THE WRECK
Up to the last the ship's path was dogged by misfortune. She approached
Hanover Island at a point where the sea was comparatively open; hence,
the tremendous waves rolling in from the Pacific were not only unchecked
by island breakwaters, but their volume and force were actually
increased by the gradual upward trend of the rock floor.
Still, undaunted by conditions which suggested the plight of a doomed
craft being hurried to the lip of a cataract, keen eyes searched the
frowning coast-line for one of the many estuaries which pierced the
land, some merely the mouths of short-lived rivers, others again
carrying the ocean currents to the very base of the Andes.
At last an opening did seem to present itself. The great rock walls,
springing sheer from sea level to a height of a thousand feet or more,
fell apart, and, so far as might be judged, a wide and deep channel
flowed inland.
It was at this crisis, when life or death for all on board might depend
on the veriest trifle, that the captain had to decide whether or not to
let go both anchors and endeavor to ride out the gale.
He was an experienced and cool-headed sailor. He knew quite well that
the odds were heavy against an anchor holding in such ground, or, if it
held, against any cable standing the strain of a six-thousand-ton ship
in that terrific sea. But, as Maseden learned subsequently, he sought
advice.
The first and second officers were consulted in turn, and each confirmed
their chief's opinion that the only practicable course was to run into
the passage which still offered a comparatively clear way ahead.
So the _Southern Cross_ sped on.
The second officer came forward with some of the crew to superintend the
dropping of the anchor. The fourth officer took charge of the aft
anchor. All other members of the crew stood by the boats.
Maseden, feeling oddly remote and unclassed among men of his own race,
followed the second officer to the forecastle deck. There, at least, he
could stare his fill at the inferno of rock and broken water which the
vessel was approaching, though even his landsman's eyes saw that she was
in a waterway of considerable width, while each mile now traversed must
tend to diminish the seas and bring a secure anchorage within the bounds
of possibility.
No one paid heed to him. Among these stolid sailor-men he was a "Dago,"
a somewhat dandified specimen of the swaggering _vaqueros_ they had met
at times in the drinking dens of South American ports. He was minded to
have speech with the second officer, and proclaim once and for all that
he was of the same kith and kin; but the impulse was stayed by a glance
at the set, resolute face, intent only on obeying a signal from the
captain. It was no time for confidences. He questioned even if the
sailor would have answered.
A touch on a lever would set a winch spinning as the anchor leaped to
its task. The man charged with carrying out that duty without hitch or
delay could spare thought for nothing else.
One of the deck-hands, stationed near the chocks, chanced to be the very
Spaniard whose life had been endangered by the falling block on the day
after the ship left Cartagena. The ship's carpenter was ill, and the
Spaniard was carpenter's mate.
Maseden caught his eye, and the man smiled wanly.
"You did me a good turn the other day, senor," he said. "Let me repay
you now."
"But how?" came the surprised inquiry.
"Underneath my bunk, the lowest one on the left in number seven berth,
you will find my kit-bag. Beneath some clothes is a bottle of good old
brandy. Get it, and drink it quickly."
"Why?"
"You will put a pint of honest liquor to good use, and in ten minutes
you won't care what happens."
"I have no desire to die drunk," said Maseden quietly.
The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders.
"You'll never have a better excuse for swallowing excellent cognac," he
grinned.
"Shut up, you two!" growled the officer.
He had not understood a word of their talk. He simply voiced the
eminently American notion that anything said in the Spanish language
could not be of the least importance just then.
Oddly enough, Maseden was angered by being thus outcasted, as it were.
He was tempted to retort, but happily checked the words on his lips.
Nerves were apt to be on a raw edge in such conditions, he remembered.
Even the stern-faced ship's officer, awaiting a command which would
settle the fate of the _Southern Cross_ once and for all, might well
resent the magpie chattering of a couple of Spaniards.
Maseden turned for an instant to look at the bridge. The captain stood
there, apparently the most unmoved person on board. The sails, tugging
fiercely at their rings and bolts, still kept the ship under control,
notwithstanding the ten-knot tidal current which carried her onward
irresistibly. The foresail was bellied out to port, so the captain
remained on the starboard side of the bridge, whence he had an
uninterrupted view ahead.
Suddenly two cloaked figures emerged from the obscurity of the
smoking-room and hurried to the transverse rail which guarded the fore
part of the promenade deck. With them came some men, among whom Maseden
recognized Sturgess; while another man, who caught the arm of one of the
girls in a helpless sort of way, was probably Mr. Gray.
Evidently there was no concealing the ship's peril from the passengers
now. Everyone wore a life-belt, and was clothed to resist the cold. A
plausible explanation of this general flocking out on to the deck was
that they had discerned the cleft in the rocky heights through a blurred
window, and refused to remain any longer in the sheltered uncertainty of
the smoking-room.
At this period there was little or no difficulty in keeping one's feet.
The great hull of the _Southern Cross_ swung easily on an even keel with
the onrush of the sea-river. The ship was not fighting now, but
yielding--a complacent leviathan held captive by a most puissant and
ruthless enemy.
During the few seconds Maseden stared at the veiled women. One of those
two--which one he could not tell--was his wife. It was the maddest, most
fantastic thing he had ever heard of. In a spirit of sheer deviltry he
waved a greeting. One of the girls raised a hand to her face--perhaps to
her lips.
What did it matter? In all human probability that was their eternal
farewell. He waved again, and turned resolutely to scan the frowning
headlands now rapidly closing in on both sides of the vessel's path.
About that time a new and disturbing sound reached his ears. Hitherto
there had been nothing but the unceasing chant of the gale, the thud and
swish of the seas, the steady plaint of the ship, and an occasional
crash like a volley of musketry when the crest was torn off some giant
roller and flung against poop or superstructure. But now there came a
crashing, booming noise, irregular, yet almost continuous, and ever
growing louder and more insistent; a noise almost exactly similar to
distant gun-fire and the snarling explosions of heavy projectiles.
It was the noise of the bitterest and longest war ever waged. Those old
enemies, sea and land, were engaged in deadly combat, and, as ever, the
sea was winning.
Even while the _Southern Cross_ swung past an overhanging fortress of
rock, a mighty bastion crumbled into ruin. It was singular to watch a
cloud of dust mingle with the spindrift--to note how the next breaker
climbed higher in assault over the vantage ground provided by the
successful sap.
A disconcerting feature of the ship's hurried transit into this
unchartered territory was the clearness with which all things were
visible above a height of some twelve feet from the surface of the sea;
whereas, below that level, the clouds of spray and flying scud formed an
almost impenetrable wall.
Taking his eyes from the everchanging panorama, Maseden looked over the
side. The foam-flecked water was black but fairly transparent. In its
depths he was astounded by the sight of writhing, sinister shapes like
the arms of innumerable devil-fish.
At first he experienced a shock of surprise so close akin to horror that
he felt the chill of it, as though one of these fearsome tentacles were
already twined around his shrinking body. Then he realized that he had
been startled by some gigantic species of seaweed. The ship was crossing
a submarine forest. Down there in the depths on this January day in the
southern hemisphere some mysterious form of plant life was enjoying its
leafy June.
But science had no joys for him in that hour. Better the outlook on crag
and clearing sky than a furtive glimpse of the limbs and foliage of
that monstrous growth.
All at once a cry from the look-out in the bows sent a quiver through
every hearer.
"Rock ahead!"
After a pause, measured by seconds, but seeming like as many minutes,
the same voice shouted:
"Channel opens to starboard!"
The ship answered the helm. She swept past a jagged little islet so
closely that a sailor could have cast a coil of rope ashore.
Forthwith another sound mingled with the crash of the breakers. The rock
had been bored right through by the waves, and the gale set up a note in
the tunnel such as no organ-builder ever dreamed of.
That mighty chord pursued the _Southern Cross_ for nearly half a mile.
It was a melancholy and depressing wail. Maseden, whose faculties were
supernaturally alert, noticed that the South American sailor's face had
turned a sickly green. The man was paralyzed with fright. His right hand
fumbled in a weak attempt to cross himself.
Out of the tail of his eye the second officer caught the gesture.
"Pull yourself together, you swab!" he said bitingly. "What the hell
good will you be if you give way like that?"
The Spaniard grasped the sense of command in the words rather than their
meaning. He was no coward. He even contrived to grin. It was a tonic to
be cursed by an American, even though the pierced rock howled like a
lost soul!
Still the _Southern Cross_ drove on. The tidal stream was, if anything,
swifter than ever, but the size of the waves had diminished sensibly.
The walls of the straits had closed in to within a half-mile span. There
could not be the slightest doubt that the vessel was actually passing
through one of the waterways which connect the Pacific with Smyth's
Channel.
Maseden, after scanning the interior highlands for the hundredth time,
glanced again at the second officer. The grimness of the clean-cut,
stern face had somewhat relaxed. Quite unconsciously the sailor's
expression showed that hope had replaced calm-visaged despair. Given an
unhindered run of another mile, the ship could at least drop anchor with
some prospect of success.
The strength of the tide would diminish in less than an hour, and it
might be possible to maneuver in the slack water for a comparatively
safe berth. Next day, if the weather moderated as promised by the
barometer, the steam pinnace could spy out the land in front.
Smyth's Channel was not so far away--perhaps fifty miles. Once there,
the _Southern Cross_ could repair damage and proceed under her own steam
to Punta Arenas.
A gleam of yellow light irradiated the surface mist, which had grown
markedly denser. The clouds were parting, and the sun was vouchsafing
some thin rays from the northwest.
The mere sight was cheering. The blood ran warmer in the veins. It was
as though the ship's company, after days and nights of cold and
starvation, had been miraculously supplied with food and hot liquids.
Then the golden radiance died away, and simultaneously came the cry:
"Reef ahead!"
There was no need for further warning by the men in the bows. The
_Southern Cross_ had hardly traveled her own length before every person
in the fore part of the ship, together with the occupants of bridge and
promenade deck, became aware that a seemingly impassable barrier lay
right across the channel. At the same time the line of cliffs fell away
to the southward.
Beyond the reef, then, lay a wide stretch of land-locked water; its
unexpected existence explained the frantic haste of the tidal current.
It was cruel luck that nature should have thrown one of her defensive
works across that bottle-neck entrance. A few cables' lengths away was
safety; here, unavoidable--sullen and rigid as death himself--were the
rock fangs.
At the supreme moment the second officer never turned his head. His eyes
were riveted on the motionless figure standing on the starboard side of
the bridge.
The captain raised his hand; the sails flapped loudly in the wind; both
anchors splashed overboard with hoarse rattling of chains. The after
anchor failed, but the forward one held at a depth of ten fathoms.
The second officer was quick to note the sudden strain, and eased
it--once, twice, three times. But it was now or never. The ship was
swinging in the stream, and her stern-post would just clear the fringe
of the reef if the anchor made good its grip.
The _Southern Cross_ had gone round, with a heavy lurch to port, caused
by the tremendous pressure of wind and wave, and was almost stationary
when the cable parted. The thick chain flew back with all the impetus of
six thousand tons in motion behind it.
Missing Maseden by a hair's breadth, it struck the foretop, and the spar
snapped like a carrot. It fell forward, and the identical block which
had nearly brought about the death of the South American sailor now
caught his rescuer on the side of the head.
In the same instant a heavy stay dragged Maseden bodily over the
fore-rail and he pitched headlong to the deck, where, however, the
actual fall was broken by the stout canvas of the sail.
A woman screamed, but he could not hear, being knocked insensible.
"All hands amidships!" shouted the captain, and there was a race for the
ladders. One man, however, the Spaniard, stooped over the young
American's body. His eyes were streaming with tears.
"Good-by, friend!" he sobbed. "Maybe this is a better way than that
opened by my bottle of brandy!"
He was sure that the _vaquero_ who swore like an _Americano_ had been
killed, because blood was flowing freely from a scalp wound; but he
lifted Maseden's inert form, and, without any valid reason behind the
action, placed him in his bunk, as the cabin door stood open.
Then he ran after the others.
Poor fellow! He little dreamed that he was repaying a thousand-fold the
few extra days of life the good-looking _vaquero_ had given him.
Almost immediately the ship struck. There was a fearsome crash of
rending plates and torn ribs, the great vessel reeled over, struck again
and bumped clear of the outer reef.
Now, too late, the after anchor lodged in a sunken crevice; the cable
did not yield, because the vessel was sucked into a sort of backwash and
driven, bow on, close to an apparently unscalable cliff.
She settled rapidly. As it happened a submerged rock smashed her
keel-plate beneath the engine-room, and the engines, together with the
stout framework to which the superstructure was bolted amidships, became
anchored there, offering a new obstacle to the onward race of the seas
pouring over the reef.
Every boat was either smashed instantaneously or wrenched bodily from
its davits. Two-thirds of the hull fell away almost at once, the
forecastle tilting towards the cliff, and the poop being swept into deep
water.
With the after part went at least half the ship's company, their last
cries of despair being smothered by the continuous roar of the wind and
the thunder of the waves. The bridge, with the rooms immediately below,
remained fairly upright, but the smoking-room, and officers' quarters
close to it, were swept by water breast high.
Some one--who it was will never be known--had ordered the passengers to
run into the smoking-room when the forward cable parted. Now, with the
magnificent courage invariably shown by American sailors even when the
gates of death gape wide before their eyes, the first and second
officers contrived to hoist the two girls to the chart-room behind the
bridge.
Sturgess, behaving with great gallantry, helped the women first, and
then their father, who was floating in the room, to reach the only
available gangway. Others followed, but the difficulty of rescue--if
such a sorrowful transition might be called a rescue--was enhanced by
the noise and sudden darkness.
Ever the central citadel of the _Southern Cross_ was sinking lower. Ever
the leaping waves and their clouds of spray tended more and more to shut
out the light.
Seven people were plucked from immediate death in this fashion. All
told, officers, crew and passengers, the survivors of seventy-four souls
numbered twelve.
There was a thirteenth, because Maseden was lying high and dry in his
bunk. But of him they took no count.
They gathered in the chart-room. Those who still retained their senses
tried to revive the more fortunate ones to whom was vouchsafed a
merciful oblivion of their common plight. Even in the temporary haven of
the chart-room the conditions quickly savored of utter misery. The
windows were blown away. The doors were jammed open by the warping of
the deck. Wind, waves and sheets of spray seemed to vie with demoniac
energy as to which could be most cruel and deadly. The ceaseless
warping and working of what was left of the ship presaged complete
collapse at any moment, and the din of the reef was stupefying.
Still, the captain did not abate one jot of his cool demeanor. He eyed
the sea, the rocks, the remains of his ship and the beetling crags from
which he was cut off by sixty feet of raging water.
Then he deliberately turned his back on it all. Going to a locker, he
produced a screwdriver and began methodically drawing the screws of the
door-hinges.
The chief officer thought that the other man's brain had yielded to the
stress.
"What are you doing, sir?" he said, placing a hand gently on his
friend's shoulder.
"We haven't a ten-million to one chance of remaining here till the gale
gives out," was the calm answer, "but we may as well rig up some sort of
protection from the weather. There are four lockers and four doors.
Let's block up those broken windows as well as we can."
A curiously admiring light shone in the chief officer's eyes. He said
nothing, but helped. Soon a corner was completely walled. They decided
it was better to have one section thoroughly shielded than the whole
only partially.
They made a quick job of it. The girls, Mr. Gray, and two men recovering
consciousness were allotted to the angle.
Then the captain opened one of the three bottles of claret stored in a
locker, and portioned out the contents among the survivors.
There was no need to measure the share of a heavily-built Spaniard who
was reputed to be a wealthy rancher from the Argentine. His spine was
broken when the ship lurched over the reef. He was found dead when they
tried to move him to the sheltered corner.
And now a pall of darkness spread swiftly over the face of the waters.
The tide fell, but the ship sank with it. She no longer rocked and shook
under the blows of the waves. It seemed as though she knew herself
crippled beyond all hope of succor, and only awaited another tide to
meet annihilation.
Wind and sea were more furious than ever. In all likelihood, the gale
would blow itself out next day. But long before dawn the rising tide
would have made short work of what was left of the _Southern Cross_.
Never was a small company of Christian people in a more hopeless
position. Every boat was gone. They had no food. They were wet to the
skin, and pierced with bitter cold. Even the hardy captain's teeth
chattered as he took a pipe from his pocket, rolled some tobacco between
the palms of his hands, and said smilingly to those near him:
"This is one of the occasions when a water-tight pipe-lighter is a real
treasure. Who'd like a smoke? You must find your own pipes. I can supply
some 'baccy and a light!"