“Warning! S.S. Bolivia, New York—Liverpool, Latitude 45 degrees, 7 minutes North, Longitude 37 degrees, 57 minutes West. Just cleared large area consisting of detached masses of field ice with several bergs, through which we have been working for the last three hours. Very dangerous. Advise ships approaching it to observe utmost caution, particularly at night time.”
This message was duly handed to Captain Prowse in his own cabin by the wireless operator, who waited while the skipper read it, to see whether the latter desired to address any inquiry to the Bolivia. But after cogitating over it for two or three minutes, the skipper crumpled up the paper and thrust it into his pocket, saying—
“All right, ‘Sparks’, that’ll do. And—look here, youngster—just keep this message strictly to yourself, d’ye see? Don’t say a word to anybody about it. I’ll see that all necessary precautions are taken; but I don’t want the news of there being ice ahead to be talked about; it’ll only make the passengers unnecessarily nervous and uneasy; and I don’t want that. Besides, it will be easy enough to alter the course a few degrees south if it should be found desirable. You understand me?”
“Perfectly, sir,” answered ‘Sparks,’ lingering for a moment at the cabin door. “Anything else, sir?”
“No,” answered the skipper, “nothing more at present, thank you. But keep your ears open for any further messages.”
The operator saluted and vanished; whereupon the skipper produced the chart of the North Atlantic, by the aid of which he was navigating the ship, spread it open upon the table, and studied it intently. A pencil mark consisting of a number of straight lines—the junction of each of which with the next was indicated by a dot surrounded by a small circle, against which was a note indicating the date, hour and moment of the ship’s arrival at each particular spot—showed the track of the ship across the ocean from her point of departure abreast of Daunt Rock, and a thinner, lighter pencil line extending on to New York marked the still untravelled portion of the route. Taking a pencil, parallel ruler and pair of dividers in his hand, Captain Prowse proceeded carefully to jot down the position of the Bolivia, as indicated by her message; having done which he gave vent to a sigh of relief; for he saw that the course which he was pursuing would take the Everest some sixty miles to the north of that point.
“Thank God! that’s all right,” he murmured. “There’s nothing to fear. That patch of drift ice is not in the least likely to extend as far north as our track. Besides, with the precautions that we are observing—taking the sea temperature every half-hour, and so on—and the maintenance of a good look-out, we are perfectly safe. I suppose I ought to tell Brown” (the chief officer) “about this message; but I won’t—no; I’ll keep it to myself, for the chap’s as nervous as a cat, and would want to slow down as soon as the dusk comes. And I don’t want that; I mean to make this a record passage, and don’t intend to be frightened into losing several precious hours merely because a ship sixty miles to the south’ard of my track reports a little floating ice. No; I’ll just issue instructions that everybody is to be on the alert and keep a specially sharp look-out, and let it go at that.”
Having come to which conclusion, Captain Prowse left his cabin and joined the officer of the watch on the bridge.
“By Jove! What glorious weather we are having,” he remarked genially, as the officer came to his side. “I cannot remember such a spell of it as we have had ever since leaving Queenstown. What’s she doing, Mr Dacre?”
“Twenty-six point six, sir, at the last reading of the log, about half an hour ago,” answered the second officer; “and she hasn’t slackened down any. At this rate we ought to be berthed in New York by noon the day after to-morrow, with a record passage to our credit.”