“It was not until we had wandered about for some time,” said he, “that we succeeded in sighting one of the boats—that of the second mate. We shouted to him; he picked us up, and I then told him that I had left you alone upon the ice to take charge of my stove boat, and that we must contrive to work his craft to the spot where you were, so that we could pick you up. By this time, hows’ever, the blocks and bergs had become so closely jammed together, that none of us could see how we were a-going to do what I proposed. Spooner declared that the boat would certainly be knocked to pieces before we got to you, if we tried to force her through them bergs. But, as I insisted, the second mate gave in, and we went to work. But, bless your eyes, you might as well have tried to push the craft through a rock as to force her through them tightly-squeezing lumps of ice! Still, we tugged and strained, using oars and paddles, and sometimes jumping out of the boat to lighten her; and, at last, after we had worked for about three hours, a-sounding our horn all the time, and after we’d got so far among the bergs that we didn’t think we could ever get out again, and all without seeing or hearing anything of you, I came to the conclusion that my craft had got sunk, and that you’d been picked up by one of the other boats; and so I said to Spooner, that we’d better be for getting out of our ticklish quarters if he didn’t want his boat to get stove.”
“Ay, ay,” here interposed Stump, “and there’s sartainly a moral in that part of your story, seeing as it shows how difficulties always makes us parfectly willing to believe that it’s best to do what we’re most inclined to do, a-leaving our duty entirely out of the consideration.”
As the shipkeeper was a sort of privileged character, the mate took no notice of his remark beyond a slight frown. Then again turning to Marline, he continued:
“It took us as long, if not longer, to get out of the ice than to get in, but, we got clear at last, and Spooner had just given orders to the men to take to their oars—for he intended to make for the shore—when suddenly we heard, ahead of us, a sound like the rushing of a ship through the water. The crew were then made to stop pulling, and we were a-sitting with our oars apeak, when, my eyes! what should come looming out of the fog, and making straight for us, but the Montpelier itself!”
And Briggs then went on to describe those incidents concerning the chase—the death of Tom Block—the final recapture of the ship by Captain Howard—and, lastly, the loss of the two boats; all of which are already familiar to the reader.
“All that we could do after the loss of our boats,” continued the narrator, “was to wait for a breeze, which, as you know, didn’t spring up until midnight. Then we headed for the floe, as you can perceive, and were fortunate enough, soon afterward, to pick up the third mate, whose boat it is you see alongside of us. You know the rest, lads, and so that ends the story.”
We have but little more to add.
The whole party returned to the Montpelier, in which, after she had partaken of refreshments, and enjoyed the luxury of sleep, Alice recovered her youthful spirits, together with the bloom that had, in a measure, been banished by the hardships she had suffered.
A week from that time the vessel left the sea of Ochotsk, homeward-bound. She arrived at her destined port in a few months, and the trial of all the mutineers—with the exception of the Portuguese steward (who shortly after his desertion from the Montpelier, had been picked up by the whaler Comus only to be lost overboard shortly afterward during a heavy gale of wind)—was then commenced.
Tom Lark and Driko were sentenced to be hung; the rest, to be imprisoned for life.