THE IRONY OF FATE
The _Tropic Queen_ moved majestically through a sapphire sea. It was a
perfect tropic night. A dream mist, like a scarf of shimmering, spangled
vapor lay over the water. Above, the great, soft stars of the equatorial
regions beamed from a sky like blue-black velvet. High above the main
mast, like a great lamp, hung the full moon.
Disaster, danger and death seemed miles away, a contingency too remote
to be considered. Yet they were close at hand, far closer than any of
the sleeping passengers dreamed.
The bells chimed the hours and half hours as they slipped by to the
steady threshing of the propeller, and the wake of the big ship spread
fan-like from her stern in a milky stream that flashed with luminous
phosphorescence.
Suddenly, from the lookout in the crow’s nest came a shout sharp and
clear.
“Something dead ahead, sir,” was the reply to the inquiring hail from
the bridge.
“Can you make it out?”
“Not yet, sir. It’s two points on the starboard bow.”
From the bridge night-glasses were leveled, but the eyes in the crow’s
nest made out the nature of the drifting object on the moonlit sea
first.
“It’s a boat, sir.”
“A boat?”
“Aye, aye, sir. Looks like a ship’s boat.”
“Anybody aboard?”
“Can’t just make out yet, sir.”
And then a minute later:
“Yes, sir. I see somebody standing up and waving. It’s—it’s a woman,
sir.”
“Jove,” exclaimed Mr. Metcalf, who had the watch. “Schultz, call the
captain. Tell him there’s a boat with a woman castaway on board ahead of
us.”
“Aye, aye,” cried the old quartermaster, and hurried off on the errand,
leaving the wheel to his mate; for on such a night the ship could be
steered almost by a boy.
The captain hastened to the bridge in his pajamas and bath-robe.
“A boat, eh, Metcalf?” he said.
“Yes, sir. A ship’s boat, by the looks of her.”
“Order the engines slowed down. Schultz, get the after cutter ready for
clearing away.”
The old quartermaster’s whistle sang out shrilly, and the watch jumped
aft, alert for anything that was in the wind. Like magic, word had flown
among the crew of the discovery of the tiny derelict.
“The land’s not more than two hundred miles off,” said Metcalf. “It’s
possible they’ve drifted out to sea.”
“Most probably that is it, unless some disaster has overtaken a ship. At
any rate, it couldn’t have come from storm, for we haven’t had any
weather to speak of for days.”
“By the way, sir, I heard a lot of talk before we left Kingston about
earthquake weather. In my opinion, a quiet, still night like this means
some sort of a shake. At least, that’s what the natives say.”
“Yes; and the glass has been singularly high. That’s a sign of something
in the wind,” was the response. “But go aft, Metcalf, and see that they
clear that boat properly.”
“Yes, sir,” and the chief officer hurried off.
He found Colonel Minturn, who had been pacing the deck sleeplessly in
his anxiety, beside the boat crew, watching their preparations. Jack,
whose watch had just expired, was there, too.
“Something up, eh?” asked the colonel.
“Yes; there’s a drifting boat with a woman in it dead ahead. We’re going
to pick her up.”
“I wonder if I could go along,” said the colonel. “It would be something
to relieve this anxiety. It is terrible. I cannot sleep. All I can do is
to walk the decks and think.”
“I’ll ask the captain,” said Mr. Metcalf. “Personally, I have no
objections.”
He was soon back with the required permission.
“Ready, you’re off duty and I know you like anything like adventure, so
if you want to come, get aboard.”
“Good!” exclaimed Jack. “Have you any idea what boat it is?”
“Not the least. That makes it all the more interesting. From what we can
make out, though, it’s a ship’s boat of some sort.”
The big vessel almost ceased to move. Her propeller, driven by the
slowly working engines, only made a ripple on the water. The boat was
swung over and struck the sea with a gentle splash.
“There they are, men. Give way with a will now,” ordered Mr. Metcalf
briskly.
The oars struck the water, sending serpents of phosphorescence over its
dark surface. The boat moved swiftly forward toward the other craft, a
small white gig apparently.
“There’s the woman,” cried Jack. “Look, she’s standing up and waving!”
“There’s a man there, too,” cried Mr. Metcalf. “Pull hard, men, the poor
devils may have been drifting for days.”
“Hold on! We’re coming,” cried the colonel encouragingly, forgetting his
own troubles in the sight of these two castaways of the sea.
The boats ranged alongside and the crew of the _Tropic Queen’s_ boat
seized the gunwale of the other craft, holding them together. Jack stood
up and extended his arm to the young woman to aid her on board the
liner’s boat.
The next instant a shock, sharp as the sudden sting of a galvanic
battery, shook him.
The girl was Miss Jarrold! She recognized him at the same instant and
gave a little cry. Simultaneously Jarrold and Colonel Minturn came face
to face. A hoarse cry broke from Jarrold’s throat. He reached into an
inside pocket and drew out a bundle, which he threw overboard before
Minturn could catch his wrist in an iron grasp.
But as the papers splashed, and Jarrold broke out into a mocking laugh
and cried, “You thought you had me beaten, but it’s you that are beaten
now, Colonel Minturn,” there came another splash, a bigger one.
“It’s the kid!” shouted one of the sailors. “He’s gone after that
bundle!”
Mr. Metcalf jumped from his seat to the assistance of Colonel Minturn,
for Jarrold, maddened by the series of disasters that had overtaken him,
had reached for and drawn a pistol. A crack over the wrist from an oar
wielded by the first mate, sent the weapon flying overboard.
A few moments later Jarrold, who fought like a tiger, was lying bound in
the bottom of the boat with two sailors guarding him. His niece sat in
the stern sheets sobbing hysterically over the ironic turn of fate that
had caused the ship that they thought was to rescue them to be the very
one they most dreaded.
Jack was hauled back on board after a few seconds’ immersion. In one
hand he held high a dripping bundle of papers. A sailor reached out to
take them from him. But the boy refused to give them up.
“Only one man gets these,” he said, shaking the water from his curly
head, “and that is Colonel Minturn.”
With a gasp of thankfulness that was almost a sob, the colonel took the
papers from the boy’s hands, thrust them within his coat and then fairly
hauled Jack on board.
By a twist of fate, seemingly incredible, but really attributable to a
logical chain of events, the papers relating to the priceless secrets of
the Panama Canal were once more in the proper hands. They never left
them again.