"SHE'S LOST!" HE THOUGHT. "LOST WITH ALL HANDS."
"Lads," said the skipper, at last, "the Lord has the schooner in His hands. They's a way through the ice. He's guidin' her into it, but whether He'll save us or not, He only knows."
The Rescue drifted fairly into the passage, which was irregular, but in no part less than twice the width of the vessel. She was swept on, swinging from side to side, striking her bow here and her stern there; and with every shock fragments of rotten ice fell in a shower from above.
How soon one might strike one of their number down, no man knew. How soon some great mass, now poised in the mist, might be dislodged and crush the schooner in its fall, no man knew. How soon the towering cliffs might swing together and grind the ship to splinters, no man could tell. Were these masses of ice connected deep down under water? Or were they floating free?
There were no answers to these questions. On went the schooner, stern foremost, slipping ever nearer to the open.[5]
"Skipper, sir," the first hand pleaded, "leave us launch the quarter-boat an' pull out. 'Tis—'tis—too horrible here."
"Ay, lads, if you will," was the reply.
It was then discovered that a block of ice had fallen in the boat at the bows, and sprung the planking. She was too leaky to launch; there was nothing for it but to wait.
"We'll calk those leaks as best we can," said the skipper. "They's no tellin' what might——"
The stern struck a projection, and the bow swung round and lodged on the other side. The schooner was jammed in the passage, almost broadside to the wind. They made a shift at calking the leaks with rags and a square of oiled canvas. At all hazards the schooner must be freed.