’Twas deep night, the gale still blowing high with snow, when the wind changed. It ran to the north––shifted swiftly to the west. The ice-pack stirred: we felt the schooner shiver, heard the tumult of warning noises, as that gigantic, lethargic mass was aroused to unwilling motion by the lash of the west wind. The hull of the Shining Light collapsed. ’Twas time to be off. I awoke the fool––who had still soundly slept. The fool would douse the cabin fire, in a seemly way, and put out the lights; but my uncle forbade him, having rather, said he, watch the old craft go down with a warm glow issuing from her. Presently she was gone, all the warmth and comfort and hope of the world expiring in her descent: there was no more a Shining Light; and we three folk were cast away on a broad pan of ice, in the midst of night and driving snow. Of 321 the wood they had torn from the schooner against this time, the fool builded a fire, beside which we cowered from the wind; and soon, the snow failing and the night falling clear and starlit, points of flickering light appeared on the ice beyond us. There were three, I recall, diminishing in the distance; and I knew, then, what I should do in search of Judith when the day came. Three schooners cast away beyond us; one might be the Likely Lass: I would search for Judith, thinks I, when day came. ’Twas very long in coming, and ’twas most bitter cold and discouraging in its arrival: a thin, gray light, with no hopeful hue of dawn in the east––frosty, gray light, spreading reluctantly over the white field of the world to a black horizon. I wished, I recall, while I waited for broader day, that some warm color might appear to hearten us, some tint, however pale and transient, to recall the kindlier mood of earth to us; and there came, in answer to my wishing, a flush of rose in the east, which waxed and endured, spreading its message, but failed, like a lamp extinguished, leaving the world all sombre and inimical, as it had been.
I must now be off alone upon my search: my wooden-legged uncle could not travel the ice––nor must the fool abandon him.
“I ’lowed ye would, lad,” says he, “like any other gentleman.”
I bade them both good-bye.
“Three schooners cast away t’ the nor’ard,” says he. “I’m hopin’ ye’ll find the Likely Lass. Good-bye, 322 Dannie. I ’low I’ve fetched ye up very well. Good-bye, Dannie.”
I was moved away now: but halted, like a dog between two masters.
“Good-bye!” he shouted. “God bless ye, Dannie––God bless ye!”
I turned away.
“God bless ye!” came faintly after me.