I watched the sun, the distant fog, the
wind and waves, the increasing motion of the boat, and the seemingly
retreating berg. A good half-hour's toil had carried us into broad
waters, and yet, to all appearance, very little nearer. The wind was
freshening from the south, the sea was rising, thin mists, a species
of scout from the main body of the fog lying off in the east, were
scudding across our track. James Goss, our captain, threw out a hint
of a little difficulty in getting back. But Yankee energy was
indomitable. C. quietly arranged his painting--apparatus, and I,
wrapped in my cloak more snugly, crept out forward on the little deck,
a sort of look-out. To be honest, I began to wish ourselves on our way
back, as the black, angry-looking swells chased us up, and flung the
foam upon the bow and stern. All at once, whole squadrons of fog swept
up, and swamped the whole of us, boat and berg, in their thin, white
obscurity. For a moment we thought ourselves foiled again. But still
the word was, "On!" And on they pulled, the hard-handed fishermen, now
flushed and moist with rowing. Again the ice was visible, but dimly,
in his misty drapery. There was no time to be lost. Now, or not at
all. And so C. began. For half an hour, pausing occasionally for
passing flocks of fog, he plied the brush with a rapidity not usual,
and under disadvantages that would have mastered a less experienced
hand. We were getting close down upon the berg, and in fearfully rough
water.
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