Yes, there she rode, as calmly as though at anchor in the river; the
very paint looked new upon her; she was clean and whole and undismayed.
At once Anthony ordered out a boat and put three of the seamen in it;
then, with mademoiselle, he also got in and headed through the mass of
litter toward the ship. It was laborious pulling, but stout sweeps and
strong bodies accomplished it, and within an hour they stood upon the
vessel's deck.
[Illustration: "... HEADED THROUGH THE MASS OF LITTER TOWARD THE SHIP."]
Some six feet remained of her mainmast; the others had broken shorter;
her hatches were fast, with tarpaulins and battens on each; here and
there the bulwarks were broken, but the deck was as tight as on the day
she was launched.
"Get the hatches open," said Anthony. And, while the three seamen
employed themselves in ripping off the battens, he got a lantern and
kindled a light. And while mademoiselle lowered it, at the end of a
line, into the throat of the mainhatch, Anthony went down another line,
after it.
Dry! He took the lamp in his hands and looked about. By God, it was
so dry there was dust on things! Here were some bales of silk, now.
Oh, yes, dry! They couldn't be more so. And, God save us, how perfect
the scantlings were! they were like bones they were that free of wet.
And how tightly the cargo was wedged; there was not the least sign of
shifting anywhere that he could see. He called the news up the hatch,
and mademoiselle cried out her joy. The other hatches were now off, and
the light poured in. It was wonderful the way things were! Amazing! He
went climbing over the cargo and down into its timbered crevices. As
tight as a drum! Quite the tightest shipful of stuff he'd ever seen.
The man who stowed this had his wits about him. He was an excellent
workman, and knew how to prepare for the long pitch of the Indian
Ocean; he had taken time in hand, and set himself to guard against the
Atlantic's storms. Oh, yes, a tight cargo; wedged like a cork in the
neck of a bottle. Not a cask, not a bale had budged since they had been
swung into the hold at Calcutta.
Of all good things, so Anthony thought, as he sat on a mound of goods
and looked about, the touch of a skilful hand is best. The cunning
turns, the clever artifices! Here was work that had been done to
admiration. The man who could stow a ship like this could write a great
song; for he had music in him, bold music, of a kind you could sit and
listen to, and that would put you to wondering about fine things.
The hold was a great, wide belly filled with rich food; and it was deep
as a mine. Woven silks and raw! swathed in strong wrappings and bound
by cords. Opium in chests, with delights and curses written on their
lids; dyes, gums, spices, rare fabrics. Shawls! fine cashmere shawls,
soft and warm and beautiful, woven in that far-off valley, of the fine
under-hair of goats. A pair of them would bring five hundred Farakhabad
rupees at Amritsar, and four times as much in any Western port. And
carpets: soft, thick, rich! with the markings on the bundles telling
tales of far-off peoples and places; skins; made leather; indigo;
shell-lac. Wondrous stores of these. Then more silks; piece silks in
patterns, a commodity swift to sell, and holding profits that had made
many a trader rich.
Anthony climbed out of the hold, his head heavy with wonder. He saw now
why Charles Stevens had dreamed and talked of this shipful; for it was
a cargo that would be counted rich by a mercantile house made up of
princes.
The captain's cabin was fast; they forced it. Here were certain weighty
chests, locked and sealed; there were empty brandy-bottles on the floor
and full ones in a cupboard; the place was foul of drunkenness; and
rage arose in Anthony as he looked about.
"What serves it to build sound ships if beasts are to master them?" he
said. "No storm that ever blew would have disabled this vessel in the
waters she was in if a sober, clever man had managed her."
He tried to imagine what had happened. But he was sure of one thing
only: the great storm had come between the pirates and their loot.
"The ship was abandoned," Anthony told himself, "but not at the time
set down in their plans. They quit her at some lull in the storm,
thinking they'd be safer in the boats. The brig I saw poking among the
bars and shoals off the Jerseys was the vessel which they had elected
to salvage the _Rufus Stevens_, if all had gone as they wished; her
business along the coast was in the hope that the ship's wreckage had
been driven ashore at some lonely point and that they might at least
profit by that."
He took the vessel's papers and the log-book from a metal box; then he
and mademoiselle sat at an open window in the main cabin and searched
them carefully. The sealed chests were declared to contain vessels
of wrought gold, jewels set, unset, and matched, and inlaid wares of
crafty make. And while they sat there a breeze began stirring and gave
a gentle motion to the ship. About two hours had passed and they were
deep in talk, when they heard Corkery's voice, and, going on deck, they
saw the schooner, lowering mainsail and jibs, and close alongside.
Corkery and Tom Horn came aboard, and Anthony went over the ship with
them.
"As sound as a nut," said the mate, late in the afternoon, when they
had done. "If her masts were in her I'd not hesitate to ship as her
mate for a voyage round the world."
"A mast is needful," said Tom Horn. "A tall mast that will reach the
high drifts of air. She'll be quick then, and this sea will slacken in
power over her. She'll have life of her own, and, well guided, she'll
escape."
Next day they came back to the matter. In all that sea they'd come
through, said Anthony, he had not seen a sound spar, and he feared one
would be hard to come by. To this Corkery agreed; vessels that found
their way into the Sargasso were not likely to carry such matters as
masts. But, if it must be done, there was the _Roebuck's_ mainmast,
a stout stick of timber, over-small for a ship of the tonnage of the
_Rufus Stevens_, but one that would give service. Anthony shook his
head over this; he had no fancy for two crippled ships. Said Tom Horn:
"The great drift of water is to the east and then to the south. Sound
spars are apt to be found only on ships newly come into this sea; and
all those come as the _Rufus Stevens_ came, from the northeast."
So, when the mist lifted its barriers and the gloomy stretch of sea was
visible, Anthony began searching the east and northeast; rank on dismal
rank stretched the green, fungus-grown hulks; the water in places
seemed to lift itself in solid waves of rotting grass. But no sign
of a standing mast was anywhere. As there was a possibility of one,
unstepped or broken off, lying upon one of the decks, the mate took a
boat's crew and set off; they were gone until nightfall and returned
unsuccessful. Next day Anthony took up the venture; for hours the men
strove with the thick sea and drifting wreckage; Anthony clambered
from hulk to hulk; but he returned as Corkery had done, defeated. A
week went by; in a few days there was a light wind, and the schooner,
with all sail set and the _Rufus Stevens_ towing astern, made some
small way around the crowding wrecks. But the last of the week saw
Corkery chance upon a stout mast adrift amid the weed; by deal of
effort it was brought alongside the ship and hoisted on board. With an
adze and an ax Anthony trimmed the heel of the timber into the required
shape; and Corkery served the stump of the _Rufus Stevens_ in a way
that would be like to meet it. With a pair of spars erected as sheers,
and blocks and lines, the mast was swung into place and lashed firmly
to the stump, the braces were hauled taut, and the cleats made fast
about the heel. By the afternoon of the next day the spars and sail
were in place; also a bowsprit had been rigged and a pair of jibs added
to the spread of canvas. By the following noon a sluggish wind had both
vessels moving. The short spars and ill-fitting sails of the _Rufus
Stevens_ gave her a slovenly look; but Anthony felt like a prince as
he stood at her wheel and guided the great hull through the scum and
desolation of that gloomy place.
"Keep outside the hulks," said Tom Horn, "well outside, and you'll have
no great odds to contend with. You are now in the current; it moves
slowly here, but will grow swifter later on. Days and weeks will pass,
and all the time you'll seem to be burrowing deeper into this region's
rotting heart; you will sicken as I did, but keep hope with you, for
the end will be good."
Days did pass; and weeks passed, also. Each morning came the same: the
banks of mist rearing from a sea to sky, a thin light seeping through,
and then the first sparklings of the sun, and a wind that set the
tendrils and banners of the fog a-tossing. Sometimes the direction of
the breeze was favorable; the sails flapped as the grudging measures
were poured into them, and foot by foot the great ship took her way.
The sun traveled hot and red across the sky; the files of dead ships
hung steadily upon their quarter. The filthy, vulture-like birds
hovered about with hideous expectancy. And night settled, dark, silent,
filled with a choking miasma, or burning with brittle stars, and with a
quiet moon, spreading a corpse-cloth over the sea.
The _Roebuck_, with Corkery aboard, kept in the van; her sails took
more of the wind, and her narrower bulk slipped along with greater
ease. Then, well into one quiet night, they rode into clear water; Tom
Horn heard the sucking pull under the ship's foot and raised a cry; the
wind had a snapping vigor and smelled clean; there was a feeling of
fine, leaping life in the world. And then morning came dancing toward
them across the white, tufted seas; the vast, shining expanse lifted
and lowered; and the spotted sky raced over them like charging horses.
"God's sun!" said Tom Horn. "God's sky, and God's sea! There is that in
a man's soul which will always be the saving of him, if he trusts to it
and keeps himself from fear."
After they had their breakfast, Anthony fixed their position by the
sun; a few fair days sail would lift the Cape Verdes into view; so,
signaling Corkery, in the schooner, he turned the ship west by a trifle
south, meaning to skirt the Sargasso and fall into the sea roads
traveled by ships working north from Rio or the Far East.
The sails drew badly and were hard to manage; nevertheless, the vessel
made good time. The _Roebuck_ kept her well in view, stepping along
under shortened canvas; at night the mate would draw the schooner off;
but at daylight he'd creep up once more. One morning when Anthony came
on deck he noted Tom Horn forward, with the glass, holding it steadily
upon a point almost due west.
"A sail," said the clerk; "a spot only, and standing just above the
line."
There was that in his voice which caught Anthony's attention: the man's
hands were shaking; his face was gray.
"We'll meet many vessels from now on," said Anthony. "We are coming
into the track of them."
But Tom Horn said nothing, holding the glass leveled. Another fifteen
minutes lifted the sail into plainer view.
"She is a brig," said the clerk, "and, by her build and manner of
wearing her rigging, she's American." He was silent for a few moments
more; then he held out the glass very quietly to Anthony and said: "It
was a brig we saw prowling off the coast of the Jerseys when we were
there, I think."
Anthony took the glass and picked up the approaching vessel. She
was brig-rigged and slackly kept; her dress of sails was shabby and
patched, but the morning light caught and held in a foretopsail that
was white and new.