The giant, who, during all this time, had calmly plied a pair of oars with strength equal almost to that of four men, looked over his shoulder without, however, relaxing his efforts.
“No,” he said, turning round again, “it is an ice-hill.”
“A berg!” exclaimed the Captain. “We will make for it. Tie your handkerchief, Benjy, to the end of an oar and hold it up. It will serve as a guide to our comrades.”
In a wonderfully short space of time the berg which Benjy had seen as a mere speck on the horizon rose sharp, rugged, and white against the black sky. It was a very large one—so large that it had no visible motion, but seemed as firm as a rock, while the billows of the Arctic Ocean broke in thunder on its glassy shore.
“We’ll get shelter behind it, Ben, my boy,” said the Captain, “hold the oar well up, and don’t let the rag clap round the blade. Shake it out so. God grant that they may see it.”
“Amen,” ejaculated Benjy to the prayer with heartfelt intensity.
There was danger as well as safety in the near vicinity to this berg, for many of its pinnacles seemed ready to fall, and there was always the possibility of a mass being broken off under water, which might destroy the equilibrium of the whole berg, and cause it to revolve with awfully destructive power.
However, there was one favourable point—the base was broad, and the ice-cliffs that bordered the sea were not high.
In a few more minutes the western end of the berg was passed. Its last cape was rounded, and the Faith was swept by the united efforts of Chingatok, Benjy, and Toolooha, (who would not remain under cover), into the comparatively still water on the lee, or northern side of the berg.
“Hurrah!” shouted Benjy in a tone that was too energetic and peculiar to have been called forth by the mere fact of his own escape from danger.