“I say,” whispered Steve to the doctor, after watching these proceedings for some time, “how long will it take us to row to the nearest port?”
“To Hammerfest, my lad? Don’t ask me.”
There was another grinding, rending noise, as the great ice-floe revolved slowly in one direction and the current bore the vessel against it in another; and as these sounds arose Steve felt a strange oppression at the chest, and it ached where Johannes had seized him, and his wrenched shoulder began to throb. For it was as if the ice was stripping the planking of the ship from the timbers, and the boy listened for the sound of rushing water making its way below. But on going to the side and looking over, he could see the pieces of wood which had been lowered down between the vessel’s hull and the ice being ground up and torn into fibres, while the ice kept splintering away from the edge of the floe, where in the foggy gloom the fragments looked of a dirty-white against the black, solid mass.
Steve tried to be calm and composed, but at such a time it was impossible; and with the natural desire to find some one to whom he could talk and with whom he could find companionship, he looked round to see that the doctor had joined the mate, and that the captain was on the bridge pacing anxiously to and fro and communicating with the engineer from time to time.
He glanced at the sailors, and they all but one were waiting to obey the instructions they received, and were ready with spars and ropes to lower fresh material down! for the ice-floe to grind up against the vessel’s side.
The only man not busy was Andrew McByle, and Steve hurried to him.
“Think we shall get off safely, Andra?” he whispered, as a piece of one of the spars gave forth a dismal, groaning sound which vibrated through every nerve.
“No. She was thenking aboot my pipes, laddie. The skipper’s certain to mak’ a fuss gin I tak’ them wi’ me in the boat.”
“Then you think we shall have to take to the boats?” said Steve excitedly.
“Ay, laddie; what else can we do? There’s nae wint, not eneuch to turn a weather-cock upon a kirk, and there’s nae steam. Piff wi’ all your talk aboot the engines to use when there’s nae wint! Where are they the noo?”