ONE CHANCE IN A MILLION
Maseden was badly hurt and quite stunned. Of that there could be no
manner of doubt. He was blissfully unaware of the destruction of the
ship, and did not regain his senses until long after the captain and
some few of the men gathered in the dismantled chart-room had indulged
in what was to prove their last pipeful of tobacco.
Even when a species of ordered perception was restored he was wholly
unable during an hour or more to collect his wits sufficiently to
understand just what had happened.
Certain phenomena were vaguely disturbing; that was all. He knew, for
instance, that the _Southern Cross_ was wrecked, because the deck was
tilted permanently at an alarming angle. As the downward slope was
forward, however, and his bunk lay across it and on the forward side of
the door the physical outcome was by no means unpleasant, since his body
was wedged comfortably between the mattress and the bulkhead.
He was dry and warm. The weather-proof garments of the pampas were
admirably adapted to resist exposure, while the pitch of the deck, aided
by the conformation of the bows, diminished the striking power of the
waves and carried the spray and broken water clean over the remains of
the forecastle.
Maseden's position resembled that of a man ensconced in a dry niche of a
cave behind a waterfall. So long as he did not move and the cavern held
intact he was safe and comfortable. Happily, a long time elapsed between
the first glimmer of consciousness and the moment when the knowledge was
borne in on him that he was actually beset by immediate and most deadly
peril.
He imagined that the ship had been cast ashore after he met with some
rather serious accident, that some kind Samaritan had tucked him into
his own berth, and that, in due course, some one would look in on him
with a cheery inquiry as to how he was faring. His answer would have
been that his head ached abominably, that his mouth and throat were on
fire, and that a long drink of cold water was the one thing needed to
send him to sleep and speedy recovery.
He did not realize that when he dropped face downward into the folds of
the sail he had swallowed a quantity of salt water lodged there
instantly by the pelting seas. It was not until he moved, and yielded
to a fit of vomiting, which relieved the pain in his head and cleared
his faculties, that the dreadful truth began to dawn in his mind.
Once, however, the process of clear reasoning set in, it developed
rapidly. He noticed, in the first instance, that the angle of the deck
was becoming steeper. It was strange, he thought, that although the
light was failing, no one came near. His ears, too, told him that seas
were still hammering furiously on every side.
Finally, a marked movement of the forecastle as it slipped over a smooth
rock race, owing to the increase of dead weight brought about by the
falling tide, induced a species of alarmed curiosity which proved a most
potent tonic. At one moment feeling hardly able to move, the next he was
scrambling out of the bunk and climbing crab-like through the doorway.
Then he saw that the forecastle deck had been torn away in line with the
forward bulkhead of the fore hold. With some difficulty, being still
physically weak and shaken, he raised head and shoulders above this
jagged edge and peered over.
Then he understood. The ship was in pieces on the reef. Two bits of her
still remained; the forecastle, a stubborn wedge nearly always the last
part of a steel-built vessel to collapse, and the bridge, with its
backing of the chart house. All else had gone--the funnels had fallen
an hour earlier.
Even the steel plates and stout wood work of the superstructure had
melted away from the six strong ribs to which the sunken engines were
bolted, leaving the bridge and chart house in air.
Already, too, one of the six pillars which had proved the salvation of
that forlorn aerie had yielded to the strain and snapped. In the
half-light it was difficult to discern just what support was given to
the squat rectangle of the chart-house; Maseden had to look long and
steadily through the flying scud before he gathered the exact facts.
The upper deck of the forecastle shut off any glimpse of the cliffs. All
he could see was the reef, much more visible now, but still partially
submerged by every sea; beyond it, a howling wilderness of broken water,
and in the midst of this depressing picture, the ghost-like chart-house
and bridge.
But he recalled vividly enough the sight of an awesome precipice close
at hand before something had hit him and robbed him of senses. If the
ship, or what was left of her, was lodged on the reef towards which she
was being driven at the time of his mishap, the shore could not be far
distant.
Within a foot of where he lay on the deck, clinging to it as a man
might save himself from falling off the steeply-pitched roof of a house,
was the big bole of the foremast, on which the rings of the sails formed
a sort of ladder. He pulled himself up, stretched his body along the
mast in the opposite direction, and made out the uneven summit of the
cliff above the straight line of the upper deck.
He was exposed to the weather here, but the waves were not breaking
across the forecastle now, and the spray and biting wind tended
rather to dissipate the feeling of lassitude which had proved quite
overpowering while he remained in the bunk. He raised himself cautiously
another foot or so, and the rugged wall of the precipice loomed so close
that at first he fancied the wreck was touching it.
The broken topmast, however, swaying in the wind, and still held to its
more solid support by a couple of wire stays, pointed drunkenly at the
cliff, and the pulley dangling from it was occasionally dashed by the
gale against an overhanging ledge.
Even while Maseden was arriving at a pretty accurate estimate of the way
in which he had been injured--because he now recalled the parting of
the anchor cable--the forecastle moved again, the wet and frowning wall
became even more visible, and although an awesome gap intervened, the
swaying, pointed spar seemed to offer a fantastic glimpse of a means of
escape.
As yet, the truck, or top of the mast, was fully sixteen feet distant
from the face of the cliff. But it had been twenty feet or more distant
a moment ago, and that last movement of the hull had lessened the width
of the chasm.
What if the spar jammed? Could a man obtain foothold on that slimy rock
surface?
He thought it possible. A deep crevice seemed to promise some vague
prospect of upward progress to one who could climb, and to whom any risk
was preferable to the certain fate which must attend remaining on the
wreck during the coming tide.
But, notwithstanding his partial recovery, he still felt very feeble and
quite unequal to more exertion. As nothing in the way of an attempt to
save his life was possible until the broken topmast was lodged firmly
against the cliff, he wondered whether he would find some sort of food
in the forecastle.
It was improbable, of course. Meals were brought from the cook's galley
amidships, and utensils only were stored in the lockers of the dingy
saloon in which he and many of the sailors used to eat.
Still, spurred by the necessity of doing something to take his mind off
the fearsome alternative should the forecastle topple over sideways, or
even remain in its present position, he turned his back on the cliff.
With never a glance at the bridge, he regained the sloping deck, lowered
himself to the doorway of his own cabin, and peered into the gloom in
the effort to determine how best and where to begin his search.
At first his heart sank, because the saloon was awash. Then he
remembered the Spanish sailor's queer offer of a bottle of brandy,
stored in a kit-bag in number seven berth, "the lowest bunk on the
left."
Number seven! Had he not seen the man at odd times entering or leaving
the second cabin on the port side? At any rate, there was no harm in
trying.
Crawling farther into the darkness, he walked on what was normally the
cross bulkhead of the saloon, groped to a doorway, found a kit-bag in
the stated position, opened it, and came upon a bottle of brandy!
He drank a little. Luckily it was not the raw spirit beloved of such
men as its late owner, but sound, mellow liquor, which the Spaniard
had probably bought as a medicine.
Be that as it may, the brandy exercised the magical effect which good
cognac always produces in those wise enough not to vitiate the blood
with alcohol when in robust health. For the first time since he was
struck down, Maseden felt himself capable of putting forth physical
effort involving sustained muscular exertion.
He returned to his own cabin, secured the poncho, or cloak, and wrapped
the bottle in it. Rummaging round in the dark, he laid hands on a strap,
with which he buckled the folded poncho tightly to his shoulders. Then
reviewing the prospects which awaited an unfortunate castaway on that
inhospitable coast, he endeavored to get at his own trunk.
Therein, however, he failed. The iron frame of the bunk had buckled, and
the trunk was held as in a vise.
Realizing that he had very little time before the light in the interior
of the forecastle would vanish altogether, he hurried back to the
Spaniard's berth and hauled out the kit-bag. He had an uncomfortable
feeling that he was robbing the dead, but if it were practicable to land
any sort of stores the effort should be made.
He had not a moment to spare for further search. The forecastle slipped
again, and he experienced no little difficulty in regaining his perch on
the solid stump of the foremast, on which, so nearly had it approached
the horizontal, he could sit quite easily.
The dangling spar, he estimated, was now about eight feet from the
cliff. Would it catch the rock wall while any glimmer of light remained,
or would some new movement of the wreck divert its progress? He could
only hope for the best and be ready to seize the opportunity when, if
ever, it presented itself.
To his thinking, the gale was moderating; but he dared not indulge in
the smallest hope that the forecastle would live through the next tide.
The heavy swell of the Pacific after a westerly storm would create a
worse sea on the reef than that already experienced. Probably the
breakers would be more destructive immediately after than during the
gale.
It was at that moment, when in a plight seldom equaled and never
surpassed by any man destined to survive a disastrous shipwreck, that
Maseden's thoughts reverted to his fellow passengers. There was no
need to watch the spar, since he could not fail to become aware of any
further movement of the forecastle, so he lashed the kit-bag to a sail
ring, again turned his back on the cliff, and gave close attention to
the chart-house.
Despite the increasing darkness it was a good deal more visible now
than when he had looked that way earlier. No dense clouds of spray or
spindrift intervened; hence he noticed for the first time the improvised
shutters which had replaced the glass front of the structure on the
seaward side.
He was wondering whether or not it was possible that some one might
still be living on the only other part of the ship still intact, when
he became aware of a figure silhouetted against the sky above the canvas
screen of the bridge.
It was, in fact, the captain, who crept out of the chart-house every now
and then to examine the state of the iron uprights and the condition of
the reef. The gallant old sailor had abandoned, or never formed, any
notion of escape, because nothing could live for an instant on the reef
itself, and he could not possibly detect the chance of salvation offered
by the broken mast. But the nature of the man demanded that he should
keep watch and ward over those committed to his care. In all likelihood
he experienced a vague sense of relief in being able to discharge even
the melancholy duty of noting the gradual breaking-up of the supports.
Three had gone, two on the port side and one on the starboard. When the
third stanchion yielded on the port side, bridge and chart-room would
fall with a crash and there would be an end. He said nothing of this to
the unhappy company within.
"The weather is improving," he told them cheerfully, as Maseden heard
later. "I can't honestly give you any prospect of escape, but--while
there's life there's hope!"
And all the time he was listening for the ominous crack which would be
the precursor of that final sinking into the depths! The marvel was
that the middle of the ship had held together so long, but by no miracle
known to man could what was left of her survive the next tide.
Yet why should he add to misery already abyssmal? Death would be a
blessed relief; waiting for certain death was the worst of tortures.
No one answered. The survivors--of the twelve four were dead now--were
perishing with cold and dumbly resigned to their wretched fate. Had it
not been for the protection afforded by the improvised screen, none
would have been alive even then.
The wind still swirled and eddied into every nook and cranny. Though
huddled together, the little group of men and women were conscious of
no warmth. It was with the greatest difficulty that those not clad in
oilskins kept any garments on their bodies.
So merciless is the havoc of the sea that its victims are stripped naked
even while clinging to the battered hulk of a ship, though this last
device of a seemingly demoniac savagery is easily accounted for. No
product of loom or spinning machine can withstand the disintegrating
effects of breaking waves helped by a fierce gale. The seams and
fastenings of ordinary garments cannot resist the combined assault. In
such circumstances, a woman's flimsy attire will be torn off her in a
few minutes, while the strongest of boots have been known to collapse
after some hours of this kind of exposure.
Luckily a number of oilskins were kept in the chart-room of the
_Southern Cross_; these were quickly served out to the shivering girls,
whose clothing had practically melted away as though made of thin paper.
Soon after the captain had tried to hearten them with that scrap of
proverbial philosophy, one of the girls, Nina, screamed in an elfin note
that dominated even the roaring of the reef for an instant. Her father
had collapsed. It was useless to pretend that he might only have
fainted. They who fell now were doomed. In Mr. Gray's case, he was dead
ere he sank down.
The chief officer put a consoling hand on the girl's shoulder. He was a
Bostonian, and had daughters of his own. In that hour of tribulation his
speech reverted to the homely accents of New England.
"It comes hard to see your father drop like that," he said. "But it's
better so. He's just spared a bit of the trouble we may have to face."
"It is not that," wailed the girl brokenly. "I'm thinking of my mother.
She will never know. Oh, if I could only make her understand, I would
not care!"
A strange answer, the sailor deemed it, most probably. At that instant
he caught the captain's eye. Both men had the same thought. The dead
should be thrown overboard and thus lessen the weight supported by the
one stanchion on the port side.
But of what avail were such precautions? They might as well all go
together, the quick and the dead. Why should any of them wish to live on
until the sea rose again in the small hours of the morning?
The girls were crying in each other's arms. Two of the men lifted Gray's
body and placed it with four others. Five gone out of twelve!
The captain, speaking in the most matter-of-fact way, suggested that
they should open and drink the last bottle of claret before the light
failed.
"It's a poor substitute for a meal," he said, "but it's the only thing
we can lay hands on."
The chief officer nodded his head towards the grief-stricken sisters.
"Maybe we can wait a bit longer," he said. "You couldn't persuade them
to touch it just now.... What's that, sir? Did you hear anything?"
"No. What could we possibly hear?"
"It sounded like a voice, some one hailing."
"I think I know whose voice it is," said the captain. He himself had
almost yielded to the delusion. It was distressing to find the same
eery symptom of speedy breakdown in his old friend, the chief officer.
Both men listened, nevertheless, and were convinced. In silence they
went out into the open, walking stealthily. Each knew that any undue
movement might send the remains of the ship headlong to the reef. They
strained their eyes in the only possible direction from which a voice
might have come--the scrap of forecastle, sixty feet nearer the
headland, or, incredible as it seemed, the headland itself. They could
see nothing. Maseden's body was not only in line with the receding angle
of the foremast, but that piece of the wreck was merged in the gloom of
the towering rock.
Maseden saw them, however, and shouted again, striving his uttermost now
that he had attracted attention.
With each effort at speech his voice was becoming stronger. Though it
was useless to think of conveying an intelligible message through the
uproar of wind and water, he fancied he could get into communication
with the inmates of the chart-room, provided they were on the alert. In
effect, he had a knife, and was surrounded by an abundance of tangled
cordage, and it would be a strange thing if after so many years of
active life on a South American ranch he could not cast a weighted lasso
as far as the bridge.
He began fashioning the necessary coil at once, working with feverish
haste, because his refuge was on the move again, and ever towards the
land. A trial cast fell short, as he had not allowed enough lee-way for
the wind. He was gathering up the rope preparatory to another effort
when a great voice boomed at him from the shadows:
"You have no chance here. You are as well off where you are. If you hear
me, hail three times!"
The captain was using a megaphone.
Maseden yelled "Hi!" three times, thinking the short, sharp syllable
would carry best. Then, with splendid judgment, he threw the lasso in a
lateral parabola that landed its end across the rail of the bridge,
where it was promptly made fast by the first officer.
Again came that mighty voice:
"Is there any hope of escape on your side? If so, hail three times."
He replied. After a short delay he heard the order:
"Haul in!"
Attached to the noose of his rope was another rope, and a second thinner
one, rigged as a "whip," or communicating cord. Tied at the junction was
the megaphone. The intent of the senders was plain. He was to bawl
directions, and they would obey.
He fancied that by this time the topmast must be near the rock, if not
quite touching it, but he had decided already that he would either save
those hapless people in the chart-room or die in the attempt.
Perhaps his "wife" was there yet. Unless those American sailors had
broken the first law of their order of chivalry, the women committed to
their care had been safeguarded.
Well, he owed her a life. Now he might be able to repay the debt in
full.
He had never before handled a speaking trumpet, so his initial essay was
brief:
"Can you hear?"
He could just catch three faint sounds in answer.
"As soon as a sailor can cross by the rope, send one," he shouted, "I
shall need help at this end. I have made fast the heavy rope. Shall I
haul in the whip?"
There was a pause of a few seconds, but he counted on that. Then he felt
three tugs on the thinner cord, and began to haul steadily. Soon, by the
sagging of the main rope and the weight at the end of the whip, he
realized that some one was making the transit.
Before long he discerned a figure coming towards him hand over hand
along the rope. The man's feet were caught midway by the seas boiling
over the reef, but Maseden knew that the gallant fellow's forward
movement was never checked, and in a very little while the breathless
chief officer was seated astride the mast beneath him.
"Who in the world are you?" demanded the newcomer; at any rate, he used
words to that effect.
Maseden answered in kind, and explained his project; whereupon the chief
officer seized the megaphone and bellowed the necessary instructions. On
a given signal the two men hauled on the whip.
This time a figure lashed to a life-buoy, which, in turn, was tied to a
pulley traveling on the guide-rope, came to them out of the darkness. It
was a woman, hardly in her senses, yet able to obey when told to sit
astride the mast and hold fast to a ring.
"We can hardly find room for five more people here," shouted the chief
officer. "Are you game to shin along the mast and see if that loose spar
is practicable yet?"
"Yes," said Maseden.
He vanished in the darkness. He was absent fully five minutes, a period
which, to the waiting chief officer, who alone knew what was actually
happening, must have seemed like as many hours. Then Maseden returned.
By this time there were two more astride the foremast, four in all. He
tied the nearest one to his back with a rope.
"Can you steady yourself by placing your hands on my shoulders, but not
around my neck?" he said.
For answer two slim hands caught his shoulders. He began working his way
forward into the gloom.