"The vessel is haunted! I wish we had never come on board. Let us tell Esau."
"No, certainly not," said Arthur. "He will only make things worse. Let us try to beat him at his own game!"
"Right!" whispered the strange voice. "Lie low!"
"That is mysterious," said Reginald, as he went quickly to the door and threw it open. There was no one near; the cabins were silent and darkened.
"Rum!" he remarked as he returned to the doctor's bunk. "Did you speak, doctor?"
"No," was the unexpected reply in a faint tone. "But I heard you and the strange voice. I suspect it was Jackson. He seems a good man."
The lads looked and nodded at each other, and the doctor proceeded in a whisper——
"Listen! That mate intended to seriously cripple me to-day, I'm certain, and to put the injury down to the 'larking on the Line!' Some one had guessed your stepfather's plans and warned the late captain. Now Esau thinks I am disabled. Jackson, I suspect, is on our side, and has given us a hint. See?"
"Then you think that Mr. Boscombe intended us to die!" exclaimed Reginald. "Is it possible? Oh no; he couldn't be so wicked!"
"The mate has some instructions, I believe," whispered Mr. Halbrake. "Be careful. I think we may trust Jackson, and the engineers are honest. Keep quiet now till I am well again, and wait with your eyes wide open. Later on we shall certainly see something!"
The surgeon then lay silent. During the night the lads sat up with him, watching in turn. Esau came down to make inquiry, and Jackson also looked in. The Rushtons attended to their friend under his own directions, and decided to "play possum" until they fell in with a ship or landed somewhere. In this way three weeks passed, and southern climes were reached.
By that time the doctor had perfectly recovered. He assisted in the fishing for the albatross with a hook and bait, and finally secured one of these fine birds by these means. He and all the rest on board enjoyed the novel sights of whales and porpoises, the various birds, and the unusual appearances of the southern climate. A gale drove the Bertha past the Falklands, greatly to the disgust of many on board who had anticipated a run ashore; and then, when the weather moderated, the passengers came on deck again muffled up to meet the Antarctic cold. Christmas was already looming on the horizon of the almanac, and festivity was indulged in in anticipation. The doctor stuffed birds (mollymauks and Cape pigeons); Reginald and Arthur fished, shot, and thoroughly enjoyed the voyage, while still on their guard respecting the commander. In fact, to all appearance, the ill-feeling which had arisen on board had by this time passed away.
One afternoon the thermometer fell decidedly, and a report of ice was promulgated. The air became very chilly, and bergs were anticipated. Ice for Christmas!
"What a lark!" cried Arthur. "This will be fun! May we land upon an iceberg?"
The commander, who was searching the ocean through his glass, looked steadily and with much interest at the lad. He did not reply at once, but resumed his survey.
"Can we, Mr. Cordell?" asked Arthur again.
"Perhaps," was the reply. "Would you both like it?"
"Rather! eh, Reggie! Wouldn't it be splendid to land on a real iceberg?"
"There are no sham ones here," said Mr. Cordell. "None 'made in Germany'! We shall find you one, I daresay," he concluded as he walked across to port.
"You shouldn't run risks, gentlemen," remarked Jackson, who was again at the wheel. "If ye get on, ye may never get off!"
The speaker never looked at the lads; he kept his eyes upon the ocean far ahead, and seemed as if he had been talking to himself in a low tone.
"Look," he cried suddenly, "there's a Christmas-box for you! That's a berg! See, yonder, to starboard bow."
"That!" exclaimed Reginald. "Why, it's flat, not pointed, as we have seen in pictures!"
"They is always flat in the Antarctic," replied the sailor. "They are square-looking, not peaky, down here."
By this time the hands had assembled forward to see the first berg of summer in the Antarctic. As the Bertha approached the drifting mass, it seemed to emerge from the light mist as a plateau of ice, at least a mile long and quite two hundred and fifty feet high; its breadth could not be at once estimated, but it seemed square. The summit was white and sparkling with snow, which was reflected sharply by the sunbeams, even painfully. The sides of the berg were caverned like cliffs; blue, and even green in places, against which the waves dashed with great force, leaping high up the ice, half way, at times, to the summit. The sea was roaring in the ice-caves, and presented a most magnificent appearance as it retreated, foaming and angry, only to attack the white walls anew.
It was magnificent! Splendid! Glorious! All the spectators were silent as the Bertha approached the berg.
"What are those black things, Mr. Stevens?"
III
Even Arthur Rushton was silent. His idea of a "lark" appeared entirely out of place vis-à-vis with the berg.
The Bertha was sailing with a south-east wind, but the berg appeared to be drifting towards the barque. At one time some fears were entertained that the vessel would collide with the mass, but the berg passed on with merely a cold recognition of the stranger. The mist seemed increasing, the weather colder, the sea lumpy, as the island of ice passed by in dignified silence.
A man was sent up to the "crow's-nest," a barrel which had been hoisted up to the main-topmast, to scan the horizon for seals, whalers, and any floes. The lookout was seated in the cask upon a board fixed within it, and he entered it by a trap-door (cut in the bottom of the barrel) from the rigging. When the apparatus had been tested, Arthur, of course, was anxious to ascend and see what he could.
"May we go up?" asked Reginald of the second mate.
"Aye," replied Stevens. "I'll see you safe up. Take care, youngster; the ship's rollin' a tidy bit up there!"
The lads had ascended the rigging before, and with a little assistance one managed to enter the crow's-nest. Arthur went first, as he had suggested the expedition.
"This is splendid," exclaimed the lad. "There are several bergs, and lumps of ice in the sea like little islands. What are those black things, Mr. Stevens?"
He indicated some distant objects which seemed to be floating between the barque and the ice-floe.
"Whales," replied Stevens. "Not right whales, though. Those are 'finners,' as we call them."
"Wrong whales, I suppose! Are 'finners,' then, 'sinners,' " asked Arthur in his most innocent tone.
"Not particularly, so far as I know," replied the mate, laughing, "but they are no use to whalers, and so we only catch 'right whales,' d'ye see?"
"Then, is that a spout?" asked the lad, as a thin and steam-like vapour arose from the neighbourhood of the whales.
"Yes, that's a spout," was the reply, as the misty vapour vanished. "It looks different in books, don't it?"
"It does," said Arthur. "I think I'll go down now. The rolling is rather trying. Besides, Reginald is waiting."
"And Tom is expecting you to pay your 'footing,'" said the mate Stevens. "Got to fork out, sir, please."