“Shortly after resuming our voyage southwards towards the stormy Cape Horn, we encountered gale after gale of wind that taxed all the strength of our brave barque, as well as the skill of the officers and seamen. Again and again had we to lie to for long dark days and nights; and when we ventured to run before the storm, we had literally to stagger along under bare poles.
“But when we reached the Cape at last, and stood away to the west around the bleak and inhospitable shores of Tierra del Fuego, or the Land of Fire, never before in all the years I had been to sea had I encountered weather so fearful or waves so high and dangerous. So stormy, indeed, did it continue, that hardly did either James or I dare to hope we should ever double the Cape. But we both had a sailor’s aversion to turning back, and so struggled on and on.
“The danger seemed to culminate and the crisis come in earnest, when one weird moonlight midnight we suddenly found ourselves bows on to a huge iceberg, or rather one vast island of ice that appeared to have no horizon either towards the north or towards the south. The barrier presented seemed impassable. We could only try, so we put about on the port tack, the wind blowing there with great violence from the west and north.
“This course took us well off the great ice island. It took us southwards, moreover.
“‘But why not steer northwards?’ said James. ‘We’d have to tack a bit, it is true, only we’d be lessening our danger; leastways that’s my opinion. This berg may be twenty or thirty miles long, and every mile brings us closer to great bergs that, down yonder, float in dozens. Before now, Charles Halcott, I’ve seen a ship sunk in the twinkling of a marling-spike by a—’
“‘By striking against a berg, James?’ I interrupted. ‘So have I.’
“‘No, sir, no; you’re on the wrong tack. Wherever big bergs are there are small ones too—little, hard, green lumps of ice, not bigger than the wheel-house, that to hit bows on would scarcely spill your tea. But, friend, it is different where there are mountain seas on. These little green bergs are caught by a wave-top and hurled against the ship’s side with the strength of a thousand Titans. And—the ship goes down.’
“There was something almost solemn in the manner James brought out the last four words. It kept me silent for minutes; and shading my eyes with my hand, I kept peering southwards into the weird-like moonshine, the ice away on the right, a strange white haze to leeward, and far ahead the foam-tipped waves, wild-maned horses of the ocean, careering along on their awful course.
“‘James,’ I said at last, ‘danger or not danger, southwards I steer. Something tells me to do so; everything bids me. “Steer south—steer south,” chimes the bell when it strikes; “steer south,” ticks the clock. James Malone, my very heart’s pulse repeats the words; and I hear them mournfully sung by the very waves themselves, and by the wind that goes moaning through the rigging. And—I’m going to obey.’