CHAPTER XXXI
The Dictator Charges an Ice Pan and Loses a Main Topmast
"CAST loose!" was the order from the bridge.
The men scrambled to the berg and released the lines and ice-hooks. The pack was still loosening under the rising breeze. To the east, separating the sky from the ice, lay a long black streak—the water of the open sea; a clear way to the broad, white fields. Once free of the floe, the ship would speed northward to the Yellow Islands and Cape William coasts. In a day and a night, the weather continuing propitious, it would be, "Ho! for the ice. Ho! for the seals."
A lane of water opened up. "Go ahead," was the signal from the master on the bridge, and the ship moved forward, with her nose turned to the sea.
"Ha, Mr. Ackell!" exclaimed the captain, rubbing his horny hands. "Looks t' be a fine time, man. We'll make the Yellow Islands at dawn t'-morrow, if all goes well."
When the Dictator had followed the lane to within one hundred yards of free water, the advance was blocked by a great pan of ice, tight jammed in the pack on either side. So fast and vagrantly was the floe shifting its formation that what had been a clear path was now crossed by a mighty barrier. Here was no slob ice to be forged through at full steam, but a solid mass, like a bar of iron, lying across the path.
The ship was taken to the edge of the obstruction, and the captain and mate went forward to the bow to gauge the strength of it. When they came back to the bridge, the former had his teeth set.