The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.1979, Page 22

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THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
WINTER 1979
to melt and break away from the shores of
Greenland and Labrador.”
The mass had come nearer now in all its
sinister beauty of glistening prisms and pin-
nacles. The sight was awe-inspiring and
frightening, Johanna thought. It resembled
the massive glacier, Snaefelsjokull, she had
seen on their journey to the Harbour. That
glacier had boded no evil, this floating ice-
palace was a menacing threat to their safety.
“What becomes of icebergs?” she asked,
more to relieve her anxiety in speech than
from curiosity.
“Eventually they break up in the warmer
waters of the Gulf Stream,” Mr. Baldvins-
son said. “And the growlers scatter
throughout the ocean till they melt com-
pletely.”
For hours the ship steamed in sight of the
iceberg, unable to leave it behind, driven as
it was, not by winds, but by the current of
the Gulf Stream. Day faded into night, and
the fog-shrouded sea lay gray and forbid-
ding. The white ghostly menace of ice, no
longer seen, held a deeper threat to the
ship’s safety.
“The fog is like a spell of sorcery.”
Johanna thought, shuddering. “It bodes evil
. . . perhaps death.”
Suddenly Captain Malcolm appeared on
their lowest deck.
“Be prepared to take to the lifeboats,” he
commanded.
The whispers of the Icelanders and the
whimpers of their weary children hushed
into a deadly silence.
“Wait in your cabins with doors ajar,”
the captain concluded, leaving the people
shocked and shaken.
“Come,” Jonas said, but their departure
was halted by the deep and solemn voice of
Arni Bjornsson.
“We are in God’s hand” he said. “Let us
pray.”
Later, in the cabin, the children slept, but
Johanna tossed fitfully. Beside her, Jonas
lay anxious and sleepless awaiting the
dreaded order to take to the boats.
The night was an eternity of fearful wait-
ing. A heavy gale added its perils to the fog,
and the ship lurched ahead, every motion
bringing with it added apprehension.
But the anxious hours brought no shock of
collision; no thudding or scraping sound of
steel against ice. At dawn the gale died
down for a time. By sunrise the fog was
lifting.
The people went out on deck. Away in the
distance behind their ship, the iceberg
gleamed, no longer a hazard to their safety.
The Britannica continued full steam
ahead.
“Thank God!” Johanna said in relief.
“A night of fear does not last forever.”
There was no hope for calm.
A raging storm broke in fury. The ship
rolled and lurched against frothing breakers
whipped up by a terrific gale that lasted for
days. It crawled along, seeming scarcely to
move. Everyone took to the cabins, unable
to eat; unable to stand. Johanna, crossing
the floor to attend her sick children, swayed
dizzily with each pitching motion of the
vessel. Her stomach heaved in violent
nausea, and a terrifying sickness pervaded
her whole being.
She fell onto the bunk unable to help
herself or the children.
“Jonas, my love,” she moaned. “See to
the little girls.”
For days she lay semi-conscious and
utterly miserable. At Jonas’ insistant plead-
ing the overburdened ship’s doctor brought
what relief he could give. But not till the
storm was spent did Johanna rally. Then she
realized that little Sigurhlif was dangerously
ill.
She heard the infant’s cries, piteous and
frightening, and she struggled up. She saw
the pale shadow of her once lovely child.
“She is dying,” Johanna moaned. “O
God! Why are we so helpless to save her
frail little life?”