The Jacket (The Star-Rover)

was squeezed between the ice as a sugar plum might be squeezed between thumb and forefinger of a boy.  In the shouting of the wind and the roar of water we heard nothing, although the crack of the brig’s stout ribs and deckbeams must have been enough to waken a hamlet on a peaceful night.

Silently, easily, the brig’s sides squeezed together, the deck bulged up, and the crushed remnant dropped down and was gone, while where she had been was occupied by the grinding conflict of the ice-islands.  I felt regret at the destruction of this haven against the elements, but at the same time was well pleased at thought of my snugness inside my four shirts and three coats.

Yet it proved a bitter night, even for me.  I was the warmest clad in the boat.  What the others must have suffered I did not care to dwell upon over much.  For fear that we might meet up with more ice in the darkness, we bailed and held the boat bow-on to the seas.  And continually, now with one mitten, now with the other, I rubbed my nose that it might not freeze.  Also, with memories lively in me of the home circle in Elkton, I prayed to God.

In the morning we took stock.  To commence with, all but two or three had suffered frost-bite.  Aaron Northrup, unable to move because of his broken hip, was very bad.  It was the surgeon’s opinion that both of Northrup’s feet were hopelessly frozen.

The longboat was deep and heavy in the water, for it was burdened by the entire ship’s company of twenty- one.  Two of these were boys.  Benny Hardwater was a bare thirteen, and Lish Dickery, whose family was near neighbour to mine in Elkton, was just turned sixteen.  Our provisions consisted of three hundred-weight of beef and two hundred-weight of pork.  The half-dozen loaves of brine-pulped bread, which the cook had brought, did not count.  Then there were three small barrels of water and one small keg of beer.

Captain Nicholl frankly admitted that in this uncharted ocean he had no knowledge of any near land.  The one thing to do was to run for more clement climate, which we accordingly did, setting our small sail and steering quartering before the fresh wind to the north-east.

The food problem was simple arithmetic.  We did not count Aaron Northrup, for we knew he would soon be gone.  At a pound per day, our five hundred pounds would last us twenty-five days; at half a pound, it would last fifty.  So half a pound had it.  I divided and issued the meat under the captain’s eyes, and managed it fairly enough, God knows, although some of the men grumbled from the first.  Also, from time to time I made fair division among the men of the plug tobacco I had stowed in my many pockets—a thing which I could not but regret, especially when I knew it was being wasted on this man and that who I was certain could not live a day more, or, at best, two days or three.

For we began to die soon in the open boat.  Not to starvation but to the killing cold and exposure were those earlier deaths due.  It was a matter of the survival of the toughest and the luckiest.  I was tough by constitution, and lucky inasmuch as I was warmly clad and had not broken my leg like Aaron Northrup.  Even so, so strong was he that, despite being the first to be severely frozen, he was days in passing.  Vance Hathaway was the first.  We found him in the gray of dawn crouched doubled in the bow and frozen stiff.  The boy, Lish Dickery, was the second to go.  The other boy, Benny Hardwater, lasted ten or a dozen days.

So bitter was it in the boat that our water and beer froze solid, and it was a difficult task justly to apportion the pieces I broke off with Northrup’s claspknife.  These pieces we put in our mouths and sucked till they melted.  Also, on occasion of snow-squalls, we had all the snow we desired.  All of which was not good for us, causing a fever of inflammation to attack our mouths so that the membranes were continually dry and burning.  And there was no allaying a thirst so generated.  To suck more ice or snow was merely to aggravate the inflammation.  More than anything else, I think it was this that caused the death of Lish Dickery.  He was out of his head and raving for twenty-four hours before he died.  He died babbling for water, and yet he did not die for need of water.  I resisted as much as possible the temptation to suck ice, contenting myself with a shred of tobacco in my cheek, and made out with fair comfort.

We stripped all clothing from our dead.  Stark they came into the world, and stark they passed out over the side of the longboat and down into the dark freezing ocean.  Lots were cast for the clothes.  This was by Captain Nicholl’s command, in order to prevent quarrelling.

It was no time for the follies of sentiment.  There was not one of us who did not know secret satisfaction at the occurrence of each death.  Luckiest of all was Israel Stickney in casting lots, so that in the end, when he passed, he was a veritable treasure trove of clothing.  It gave a new lease of life to the survivors.

We continued to run to the north-east before the fresh westerlies, but our quest for warmer weather seemed vain.  Ever the spray froze in the bottom of the boat, and I still chipped beer and drinking water with Northrup’s knife.  My own knife I reserved.  It was of good steel, with a keen edge and stoutly fashioned, and I did not care to peril it in such manner.

By the time half our company was overboard, the boat had a reasonably high freeboard and was less ticklish to handle in the gusts.  Likewise there was more room for a man to stretch out comfortably.

A source of continual grumbling was the food.  The captain, the mate, the surgeon, and myself, talking it over, resolved not to increase the daily whack of half a pound of meat.  The six sailors, for whom Tobias Snow made himself spokesman, contended that the death of half of us was equivalent to a doubling of our provisioning, and that therefore the ration should be increased to a pound.  In reply, we of the afterguard pointed out that it was our chance for life that was doubled did we but bear with the half-pound ration.

It is true that eight ounces of salt meat did not go far in enabling us to live and to resist the severe cold.  We were quite weak, and, because of our weakness, we frosted easily.  Noses and cheeks were all black with frost- bite.  It was impossible to be warm, although we now had double the garments we had started with.

Five weeks after the loss of the Negociator the trouble over the food came to a head.  I was asleep at the time—it was night—when Captain Nicholl caught Jud Hetchkins stealing from the pork barrel.  That he was abetted by the other five men was proved by their actions.  Immediately Jud Hetchkins was discovered, the whole six threw themselves upon us with their knives.  It was close, sharp work in the dim light of the stars, and it was a mercy the boat was not overturned.  I had reason to be thankful for my many shirts and coats which served me as an armour.  The knife-thrusts scarcely more than drew blood through the so great thickness of cloth, although I was scratched to bleeding in a round dozen of places.

The others were similarly protected, and the fight would have ended in no more than a mauling all around, had not the mate, Walter Dakon, a very powerful man, hit upon the idea of ending the matter by tossing the mutineers overboard.  This was joined in by Captain Nicholl, the surgeon, and myself, and in a trice five of the six were in the water and clinging to the gunwale.  Captain Nicholl and the surgeon were busy amidships with the sixth, Jeremy Nalor, and were in the act of throwing him overboard, while the mate was occupied with rapping the fingers along the gunwale with a boat-stretcher.  For the moment I had nothing to do, and so was able to observe the tragic end of the mate.  As he lifted the stretcher to rap Seth Richards’ fingers, the latter, sinking down low in the water and then jerking himself up by both hands, sprang half into the boat, locked his arms about the mate and, falling backward and outboard, dragged the mate with him.  Doubtlessly he never relaxed his grip, and both drowned together.

Thus left alive of the entire ship’s company were three of us: Captain Nicholl, Arnold Bentham (the surgeon), and myself.  Seven had gone in the twinkling of an eye, consequent on Jud Hetchkins’ attempt to steal provisions.  And to me it seemed a pity that so much good warm clothing had been wasted there in the sea.  There was not one of us who could not have managed gratefully with more.

Captain Nicholl and the surgeon were good men and honest.  Often enough, when two of us slept, the one awake and steering could have stolen from the meat.  But this never happened.  We trusted one another fully, and we would have died rather than betray that trust.

We continued to content ourselves with half a pound of meat each per day, and we took advantage of every favouring breeze to work to the north’ard.  Not until January fourteenth, seven weeks since the wreck, did we come up with a warmer latitude.  Even then it was not really warm.  It was merely not so bitterly cold.

Here the fresh westerlies forsook us and we bobbed and blobbed about in doldrummy weather for many days.  Mostly it was calm, or light contrary winds, though sometimes a burst of breeze, as like as not from dead ahead, would last for a few hours.  In our weakened condition, with so large a boat, it was out of the question to row.  We could merely hoard our food and wait for God to show a more kindly face.  The three of us were faithful Christians, and we made a practice of prayer each day before the apportionment of food.  Yes, and each of us prayed privately, often and long.

By the end of January our food was near its end.  The pork was entirely gone, and we used the barrel for