The ship
did her duty admirably, all on board were
well, and all hands were as smart, efficient,
and contented, as it was possible to be.
When the night came on again as dark as
before, it was the eighth night I had been on
deck. Nor had I taken more than a very
little sleep in the day-time, my station being
always near the helm, and often at it, while
we were among the ice. Few but those who
have tried it can imagine the difficulty and
pain of only keeping the eyes open—physically
open—under such circumstances, in
such darkness. They get struck by the darkness,
and blinded by the darkness. They
make patterns in it, and they flash in it,
as if they had gone out of your head to
look at you. On the turn of midnight, John
Steadiman, who was alert and fresh (for I
had always made him turn in by day), said to
me, “Captain Ravender, I entreat of you to
go below. I am sure you can hardly stand,
and your voice is getting weak, sir. Go
below, and take a little rest. I’ll call you if
a block chafes.” I said to John in answer,
“Well, well, John! Let us wait till the
turn of one o’clock, before we talk about
that.” I had just had one of the ship’s
lanterns held up, that I might see how the
night went by my watch, and it was then
twenty minutes after twelve.
At five minutes before one, John sang out
to the boy to bring the lantern again, and,
when I told him once more what the time
was, entreated and prayed of me to go below.
“Captain Ravender,” says he, “all’s well;
we can’t afford to have you laid up for a
single hour; and I respectfully and earnestly
beg of you to go below.” The end of it was,
that I agreed to do so, on the understanding
that if I failed to come up of my own accord
within three hours, I was to be punctually
called. Having settled that, I left John in
charge. But, I called him to me once afterwards,
to ask him a question. I had been to
look at the barometer, and had seen the
mercury still perfectly steady, and had come
up the companion again, to take a last look
about me—if I can use such a word in reference
to such darkness—when I thought that
the waves, as the Golden Mary parted them
and shook them off, had a hollow sound in
them; something that I fancied was a rather
unusual reverberation. I was standing by
the quarter-deck rail on the starboard side,
when I called John aft to me, and bade him
listen. He did so with the greatest attention.
Turning to me he then said, “Rely
upon it, Captain Ravender, you have been
without rest too long, and the novelty is only
in the state of your sense of hearing.” I
thought so too by that time, and I think so
now, though I can never know for absolute
certain in this world, whether it was or not.
When I left John Steadiman in charge, the
ship was still going at a great rate through
the water. The wind still blew right astern.
Though she was making great way, she was
under shortened sail, and had no more than
she could easily carry. All was snug, and
nothing complained. There was a pretty sea
running, but not a very high sea neither,
nor at all a confused one.
I turned in, as we seaman say, all standing.
The meaning of that, is, I did not pull my
clothes off—no, not even so much as my coat:
though I did my shoes, for my feet were
badly swelled with the deck. There was a
little swing-lamp alight in my cabin. I
thought, as I looked at it before shutting my
eyes, that I was so tired of darkness, and
troubled by darkness, that I could have gone
to sleep best in the midst of a million of
flaming gas-lights. That was the last thought
I had before I went off, except the prevailing
thought that I should not be able to get to
sleep at all.
I dreamed that I was back at Penrith
again, and was trying to get round the
church, which had altered its shape very
much since I last saw it, and was cloven all
down the middle of the steeple in a most
singular manner. Why I wanted to get
round the church, I don’t know; but, I was
as anxious to do it as if my life depended on
it. Indeed, I believe it did, in the dream.