The bows were high out of the water, as if the ship had run up a steep, submerged shelf of ice; and the seas, which the wind of the night had raised, from time to time broke over the stern. It was impossible, however, to determine the general situation of the schooner. The fog was too thick for that, and the day had not yet fully broken. All that was revealed, in a glance about, was that upon one hand lay a waste of breaking water, and upon the other a dull white mass, lifting itself into the mist.

"'Tis bad, lads," said the skipper, when the first and second hands had joined him under the mainmast shrouds.

"She's lost," said the first.

"We'll be takin' t' the boat," said the second.

"I'm not so sure that she's lost," said the skipper. "Whatever, we'll not take t' the boat till we have to."

The first and second hands exchanged a glance, and together looked at the boat. The swift glance and look were a danger-signal to the skipper.

"Does you hear me?" he shouted, his voice ringing out above the wash of the waves and the noise of the wind. "We'll not leave her. Take a spell at the pump, both o' you!"

For a moment the skipper's authority was in doubt. The men wavered. A repetition of the command, however, with clenched fists ready to enforce it, decided them. They relieved young Billy.

"Is the water gainin', b'y?" said the skipper to the lad.

Billy looked up steadily. The fright had left his eyes. He had recovered his self-possession.

"No, sir," he said, quietly. "'Tis gettin' less all the while."

At that moment the ship lurched slightly and slid off the shelf. The skipper shouted an order to raise the foresail, and ran aft to take the wheel. But the fall of the topmast had so tangled the rigging and jammed the gaff and boom that before the crew could remove the unconscious cook and lift the sail, the wind had turned the schooner and was driving her stern foremost, as it appeared, on the ice.

The skipper, from his station at the wheel, calmly observed the nearing berg, and gave the schooner up for lost. There was no time to raise the sail—no room for beating out of danger. He saw, too, that if she struck with force, the quarter-boat, which was swinging from davits astern, would be crushed to splinters.

"She's lost!" he thought. "Lost with all hands!"

Nearer approach, however, disclosed the strange fact that there was a break in the ice. When the schooner was still a few fathoms nearer, it was observed that the great berg was in reality composed of two masses of ice, with a narrow strait leading between them.

The light was now stronger, and the fog had somewhat thinned; it was possible to distinguish shadowy outlines—to see that great cliffs of ice descended on each side of the passage to the water's edge. Still deeper in the mist it was lighter, as if the strait indeed led directly through the berg to the open sea beyond. The crew was gathered aft, breathlessly awaiting the schooner's fate, helpless to fend or aid; and the cook was lying on the roof of the cabin, where they had laid him down, revived in part, and desperately struggling to recover his senses.

"Lads," said the skipper, at last, "the Lord has the schooner in His hands. They's a way through the ice. He's guidin' her into it, but whether He'll save us or not, He only knows."

The Rescue drifted fairly into the passage, which was irregular, but in no part less than twice the width of the vessel. She was swept on, swinging from side to side, striking her bow here and her stern there; and with every shock fragments of rotten ice fell in a shower from above.

How soon one might strike one of their number down, no man knew. How soon some great mass, now poised in the mist, might be dislodged and crush the schooner in its fall, no man knew. How soon the towering cliffs might swing together and grind the ship to splinters, no man could tell. Were these masses of ice connected deep down under water? Or were they floating free?

There were no answers to these questions. On went the schooner, stern foremost, slipping ever nearer to the open.[5]

"Skipper, sir," the first hand pleaded, "leave us launch the quarter-boat an' pull out. 'Tis—'tis—too horrible here."

"Ay, lads, if you will," was the reply.

It was then discovered that a block of ice had fallen in the boat at the bows, and sprung the planking. She was too leaky to launch; there was nothing for it but to wait.

"We'll calk those leaks as best we can," said the skipper. "They's no tellin' what might——"

The stern struck a projection, and the bow swung round and lodged on the other side. The schooner was jammed in the passage, almost broadside to the wind. They made a shift at calking the leaks with rags and a square of oiled canvas. At all hazards the schooner must be freed.

"We must get her off quick, lads!" the skipper cried. "Come, now, who's going with me in the boat t' tow?"

"I, sir," said young Billy, stepping forward eagerly.

"I, sir," said the first hand.

"So it is," said the skipper. "Andy, Tom, when we hauls her bow off, do you stand here with a gaff an' push. Lower away that boat, now! Billy, do you fetch a bucket for bailin'."

The boat was launched with great difficulty from her place in the stern davits. She began at once to fill, for the calking had been ill done, and she was sadly damaged. It took courage to leap into her from the taffrail, leaky as she was, and tossing about; but there was a desperate sort of courage in the hearts of the men who had volunteered, and they leaped, one by one.

Billy fell to bailing, and the skipper and the first hand rowed forward to catch the line. The line once caught and made fast, they pulled out with might and main.

"She's fillin' fast, sir!" Billy gasped.

"Bail, b'y, bail!"

The tow-rope was now taut. The skipper and the first hand pulled with such strength that each stroke of an oar made a hissing little whirlpool.

"'Tis gainin' on me fast, sir," said Billy.

"Give way! Give way!" cried the skipper.

The bow of the schooner swung round inch by inch—so slowly that the sinking of the boat seemed inevitable.

"She'll sink, sir!" said Billy, in alarm, but still bailing steadily.

"Pull! Pull!"

When the schooner was once more in her old position—stern foremost, and driving slowly through the passage—the water was within an inch of the seats of the boat, which was now heavy and almost unmanageable. Twenty fathoms of water lay between the boat and the bow of the schooner.

"She's goin' down, sir!" said Billy.

"Cast lines!" the skipper shouted to those aboard.

Water curled over the gunwales. The boat stopped dead, and wavered, on the point of sinking. Two lines came whizzing towards her, uncoiling in their flight. The one was caught by the first hand, who threw himself into the water and was hauled aboard. Billy and the skipper caught the other. With its help and a few strong strokes they made the bow chains and clambered to the deck.

"She's drivin' finely," said the skipper, when he had looked around. "Stand by, there, an' be ready with the fores'l! We'll soon be through."

It was true enough; in a few minutes the schooner had safely drifted through the passage, and was making off from the berg under a reefed foresail, while the mist cleared and the sun shone out, and the peaks and cliffs of the island of ice, far astern, shone and glistened. And three days later the young skipper bounded up the path at Ruddy Cove, and the little toddler whom he loved was at the kitchen door to greet him.