On being relieved he dropped his head on a sugar-cask, and was sound asleep in two minutes!
I now felt drearily dismal. I began to realise the fact that we had actually pledged ourselves to work without intermission for the next eighteen or twenty hours, of which two only had run, and I felt sensations akin to what must have been those of the galley-slaves of old. In the midst of many deep thoughts and cogitations, during that silent morning hour, when all were asleep around me save the three mechanical-looking boatmen, and when the only sounds that met my ears were the dip of the oars and the deep breathing, (to give it no other name), of the slumberers—in the midst of many deep thoughts, I say, I came to the conclusion that in my present circumstances the worst thing I could do was to think! I remembered the fable of the pendulum that became so horrified at the thought of the number of ticks it had to perform in a lengthened period of time, that it stopped in despair; and I determined to “shut down” my intellect.
Soon after, my shoulders began to ache, and in process of time I felt a sensation about the small of my back that induced the alarming belief that the spinal marrow was boiling. Presently my wrists became cramped, and I felt a strong inclination to pitch the oars overboard, lie down in the bottom of the boat, and howl! But feeling that this would be unmanly, I restrained myself. Just then my companion in sorrow began to snore, so I awoke him, and—giving him the oars—went to sleep.
From this period everything in the history of that remarkable day became unconnected, hazy, and confusing. I became to some extent mechanical in my thoughts and actions. I rowed and rested, and rowed again; I ate and sang, and even laughed. My comrade did the same, like a true Briton, for he was game to the backbone. But the one great, grand, never-changing idea in the day was—pull—pull—pull!
We had hoped during the course of that day to procure assistance, but we were unsuccessful. We passed a number of fishermen’s huts, but none of the men would consent to embark with us. At last, late that night, we reached a small farm about two-thirds of the way up the fjord, where we succeeded in procuring another large boat with a crew of five men. Here, also, we obtained a cup of coffee; and while we were awaiting the arrival of the boat I lay down on the pier and had a short nap.
None but those who have toiled for it can fully appreciate the blessing of repose. It was a clear, calm night when we resumed our boat journey. The soft daylight threw a species of magical effect over the great mountains and the glassy fjord, as we rowed away with steady and vigorous strokes, and I lay down in the bow of the boat to sleep. The end of the mast squeezed my shoulder; the edge of a cask of beef well-nigh stove in my ribs; the corner of a box bored a hole in the nape of my neck—yet I went off like one of the famed seven sleepers, and my friend, although stretched out beside me in similarly unpropitious circumstances, began to snore in less than five minutes after he laid down.
The last sounds I heard before falling into a state of oblivion were the voices of our fair companions joining in that most beautiful of our sacred melodies, the “Evening Hymn,” ere they lay down to rest in the stern of the boat. Next morning at nine we arrived at the top of the fjord, and at the end, for a time at least, of our journeying.