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“Had us known in time us had better have stuck to t’ boats, for they might have given us a chance. But t’ wind being offshore, and t’ ice running out to sea, made it seem safer to keep to t’ rocks. For t’ Red Island Shoal is only three or four miles from t’ land, and there be liveyers, as us knew, almost opposite. If t’ wind had held in t’ same direction even then us might have escaped, but it dropped suddenly about day dawn, and there were huge swatches o’ water between us and t’ mainland before it came light enough to try and get across. Then just as suddenly t’ wind clipped round, and t’ sea began to make, and t’ water started breaking right over them rocks.

“Us had managed to build a fire out o’ some of t’ wreckage saved, and had thrown in bits o’ canvas and some tarry oakum to make smoke. They had seen it too on t’ land, and had lit three smoke fires in a line to let us know that they would send help if they could. But the veering of the wind had made that impossible, for they could only launch small skiffs, and they would not have lived more’n a few minutes for t’ ice making on ’em.

“T’ breaking seas and driving spray soon wet all our men through. There were forty of us all told. But by night several were either dead or beyond help. T’ ice had taken our boats, and now t’ seas took all that was left. T’ fire went out just before midday, and our bit o’ grub got wet and frozen. Next morning t’ sea was higher than ever, and t’ bodies of t’ men mostly washed away as they died. All that day t’ rest of us just held on, some twenty or so; but it was a bare six of us that were living t’ second night. There was no sleep, and not even any lying down if you wanted to live. None of them that slept ever woke again. I might have nodded standing up. Guess I must have. But t’ third morning I was t’ only man moving; and though it was as fine a shining morning as ever broke, and t’ hot sun from t’ ice soon put a little life in me, I never expected to see another night. Then I must have forgotten everything, even t’ people on t’ shore. For I never saw any boat coming, or any one land. Everything had been washed away but myself. I had been alone, I reckon, many hours. It seemed ages since I ‘d heard a human voice; but I still remembers some one putting his hand on my shoulder. They had been calling, so they told me, but somehow I heard nothing. They kept me a good many days before I knowed anything–doing for me like a mother would for her boy. But more’n a week had gone by before I could tell ’em who I was.

“And then it all came back to me–t’ cruel suffering of my shipmates, and most of all of Willy, t’ only chick or child I ever had. He had my coat over his oil frock, and he were so brave, so young, and so strong. And he lived till morning–long after great strong men had perished–and me able to do nothing. Then his poor frozen body was washed to and fro in that terrible surf, as if my boy wouldn’t leave me even if he was dead. Why I lived on, and why it pleased God to spare my poor life I never knowed, or shall know, Doctor, till he tells me himself.”

He was sitting bolt upright now, looking me straight in the face. But the fire died suddenly from Uncle Rube’s eyes, and, exhausted by the effort and the memories the story brought back to him, he fell back in the chair as if he had been struck by some knock-out blow. The thud of the fall once more woke the child, and, seeing me jump to the old man’s help, she began to sob piteously. It was only for a moment, however. The splendid vitality of the man, toughened by his hard life and simple fare, soon made him master of himself again, and, apologizing for giving me trouble, he took up the child, crooning over her to get her quiet.