thing to have than diarrhoea any day. Go up to the doctor and get some castor oil. And don’t come back till it’s quit working.” I eased him over toward the fireroom ladder, and started him on his way toward Ambler.
But after a day had elapsed, I began to wonder whether the doctor’s castor oil had somehow been affected by the cold or whether my coalheaver had evaded swallowing his dose, for Iversen still showed the same tendency to shirk work and hide in the bunkers in spite of Bartlett’s frequently breaking him out of there. So taking Iversen in hand myself, I escorted him up to the dispensary to see personally that there was no foolishness about his taking his medicine, and calling Tong Sing, I sent him off to find the doctor who was out on the ice.
The minute Tong Sing disappeared, Iversen poked his head out the door, looked both ways quickly, then as if satisfied, hastily shut the door and to my complete bewilderment, stealthily approached me, cupped his hands over my ear and whispered,