“Bad magic,” he said; “ghost ship.” But the boys knew better. The Bowhead lay at anchor in mush ice and among floes, ghostly enough in the whirl of flying snow that made the outlines of spar and sail white against the leaden sky, but the ship in very truth, and never so welcome a sight in any man’s eyes. They shouted and hallooed, and listened in vain for any response as they neared her, and their exultant hearts grew cold with fear as they got none. A terrible weird loneliness brooded over her, and it seemed to the exhausted boys as if they struggled to her side through a bad dream.
There was no greeting as they stepped on deck, only the wail of the wind through the icy shrouds. The deck was drifted with snow that held no tracks. The cabin, the forecastle, the galley, all showed signs of hasty leave-taking, and were untenanted. Then, once more in the cabin, the truth came upon them with stunning force. The ship had been abandoned, and they with it were left to face the long loneliness of the coming Arctic night as best they could. Joe sat down with a pathetic slump in his broad shoulders and buried his face in his hands, losing his cheerful courage for the first time; nor did he note for quite a while that Harry was face down on the captain’s berth sobbing with homesickness, loneliness, and utter physical exhaustion. Of the hour that these two spent in the full realization of their misfortune, it were best to say little. Up to that hour they had been boys. In it they passed through the crucible that melts and reshapes souls, and they came out of it men.
His anguish over and once more master of himself, Joe rose, and, stepping to Harry’s side, laid a hand on his shoulder. Then he saw that Harry had found peace in sleep, and knowing how much he needed it, he threw a quilt over his shoulders and left him, going on deck.
The Eskimo had gone, and with him the dingey.
It did not change the look of serenity in Joe’s face. He had met and conquered all fears and apprehensions in the hour that had just passed, and one more misfortune could have no effect on him. He turned to the galley, where he started a fire, and from the cook’s stores took the material for a first-class hot supper. When this was ready, he went and wakened Harry. The two did not say much, but they clasped hands in the dusk of the cabin, and each saw the change toward manhood in the other’s face,—the look of greater sturdiness, greater self-reliance, together with a certain serenity which surely marks the man. Some fortunate men acquire this serenity, self-poise, in the face of fortune, good or ill, early in life; some never acquire it, and they, as well as the world, are the worse off for that.
They slept warm and long that night, had a good hearty, hot breakfast the next morning, and felt fit to face the world. It was a bright morning, with the sun struggling through frost mists, and as they came on deck they found quite a change in the position of the small floes overnight, and some open water near the ship. Out of this open water came a quavering hail.
“Kile, innuit” (Come here, man); “kile, innuit,” cried Joe with delight, and the Eskimo paddled alongside in the dingey. He touched the ship gingerly, but it neither flew away nor burned him. He climbed aboard and looked earnestly at Joe and Harry, who shook his hand cordially. Then his face lighted up with a broad grin.
“Nagouruk,” he said. “No more ghosts. Good magic. White man great ankut” (wizard).
That was all. He thought it great magic that the boys had made the ghost ship real and were living aboard it in safety. Henceforth he did not question his own safety there, but the night before he had feared to go aboard lest it sail off with him into the undiscovered country, as it had in the mirage.
That day the two boys—we will call them boys still, though, remember, they have the hearts of men—took stock of their situation, and found it not so bad after all. The captain and crew were gone southward, probably to safety, but they had left behind the ship, with abundance of provisions and all sorts of supplies, including a good amount of coal. There was really no reason why they should not be warm and comfortable all winter long, and find safety with the returning whalemen the next summer. If they had been short of provisions or without the splendid shelter and the coal that they had, it might have been wise to attempt to work south on the chance of catching a belated whaleship at Point Hope. As it was, the chance was too slender, and it was best to face the winter just where they were.