IN WHICH THE PACIFIC QUEEN LOSES A PRIZE
“A derelict?” Dave said, not quite sure what a derelict was. “Doesn’t
that mean a――”
“A derelict, my son,” said Barnes, “is the sort of thing a cap’n spends
all his life lookin’ for, but most generally he doesn’t find it; and
even when he finds it, it might be lucky and it might be powerful
unlucky. If the old man has a hoodoo, he’ll either find the derelict in
the dark by punching bow on into it, or the derelict won’t be worth the
trouble of takin’ to port. But if the skipper who runs across it is one
of them people that can’t go wrong, he’ll be able to tow the thing into
port and live happy ever after on what he gets out of the salvage.”
Dave, consumed with curiosity, held out his hand for the glasses.
“Away, child, away,” commanded the cook with his eyes still glued to
them. “Here is work for men, not infants. A two-thousand-ton steamer,
as I live. We’ll all have rings on our fingers and bells on our toes
after this, for the cap’n doesn’t get all the salvage money. I dunno
what share the cook gets, eggsactly, but it ought to be about half, I
reckon. You’ll pick up a few hundred dollars too, kid, maybe, though
I’m sure you don’t deserve it. Here, take a squint through these
binoculars; though you don’t deserve that, either.”
Dave, rapidly growing more excited as they ran nearer the vessel, tried
to discern some sign of life on board her, but could not. He did not
understand quite what the cook meant about salvage, though it sounded
good.
The engine-room telegraph rang, and the _Pacific Queen_ slowed down.
The order came from the bridge for a boat to be swung out. Mr. Quick,
hustling a crew into her, took charge and put off to the other vessel.
Everybody waited impatiently for their return. The ship bobbing up and
down, a hundred yards away, had evidently encountered trouble of some
sort. Her bows were dangerously low in the water, as if the forward
compartments were flooded, and there was a list which made one think
she was going to topple over any minute. A number of plates were stove
in, showing she had hit something with tremendous force.
The boarding party remained away half an hour, and on his return the
chief mate reported that the vessel was the _Miriam_, of Boston,
apparently laden with a general cargo. She was deserted and sinking.
The forward hold and engine-room were full of water, and he thought
that only the bulkheads holding out were saving her. Once the pressure
of water broke those down, she would sink.
“She’s been worth a power of money, Mr. Quick,” commented Captain
Chisholm, “to say nothing of the cargo in her. I guess I’ll just slip
over myself and see what sort of a chance there is of doing anything
with her. She’s been in collision during a gale, and the boat that hit
her probably took the men off. We’re within twenty-four hours’ run of
Charleston. A salvage job like this would just tickle me to death. If
it can possibly be done, Mr. Mate, I’m going to try it.”
The captain’s inspection of the derelict was not so lengthy.
“There’s a sporting chance of getting her into dock,” he announced as
he climbed back onto the _Pacific Queen_, “but there isn’t a minute
to lose. We must get the pumps to work immediately. It will be tricky
work, because she may sink like a stone when she does go. Now, Mr.
Quick, get that new manila hawser bent on to her, and look alive there.
You’ll want a dozen men on her. Better take only volunteers, as it’s
risky.”
Volunteers were ready enough. Dave moved forward to join them, but
Barnes pulled him back by the ear.
“That’s work for men, not babies, didn’t I tell you?” he said.
“Besides, who d’you s’pose is going to wash the dishes on this packet
if you go and get drownded? It’s no use me askin’ the cap’n to do it,
and I’m sure I won’t. Yon is a death-trap, lad. It’s a desperate chance
to make big money, and, mark my words, they’ll hang on to the last
minute. We’ll get our share of the salvage money just the same, so stop
where you are. Blow you, anyway; you’re more trouble than you’re worth!”
In the next few minutes Dave learnt what real hustling at sea was.
Mr. Quick knew the art of driving men in an emergency, and in an
incredibly short time the derelict was pulling heavily behind the
_Pacific Queen_ at the end of the long hawser, and looking strangely
awkward with her heavy list. Mr. Quick’s task was a formidable one,
but he set about it with grim determination, for the prize was one well
worth having. There was a ground swell running, but no water was coming
inboard; so after having hand pumps rigged up and setting four men to
work at top speed on these, he had the hatches ripped off. As he had
surmised, the cargo had shifted badly, and that was what made her lean
over so perilously. Bales, boxes, and merchandise of all kinds were
lying in indescribable confusion, and it was a Herculean task to get
the hold anything like ship-shape without the aid of steam-winches. Mr.
Quick, however, threw off his coat and worked as hard as any of the
men. The derelict was not in imminent danger of turning turtle so long
as the sea did not grow worse, but there was always the danger of a
strong wind getting up suddenly.
With aching backs, fingers lacerated by frenzied tugging at the jumbled
cargo, and perspiration pouring off them, the men toiled at their task
without a break all day, and Mr. Quick did not call them off until
there was an appreciable difference in the way the boat was riding in
the water. The men at the pumps, however, worked in vain. Thousands of
gallons of water gushed out of the hold for’ard without raising the bow
an inch in the sea. It was evident that a hole of considerable size
must have been torn in the side of the vessel, through which the water
rushed as fast as the overtaxed muscles of the seamen pumped it out.
Everybody on the _Pacific Queen_ was agog with excitement, casting many
an anxious glance back at the precious prize.
“Quick ain’t giving them men a picnic; no, sir!” Barnes said to Dave.
“They’ll be ’most dead by the time we get to port. That mate hasn’t
had a proper chance to let off steam in months, and my name isn’t Bill
Barnes if he doesn’t enjoy it more’n a big-league baseball game. That
man ain’t got no heart. He’s just made up of vinegar and guncotton.”
It was true that Mr. Quick was getting the last ounce out of the men,
and the pumping went on incessantly. There was always the bare chance
that they were lightening the derelict a trifle, and the mate did not
like to think of the tremendous strain those bulkheads were standing.
Every hour, though, brought them miles nearer Charleston.
When night had fallen Barnes stood at the stern of the _Pacific Queen_,
surveying the lurching light which alone showed that the stricken craft
was still above water.
“This is where I quit cookin’ puddin’s for a bunch of sailors,” he said
to Dave. “It’s more’n I ever hoped for to come my way, is pickin’ up
two hundred feet or so of a steamer without even a canary on board.
D’you know what I’m going to do with my share, kid? I’m going to found
a home for tired sea-cooks. Yes, sir. That’s what I’m going to do.
There’s going to be free grub and things, and no man in there will do a
stroke of work. Maybe there’ll be a steward engaged. Yes, sir, I’ve got
his duties figgered out right now. When a tired sea-cook is reclinin’
at his ease, with a good cargo of roast beef stowed aboard, running his
mind over the days when he had the life plagued out of him afloat, that
steward’ll knock at the door soft-like and say it’s time the crew’s
dinner was ready. Yes, sir. There’ll only be one man in that home for
tired sea-cooks, and that’s me. And do you know what I’ll say to the
steward? I’ll tell him to tell the crew to go to Jericho.
“Laugh, you little lubber,” he added, glaring at Dave, “or I’ll drop
you overboard. What are you going to do with your share, Dave?”
The boy thought for a moment.
“I’ll pay some one to write a book teaching manners to sea-cooks,” he
said, side-stepping just in time to avoid Barnes’s hand.
The coming of darkness had not improved the position. There was an
atmosphere of grave anxiety on the _Pacific Queen_, for it needed no
very experienced eye to judge that the _Miriam’s_ chances were, to say
the least, slim; and none knew better than Mr. Quick how insecure was
the position of the men under him.
Dave slept fitfully, dreaming he was the skipper of a steamer that
encountered a whole fleet of derelicts. He had them all tied astern,
like a string of barges, reaching for miles. Then his chief engineer
came up to report that there was no more coal left on board, and
Captain David Hallard was struggling desperately with the problem of
what to do, when he awoke.
Through a porthole he saw that the first signs of dawn were visible in
the eastern sky. Dressing hastily, he went on deck.
Oleson and one or two other sailors were hovering round the stern,
discussing the _Miriam’s_ chances of keeping afloat.
“She’ll just about make Charleston,” one man said, “but she wouldn’t
get much farther.”
“I never expected to find her above water this morning,” commented
another, gloomily.
“Leave that to Quick,” said the first sailor. “He knows what he’s
doing. There’ll be a scramble for that dory they’re trailing astern,
though, if she does sink!”
The light was growing rapidly, and Dave could now make out the form of
the chief mate. The creak and thud of the pumps came faintly across the
heaving water.
Mr. Quick, as a matter of fact, was ill at ease. He had been standing
for some time over the flooded hold, listening, and fearing to hear a
repetition of an ominous sound――a dull groaning that seemed to come
from somewhere underneath him. Using his arms as a semaphore, he sent
a signal to Captain Chisholm, who had been restlessly pacing the
bridge.
“Afraid bulkheads giving way,” he signaled. “No lower yet, but stand by
ready to let go hawser if necessary!”
The captain frowned as he read the message. It was maddening to have
such valuable salvage snatched away when they were getting so near to
port. But he was responsible for the lives of the men.
“Don’t take chances,” he signaled back. “Have dory ready.”
Mr. Quick smiled grimly, but no one on the _Pacific Queen_ saw that
smile. It was not a pleasant sight. He was willing to run the same
risk of being drowned as the men, but as chief mate he would draw a
large proportion of the salvage money, and for the present he had no
intention of giving the order which would send the men into the dory.
Every now and again he went to the side of the ship to see if she had
settled farther. He was perfectly aware that the noise he had heard
indicated something sinister was happening down in the flooded interior
of the ship and that the derelict’s chances now hung on a single
thread. But while that thread held there was a hope of big salvage
money.
An hour passed――two hours. Mr. Quick, with every nerve strained to
breaking point, felt a peculiar motion of the derelict, and the deck
vibrated slightly. Though hard and cruel, he was brave. Very quietly,
and still puffing at the stump of a cigar which he had nearly bitten
through, he peered again over the side.
For three minutes he remained in that position, staring intently at the
water.
Oleson, on the _Pacific Queen_, took the glasses from Dave’s hand.
“She’s a full foot lower,” he said jerkily. “I’ll be veree surprised if
she keeps up another hour.”
Suddenly the cries of alarmed men on the _Miriam_ were heard. A
crashing, rumbling noise from under the decks had told them the end had
come.
Like a tired thing, the derelict lurched heavily, and before the men
on board had time to get half way to the dory, the doomed steamer’s
bows were in the sea. She canted over, making progress along the deck
difficult. Only eight of the crew, besides the mate, had dropped into
the small boat, when the stern of the derelict began to rise as her
bows went farther downward. To have delayed another second would have
meant death for all. With his own hands Mr. Quick cast the painter
when the dory was tilted at a perilous angle, and even as the piteous
cries of the four men left on board were ringing in their ears, the
sailors in the dory bent desperately to their oars in order to avoid
the whirlpool which the sinking ship would create on her plunge to the
bottom.
Though the muscles in their backs and arms cracked under the strain,
the men did not succeed in getting far enough away to avoid the eddy.
The instant he noticed what was happening, Captain Chisholm stopped the
engines of the _Pacific Queen_.
“Let go that hawser,” came the order from the bridge. “Get another boat
out quick. Be smart there.”
Like lightning the men obeyed. The loss of their prize was forgotten
for the moment, for human lives were in peril. There was no time to
pick and choose who was to man the second dory. Those near at hand
jumped in, Dave among them. Just as they pushed off from the side of
the _Pacific Queen_ the little craft containing Mr. Quick and eight men
was caught by the outside of the whirlpool and began to spin round.
“Easy with your oars, lads,” said the bo’sun in charge of the second
dory. “We must keep out of that.”
The irresistible suction drew the mate’s boat nearer and nearer that
swirling centre of the whirlpool in rapidly narrowing circles. The
men in her were now struggling frantically against overwhelming odds.
It seemed as though nothing could possibly save them from being drawn
under, to be shot far down in the track of the _Miriam_.
Dave gripped the gunwale of the boat tightly. He wanted to close his
eyes to shut out the impending tragedy. He forgot the mate’s brutality.
It was agonizing to have to sit still and do nothing while his
shipmates were on the verge of death.