Luncheon over, the passengers, many of whom had been continuously in
their berths, began to crowd the decks. These soon discovered that the
ship was not on an even keel; a fact confirmed when attention was called
to the slant of the steamer chairs and the roll of an orange toward the
scuppers. Explanation was offered by the Texan, who argued that the
wind had hauled, and being then abeam had given her a list to starboard.
This, while not wholly satisfactory to the more experienced, allayed
the fears of the women--there were two or three on board beside the
widow--who welcomed the respite from the wrench and stagger of the
previous hours.
Attention was now drawn by a nervous passenger to a gang of sailors
under the First Officer, who were at work overhauling the boats on the
forward deck, immediately under the eyes of the Captain who had returned
to the bridge, as well as to an approaching wall of fog which, while he
was speaking, had blanketed the ship, sending two of the boat gang on
a run to the bow. The fog-horn also blew continuously, almost without
intermission. Now and then it too would give three short, sharp snorts,
as if of warning.
The passengers had now massed themselves in groups, some touch of
sympathy, or previous acquaintance, or trait of courage but recently
discovered, having drawn them together. Again the Captain passed down
the deck. This time he stopped to light a cigarette from a passenger's
cigar, remarking as he did so that it was “as thick as pea soup on the
bridge, but he thought it would lighten before morning.” Then halting
beside the chair of an old lady who had but recently appeared on deck,
he congratulated her on her recovery and kept on his way to the boats.
The widow, however, was still anxious.
“What are they doing with the boats?” she asked, her eyes following the
Captain's disappearing figure.
“Only overhauling them, madam,” spoke up the Texan, who had stationed
himself near her chair.
“But isn't that unusual!” she inquired in a tremulous voice.
“No, madam, just precaution, and always a safe one in a fog. Collision
comes so quick sometimes they don't have time even to clear the davits.”
“But the sailors are carrying up boxes and kegs and putting them in
the boats; what's that for?” broke in another passenger, who had been
leaning over the forward rail.
“Grub and water, I guess,” returned the Texan. “It's a thousand miles to
the nearest land, and there ain't no bakery on the way that I know of.
Can't be too careful when there's women and babies aboard, especially
little fellows like these--” and he ran his hand through the boy's
curls. “The Captain don't take no chances. That's what I like him for.”
Again the current of hope submerged the current of despair. The slant of
the deck, however, increased, although the wind had gone down; so
much so that the steamer chairs had to be lashed to the iron hand-hold
skirting the wall of the upper cabins. So had the fog, which was now so
dense that it hid completely the work of the boat gang.
With the passing of the afternoon and the approach of night, thus
deepening the gloom, there was added another and a new anxiety to the
drone of the fog-horn. This was a Coston signal which flashed from the
bridge, flooding the deck with light and pencilling masts and rigging in
lines of fire. These flashes kept up at intervals of five minutes, the
colors changing from time to time.
An indefinable fear now swept through the vessel. The doubters and
scoffers from the smoking-room who stood huddled together near the
forward companion-way talked in whispers. The slant of the deck they
argued might be due to a shift of the cargo--a situation serious, but
not dangerous--but why burn Costons? The only men who seemed to be
holding their own, and who were still calm and undisturbed, were the
Texan and the Actor. These, during the conference, had moved toward the
flight of steps leading to the bridge and had taken their positions near
the bottom step, but within reach of the widow's chair. Once the Actor
loosened his coat and slipped in his hand as if to be sure of something
he did not want to lose.
While this was going on the Captain left the bridge in charge of the
Second Officer and descended to his cabin. Reaching over his bunk, he
unhooked the picture of his wife and child, tore it from its frame,
looked at it intently for a moment, and then, with a sigh, slid it into
an inside pocket. This done, he stripped off his wet storm coat, thrust
his arms into a close-fitting reefing jacket, unhooked a holster from
its place, dropped its contents into his outside pocket, and walked
slowly down the flight of steps to where the Texan and the Actor stood
waiting.
Then, facing the passengers, and in the same tone of voice with which he
would have ordered a cup of coffee from a steward, he said:
“My friends, I find it necessary to abandon the ship. There is time
enough and no necessity for crowding. The boats are provisioned for
thirty days. The women and children will go first: this order will be
literally carried out; those who disobey it will have to be dealt with
in another way. This, I hope, you will not make necessary. I will also
tell you that I believe we are still within the steamer zone, although
the fog and weather have prevented any observation. Do you stay here,
madam. I'll come for you when I am ready--” and he laid his hand
encouragingly on the widow's arm.
With this he turned to the Texan and the Actor:
“You understand, both of you, do you not, Mr. Bonner? You and your
friend will guard the aft companion-way, and help the Chief Engineer
take care of the stokers and the steerage. I and the First Officer will
fill the boats.”
The beginning of a panic is like the beginning of a fire: first a curl
of smoke licking through a closed sash, then a rush of flame, and then a
roar freighted with death. Its subduing is along similar lines: A sharp
command clearing the way, concentrated effort, and courage.
Here the curl of smoke was an agonized shriek from an elderly woman who
fell fainting on the deck; the rush of flame was a wild surge of men
hurling themselves toward the boats, and the roar which meant death was
the frenzied throng of begrimed half-naked stokers and crazed emigrants
who were wedged in a solid mass in the companion-way leading to the
upper deck. The subduing was the same.
[Illustration: Back, all of you ]
“Back, all of you!” shouted the Engineer. “The first man who passes
that door without my permission I'll kill! Five of you at a time--no
crowding--keep 'em in line, Mr. Bonner--you and your friend!”
The Texan and the Bum Actor were within three feet of him as he
spoke--the Texan as cool as if he were keeping count of a drove of
steers, except that he tallied with the barrel of a six-shooter instead
of a note-book and pencil. The Bum Actor's face was deathly white and
his pistol hand trembled a little, but he did not flinch. He ranged the
lucky ones in line farther along, and kept them there. “Anything to
get home,” he had told the Texan when he had slipped Bonner's other
revolver, an hour before, into his pocket.
On the saloon deck the flame of fear was still raging, although the
sailors and the three stewards were so many moving automatons under
the First Officer's orders. The widow, with her baby held tight to her
breast, had not moved from where the Captain had placed her, nor had
she uttered a moan. The crisis was too great for anything but implicit
obedience. The Captain had kept his word, and had told her when danger
threatened; she must now wait for what God had in store for her. The boy
stood by the First Officer; he had clapped his hands and laughed when he
saw the first boat swung clear of the davits.
Carhart was the color of ashes and could hardly articulate. He had edged
up close to the gangway where the boats were to be filled. Twice he had
tried to wedge himself between the First Officer and the rail and twice
had been pushed back--the last time with a swing that landed him against
a pile of steamer chairs.
All this time the fog-horn had kept up its monotonous din, the Costons
flaring at intervals. The stoppage of either would only have added to
the terror now partly allayed by the Captain's encouraging talk, which
was picked up and repeated all over the ship.
The first boat was now ready for passengers.
“This way, madam--you first--” the Captain said to the widow. “You must
go alone with the baby, and I--”
He did not finish the sentence. Something had caught his ear--something
that made him lunge heavily toward the rail, his eyes searching the
gloom, his hand cupped to his ear.
“Hold hard, men!” he cried. “Keep still-all of you!”
[Illustration: Hold hard men ]
Out of the stillness of the night came the moan of a distant fog-horn.
This was followed by a wild cheer from the men at the boat davits. At
the same instant a dim, far-away light cut its way through the black
void, burned for a moment, and disappeared like a dying star.
Another cheer went up. This time the watch on the foretop and the men
astride the nose sent it whirling through the choke and damp with an
added note of joy.
The Captain turned to the widow.
“That's her--that's the _St. Louis!_ I've been hoping for her all day,
and didn't give up until the fog shut in.”
“And we can stay here!”
“No--we haven't a moment to lose. Our fires are nearly out now. We've
been in a sinking condition for forty-eight hours. We sprung a leak
where we couldn't get at it, and our pumps are clogged.
“Stand aside, men! All ready, madam! No, you can't manage them
both--give me the boy,--I'll bring him in the last boat.”