Gossiping wives of fishermen said he was a little off!
We of a more generous nature called him peculiar. Too old to lay keels
in the shipyard, he had retired to a beachcomber’s shack on the beach.
There he lived! How? God only knows. How does any beachcomber live?
Often of an evening I have seen him sitting there watching the ships
pass—vessels whose keels he had supervised laying. I was present when
the _Aleut’s_ keel was laid. It was his last ship and you will recall
her maiden voyage—lost with all hands after striking a rock.
It worried him a lot, partly because it was his last ship; partly
because of the mystery of her sinking. He often said:
“The great tragedies of the sea are never told because no one survives.
Only Neptune knows, and he won’t speak.”
Later on he qualified this somewhat. Evenings, he said, when the tide
and moon were right; when it was still except for the soft voice of tiny
waves breaking on clean sand, Neptune’s daughter talked to him, but she
spoke only of the beauty of the sea; never of the tragedy.
And then, one night, Neptune himself came—came without warning and, as
if the burden of his story was too great to bear....
* * * * *
Because the lips of those who were aboard the steamer are now sealed in
death, you ask me, Neptune, to speak?
Did not the diver who descended to the wreck tell what he saw? What
silenced him? The story was there for him to read! Ah yes, perhaps the
tragedy of it stilled his tongue. Perhaps....
I saw him descend! Then when he could remain below no longer he returned
to the scow and his face was as pale as death when they removed his
helmet—and he was a man hardened to the ways of the sea.
You say the sea is merciless?
Ah! But you don’t know it as I know it! It is man, not the sea, who is
merciless. Did not the sea stop it all, stop the madness that even I,
who have seen everything, turned from?
You recall how the ship struck? Yes? The weather was calm and the
captain refused the chance to transfer his passengers to another
steamer. Then the steamer that would have aided disappeared into the
night and, without warning, the storm came.
It came with the roar and snarl of a beast; it lashed the channel waters
white in its fury. Those aboard the _Aleut_ looked into the blackness of
night; fear clutched their hearts and their nerves grew tense. And the
sea with countless fingers groped about the hull seeking a hold. And
then, do you recall....
But, no! You can’t recall that because you did not see it and no man
lived to tell the story of what happened after the steamers left. Only
I, Neptune, saw; only the silent diver who read the story while below
knows what happened.
The storm grew in fury; the waves in their might lifted the hull
slightly from the rock, then lowered it again. With the scream of
buckling plates the fangs of the reef bit deep into the vessel and those
aboard fought back madness and looked to the officers for protection.
The officers, heavily armed, moved among them, giving assurance that all
was well and a rescuing steamer would soon be alongside. Eager eyes
stared into the night and saw only blackness. The fear grew; despair and
hope fought the battle in each heart and when hope for the moment
triumphed the red and green running lights of phantom ships gleamed—and
vanished.
The scream of the storm grew louder.
From the depths of the ship rushed swarthy men with the fear of madness
gleaming in their eyes. The first officer drew his automatic pistol and
ordered them back. They paused, in doubt, each waiting for some one to
lead. One or more must die before they could pass.
Their aspect was fearsome, with their staring black eyes and the grime
and grease of the engine room on their swarthy features. They retreated
below, not in defeat, but to confer and form a definite plan. In the
rigging above the gale played a dirge; in the hull beneath the reef
fangs ate deeper.
The first officer reported to the captain.
“Yellow scum! We may have trouble!”
“Shoot to kill!” the captain answered.
Somewhere a woman screamed. The captain’s head jerked around.
“Silence that woman!”
A quartermaster hastened to obey. The scream of one starts others when
human nerves are taut.
A passenger stepped up, his manner respectful.
“Captain, I represent a committee of the passengers. We do not presume
to dictate or even suggest. Can not we be set ashore?”
The captain did not look at the raging sea. He knew without looking.
“No small boat can live. Don’t worry! The ship is wedged on the rocks,
she can’t sink. A base of granite is supporting her. A rescuing steamer
will be here soon!”
If he had misgivings in his own mind; if he regretted his failure to
place his passengers aboard the other steamer, he remained silent. His
was the responsibility here—and hereafter.
* * * * *
To those aboard, the night blackness had contained menace enough, but
now, with the sea lashed white—white, not black—seemed the garb of
death.
Nerves strained to the breaking point began to snap; the captain turned
to the quartermaster.
“What was done with that woman?”
“Confined to the writing room, sir; locked in with others who were
showing panic, sir!”
Mutiny!
The swarthy crowd from below decks spilled up a ladder. No uncertainty
this time. They wanted a boat and would have it. Some would die, but
others would live. The captain spoke tersely:
“They’re armed. Shoot to kill!”