Nor’wards, ever nor’wards, the Walrus had gone cracking on, under steam or under sail, leaving the green British shores on which spring was already spreading bourgeon, wild flower, and leaf. Nor’wards, and past the Orkneys, the Shetlands, and the Faroes; nor’wards, into wilder, bluer, blacker seas and shorter days, encountering storms such as cannot even be conceived by sailors in other parts of the world, with waves as high as pyramids, foam-crested, and madly, demoniacally breaking around, or against, or over the barque; nor’wards, with ice-bound bows, and snowstorms raging on the deck, and seas that sang in the frosty air as they went curling past; nor’wards as defiantly as ever sailed ship from British shore.
Nor’wards, but all in vain. For the Danes, who had ploughed their way in their sturdy high-freeboard ships through the darkness of winter itself, had been there before them.
Long months’ fishing and hardly fifty tons of oil. British though they were, the daring Danes had kept ahead of them, leaving naught for them to gaze upon save blood-stained ice and gory krengs, on which gaunt bears were feeding.
Captain Mayne Brace, disgusted, had left the country, and, after a long voyage, had arrived in Baffin’s Bay.
A few “right whales” had been seen, but even they were hunted and wild, and so they had fished all the summer and caught nothing.
Well, but Captain Brace only shook his brown beard and laughed. He wasn’t the man to let down his heart in a hurry.
He was just the very life and soul of his crew; he bore all his own hardships with never a murmur, and had taught his men to do the same. All through the darkness he studied to keep them active. They had games on the snow under stars and aurora; they fished in the ice-holes, tobogganed on the one great ghostly berg that lay not far off; and, on board, hardly an evening passed but some sort of amusement had been on the boards—a play, a dance, a sing-song, a yarning-and-story-telling spell, or a concert itself.
They had often gone on shore in sledges, the men drawing each other time about, and Nick and Nora lending a shoulder.
The doctor was a plucky, clever young fellow about twenty years old, who, having to wait for another whole twelve months before he should be old enough—though he had passed—to be gowned and capped, thought he might as well put in that year at sea, and so here he was.
Next to the skipper himself young Dr. Wright was the best-loved man on board. He was really the quintessence of kindness, and you never would have found him in his bunk if one of the men were seriously ill.