“My God, she’s going!”
The decks became alive. The leader of the mutineers rushed at the
captain. His face was twisted into a snarl. The captain’s face was cold
and calm. He leveled his weapon and spoke sharply.
The leader’s voice, high-pitched and whining, sounded above the storm.
“By God, we’re going to take a boat!”
The captain hesitated, then realizing that words would not stop the
impending panic, fired. The leader dropped and another took his place.
He turned to rally the others and a bullet, through the back of the
skull, dropped him. A quartermaster hurled the body into the sea.
The leader of the passengers approached once more, protest on his lips.
“Put him in irons,” the captain ordered; then he added, “and any of the
others!”
The quartermaster was a powerful man; the passenger had no chance. He
was led, protesting, away.
A skulking figure darted along the deck, running low. When his chance
came he knocked the captain’s weapon down. The first officer felled him
with his gun, then heaved him over the side.
The chief engineer joined the captain.
“You can’t stop them with guns,” he said. “There are too many of them
and you had better use—”
The captain turned on him. His stare was as cold as ice. He was about to
put the chief in his place, but the man from the engine room spoke a
single word—
“Steam!”
That would stop them. The captain nodded; the chief stepped to the pilot
house and telephoned. A man unreeled a hose and turned a valve. As the
mutineers, now joined by whites from the steerage, surged forward, a jet
of water leaped from the nozzle. It changed to hot water, then live
steam. They faltered, and several dropped, writhing. A bullet was
different, but steam covered them all.
One of the swarthy men disappeared below. He caught up a spanner and
knocked down the man standing watch on the steam line. Then he closed
the valve.
Backed by steam, the captain was driving the mutineers back. The steam
jet died and with a cry of triumph they came—a swarming, seething,
maddened mob with flashing knives cutting a pathway through the crowded
deck to the boats. They spilled into a boat as water spills from a ledge
into a pool. Two of their number stood by and paid out as the writhing
falls were swallowed by the screaming blocks. They slid down the falls,
missed the boat and vanished in the black water. Then the ship went mad.
From doors and ladders they poured, their cry blending to a mighty
demand.
“The boats! The boats!”
And each turned on those nearest and fought until one fell and one went
on. And the cries of the doomed grew louder and louder until it reached
the very heavens; until the sea in the might of its pity rose and
claimed its own. With a thousand fingers it caught the hull, lifted it
clear and drew it down. Around the momentary hole in the water the sea
madly rushed in great circles as if fearful it would be denied its prey.
In the center of the seething eddy a small boat spun dizzily while
swarthy men strained at the oars. The struggle was brief,
futile—splinters of driftwood defying a tide. Then it vanished and over
the spot the storm spread a shroud of foam and from below no living
thing emerged, but the tides ebbed and flowed and the gale rushed on.
[Notes on the Text: This story appeared in _Adventure Magazine_,
September 1, 1928. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]