From my despair at the probable fate of the boat, however, I gradually realized the fact that my own condition was not without peril. Here was I, a slip of a lad, alone and helpless, out in the open sea, in a schooner that three men could only with difficulty manage. I had but small skill in seamanship. I knew almost nothing of my whereabouts, and, added to these disadvantages, I had the physical discomforts to endure of fatigue, hunger, and cold.
At about nine o'clock I went below to get something to eat. The fire was out, so I could not make any coffee; but there was a bottle of spirits in the locker, and fancying this might do me good I, for the first time in my life, drank some. I at once felt much warmer, and I took half a glassful with some water and drank it with the oatcake and cold bacon that I ate.
Going on deck again, I felt much more comfortable; but the spirits that had warmed my vitals soon had an effect upon me that I had not counted upon. My eyesight became hazy, and I felt terribly sleepy--so sleepy that I could not remain at the helm for fear of falling into a slumber at my post. So I tied up the tiller, and, for the rest of the night, walked the deck, only altering the schooner's course when I thought that she was being driven too far from the spot where the boat had put off.
All the night through I peered over the dark sea, and at intervals raised my voice, in the faint hope of coming across the boat. But for all the lookout that I kept, never a boat could I see; and for all my shouting, never a response to my cries could I hear. Whatever had become of the skipper--whether he had been picked up or was drowned--the mate and Jerry were gone, and I, the youngest of the crew, was left alone on the Falcon to bring her back to port, if haply I was not taken by her across the dreary waste of ocean to some terrible and unknown destiny.
[Chapter XXXI]. An Arctic Waif.
When the dim light of dawn fell upon the sea I looked over the gray waters through the telescope. The mist had faded away, and the snow had ceased to fall. A fresh breeze from the low east brought a faint glimmer of sunshine with it. But though I searched the horizon, and the wide intervening space of sea, yet could I discover nothing of the boat, and Fair Isle was nowhere to be seen.
Looking for that island--which I knew to be the nearest land--I remembered the islanders and thought how little chance there now remained of the Falcon rendering them assistance in their need of provisions. I saw no possibility of reaching Fair Isle; for, as I had seen it on the previous day, it appeared but a small rock; and being out of all my reckoning, and, as I supposed, a considerable distance to leeward, I did not think it wise to waste much time in the vain effort to reach the island, the exact position of which I was ignorant of. I might have beat about for two or three days, perhaps, without sighting it, and yet I knew not what other land to make for.
The wind, which was now blowing east-southeast, was unfavourable in an attempt to make for the Orkneys. The only alternative that I could see, therefore, was to head the schooner round on the port tack and bear northward to the Shetlands.
I went below to look at the chart to determine my position and the course I should take; and, to prepare myself for difficulties I foresaw, I lighted a fire and made myself some coffee and cooked some bacon for breakfast. When I had eaten a good meal and warmed myself, a drowsiness came over me again, and I threw myself on the skipper's bed to rest for a little while.
I must have slept very soundly; for when I awoke the fire was out, and I saw by the chronometer that it was nearly eleven o'clock. But my sleep had done me great good, and I hurried on deck and looked round.