I afterwards passed many terrible nights in this ship, but none worse than this—perhaps because it was the first of them. The noises of the sea and straining fabric drowned all sounds in the state-cabin. I could not hear if the men talked, nor tell what they were doing. I terrified myself by imagining that they would get at the spirits and make themselves drunk. Then there was always the haunting horror of ice near us. At any moment I might feel a rending shock of collision. I was sailor enough to know that if our ship was thrown against such a berg as we had sighted that day, nay, even against a piece of ice of her own bulk, she would be shivered into staves, and all before we could put up one prayer to God. And often did I pray that night, and with plenty of fervour of tongue, I don't doubt, but with little heart, I fear; I was too frightened to realise the meaning of the words I used. Twice Mrs. Burke visited me and said all was right; the sailors had been on deck to pump the ship out; the hull was dry and buoyant, and the gale abating. This news she gave me on her second visit. There was a vast deal of snow in the wind, and the blackness was so thickened by it there was no power in the rushing sea-flares to make a light for the eye beyond a pistol shot; but the captain believed, she said, there was no ice nearer to us than the cathedral island we had seen that afternoon.
Nature, however, was worn out at last and I fell asleep, and when I awoke it was daylight, by which I guessed it was not much earlier than noon; I looked through the porthole, a large lead-coloured, confused swell was running, but it was unwrinkled and frothless. The motions of the ship were extraordinarily wild and agitated; she was flung into twenty postures in a minute. When I got out of my bunk I found it impossible to stand without holding on. The water in the wash-stand was a solid block of ice, but the cold did not seem so piercing, nor of an edge so saw-like as I had found it yesterday. I contrived to wrap myself up, and went out and saw Mrs. Burke sitting alone near the stove. She sprang to help me, and said that a few minutes earlier she had looked in, and left on finding me asleep. A pot of coffee was beside the stove, and a breakfast of cold ham, tinned meat and other things on the table.
'Where are the crew?' I asked.
'On deck,' she answered, 'endeavouring to rig up a mast.'
'Is the captain hopeful?'
'He means to stick to the ship,' she answered. 'Some of the men talk as if there was nothing to be done with her, and spoke of going away in the long boat.'
'Is the vessel utterly dismasted?'
'She is in a terrible plight. But make a good breakfast, dear. It is quiet weather in spite of this horrible rolling. The hull is sound, and we are sure to be fallen in with by some vessel that will help us.'
As she spoke Mr. Owen came out of his cabin. His face was the pale shadow of the countenance he had brought on board. He blinked his eyes, and they were bloodshot; his very hair seemed to have been toned by emotion into a sort of ashen colour. He made a slight bow, and sat down at the table without speaking. Evidently he had breakfasted. Also, no doubt, he had previously met Mrs. Burke. I judged by his behaviour that the captain had talked to him; it was a mixture of sulkiness and dislike.
He had been kind and attentive to me on many occasions during the voyage, and, full of fear and other crowding passions as I myself was, I yet felt sorry for him. I bade him good morning and asked him if he had been on deck. On this he rose, and clawing his way round the table, so as to get near to me, he said:—