“Nae, there was nae wint. But it’s a blessing we’re awa frae the ice, for it would hae maist broke my hairt to hae left my pipes ahint.”
Chapter Seven.
The Lonely Isle.
With the steam up the captain’s task became easier; but it was dangerous work in that dense fog, and some hours of nervous navigation followed amongst the ice-floes, which gathered round them of all sizes, from masses which went spinning away at a touch from the iron prow of the Hvalross to huge fields acres in extent, broken away from the icy barrier to the northward, to be carried by the current south into the warm waters, where they would gradually melt away. So heavy were some of the shocks received, in spite of all watchfulness, care, and orders to go astern, that Captain Marsham was at one time for following the example of the drifting floes and going south. But there was the knowledge that somewhere, not far from where they were creeping along, the almost unknown island of Jan Mayen must lie; and it seemed a pity to leave it now, when the first time the sun appeared they would be able to learn their position for certain; so he held on.
“I’ve lost count,” said Steve at last. “Is it to-day or to-morrow? The clock says it’s eleven; but is it eleven to-night or eleven to-morrow morning?”
“Eleven to-night, sir, if you like to call it so,” said Johannes. “We’re up so far north now that the sun never sets for months.”
“Never rises, you mean. Where is he?”
“You’ll see soon, when the fog lifts.”