OVERBOARD.
Fire! Fire! Fire! This withering cry stopped every pulse of life as it
ran through the ship. For one awful second it held that crowd in the
cabin motionless and pallid as if a storm of ashes were passing over it.
Some of the dancers kept their position, like statues, with scared faces
bent together, feet advanced and smiles frozen on their white lips. Some
staggered out of the whirl and clung together shrieking in each other’s
arms. Others crouched down in corners, sending out piteous cries. One or
two laughed out a hideous mockery of their own fears, and a few weak
voices joined in protesting that it was a hoax. Still all listened with
hushed breath for a second cry which might be their doom.
Cora Lander laughed away the pale terror that seized upon her, and
dashed the awful scene with defiant music.
It came again—that wild, desperate cry—deeper, hoarser and still more
terrible—smiting the crowd with fresh panic. A mad rush was made for the
deck. The selfish instinct of life which levels men with wild beasts was
uppermost then. Under that fierce stampede of feet the helpless and
feeble were forced aside or trampled down, and through the tumult arose
their sobs and moans, with the low roar of half-smothered flames and
gushes of black smoke that came rolling down the cabin stairs thick and
stifling.
Virginia Lander sprang to the steps and rushed on deck, seeking her
father. Cora plunged into the frightened crowd, struggled through and
followed her cousin, looking keenly around for some means of safety as
she went.
The old man was on his feet, white as death, but with all his faculties
clear. He reached forth his arms as Virginia came up and held her close,
promising his own heart that they would die together. Cora planted
herself by his side, pale with terror, but vigilant.
The steamer lay with her head to the wind, which swept the flames
fiercely as they belched up the hatchway and ran along the cordage like
sheet lightning. The captain thundered orders through his trumpet which
no one obeyed. Men rushed to and fro with buckets, and flew in despair
to the pumps, but, spite of this the conflagration roared like a volcano
deep in the iron hold, and rushed up through porthole and hatchway,
fringing the sails with flame and creeping along the ropes till they
shone out against the sky one network of tangled fire.
It was awful to see human beings struggling up through the surges of hot
smoke, and reeling into the fresh air one mass of flames. Now the scene
became terrible. Great gushes of fire roared up from the cabin and
seized upon the wood-work around it. The mainmast, already girdled with
flame and eaten half way to the heart, trembled like a forest tree
beneath the axe. The ventilators were choked up with human beings,
suffocated in a wild effort to escape certain death in the steerage. Now
an effort was made to get out the boats; but they were seized upon and
swamped under a frenzied rush of the crowd. The wretched people
retreated from bulwark to bow—anywhere that promised a moment’s shelter.
But the hot flames pursued them, leaping, hissing, routing them from
every chance of life. Some jumped overboard in sheer madness; others
swung themselves down to the sea with chains and ropes, which might grow
red hot or be burned under their grasp any instant. It was awful to see
those panic-stricken creatures huddled together like frightened deer
hemmed in by a prairie fire, shrinking, shivering and white with a dread
that was worse than death.
Mr. Lander and those two girls had kept their place firmly upon the
deck, watching for some chance of safety, but driven towards the
bulwarks step by step as the flames leaped upon them. The sails had
burned out, scattering a rain of fire over them, and were now given to
the wind in black patches of tinder. The cordage had broken up into rags
of fire. The yard-arms were burning and cut against the sky, like a
great cross appealing to God for mercy. Only a few moments more could
those helpless creatures keep a foothold where they stood. Even now the
boards under their feet were hot and drops of turpentine came oozing out
from all their pores, tempting the flames which licked them up with
ravenous hisses. Not ten feet away, the planks had parted and they could
look down on that sea of fire raging in the hold.
Virginia gave one glance and clung to her father, striving to shield him
from the heat. Cora saw a thousand tiny threads of flame creeping
towards them, and seizing upon the fur rug wound it about her, looking
fiercely down on the storm of fire, as if she longed to defy it. That
girl, leaning there against the bulwark, with that awful light upon her
face and the fur robe giving a savage aspect to her dress, seemed like a
priestess overwhelmed by her own incantations.
Just then a boat had been cautiously lowered by some of the hands—so
cautiously that the terror-stricken creatures cowering on the deck took
no notice, for despair had paralyzed them. Cora saw it and her hopes
took fire. Without a word to the others, she flung off the robe, leaped
upon the bulwark, and plunged into the sea, twenty feet below. The boat
had pushed off and was some yards away, but she was a good swimmer, and
followed it, shrieking for help with every dash of her arms.
Had it been a man, the sailors would have left him to die, for the boat
was full; but there was something so strange and brave in the desperate
effort this young creature made for life, that they took her in with
broken cheers and pushed farther from the doomed vessel, from which men
and women, with their garments one cloud of flame, were continually
dropping.
Virginia looked up, saw that the place where her cousin had stood was
empty, and uttering a cry of anguish, sprang to the bulwark.
“Oh father! oh Heaven help us! She is gone—she is lost! No, no, thank
God, thank God, she is in the boat. That is her. Look, father, look!
That is Cora.”
That moment the mainmast trembled like a tree cut through the heart and
fell, dragging the steamer on one side by its weight. Then the engine
gave out, and the boiler collapsed with a dull sound, sending up a storm
of hisses, as if ten thousand serpents, coiled in its iron heart, had
suddenly crept into the flames.
The man at the wheel, who had stood firmly till now, gave way under a
hot rush of fire, and leaped overboard, abandoning the steamer to her
fate. Left to itself, the doomed vessel, with its awful freight of fire,
headed to the wind, which gathered up the flames and hurled them in
broad sheets and masses back upon the poor creatures who crouched upon
the deck. They started up like herds of deer in a burning prairie, and
rushed toward the bow dumb with horror. There they huddled together in a
trembling crowd, turning their wild, white faces on the sea of fire
which raged behind them. Some crept out on the bowsprit and clung to it.
Others had dragged articles of furniture with them which they were
lashing together as a forlorn hope.
Lander snatched up his daughter and followed with the rest. He too had
seen the boat in which Cora had found safety, and knowing that Virginia
could swim like her cousin, resolved that she should be saved.
When they reached the bow, he took Virginia in his arms and kissed her
with solemn tenderness.
“Oh, father, this is terrible—must we die? Must we die?”
A great surge of smoke swept over them and he held her face close to his
bosom till it went by.
“Virginia, hear me.”
She guessed what he was about to say, and cried out against it:
“No, no, papa—I never will—never without you.”
“But Virginia, my child.”
She clung to him wildly, desperately.
“But you can swim. The boat is not so far off,” he pleaded.
“But you, papa, can you swim?”
Lander shook his head.
“Then I will not go. Better a thousand times die here together. What
would life be without you?”
“Virginia, this is wrong. It is selfish.”
“No—no—no, father! and if it is, God will forgive the child who wishes
to live or die with her own father. See, I am not afraid. When the fire
drives us away from here, we will jump into the water together. I can
swim for us both a little while, then, if we must go down, God will see
how it was and let us be together again, for He alone knows how dearly I
love you.”
“My child, my child!”
The old man lifted her in his arms and was about to hurl her over. She
could swim, and alone, without incumbrance, might reach the boat. With
another to drag her down, it would be certain death.
She understood his design and clung to him with passionate tenacity.
“Father—father, I will not!”
“It must be. God help us, child—it must, it must!”
“Not yet, father; not alone. I will not go alone.”
She clung to him madly, turning her stone, white face over one shoulder
and watching the conflagration with frightened eyes.
“Oh, father, the wind is with us. See how it fights back the flames.
But, my God—my God, how that slow, cruel fire eats into the deck! How it
crumbles and falls piecemeal into that red gulf! It creeps upon us inch
by inch, and the space is so small now. Not yet! father, not yet! We
have a few minutes more. Then we will go together—only so. God is good
to give us this one chance of death without torture. Stand closer, close
to the bulwark, father. How the poor creatures crowd! Yes, yes, we will
give way for children, they must not burn. Poor mother—poor woman. Go
first—go first—we can wait.”
A tall, powerful man from the steerage, with an infant in his arms, was
pushing by them, huddling his wife and four other children up to the
charred bulwarks. The children gave one glance into the depths below and
cowered back to their mother’s feet, whimpering and sobbing in pale
terror. The man placed the infant on its mother’s bosom and took them
both in his arms with solemn tenderness. The woman released herself
wildly from his arms and cried out:
“They are not all here. Brian! Brian! Oh, Father of mercies, where is my
son?”
That instant a lad came across that skeleton deck, leaping from one
blazing beam to another with the desperate energy of some wild deer
breaking away from the hounds. His feet sent back a storm of hot sparks
as they touched the seething wood. His woollen clothes caught fire,
enveloping him in heavy gushes of smoke. He struck the last beam with a
staggering leap—reeled dizzily, and was plunging head foremost into the
gulf of fire yawning for him, when a single cry sent the strength back
to his heart. His mother’s voice reached him through the roar of the
flames and struck the sick weakness from brain and limb. With a
desperate bound, he landed by his father’s side, strangled and quivering
from head to foot. His hands were scorched; his hair was crisped, and a
deadly whiteness showed itself through the smoke and ashes which
blackened his young face. He struggled to speak, but his chest only
heaved and the parched upper lip curved away from his teeth, giving his
mouth an awful look of agony. His eyes were uplifted to his father’s
face, burning with pity, despair, and such courage as the hero feels
when he leads a forlorn hope on the battle-field.
He spoke at last, and his voice was like the cry of a wild eagle.
“Father, let me go first. God has saved me for that!”
The father turned and looked upon him almost with a smile on his lip.
“It will give them courage, father. Mother—mother, it is only a moment’s
pain. Kiss me, mother, for I must go.”
He flung both arms about his mother, folding in the infant. He kissed
the quivering face of the woman, the wondering eyes of the babe, seized
his father’s hand, wrung it hard, and clambered up the bulwark.
A feeble hand caught at his clothes and a wild voice cried out:
“Brian, Brian, take me, take me; I cannot climb up alone!”
This was the eldest girl, who grasped eagerly at his smouldering jacket.
The lad sprang back, took her in his arms and tried to lift her up the
bulwark.
“Yes, Ellen, we will go together—you and I.”
He gained the narrow ledge of wood, and was dragging her up, when a
lurch of the half-burned wreck broke his hold and sent him headlong into
the deep; she fell back upon the deck moaning.
The father turned to his wife, who shook so violently that the babe
almost fell from her hold.
“One has gone—Mary—Mary!”
It was all he could say. The words turned to ashes on his lips, but his
eyes looked out upon the water with an awful meaning.
The frightened creature understood him and held the child close. She
lifted her cold lips meekly for the last death kiss, but he had no power
to give it. The rugged whiteness of his face met hers one moment and was
withdrawn again. Then, with his strong arms shaking like reeds, he
lifted her upward and loosened his hold. Twenty feet below there was a
break in the waters, a dash, and the _sharp cry_ of an infant, but the
sounds were faint and lost in the roar of the flames. The man bent
forward to look over, but his heart failed, and, with a desperate
calmness, he selected the smallest child left in that quaking group—a
little, chubby girl—and lifted her to the bulwark. One instant those
great, quivering hands rested on her head—then came the gleam of a baby
face against the black side of the vessel, a flash of soft hair in the
wind, and scarcely a ripple followed to tell where the little creature
dropped into eternity. Another—and then the last of the flock stood,
white and still, while the wretched father blessed her as he had
sanctified the others.
She was the oldest of four girls, something more than a child, but the
most helpless of them all, for the girl was hunchbacked and dwarfed, but
it was the quiet, calm face of an angel that looked up into those
agonized eyes.
“Good-bye, father—I am not afraid.”
The words were on her lips when she dropped from under the benediction
of his hands, and now all was gone. Of a large family, the father stood
alone. He turned that hard, white face upon the spot where his little
brood had stood, looking yet for another. Then came a cloud of vague
bewilderment, followed by the truth, sharp and quick. With one strong
cry of terrible anguish his arms were flung upward and he plunged
overboard.
Virginia and her father saw all this and their souls grew strong within
them. What had they to give up compared to the awful duty which this man
had performed? How patiently, and with what meek faith that woman had
gone down to her death! It seemed a little thing for them to die with
each other. After such heroism, Lander knew Virginia would stay by him
to the last, and forbore to urge her farther. So long as there was a
chance of life on the vessel, they would seek it together; when that was
gone, a plunge after that doomed family and all would be over.
But their time grew short now. The fire was burning fiercely towards
them. Every instant narrowed the space which was even now overcrowded
with human life. Each minute some unhappy wretch was jostled overboard,
as the crowd pressed closer and closer to avoid the burning death that
seemed ravenous for every human life on board.
“Lift me up to the bulwark, father, if there is a hope of life let me
search for it.”
Mr. Lander lifted her up to the charred bulwark, and held her there with
desperate firmness. She leaned forward and gazed through the eddying
smoke out on the sea—praying for a sail—praying for help—nothing was in
sight save a few struggling creatures in the water—that boat drifting to
and fro at a safe distance, with Cora Lander in it, and a frail raft on
which two or three desperate men were working hard to keep above water.
Beyond this she saw one or two capsized boats drifting keel upward—and
that was all.
From this hopeless waste of waters, she turned to the vortex of fire
raging beneath her—turned with thrills of terror that made the very
heart shudder in her bosom.
It was an awful sight! The great ship lay seething in the water more
than half consumed, a skeleton of fire preying on itself. The light
wood-work had flashed out with vehemence and sunk to a sea of fiery
smoke in the hold. Except a few miserable feet at the prow, nothing was
left but a mighty cradle of red-hot iron, ribbed and beamed and braced
with such massive strength that fire itself seemed incapable of
destroying it. Huge beams, scintillating stormy sparks with every sweep
of the wind, spanned what had been the deck from bulwark to bulwark.
Great, crooked ribs of solid fire curved down to the engine, which lay
massive and inert—its iron heart pulseless—its mighty arms paralyzed—its
boiler a hollow ball of iron, and all its wonderful mechanism a vast
heap of white heated metal.
Virginia Lander recoiled from this fearful sight, and sunk back to her
father’s arms, shuddering.
“There is no hope,” she said. “The fire is working this way and
undermining us. Anything is better than a death like that!”
“How near?” questioned the old man.
“God may give us half an hour.”
“Even in that time He may send us help,” said the father, bending over
her with yearning tenderness. “Oh, my child, when I think of your young
life going out so early, I’m a coward!”
“No, no, father; after looking down into that awful gulf of fire, death
in the cool waters seems Heaven to me,” said Virginia.
That moment a portion of the deck on which they stood crumbled in, and a
column of flame shot up close to them.
Two or three women, mad with fright, leaped overboard, their faces
marble, their garments one mass of fire; others sunk with fragments of
the deck into the hot torments of the hold and were lost in those
scarlet billows before a sound of anguish could tell of their fate.
Nearer and nearer those doomed ones came the stifling death, not a foot
of safe timber was left. On the very edge of that hollow cradle of fire
they stood, clinging together for the last time.
Now a slender dart of flame shot up between the warped boards on which
they stood. Still they clung closer to each other, shrinking away from
it.