From “The Iron Trail”, copyright, 1913, by Harper & Brothers.
By special permission from the publishers.
The ship stole through the darkness with extremest caution, feeling
her way past bay and promontory. Around her was none of that
phosphorescent glow which lies above the open ocean, even on the
darkest night, for the mountains ran down to the channel on either
side. In places they overhung, and where they lay upturned against
the dim sky it could be seen that they were mantled with heavy
timber. All day long the _Nebraska_ had made her way through an
endless succession of straits and sounds, now squeezing through an
inlet so narrow that the somber spruce trees seemed to be within a
short stone’s throw, again plowing across some open reach where the
pulse of the north Pacific could be felt. Out through the openings
to seaward stretched the restless ocean, on across uncounted
leagues, to Saghalien and the rim of Russia’s prison-yard.
Always near at hand was the deep green of the Canadian forests,
denser, darker than a tropic jungle, for this was the land of
“plenty waters.” The hillsides were carpeted knee-deep with moss,
wet to saturation. Out of every gulch came a brawling stream whipped
to milk-white frenzy; snow lay heavy upon the higher levels, while
now and then from farther inland peered a glacier, like some dead
monster crushed between the granite peaks. There were villages, too,
and fishing-stations, and mines and quarries. These burst suddenly
upon the view, then slipped past with dreamlike swiftness. Other
ships swung into sight, rushed by, and were swallowed up in the
labyrinthine maze astern.
Those passengers of the _Nebraska_ who had never before traversed
the “Inside Passage” were loud in the praises of its
picturesqueness, while those to whom the route was familiar seemed
to find an everfresh fascination in its shifting scenes.
Among the latter was Murray O’Neil. The whole north coast from
Flattery to St. Elias was as well mapped in his mind as the face of
an old friend, yet he was forever discovering new vistas, surprising
panoramas, amazing variations of color and topography. The
mysterious rifts and passageways that opened and closed as if to
lure the ship astray, the trackless confusion of islets, the siren
song of the waterfalls, the silent hills and glaciers and
snow-soaked forests--all appealed to him strongly, for he was at
heart a dreamer.
Yet he did not forget that scenery such as this, lovely as it is by
day, may be dangerous at night, for he knew the weakness of steel
hulls. On some sides his experience and business training had made
him sternly practical and prosaic. Ships aroused no manner of
enthusiasm in him except as means to an end. Railroads had no
glamour of romance in his eyes, for, having built a number of them,
he had outlived all poetic notions regarding the “Iron horse,” and
once the rails were laid he was apt to lose interest in them.
Nevertheless, he was almost poetic in his own quiet way,
interweaving practical thoughts with fanciful visions, and he loved
his dreams. He was dreaming now as he leaned upon the bridge rail of
the _Nebraska_, peering into the gloom with watchful eyes. From
somewhere to port came the occasional commands of the officer on
watch, echoed instantly from the inky interior of the wheelhouse. Up
overside rose the whisper of rushing waters; from underfoot came the
rhythmic beat of the engines far below. O’Neil shook off his mood
and began to wonder idly how long it would be before Captain Johnny
would be ready for his “nightcap.”
He always traveled with Johnny Brennan when he could manage it, for
the two men were boon companions. O’Neil was wont to live in
Johnny’s cabin, or on the bridge, and their nightly libation to
friendship had come to be a matter of some ceremony.
The ship’s master soon appeared from the shadows--a short, trim man
with gray hair.
“Come,” he cried. “It’s waiting for us.”
O’Neil followed into Brennan’s luxurious, well-lit quarters, where
on a mahogany sideboard was a tray holding decanter, siphon, and
glasses, together with a bottle of ginger ale. The captain, after he
had mixed a beverage for his passenger, opened the bottle for
himself. They raised their glasses silently.
“Now that you’re past the worst of it,” remarked O’Neil, “I suppose
you’ll turn in. You’re getting old for a hard run like this,
Johnny.”
Captain Brennan snorted. “Old? I’m a better man than you, yet. I’m a
teetotaler, that’s why. I discovered long ago that salt water and
whiskey don’t mix.”
O’Neil stretched himself out in one of Brennan’s easy chairs.
“Really,” he said, “I don’t understand why a ship carries a captain.
Now of what earthly use to the line are you, for instance, except
for your beauty, which, no doubt, has its value with the women? I’ll
admit you preside with some grace at the best table in the
dining-salon, but your officers know these channels as well as you
do. They could make the run from Seattle to Juneau with their eyes
shut.”
“Indeed, they could not; and neither could I.”
“Oh, well, of course I have no respect for you as a man, having seen
you without your uniform.”
The captain grinned in thorough enjoyment of this raillery. “I’ll
say nothing at all of my seamanship,” he said, relapsing into the
faintest of brogues, “but there’s no denying that the master of a
ship has many unpleasant and disgusting duties to perform. He has to
amuse the prominent passengers who can’t amuse themselves, for one
thing, and that takes tact and patience. Why, some people make
themselves at home on the bridge, in the chart-room, and even in my
living-quarters, to say nothing of consuming my expensive wines,
liquors, and cigars.”
“Meaning me?”
“I’m a brutal seafaring man, and you’ll have to make allowances for
my well-known brusqueness. Maybe I did mean you. But I’ll say that
next to you Curtis Gordon is the worst grafter I ever saw.”
“You don’t like Gordon, do you?” O’Neil queried with a change of
tone.
“I do not! He went up with me again this spring, and he had his
widow with him, too.”
“His widow?”
“You know who I mean--Mrs. Gerard. They say it’s her money he’s
using in his schemes. Perhaps it’s because of her that I don’t like
him.”
“Ah-h! I see.”
“You don’t see, or you wouldn’t grin like an ape. I’m a married man,
I’ll have you know, and I’m still on good terms with Mrs. Brennan,
thank God. But I don’t like men who use women’s money, and that’s
just what our friend Gordon is doing. What money the widow didn’t
put up he’s grabbed from the schoolma’ams and servant-girls and
society matrons in the East. What has he got to show them for it?”
“A railroad project, a copper-mine, some coal claims--”
“Bah! A menagerie of wildcats!”
“You can’t prove that. What’s your reason for distrusting him?”
“Well, for one thing, he knows too much. Why, he knows everything,
he does. Art, literature, politics, law, finance, and draw poker
have no secrets from him. He’s been everywhere--and back--twice; he
speaks a dozen different languages. He out-argued me on
poultry-raising and I know more about that than any man living. He
can handle a drill or a coach-and-four; he can tell all about the
art of ancient Babylon; and he beat me playing cribbage, which shows
that he ain’t on the level. He’s the best informed man outside of a
university, and he drinks tea of an afternoon--with his legs crossed
and the saucer balanced on his heel. Now, it takes years of hard
work for an honest man to make a success at one thing, but Gordon
never failed at anything. I ask you if a living authority on all the
branches of human endeavor and a man who can beat me at ‘crib’
doesn’t make you suspicious.”
“Not at all, I’ve beaten you myself!”
“I was sick,” said Captain Brennan.
“The man is brilliant and well educated and wealthy. It’s only
natural that he should excite the jealousy of a weaker intellect.”
Johnny opened his lips for an explosion, then changed his mind and
agreed sourly.
“He’s got money, all right, and he knows how to spend it. He and his
valet occupied three cabins on this ship. They say his quarters at
Hope are palatial.”
“My dear grampus, the mere love of luxury doesn’t argue that a
person is dishonest.”
“Would _you_ let a hired man help you on with your underclothes?”
demanded the mariner.
“There’s nothing criminal about it.”
“Humph! Mrs. Gerard is different. She’s all class! You don’t mind
her having a maid and speaking French when she runs short of
English. Her daughter is like her.”
“I haven’t seen Miss Gerard.”
“If you’d stir about the ship instead of wearing out my Morris chair
you’d have that pleasure. She was on deck all morning.” Captain
Brennan fell silent and poked with a stubby forefinger at the ice in
his glass.
“Well, out with it!” said O’Neil after a moment.
“I’d like to know the inside story of Curtis Gordon and this girl’s
mother.”
“Why bother your head about something that doesn’t concern you?” The
speaker rose and began to pace the cabin floor, then, in an altered
tone, inquired, “Tell me, are you going to land me and my horses at
Kyak Bay?”
“That depends on the weather. It’s a rotten harbor; you’ll have to
swim them ashore.”
“Suppose it should be rough?”
“Then we’ll go on, and drop you there coming back. I don’t want to
be caught on that shore with a southerly wind, and that’s the way it
usually blows.”
“I can’t wait,” O’Neil declared. “A week’s delay might ruin me.
Rather than go on I’d swim ashore myself, without the horses.”
“I don’t make the weather at Kyak Bay. Satan himself does that.
Twenty miles offshore it may be calm, and inside it may be blowing a
gale. That’s due to the glaciers. Those ice-fields inland and the
warm air from the Japanese Current offshore kick up some funny
atmospheric pranks. It’s the worst spot on the coast and we’ll lose
a ship there some day. Why, the place isn’t properly charted, let
alone buoyed.”
“That’s nothing unusual for this coast.”
“True for you. This is all a graveyard of ships and there’s been
many a good master’s license lost because of half-baked laws from
Washington. Think of a coast like this with almost no lights, no
beacons nor buoys; and yet we’re supposed to make time. It’s fine in
clear weather, but in the dark we go by guess and by God. I’ve stood
the run longer than most of the skippers, but--”
Even as Brennan spoke the _Nebraska_ seemed to halt, to jerk
backward under his feet. O’Neil, who was standing, flung out an arm
to steady himself; the empty ginger ale bottle fell from the
sideboard with a thump. Loose articles hanging against the side
walls swung to and fro; the heavy draperies over Captain Johnny’s
bed swayed.
Brennan leaped from his chair; his ruddy face was mottled, his eyes
were wide and horror-stricken.
“Damnation!” he gasped. The cabin door crashed open ahead of him and
he was on the bridge, with O’Neil at his heels. They saw the first
officer clinging limply to the rail; from the pilot-house window
came an excited burst of Norwegian, then out of the door rushed a
quartermaster.
Brennan cursed, and met the fellow with a blow which drove him
sprawling back.
“Get in there, Swan,” he bellowed, “and take your wheel.”
“The tide swung her in!” exclaimed the mate. “The tide--My God!”
“Sweet Queen Anne!” said Brennan, more quietly. “You’ve ripped her
belly out!”
“It--was the tide,” chattered the officer.
The steady, muffled beating of the machinery ceased, the ship seemed
suddenly to lose her life, but it was plain that she was not
aground, for she kept moving through the gloom. From down forward
came excited voices as the crew poured up out of the forecastle.
Brennan leaped to the telegraph and signaled the engine-room. He was
calm now, and his voice was sharp and steady.
“Go below, Mr. James, and find the extent of the damage,” he
directed, and a moment later the hull began to throb once more to
the thrust of the propeller. Inside the wheelhouse Swan had
recovered from his panic and repeated the master’s orders
mechanically.
The second and third officers arrived upon the bridge now, dressing
as they came, and they were followed by the chief engineer. To them
Johnny spoke, his words crackling like the sparks from a wireless.
In an incredibly short time he had the situation in hand and turned
to O’Neil, who had been a silent witness of the scene.
“Glory be!” exclaimed the captain. “Most of our good passengers are
asleep; the jar would scarcely wake them.”
“Tell me where and how I can help,” Murray offered. His first
thought had been of the possible effect of this catastrophe upon his
plans, for time was pressing. As for danger, he had looked upon it
so often and in so many forms that it had little power to stir him;
but a shipwreck, which would halt his northward rush, was another
matter. Whether the ship sank or floated could make little
difference, now that the damage had been done. She was crippled and
would need assistance. His fellow-passengers, he knew, were safe
enough. Fortunately there were not many of them--a scant two
hundred, perhaps--and if worse came to worst there was room in the
life-boats for all. But the _Nebraska_ had no watertight bulkheads
and the plight of his twenty horses between-decks filled him with
alarm and pity. There were no life-boats for those poor dumb animals
penned down yonder in the rushing waters.
Brennan had stepped into the chart-room, but returned in a moment to
say:
“There’s no place to beach her this side of Halibut Bay.”
“How far is that?”
“Five or six miles.”
“You’ll--have to beach her?”
“I’m afraid so. She feels queer.”
Up from the cabin deck came a handful of men passengers to inquire
what had happened; behind them a woman began calling shrilly for her
husband.
“We touched a rock,” the skipper explained briefly. “Kindly go below
and stop that squawking. There’s no danger.”
There followed a harrowing wait of several minutes; then James, the
first officer, came to report. He had regained his nerve and spoke
with swift precision.
“She loosened three plates on her port quarter and she’s filling
fast.”
“How long will she last?” snapped Brennan.
“Not long, sir. Half an hour, perhaps.”
The captain rang for full speed, and the decks began to strain as
the engine increased its labor. “Get your passengers out and stand
by the boats,” he ordered. “Take it easy and don’t alarm the women.
Have them dress warmly, and don’t allow any crowding by the men. Mr.
Tomlinson, you hold the steerage gang in check. Take your revolver
with you.” He turned to his silent friend, in whose presence he
seemed to feel a cheering sympathy. “I knew it would come sooner or
later, Murray,” he said. “But--magnificent mummies! To touch on a
clear night with the sea like glass!” He sighed dolefully. “It’ll be
tough on my missus.”
O’Neil laid a hand upon his shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault, and
there will be room in the last boat for you. Understand?” Brennan
hesitated, and the other continued, roughly: “No nonsense, now!
Don’t make a damned fool of yourself by sticking to the bridge.
Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Now what do you want me to do?”
“Keep those dear passengers quiet. I’ll run for Halibut Bay, where
there’s a sandy beach. If she won’t make it I’ll turn her into the
rocks. Tell ’em they won’t wet a foot if they keep their heads.”
“Good! I’ll be back to see that you behave yourself.” The speaker
laughed lightly and descended to the deck, where he found an
incipient panic. Stewards were pounding on stateroom doors,
half-clad men were rushing about aimlessly, pallid faces peered
forth from windows, and there was the sound of running feet, of
slamming doors, of shrill, hysterical voices.
O’Neil saw a waiter thumping lustily upon a door and heard him
shout, hoarsely:
“Everybody out! The ship is sinking!” As he turned away Murray
seized him roughly by the arm and thrusting his face close to the
other’s, said harshly:
“If you yell again like that I’ll toss you overboard.”
“God help us, we’re going--”
O’Neil shook the fellow until his teeth rattled; his own
countenance, ordinarily so quiet, was blazing.
“There’s no danger. Act like a man and don’t start a stampede.”
The steward pulled himself together and answered in a calmer tone:
“Very well, sir. I--I’m sorry, sir.”
Murray O’Neil was known to most of the passengers, for his name had
gone up and down the coast, and there were few places from San
Francisco to Nome where his word did not carry weight. As he went
among his fellow-travelers now, smiling, self-contained, unruffled,
his presence had its effect. Women ceased their shrilling, men
stopped their senseless questions and listened to his directions
with some comprehension. In a short time the passengers were
marshaled upon the upper deck where the life-boats hung between
their davits. Each little craft was in charge of its allotted crew,
the electric lights continued to burn brightly, and the panic
gradually wore itself out. Meanwhile the ship was running a
desperate race with the sea, striving with every ounce of steam in
her boilers to find a safe berth for her multilated body before the
inrush of waters drowned her fires. That the race was close even the
dullest understood, for the _Nebraska_ was settling forward, and
plowed into the night head down, like a thing maddened with pain.
She was becoming unmanageable, too, and O’Neil thought with pity of
that little iron-hearted skipper on the bridge who was fighting her
furiously. There was little confusion, little talking upon the upper
deck now; only a child whimpered or a woman sobbed hysterically. But
down forward among the steerage passengers the case was different.
These were mainly Montenegrins, Polacks, or Slavs bound for the
construction camps to the westward, and they surged from side to
side like cattle, requiring Tomlinson’s best efforts to keep them
from rushing aft.
O’Neil had employed thousands of such men; in fact, many of these
very fellows had cashed his timechecks and knew him by sight. He
went forward among them, and his appearance proved instantly
reassuring. He found his two hostlers, and with their aid he soon
reduced the mob to comparative order.
But in spite of his confident bearing he felt a great uneasiness.
The _Nebraska_ seemed upon the point of diving; he judged she must
be settling very fast, and wondered that the forward tilt did not
lift her propeller out of the water. Fortunately, however, the
surface of the sound was like a polished floor and there were no
swells to submerge her.
Over-side to starboard he could see the dim black outlines of
mountains slipping past, but where lay Halibut Bay or what distance
remained to be covered he could but vaguely guess.
In these circumstances the wait became almost unbearable. The race
seemed hours long, the miles stretched into leagues, and with every
moment of suspense the ship sank lower. The end came unexpectedly.
There was a sudden startled outcry as the _Nebraska_ struck for a
second time that night. She rose slightly, rolled and bumped, grated
briefly, then came to rest.
Captain Brennan shouted from the bridge:
“Fill your life-boats, Mr. James, and lower away carefully.”
A cheer rose from the huddled passengers.
The boiler-room was still dry, it seemed, for the incandescent
lights burned without a flicker, even after the grimy oilers and
stokers had come pouring up on deck.
O’Neil climbed to the bridge. “Is this Halibut Bay?” he asked
Captain Johnny.
“It is. But we’re piled up on the reef outside. She may hold fast--I
hope so, for there’s deep water astern, and if she slips off she’ll
go down.”
“I’d like to save my horses,” said the younger man, wistfully.
Through all the strain of the past half-hour or more his uppermost
thought had been for them. But Brennan had no sympathy for such
sentiments.
“Hell’s bells!” he exclaimed. “Don’t talk of horses while we’ve got
women and children aboard.” He hastened away to assist in
transferring his passengers.
Instead of following, O’Neil turned and went below. He found that
the water was knee-deep on the port side of the deck where his
animals were quartered, which showed that the ship had listed
heavily. He judged that she must be much deeper by the head than he
had imagined, and that her nose was crushed in among the rocks.
Until she settled at the stern, therefore, the case was not quite
hopeless.
His appearance, the sound of his voice, were the signals for a
chorus of eager whinnies and a great stamping of hoofs. Heads were
thrust toward him from the stalls, alert ears were pricked forward,
satin muzzles rubbed against him as he calmed their terror. This
blind trust made the man’s throat tighten achingly. He loved animals
as he loved children, and above all he cared for horses. He
understood them, he spoke their language as nearly as any human can
be said to do so. Quivering muscles relaxed beneath his soothing
palm; he called them by name and they answered with gently twitching
lips against his cheek. Some of them even began to eat and switch
their tails contentedly.
He cursed aloud and made his way down the sloping deck to the square
iron door, or port, through which he had loaded them. But he found
that it was jammed, or held fast by the pressure outside, and after
a few moments’ work in water above his knees he climbed to the
starboard side. Here the entrance was obstructed by a huge pile of
baled hay and grain in sacks. It would be no easy task to clear it
away, and he fell to work with desperate energy, for the ship was
slowly changing her level. Her stern, which had been riding high,
was filling; the sea stole in upon him silently. It crept up toward
him until the horses, stabled on the lower side, were belly-deep in
it. Their distress communicated itself to the others. O’Neil knew
that his position might prove perilous if the hulk should slip
backward off the reef, yet he continued to toil, hurling heavy sacks
behind him, bundling awkward bales out of the way, until his hands
were bleeding and his muscles ached. He was perspiring furiously;
the commotion around him was horrible. Then abruptly the lights went
out, leaving him in utter blackness; the last fading yellow gleam
was photographed briefly upon his retina.
Tears mingled with the sweat that drained down his cheeks as he felt
his way slowly out of the place, splashing, stumbling, groping
uncertainly. A horse screamed in a loud, horribly human note, and he
shuddered. He was sobbing curses as he emerged into the cool open
air on the forward deck.
His eyes were accustomed to the darkness now, and he could see
something of his surroundings. He noted numerous lights out on the
placid bosom of the bay, evidently lanterns on the life-boats, and
he heard distant voices. He swept the moisture from his face; then
with a start he realized his situation. He listened intently; his
eyes roved back along the boatdeck; there was no doubt about it--the
ship was deserted. Stepping to the rail, he observed how low the
_Nebraska_ lay and also that her bow was higher than her stern. From
somewhere beneath his feet came a muffled grinding and a movement
which told him that the ship was seeking a more comfortable berth.
He recalled stories of explosions and of the boiling eddies which
sometimes accompany sinking hulls. Turning, he scrambled up to the
cabin-deck and ran swiftly toward his stateroom.