II

O’Neil felt for the little bracket-lamp on the wall of his stateroom

and lit it. By its light he dragged a life-preserver from the rack

overhead and slipped the tapes about his shoulders, reflecting that

Alaskan waters are disagreeably cold. Then he opened his

traveling-bags and dumped their contents upon the white counterpane

of his berth, selecting out of the confusion certain documents and

trinkets. The latter he thrust into his pockets as he found them,

the former he wrapped in handkerchiefs before stowing them away. The

ship had listed now so that it was difficult to maintain a footing;

the lamp hung at a grotesque angle and certain articles had become

dislodged from their resting places. From outside came the gentle

lapping of waters, a gurgling and hissing as of air escaping through

the decks. He could feel the ship strain. He acknowledged that it

was not pleasant thus to be left alone on a sinking hulk,

particularly on an ink-black night--

All at once he whirled and faced the door with an exclamation of

astonishment, for a voice had addressed him.

There, clinging to the casing, stood a woman--a girl--evidently

drawn out of the darkness by the light which streamed down across

the sloping deck from his stateroom. Plainly she had but just

awakened, for she was clothed in a silken nightrobe. She had flung a

quilted dressing-gown of some sort over her shoulders and with one

bare arm and hand strove to hold it in place. He saw that her pink

feet were thrust into soft, heelless slippers--that her hair, black

in this light, cascaded down to her waist, and that her eyes, which

were very dark and very large, were fixed upon him with a stare like

that of a sleep-walker.

“It is so dark--so strange--so still!” she murmured. “What has

happened?”

“God! Didn’t they waken you?” he cried in sharp surprise.

“Is the ship--sinking?” Her odd bewilderment of voice and gaze

puzzled him.

He nodded. “We struck a rock. The passengers have been taken off.

We’re the only ones left. In Heaven’s name where have you been?”

“I was asleep.”

He shook his head in astonishment. “How you failed to hear that

hubbub--”

“I heard something, but I was ill. My head--I took something to ease

the pain.”

“Ah! Medicine! It hasn’t worn off yet, I see! You shouldn’t have

taken it. Drugs are nothing but poison to young people. Now at my

age there might be some excuse for resorting to them, but you--” He

was talking to cover the panic of his thoughts, for his own

predicament had been serious enough, and her presence rendered it

doubly embarrassing. What in the world to do with her he scarcely

knew. His lips were smiling, but his eyes were grave as they roved

over the cabin and out into the blackness of the night.

“Are we going to drown?” she asked, dully.

“Nonsense!” He laughed in apparent amusement, showing his large

strong teeth.

She came closer, glancing behind her and shrinking from the oily

waters which could be seen over the rail and which had stolen up

nearly to the sill of the door. She steadied herself by laying hold

of him uncertainly. Involuntarily he turned his eyes away, for he

felt shame at profaning her with his gaze. She was very soft and

white, a fragile thing utterly unfit to cope with the night air and

the freezing waters of Halibut Bay.

“I’m wretchedly afraid!” she whispered through white lips.

“None of that,” he said, brusquely. “I’ll see that nothing happens

to you.” He slipped out of his life-preserver and adjusted it over

her shoulders, first drawing her arms through the sleeves of her

dressing-gown and knotting the cord snugly around her waist.

“Just as a matter of precaution!” he assured her.

“We may get wet. Can you swim?”

She shook her head.

“Never mind; I can.” He found another life-belt, fitted it to his

own form, and led her out upon the deck. The scuppers were awash now

and she gasped as the sea licked her bare feet. “Cold, isn’t it?” he

remarked. “But there’s no time to dress, and it’s just as well,

perhaps, for heavy clothes would only hamper you.”

She strove to avoid the icy waters and finally paused, moaning: “I

can’t! I can’t go on!”

Slipping his arm about her, he bore her to the door of the main

cabin and entered. He could feel her warm, soft body quivering

against his own. She had clasped his neck so tightly that he could

scarcely breathe, but, lowering her until her feet were on the dry

carpet, he gently loosed her arms.

“Now, my dear child,” he told her, “you must do exactly as I tell

you. Come! Calm yourself or I won’t take you any farther.” He held

her off by her shoulders. “I may have to swim with you; you mustn’t

cling to me so!”

He heard her gasp and felt her draw away abruptly. Then he led her

by the hand out upon the starboard deck, and together they made

their way forward to the neighborhood of the bridge.

The lights he had seen upon coming from the forward hold were still

in view and he hailed them at the top of his voice. But other voices

were calling through the night, some of them comparatively close at

hand, others answering faintly from far in-shore. The boats first

launched were evidently landing, and those in charge of them were

shouting directions to the ones behind. Some women had started

singing and the chorus floated out to the man and the girl:

Pull for the shore, sailor,

Pull for the shore.

It helped to drown their cries for assistance.

O’Neil judged that the ship was at least a quarter of a mile from

the beach, and his heart sank, for he doubted that either he or his

companion could last long in these waters. It occurred to him that

Brennan might be close by, waiting for the _Nebraska_ to sink--it

would be unlike the little captain to forsake his trust until the

last possible moment--but he reasoned that the cargo of lives in the

skipper’s boat would induce him to stand well off to avoid accident.

He called lustily time after time, but no answer came.

Meanwhile the girl stood quietly beside him.

“Can’t we make a raft?” she suggested, timidly, when he ceased to

shout. “I’ve read of such things.”

“There’s no time,” he told her. “Are you very cold?”

She nodded. “Please forgive me for acting so badly just now. It was

all so sudden and--so awful! I think I can behave better. Oh! What

was that?” She clutched him nervously, for from the forward end of

the ship had come a muffled scream, like that of a woman.

“It’s my poor horses,” said the man, and she looked at him

curiously, prompted by the catch in his throat.

There followed a wait which seemed long, but was in reality of but a

few minutes, for the ship was sliding backward and the sea was

creeping upward faster and faster. At last they heard a shuddering

sigh as she parted from the rocks and the air rushed up through the

deck openings with greater force. The _Nebraska_ swung sluggishly

with the tide; then, when her upper structure had settled flush with

the sea, Murray O’Neil took the woman in his arms and leaped clear

of the rail.

The first gasping moment of immersion was fairly paralyzing; after

that the reaction came, and the two began to struggle away from the

sinking ship. But the effect of the reaction soon wore off. The

water was cruelly cold and their bodies ached in every nerve and

fiber. O’Neil did his best to encourage his companion. He talked to

her through his chattering teeth, and once she had recovered from

the mental shock of the first fearful plunge she responded pluckily.

He knew that his own heart was normal and strong, but he feared that

the girl’s might not be equal to the strain. Had he been alone, he

felt sure that he could have gained the shore, but with her upon his

hands he was able to make but little headway. The expanse of waters

seemed immense; it fairly crushed hope out of him. The lights upon

the shore were as distant as fixed stars. This was a country of

heavy tides, he reflected, and he began to fear that the current was

sweeping them out. He turned to look for the ship, but could see no

traces of her, and since it was inconceivable that the _Nebraska_

could have sunk so quietly, her disappearance confirmed his fears.

More than once he fancied he heard an answer to his cries for

help--the rattle of rowlocks or the splash of oars--but his ears

proved unreliable.

After a time the girl began to moan with pain and terror, but as

numbness gradually robbed her of sensation she became quiet. A

little later her grip upon his clothing relaxed and he saw that she

was collapsing. He drew her to him and held her so that her face lay

upturned and her hair floated about his shoulders. In this position

she could not drown, at least while his strength lasted. But he was

rapidly losing control of himself; his teeth were clicking loosely,

his muscles shook and twitched. It required a great effort to shout,

and he thought that his voice did not carry so far as at first.

Therefore he fell silent, paddling with his free arm and kicking, to

keep his blood stirring.

Several times he gave up and floated quietly, but courage was

ingrained in him; deep down beneath his consciousness was a

vitality, an inherited stubborn resistance to death, of which he

knew nothing. It was that unidentified quality of mind which

supports one man through a great sickness or a long period of

privation, while another of more robust physique succumbs. It was

the same quality which brings one man out from desert wastes, or the

white silence of the polar ice, while the bodies of his fellows

remain to mark the trail. This innate power of supreme resistance is

found in chosen individuals throughout the animal kingdom, and it

was due to it alone that Murray O’Neil continued to fight the tide

long after he had ceased to exert conscious control.

At length there came through the man’s dazed sensibilities a sound

different from those he had been hearing: it was a human voice,

mingled with the measured thud of oars in their sockets. It roused

him like an electric current and gave him strength to cry out

hoarsely. Some one answered him; then out of the darkness to seaward

emerged a deeper blot, which loomed up hugely yet proved to be no

more than a life-boat banked full of people. It came to a stop

within an oar’s-length of him. From the babble of voices he

distinguished one that was familiar, and cried the name of Johnny

Brennan. His brain had cleared now, a great dreamlike sense of

thanksgiving warmed him, and he felt equal to any effort. He was

vaguely amazed to find that his limbs refused to obey him.

His own name was being pronounced in shocked tones; the splash from

an oar filled his face and strangled him, but he managed to lay hold

of the blade, and was drawn in until outstretched hands seized him.

An oarsman was saying: “Be careful, there! We can’t take him in

without swamping.”

But Brennan’s voice shouted: “Make room or I’ll bash in your bloody

skull.”

Another protest arose, and O’Neil saw that the craft was indeed

loaded to the gunwales.

“Take the girl--quick,” he implored. “I’ll hang on. You can tow me.”

The limp form was removed from his side and dragged over the thwarts

while a murmur of excited voices went up.

“Can you hold out for a minute, Murray?” asked Brennan.

“Yes--I think so.”

“I’d give you my place, but you’re too big to be taken in without

danger.”

“Go ahead,” chattered the man in the water. “Look after the girl

before it’s--too late.”

The captain’s stout hand was in his collar now and he heard him

crying:

“Pull, you muscle-bound heathens! Everybody sit still! Now away with

her, men. Keep up your heart, Murray, my boy; remember it takes more

than water to kill a good Irishman. It’s only a foot or two farther,

and they’ve started a fire. Serves you right, you big idiot, for

going overboard, with all those boats. Man dear, but you’re pulling

the arm out of me; it’s stretched out like a garden hose! Hey! Cover

up that girl, and you, lady, rub her feet and hands. Good! Move over

please--so the men can bail.”

The next thing O’Neil knew he was feeling very miserable and very

cold, notwithstanding the fact that he was wrapped in dry clothing

and lay so close to a roaring spruce fire that its heat blistered

him.

Brennan was bending over him with eyes wet. He was swearing, too, in

a weak, faltering way, calling upon all the saints to witness that

the prostrate man was the embodiment of every virtue, and that his

death would be a national calamity. Others were gathered about, men

and women, and among them O’Neil saw the doctor from Sitka whom he

had met on shipboard.

As soon as he was able to speak he inquired for the safety of the

girl he had helped to rescue. Johnny promptly reassured him.

“Man, dear, she’s doing fine. A jigger of brandy brought her to,

gasping like a blessed mermaid.”

“Was anybody lost?”

“Praise God, not a soul! But it’s lucky I stood by to watch the old

tub go down, or we’d be mourning two. You’ll be well by morning, for

there’s a crew for help. And now, my boy, lay yourself down again

and take a sleep, won’t you? It’ll be doing you a lot of good.”

But O’Neil shook his head and struggled to a sitting posture.

“Thanks, Johnny,” said he, “but I couldn’t. I can hear those horses

screaming, and besides--I must make new plans.”