Oh, the marks of ruin and annihilation!  The sea was strewn with wreckage; masses of timber swung around in loose rafts; vessels, bottom up, passed the smack from day to day; the fleet was dispersed, and only a few battered and ragged vessels could be seen rolling here and there in disorganized isolation.  “Goodness knows when we shall ever see our people again, sir.  We can’t do nothin’; I’ll keep a sharp look-out all through daylight, and we’ll pick them up if we can, but I fancy most of them have run for home or the Humber.  Before we settle to work again I was thinking of a little thanksgiving service.  We’re saved for some good purpose, sir, and it’s only fit we should say a word humbly to our blessed Father in heaven.”

And all on board met in the simple North Sea fashion, and even the patients had their say.  Only Tom Lennard remained impenetrably silent; he knew too much; he was a past-master in the mystery of mysteries.  The people used to say in Ravenna, “Behold, there is the man who has been in hell,” when they saw the awful face of Dante; poor, loose-brained Tom Lennard had also seen that which may not be made known.

“There’s some on ’em right ahead, skipper, I think.  Joe Questor’s there, I know.  He hasn’t lost his new mainsail.  See ’em, skipper?”

A few dark grey shadows like slim poles were all that Ferrier could see; but the man was right, and when the deft fingers—­those miraculous fingers—­of the seaman had set the mizen right, the smack was sailed with every stitch on, until she buried herself in the sulky, slow bulges of the ground swell.  Ferrier said, “You see, skipper, it’s better to risk carrying away something, than to have some poor smashed customer waiting helpless.”  And the skipper cracked on with every rag he could show until, on a sealing frosty morning, he shot in among the dismal remains of the gallant fleet.

Ferrier’s vessel would have pleased certain lovers of the picturesque if they had studied her appearance, but she was in a dreadful state from the prosaic seaman’s point of view.  Every wave had been laid under tribute by the frost, and a solid hillock had gathered forward; the anchor was covered in like a candied fruit; the boat was entirely concealed by a hard white mass; while as for the ropes—­they cannot be described fittingly.  Would any one imagine that a half-inch rope could be made the centre of a column of ice three inches in diameter?  Would any one imagine that a small block could be the nucleus of a lump as large as a pumpkin?  From stem to stern the vessel was caked in glossy ice, and from her gaffs and booms hung huge icicles like the stalagmites of the Dropping Cave.  All the other smacks were in the same plight, and it was quite clear that no fishing could be done for awhile, because every set of trawl-gear was banked in by a slippery, heavy rock.

There was something dismal and forlorn in the sound of the salutations as Ferrier ran past each vessel; the men were in low spirits despite their deliverance, for there was damage visible in almost every craft, and, moreover, the shadow of Death was there.  When Lewis came alongside of the Admiral he sang out “What cheer?” and the answer came, “Very bad.  We shall be a fortnight before we get them together.”