Ned’s news was received with the keenest delight by Lenore and Mrs.
Hardenworth. The latter regained her lost amiability with promptness.
Lenore’s reaction was not dissimilar from Ned’s; in her native city she
could come into her own again.
The bottles were greeted with shouts of delight. Ned went immediately to
the sideboard and procured half a dozen glasses.
“All hands partake to-night,” he explained. “It’s going to be a _real_
party.”
He mixed whiskies-and-sodas for Lenore and Mrs. Hardenworth; then
started to make the rounds of the crew with a bottle and glasses. He did
not, however, waste time offering any to Bess. The latter had already
evinced an innate fear of it, wholly apart from sentimentality and
nonsense. She had lived in a circle and environment where strong drink
had not been merely a thing to jest over and sing songs about, to drink
lightly and receive therefrom pleasant exhilaration; but where it was a
living demon, haunting and shadowing every hour. She had no false
sophistication—her knowledge of life was all too real—and she had no
desire to toy with poison and play with fire. Both were realities to
her. She knew that they had blasted life on life, all as sturdy and
seemingly as invincible as her own. Her abstinence was not a moral issue
with her. It was simply that she knew here was a foe that met men in
their pleasant hours, greeted them in friendly ways, and then, by
insidious, slow attack, cast them down and left them miserably to die;
and she was simply afraid for her life of it. Ned, on the other hand,
would have laughed at the thought of its ever mastering him. He felt
himself immune from the tragedies that had afflicted other men. It was
part of the conceit of his generation.
But Ned found plenty of customers for his whisky. McNab, at the wheel,
wished him happy days over two fingers of straight liquor in the glass,
and Knutsen, his pale eyes gleaming, poured himself a staggering
portion. “Go ahead,” Ned encouraged him when the seaman apologized for
his greediness. “The sky’s the limit to-night.” And Forest in the engine
room, and Julius in the kitchen absorbed a man’s-size drink with right
good will.
Ned was able to make the rounds again before the call for dinner; and
the attitude of his guests was changed in but one instance. McNab seemed
to be measuring his liquor with exceeding care. He was a man who knew
his own limits, and he apparently did not intend to overstep them. He
took a small drink, but Knutsen, his superior, consumed as big a portion
as before.
It was an elated, spirited trio that sat down at the little table in the
saloon. Not one of them could ever remember a happier mood. Julius
served the dinner with a flourish; and they had only laughter when a
sudden lurch of the craft slid the sugar bowl off the table to the
floor.
“Hello, the ship’s drunk too,” Ned commented gaily.
They were really in too glad a mood to see anything but sport in the
suddenly rocking table. The truth was that the wind had suddenly sprung
into a brisk gale, rolling heavy seas and bobbing the little craft about
like a cork. The three screamed with laughter, holding fast to their
slipping chairs, and Lenore rescued the bottle that was tipping
precariously on the buffet.
“We’d better have a little extra one,” she told them. “I’ll be seasick
if we don’t.”
She had to speak rather loudly to make herself heard. The wind was no
longer laughing lightly and happily at their port bows. It had suddenly
burst into a frantic roar, swelling to the proportions of a thunder clap
and dying away on a long, weird wail that filled the sky and the sea.
Instantly it burst forth loudly again, and the snow whipped against the
glass of the ports.
Ned stood up, braced himself, and immediately poured the drinks. But it
was not only to save Lenore an attack of sea-sickness. He was also
swayed by the fact that the heat of the room seemed to be swiftly
escaping. Fortunately, there was still warmth in plenty in the bottle,
so he need not be depressed by a mere fall of temperature. He glanced
about the room, rather suspecting that one of the ports had been left
open. The saloon, however, was as tightly closed as was possible for it
to be.
He turned at once, made his way through the gale that swept the deck,
and procured Lenore’s and Mrs. Hardenworth’s heaviest coats. He noticed
as he passed that Bess had sought refuge in the engine room. Ned waved
to her then returned to his guests.
The room was already noticeably colder, not so much from the drop in
temperature—a thermometer would have still registered above
freezing—as from the chilling, penetrating quality of the wind that
forced an entrance as if through the ship’s seams. There seemed no
pause, now, between the mighty, roaring gusts. The long, weird wail they
had heard at first was only an overtone, in some way oppressive to the
imagination. The rattle at the window was loud for the soft sweep of
snow. Ned saw why in a moment: the snow had changed to sleet.
There was no opportunity to make comment before Knutsen lurched into the
room. “It’s tough, isn’t it?” he commented. “Mr. Cornet, I want another
shot of dat stuff before I take de wheel.”
Ned, not uninfluenced by his cups, extended the bottle with a roar of
laughter. “You know what’s good for you,” he commented. “Where’s McNab?
Let him have one too.”
“He’s still at de wheel, but I don’t think he’d care for one. He’s a
funny old wolf, at times. Mrs. Hardenworth, how do you like dis
weat’er?”
“I don’t like it very well.” She held fast to the slipping table. “Of
course, you’d tell us if there was any danger——”
“Not a bit of danger. Yust a squall. Dis isn’t rough—you ought to see
what it would be outside dis chain of islands. But it’s mighty chilly.”
He poured the stiff drink down his great throat, then buttoned his coat
tight.
Ned, for a moment secretly appalled by the storm, felt his old
recklessness returning. The captain said it was only a squall,—and were
they not soon to turn south? In fact, their direction now was no longer
north, but rather in an easternly direction toward Tzar Island. He was
warm now, glowing; the rocking of the boat only increased his
exhilaration.
“There’s only three or four shots left in this bottle,” he said, holding
up the second of the two quarts he had taken from the case. “You’d
better have one more with us before you go. A man burns up lots of
whisky without hurting him any on a night like this. Then take the
bottle in with you to keep you warm at the wheel.”
Knutsen needed no second urging. He was of a race that yields easily to
drink, and he wanted to conquer the last, least little whisper of his
fear of the night and the storm. He drank once more, pocketed the
bottle, then made his way to the pilot house.
“You’re not going to try to ride her through?” McNab asked, as he
yielded the wheel.
“Of course. You’re not afraid of a little flurry like dis.”
His voice gave no sign of the four powerful drinks he had consumed. A
tough man physically, the truth was he was still a long way from actual
drunkenness. But even a small amount of liquor had a distressing effect
upon him,—a particularly unfortunate effect for one who habitually has
the lives of other human beings in his charge. He always lost the fine
edge of his caution. With drink upon him, he was willing to take a
chance.
McNab stared into his glittering eyes, and for a moment his lips were
tightly compressed. “This isn’t a little flurry,” he answered at last
coldly. “It’s a young gale, and God knows what it will be by morning.
You know and I know we shouldn’t attempt things here that we can do with
safety in waters we’re familiar with. Right now we can run into the lea
of Ivan Island and find a harbor. There’s a good one just south of the
point.”
“We’re not going to run into Ivan Island. I want to feel dry land. We’re
going to head on toward Tzar Island.”
“You run a little more of that bottle down your neck and you’ll be
heading us into hell. Listen, Cap’n.” McNab paused, deeply troubled.
“You let me take the wheel, and you go in and celebrate with the party.
You won’t do any damage then.”
“And you get back to your engine and mind your own business.” Little
angry points of light shot into Knutsen’s eyes. “And if you see Cornet,
tell him to bring up anoder bottle. Dis one’s almost empty.”
McNab turned to the door, where for a moment he stood listening to the
wild raging of the wind. Then he climbed down into the engine room.
There was nothing in his face, as he entered, to reveal the paths of his
thought. He was wholly casual, wholly commonplace, seemingly not in the
least alarmed. He stepped to Bess’s side, half smiling.
“I wonder if you can help me?” he asked.
The girl stood up, a straight, athletic figure at his side. “I’ll try,
of course.”
“It depends—have you any influence with young Cornet?”
Bess slowly shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she told him,
very gravely. “I have no influence with him at all. What is it you
wanted me to do?”
“I wanted you to tell him to put up the booze. Particularly to keep the
captain from getting any more. This is a bum night. It’s against the
rules of the sea to scare passengers, but somehow, I figure you’re the
stuff that can stand it and maybe hold out. This isn’t a night to have a
shipload of drunks. There may be some tight places before the morning.
“There’s only one way.” The girl’s lips were close to his ear, else he
couldn’t have heard in the roar of the storm and the flapping of the
sails. “Listen, McNab. How much has he got in the dining saloon?”
“None, now, I don’t think. He only brought up two bottles, and Knutsen’s
got one of ’em—not much in it, though. They must have emptied the
other.”
“Then we’re all clear.” She suddenly straightened, a look of unswervable
intent in her face. “McNab, it’s better to make some one—violently mad
at you—isn’t it, if maybe you can save him from trouble? If you want to
see him get ahead and make a success of a big venture—it isn’t wrong,
is it, to do something against his will that you know is right?”
McNab looked at her as before now he had looked at strong men with whom
he had stood the watch. “What are you gettin’ at?”
His voice was gruff, but it didn’t offend her. She felt that they were
on common ground.
“If may be human lives are the stake, a person can’t stand by for one
man’s anger,” she went on.
“Human lives are the first consideration,” the man answered. “That’s the
rule of the sea. Most sea rules are good rules—built on sense—all
except the one that you can’t take the wheel away from a drunken
captain. What’s your idea?”
“You know as well as I do. I promised his father before I left that I’d
look after Ned. He was in earnest—and Ned needs looking after now if he
ever did. Mr. Cornet won’t blame me, either. Show me how to get down in
the hold.”
McNab suddenly chuckled and patted her on the back with rough
familiarity, yet with fervent companionship. “You’ve got the stuff,” he
said. “But you can’t lift them alone. I’m with you till the last dog is
hung.”
X
On the exposed deck the storm met the two adventurers with a yell. For
the first time Bess knew its full fury, as the wind buffeted her, and
the sleet swept like fine shot into her face. They clung to the railing,
then fought their way to the hold.
Hidden by the darkness and the sleet, no one saw them carry up the heavy
liquor cases and drop them into the sea. The noise of the storm
concealed the little sound they made. Finally only two bottles remained,
the last of a broken case.
“You take one of those and ditch it in your room,” McNab advised. “I’ll
keep the other. There might come a time when we’ll find real need for
’em—as a stimulant for some one who is freezing.”
“Take care of both of them,” Bess urged. “I’m not sure I could keep
mine, if any one asked for it.”
“I don’t know about that. I believe I’d bet on you. And now it’s
done—forget about it.”
Soon they crept back along the deck, McNab to his work, Bess to her
stateroom. The latter ignited the lantern that served to light her room,
and for a moment stood staring into the little mirror that hung above
her washstand. She hadn’t escaped the fear of the night and the storm
and of the bold deed she had just done. Her deep, blue eyes were wide,
her face was pale, the childlike appeal Ned had noticed long ago was
more pronounced than ever. Presently she sat down to await developments.
They were not long in coming. She and McNab had all but encountered Ned
on his way to the hold. His bottles were empty, and the desire for
strong drink had not left him yet. In the darkness under the deck he
groped blindly for his cases.
They seemed to evade him. Breathing hard, he sought a match, scratching
it against the wall. Then he stared in dumb and incredulous
astonishment.
His stock of liquor was gone. Not even the cases were left. Thinking
that perhaps some shift in the position of the stores had concealed
them, he made a moment’s frantic search through the hold. Then, raging
like a child, and in imminent danger of slipping on the perilous deck,
he rushed to the pilot house.
“Captain, do you know what became of my liquors?” he demanded. “I can’t
find them in the hold.”
The binnacle light revealed the frenzy and desperation on his drawn
face; the mouth was no longer smiling its crooked, boyish smile. Knutsen
glanced at him once, then turned his eyes once more over his wheel. For
the moment he did not seem to be aware of Ned’s presence. He made,
however, one significant motion: his brown hand reached out to the
bottle beside him, in which perhaps two good drinks remained, and softly
set it among the shadows at his feet.
“I say!” Ned urged. “I tell you my liquor’s gone!”
The captain seemed to be studying the yellow path that his searchlight
cut in the darkness. The waves were white-capped and raging; the sleet
swept out of the gloom, gleamed a moment in the yellow radiance, then
sped on into the night.
“I heard you,” Knutsen answered slowly. “I was thinking about it. I
haven’t any idea who took it—if he’s still got it, I’ll see that he
gives it back. It was a dirty trick——”
“You don’t know, then, anything about it?” As he waited, Ned got the
unmistakable idea that the captain neither knew nor really cared. He was
more interested in retaining the two remaining drinks in his own bottle
than in helping Ned regain his lost cases. These two were enough for
him. It was wholly in keeping with that strange psychology of drunkards
that he should have no further cares.
“Of course I don’t know anything about ’em—but I’ll help you
investigate in the morning,” he answered. “I’m very sorry, Mr.
Cornet—that it should happen aboard my ship——”
“To hell with your ship! I’m going to investigate to-night.”
Ned started out, but he halted in the doorway, arrested by a sudden
suspicion. Presently he whirled and made his way to Bess’s stateroom.
He knocked sharply on the door. Bess opened it wide. Then for a long
second he stared into her deep-blue, appealing eyes.
“I suppose you did it?” he demanded.
She nodded. “I did it—to save you—from yourself. Not to mention
perhaps saving the ship as well.”
His lip drew up in scorn. Angry almost to the verge of childish tears,
he could not at first trust himself to speak. “You’ve certainly taken
things into your own hands,” he told her bitterly. His wrath gathered,
breaking from him at last in a flood. “You ill-bred prude, I wish I
could never lay eyes on you again!”
His scornful eyes saw the pain well into her face. Evidently he had gone
the limit: he couldn’t have hurt her worse with a blow of his hand.
Touched a little in spite of himself, he began to feel the first prick
of remorse. Perhaps it had done no good to speak so cruelly. Certainly
the whiskies could not be regained. Probably the fool thought she was
acting for his own good. He turned, slammed the door, and strode back to
the dining saloon.
It was by far the most bitter moment in Bess’s life. She had done right,
but her payment was a curse from the man she had hoped to serve. All her
castles had fallen: her dreams had broken like the bubbles they were.
This was the answer to the calling in her heart and the longing in her
soul,—the spoken wish that she might pass from his sight forever.
For the last few days, since they had entered this strange, snowy,
twilight region, she had had dreams such as she had never dared admit
into her heart before. Anything could happen up here. No wonder was too
great. It was the kind of place where men found themselves, where all
things were in proper balance, and false standards fell away. Some way,
she had been on the lookout for a miracle. But the things which had been
proven false, which could not live in this bitter world of realities,
were her own dreams! They had been the only things that had died. She
had been a fool to hope that here, at the wintry edge of the world, she
might find the happiness she had missed in her native city. The world
was with her yet, crushing her hopes as its rocky crust crushes the
fallen nestling before it learns to fly!
But at his post McNab had already forgotten the episode of the liquor
cases. Indeed, he had forgotten many other matters of much greater
moment. At the present his mind was wholly occupied by two stern
realities,—one of them being that the storm still raged in unabated
fury, and the other that a drunken captain was driving his craft at a
breakneck speed over practically uncharted waters.
The danger lay not only in the fact that Knutsen had disregarded McNab’s
good advice to seek shelter in one of the island harbors. Even now he
was disregarding the way of comparative safety, was not pausing to take
soundings, but was racing along before the wind instead of heading into
it with the power of the auxiliary engines. With wind and wave hurling
her forward, there would be no chance to turn back or avoid any island
reef that might suddenly loom in their path. Knutsen was trusting to his
sea gods over waters he had never sailed before, torn by storms and
lighted only by a feeble searchlight.
Once more McNab lifted his head through the hatch into the pilot house;
and for long seconds he studied intently the flushed face over the
wheel. They hadn’t really helped matters, so far as Knutsen was
concerned, by throwing the cases overboard. Seemingly his watch would be
over before the fumes of the liquor he had already consumed died in his
brain. At present he was in its full flush: wholly reckless, obstinate,
uncertain of temper. Was there any possible good in appealing to him
further?
“What now?” Knutsen asked gruffly.
“You’ve forgotten all the seamanship you ever knew,” McNab returned
angrily. “There’s no hurry about reaching Tzar Island. And you’re
risking every body’s life on board, sailing the way you are.”
“Are you captain of dis boat?” Knutsen demanded angrily.
“No, but——”
“Den get out of here. I know exactly what I’m doing. You’re just as safe
as——”
But it came about that Captain Knutsen did not finish the sentence.
McNab was never to find out, from Knutsen’s lips, just how safe he was.
All at once he cried sharply in warning.
Before ever Knutsen heard that sharp cry, he knew what lay ahead. Dulled
though his vision was, slow the processes of his brain, he saw that
curious ridge of white foam in front,—an inoffensive-looking trail of
white across their bows. At the same instant his keen ears caught a new
sound, one that was only half-revealed in the roar and beat of the
storm.
There was not the pause of an instant before his great, muscular arms
made response. At the same instant Forest tried to apply the power of
his engines in obedience to the sharp gong from above. And then both
Knutsen and McNab braced themselves for the shock they knew would come.
The craft seemed to leap in the water, shuddered like a living thing,
and the swath of the searchlight described a long arc into the sleet and
the storm. It may have been that Knutsen shouted again—a meaningless
sound that was lost quickly in the wind—but for seconds that seemed to
drag into interminable centuries he sat absolutely without outward sign
of motion. His great hands clutched his wheel, the muscles were set and
bunched, but it was as if the man had died and was frozen rigid in an
instant of incredible tension. His face utterly without expression,
Forest crouched beside his engines.
There was nothing that either of them could do. The waves and wind were
a power no man could stay. All their efforts were as useless as
Knutsen’s shout; already the little ship was in the remorseless grasp of
a great billow that was hurling her toward the ridge of white foam in
front. For another instant she seemed to hang suspended, as if suddenly
taken wing, and then there was a sheer drop, a sense of falling out of
the world. A queer ripping, tearing sound, not loud at all, not half so
terrifying as the bluster of the wind, reached them from the hold.
Cold sober, Knutsen turned in his place and gonged down certain orders
to Forest. In scarcely a moment, it seemed, they were pulling the
battens from the two little lifeboats on the deck.