"Poor little b'y!" he thought. "Poor Sir Archibald!"
For relief from this torturing thought, he went among the men. He found most of them gathered in groups, gravely discussing the situation of the ship. In the forecastle, some were holding a "prayer-meeting"; the skipper paused to listen to the singing and to the solemn words that followed it. Here and there, as he went along, he spoke an encouraging word; here and there dropped a word of advice, as, "Timothy, b'y, you got too much on your back; 'tis not wise t' load yourself down when you takes t' the ice," and the like; here and there, in a smile or a glance, he found the comforting assurance that the men knew he had tried to do his duty.
"Cap'n John Hand," he thought, when he returned to the bridge, "you hasn't got a coward aboard!"
The mate came up to report. "We've the boats on the ice, sir," he said, "an' I've warned the crew t' make ready."
"Very well, Mr. Ackell; they's nothin' more t' be done."
"Hark, sir!"
The ice about the ship seemed to be stirring. Beyond—from far off in the distance to windward—the noise of grinding, breaking ice-pans could be heard. There was no mistaking the warning. The moment of peril was at hand.
"The fields is comin' together, sir."
"Call the crew, Mr. Ackell," said the captain, quietly.
The men gathered on deck. They were silent while they waited. The only sounds came from the ice—and from overhead, where the wind was screaming through the rigging.