OVERBOARD
Some twenty-five hundred miles lay before them, which meant from five
to six days at sea, depending on weather and other fortunes. On the
_Gyandotte_ it was pretty unanimously the opinion that the submarines
had tackled a “man’s job,” and that those aboard them were “regular
fellows.” For the first two days it was customary to ask of a morning:
“Have we still got ’em all?” But the subs themselves appeared to
neither ask nor expect sympathy. They went at their task with a fine
nonchalance, plowing along sturdily and steadily at some twelve knots
an hour, sometimes hidden from sight beyond the seas that tumbled them,
always dripping from end to end. The bridges invariably held one or
more rubber-clad forms swaying up and down, back and forth, behind the
scant protection of the canvas weather shields. It was a gallant little
band, and those on the larger ships were proud of them and, while never
losing a chance to make fun of them, would have fought on the instant
had anyone so much as hinted that those submarine officers and men
weren’t the pluckiest chaps in the service.
The usual fog met them off the Banks and the summer weather that had
accompanied them up the coast gave place to chill days and chillier
nights. On the morning of the third day at sea the fog blew away before
a strong northeast wind and they had stormy sunlight until well toward
evening. By that time there was talk of dirty weather ahead, and the
prediction was verified before midnight. At six bells the _Gyandotte_
was plunging and shaking, while a freshening gale threw whole seas
aboard her and seemed to be trying to blow her back where she had come
from. The cruiser made hard going of it, showing a nasty disposition
to stick her nose under the seas rather than through them. Everything
was afloat forward of amidships. Word came presently from the flagship
to reduce speed to ten knots, and later it was still further reduced.
There was much anxiety as to the submarines and in the _Gyandotte’s_
forecastle many a head was shaken commiseratingly that night. The
gale increased rather than lessened toward morning and when daylight
came it showed a world of mountainous seas and leaden sky. But it
also showed fourteen submarines still in sight, although badly out of
position. At least, so Nelson was told. Personally he could see but
one or two from the _Gyandotte_, and those only occasionally. Watching
the nearer one, a half-mile off the port bow, he shuddered as the tiny
gray thing pitched and tossed and rolled and he tried to think what
life inside her must be at such a time. And yet that furtive desire
still lurked at the back of his consciousness, the desire to cast his
lot with those heroic lads. Toward evening, though, the wish was less
well defined, for Nelson discovered to his surprised dismay that he
was just about half seasick. He had thought himself quite through with
such foolishness and was not a little disgusted and ashamed and went
to all sorts of lengths to prevent his shipmates from suspecting his
condition. He need not have troubled so much, however, for there were
older and more experienced men aboard that day who moved about with a
greenish pallor and sad eyes. He put his will to it and refused to be
beaten, with the result that, after a miserable attempt to eat some
supper, merely for the sake of appearances, he felt better and when he
went on watch was able to look the tumbling seas in the face without
quailing. The gale subsided toward night, but the ocean didn’t appear
to know it and kept right on being cantankerous, perhaps because it
was aware, as those in the plunging ships were not, that the gale’s
reformation was but temporary.
At seven bells Nelson was on lookout duty, a life-vest strapped around
his body and everything but his face hidden by rubber garments. His
station was near the waist and, fortunately or unfortunately, according
to one’s view of subsequent events, on the starboard. Behind him,
affording partial shelter from wind and flying spray, arose one of
the high funnels, while, above him, a whale-boat, one of the few
small boats carried in time of war, lurched against the gloom of the
sky. Occasionally he caught the faint glow of a dimmed stern light
somewhere ahead, but for the rest the darkness was unrelieved. The
night was chill, but he was warmly dressed under his slicker and felt
no discomfort from cold. What was uncomfortable was the spray that flew
slanting along and across the deck from the big waves that battered
the ship’s port bow. When a more than usually big sea came aboard the
spray rattled against him like hail and the water came swashing about
his feet, ankle deep, on its way to the scuppers. That was at half-past
eleven, and for some ten minutes before that he had fancied that
the wind, which had moderated earlier, was becoming fiercer again.
Once a sudden hurricane gust sent him lurching against the pipe rail,
tearing his feet from under him in its fury and leaving him clutching
desperately at a davit. The onslaught had been so unexpected that it
left him gasping for breath. After that he clung with gloved hands to
the rail.
A quarter of an hour later he was no longer in doubt as to the behavior
of the wind. It had swung a few points further north and had redoubled
its fury. The _Gyandotte_ heeled under its assault until Nelson was
flattened against the rail. Its voice was a roar between the funnels
and a demoniacal shriek in the rigging. Far above him the wireless
aerial whistled shrilly. The wind was a blast from the icy reaches
of the Greenland Sea and his clutching fingers inside the wet gloves
stiffened and numbed. He was heartily glad that his relief would come
soon and that he could tuck himself in his hammock, even though it
seemed doubtful that sleep would come to many that night. The little
cruiser was taking it hard, and no mistake. Steps hurried along the
deck in the darkness behind him and off the starboard bow signals
flashed. It was the flagship’s blinker at work. Presently it ceased
and then from here and there in the night other white throbs of light
traveled across the hurtling waters. The _Gyandotte’s_ speed decreased
and the tempest smote Nelson from a new angle. He knew that it meant
that the ships had been ordered to change their course and run into the
gale. His thoughts sped to the little submarines. He wondered if they
could stay afloat in such a sea. And then, so suddenly that it had all
happened before the cry of alarm was out of his throat, a wild gust
threw itself upon the ship, the deck slanted until the boiling water
threatened to engulf it, there was a rending crash behind the boy,
something gigantic felled him and drove the breath from his body, and
he knew no more.
The period of insensibility was probably brief. Perhaps less than a
minute elapsed from the instant that the big funnel, torn away by the
wind, crashed down upon boy and rail, until consciousness returned to
him. When it did he was for the first brief moment too dazed to realize
what had happened or where he was. It was the icy, breath-taking
coldness that cleared his brain. He found himself rising through
blackness and space, bruised, gasping, struggling instinctively, with
the crash of waters about him and the howl of the gale.
[Illustration: The big funnel crashed down upon the boy.]
He was overboard!
Terror clutched at his heart with fingers colder than the sea. He
shrieked aloud, but the sound was torn from his lips by the wind. He
thrashed his arms impotently and went down into a great depth, turning
over and over while tons of water seethed over him with a dull roaring.
He fought for the surface, his garments impeding him but the life-vest
aiding, and presently felt the air in his nostrils again. His lungs
were choked with the water he had swallowed and he felt horribly sick.
But the first panic of unreasoning fright had passed and he was able to
think, if not calmly, at least with some clearness. He realized that,
horrible as his condition was, drowning was as yet a long way off if
he could keep his head above water, for his life-vest would sustain
him for days. If death came it would come from exhaustion, for to keep
air in his lungs would mean a constant struggle and struggling would
soon weary him. The cold he believed he could stand for some time. But
he had no illusions. He knew that his chance of being rescued was not
one in a hundred, that even could he hold out until daylight, and the
storm should pass, there might be no ship to see him. Realizing the
utter hopelessness of his plight calmed him. Having once accepted the
inevitable, there was no sense in mutiny. He would live as long as he
could. After that――well, after that one’s troubles were past.
He had worked out of his rubber coat――his cap was long since gone――and
now he struggled with his sea boots, and presently cast them off. The
buoyance so gained helped wonderfully. His arms were freer for swimming
and his feet no longer pulled him down. The seas seemed miles long at
times. He was dragged up and up for whole minutes, the gale shrieking
its fury in his ears, the water dashing itself into his eyes and mouth
and nose, and then held poised for a brief moment high up between sea
and sky and finally dropped sickeningly down the slant of rushing
water into the next great hollow. All was turmoil and darkness. It was
impossible to keep his head out of the water more than half the time,
for he was rolled about like a log, and the best he could do was hold
his breath and wait, then fill his lungs with the icy blast and be
thankful. Somewhere about him were ships, but the nearest might now be
a mile away, and even could he sight one in the impenetrable darkness
those aboard would never hear his cries. Just to keep on was the only
thing; swim as best he could to keep the cramps from his muscles,
breathe when he might and die hard.
His mind was unnaturally active. Thoughts flew through his brain at
lightning speed. He recalled a thousand incidents, visioned them
swiftly and distinctly and passed them on. He wondered about his
father, and sobbed once and felt terribly alone and weak. He remembered
what he had set out to do a few short months before, and the war which
had taken so much of his thought vanished to a mere pin-point of
unimportance. Even a world war seemed a puny, silly thing here in this
universe of blackness and storm. It would go on to its end, whatever
that end might be, and after an interval everything would be the same
as before. Flowers would spring up over a million graves and a new
generation would run the plowshares across them, and the world would go
on and on endlessly. It was strange and puzzling. He would not be there
and no one would know or care. His life was just one tiny drop in a
great ocean, and of no more importance. He wondered why....
“Troy, Nelson A., seaman, lost overboard from U. S. S. _Gyandotte_;
uncle, Peter Troy, Wonson, Me.” That’s the way the papers would have
it. There was something woefully uninteresting about it. He had
sometimes imagined his name with “killed in action” after it, but
here was no implication of heroism. Perhaps he might say that he had
“died in performance of his duty.” He didn’t know. Anyway, what did
it matter, for there wouldn’t be anyone to tell! Unless, he reflected
the next moment, he could tell his mother. Nelson believed implicitly
in Heaven, but whether he would get there was another question, he
thought. And even if he did, what would it be like, and――Oh, it
was a terrible jumble! All a fellow could do was wait and see. And
meanwhile there was a task at hand, which was to get his head out of
water occasionally and make a fight for it. That was it! He’d go down
fighting, as became an American Navy man! There was comfort in that
thought. It heartened him, and he struck out more vigorously and shook
the brine from his eyes with new determination. He had found a reason
for keeping up the struggle.
How long he had been in the water he neither knew nor considered, but
it is likely that no more than a quarter of an hour at most had passed
since he had been hurtled past the broken rail of the _Gyandotte_.
Sliding over and over, fighting for breath, down the slope of a sea,
his outflung hand touched something. He drew it back instinctively,
conscious of a sudden pain in the numb fingers. Then startled reason
sent him swiftly groping, and in that instant he sensed rather than saw
something beside him, something huge that flung the waves back in his
stinging eyes. His eager fingers touched again, slid along a hard, wet
surface that offered no hold, and he threw his head back and shouted
with all his strength. And at the same moment his fingers found a hold,
a tiny recess in the smooth object that was sliding past him, and they
clutched convulsively and he felt himself being dragged forward through
the welter of wind and water, his arm straining at its socket and his
body pounded against an object as hard and resisting as a block of
stone.