TWO weeks passed without change in the situation, except that their end
saw the Queen still deeper in the tangle. The breeze from the west had
continued, but day by day had grown fainter, until at last it barely
cooled the faces of the weary passengers. Day by day, too, the weed
and the wreckage in the tangle grew thicker. Here and there floated
broken spars, fragments of shattered deck-houses, moss-grown planks,
Jacob’s-ladders, and all the fugitive spoil of the sea. Broken boats,
bottom upward; rafts with tumbled fragments of canvas screening perhaps
some terrible burden; a red buoy wrenched from some coast harbor;
a bottle with a little flag bobbing above it--these appeared, grew
nearer, and dropped astern, sometimes just out of reach of the Queen.
Several times abandoned ships appeared; one with a patch of sail gave
Jackson some agonizing alternations of hope and despair before its
final nearness forced him to admit that it, like their own vessel, was
a derelict, bound for the port of dead ships. None of this wreckage,
however, kept pace with the Queen. The tallest caught the wind and the
deepest caught the current, but the Queen caught both, and moved ahead
accordingly.
The marvel of it all affected the voyagers according to their several
natures. Jackson took it hardest. Used to the roar of New York and
to the electric contagion of great crowds, and without resources
within himself, the comparative solitude and the uncertainty drove him
frantic. Had he been alone, he would never have lived so long; despair
would have robbed him of his wits altogether and have driven him to end
it all by a plunge over the side. Even as it was, his state caused his
companions grave alarm. Howard took care never to let him be very long
out of his sight by day. Fortunately, he slept like a log at night,
and Howard was able to lock him in his room late and release him early
without his ever discovering that he had been confined.
This state of affairs, however, could not continue. Day by day the
detective grew more and more surly, until Howard began to long for the
open conflict that was sure to come. Had they two been alone together,
he would have speedily brought affairs to a crisis, but the misery of
Dorothy’s position should anything happen to himself made him hold off,
hoping that Jackson’s mood might pass. The worst of it all was the man
had a revolver--the only one on board.
For the rest, Howard seemed to be not at all troubled. In fact, so far
as Jackson knew, the situation worried him not at all. Only Dorothy,
who, light-footed, had once come upon him unheard and found him on
his knees with bowed head and shaking shoulders, suspected that his
lightheartedness was assumed. On that occasion she had stolen away as
silently as she had come.
As a matter of fact, Howard, though wild to get back to the task
of which he had spoken to the others, was yet not anxious to go to
execution. Moreover, the wonder of the situation appealed to him
mightily, and he tried to be content to grasp the hours as they came,
and not to worry over the future. After he had thoroughly explored the
reachable portions of the vessel and had worked out their position as
well as it was possible with such makeshift instruments as he could
devise, he had devoted himself to the study of the myriad life that
swarmed among the weeds. A scoop, trailed overboard for a few minutes,
invariably brought aboard hundreds of living forms.
Something of a naturalist already, he took delight in studying the sea
creatures, and in noting the marvellous protective resemblances by
which they hid from foes or crept upon enemies, themselves similarly
equipped.
In this study he was enthusiastically joined by Dorothy. No past record
of crime could prevent the intimacy that sprang up between these two,
so like in tastes and training, thus thrown upon each other for human
companionship. Again and again Dorothy told herself that she ought to
shrink from Howard and confine their intercourse to the needs of bare
civility, and, accordingly, for a time she would devote herself to
Jackson and let Howard go. But Jackson, blameless police officer as he
was, had no resources within himself to long content an educated girl
like Dorothy, and soon she would drift back to Howard’s side--much, it
must be owned, to Jackson’s relief.
Curiously enough, the girl was not unhappy. The situation, as yet, was
too novel for that. The fact that she could see no possible means for
rescue did not greatly trouble her. With the natural resilience of
youth, she threw off her anxiety; with the natural trust of woman in
man, she was content to leave everything to Howard, and to put implicit
faith in his promise, vague and unsubstantial though it was, to do what
he could to save her. This was the more surprising as he had as yet had
no chance to prove himself capable. Nevertheless, Dorothy threw all
responsibility on his shoulders and concerned herself no more about the
outcome. If sometimes uneasy questions assailed her, she drove them
away. There was nothing to do but to trust him. After she had attended
to the meals--a duty which she insisted upon taking on herself after
the first day--she would join him at his nets, and together they would
pass away the hours. They grew very friendly in those days, especially
in the long silences of sympathetic understanding that ever bind heart
to heart.
One day, the fifteenth since the storm, after one of these silences,
Dorothy turned to the man impulsively. “Mr. Howard,” she exploded. “You
say you are not thin-skinned. Won’t you tell me something about your
case?”
Howard flushed. “To what end, Miss Fairfax?” he asked quietly. “I can
say that I am innocent, of course; but that is what every convict in
the land says. I could not convince the jury. Is it not better that I
keep silence till I can get the proof?”
“Nevertheless, tell me.”
“Certainly; if you really wish it.” Howard’s tones were coolly
impersonal. “On May 8 of last year, I received a letter in a woman’s
writing. It was short and I remember every word of it. ‘Dear Frank,’
it said, ‘I am here. Come to see me at once. Dolores.’ Then followed
the address. Perhaps I was foolish to go, but I did go--to a cheap
lodging-house, where the landlady told me to ‘go right up’ to the third
floor and knock on the door marked 8. The door was ajar, however,
and as I got no answer to my knock, I pushed it open and looked in. A
woman’s body was lying on the floor. Again I was foolish. I should have
summoned aid at once. Instead, I went in, and stooped over the body.
Immediately I saw that the woman was dead; strangled apparently. As I
rose to call for help, the landlady appeared at the door. Probably the
inference she drew was justified; at any rate, she tried to blackmail
me, and when I refused to submit she shrieked and summoned assistance.
She declared that she had seen me choking the woman, and I was
arrested. Later it developed that some one passing under my name had
married the girl--for she was nothing more--in a little village near
San Juan at the very time my ship was stationed there.”
“That, of course, furnished the motive for the crime. I had, so it was
charged, married the girl and deserted her. Later, when she followed
me to New York, I had sought her out and murdered her. There were
plenty of people to swear to the marriage and to send in affidavits
identifying my photograph as that of the bridegroom--though, as it
seems, none of them had seen very much of him. Only the minister who
performed the ceremony was doubtful, and him my lawyers arranged to
bring to New York. He started, but his ship was wrecked and he was
drowned on the way. All I could say was that I had never seen the girl
until I looked on her dead body, and that went for little.”
“Evidently, the girl thought that she had married Frank Howard. Perhaps
she did marry a Frank Howard; the name is not uncommon. Perhaps she
married some one deliberately masquerading under my name. I do not
know. At all events, the case was complete against me, and the jury
found me guilty without leaving their seats. I escaped and went to
Porto Rico to look for evidence, but I was captured before I could find
it. That is all, Miss Fairfax. I cannot blame you if you agree with the
jury.”
“But I don’t----”
The sentence was never finished. Jackson, who for two hours had been
standing by the rail, staring northward, suddenly whirled around and
came toward the two, pistol in hand.
“Put your fists up,” he ordered Howard tensely. “Up! Quick! Hang you!”
Taken by surprise, Howard could do nothing but obey.
Jackson laughed madly. “You’ve run things just about long enough,” he
grated. “We’ve been driftin’ in this wreck for two weeks now and I’m
dog tired of it. I ain’t no sailor, but I know when a man’s givin’ me
the double cross, and you’re doin’ it. You’ve got to get us out of
this.”
Howard’s face grew dark. “Kindly specify?” he said.
The other glared at him. “Don’t you try to bluff me with your big
words,” he shouted. “I won’t have it. You’ve been lettin’ on that you
wanted to get us out of this and all the time you’ve been lettin’ us
drift deeper in. You don’t want us to get away at all, for all your
smooth talk.”
“I told you that I was helpless until we reached the central mass of
wrecks and----”
“Yah! You and your mass of wrecks! I ain’t no come-on. You can’t work
no con game on me. I never took no stock in those fairy tales, but I
thought I’d let you play your game out. Now I’m tired of it, and it’s
up to you to do something quick!”
Howard shrugged his shoulders. “With pleasure,” he agreed, “if you’ll
kindly tell me what to do.”
“How do I know? I ain’t no sailor. You are! And you’re going straight
back to your state-room and stay there till you study out some plan to
get us out of this. You belong in quod, anyway, and you’re going to
stay there--with the bracelets on, too, until you get us out of this.
March, now.”
But Howard shook his head. “I’ll never wear irons again,” he declared.
“Never! You’re armed and I’m not. You can kill me, but you can’t jail
me. Make up your mind to that. As for the central mass of wrecks, it
must exist; it’s impossible that it should not exist. The only question
is as to the area it covers. If you can---- By Jove!”
His eyes left the detective’s face and travelled into space. “Fool,” he
cried, “look yonder.”
Jackson laughed scornfully. “Not good enough,” he cried. “You can’t
fool----”
But Dorothy broke in. “Land! Land!” she cried.
In spite of himself the detective looked around. Through the haze
before them loomed what seemed to be the bulk of an island, set with
lofty tiers and dark beaches on which white houses gleamed in the
setting sun. So real it seemed that the happy tears streamed from
Dorothy’s eyes. “Oh!” she sobbed, “it’s land! land! land!”
Howard’s voice came to her from afar off. “No,” he murmured, sadly. “It
is not land. It is wreckage. We have reached our destination.”
Moved by a slight breeze, the haze shredded away and there, on the
waters before them, stretching away to right and to left, lay an
interminable mass of wrecks of every shape and description, banked
together so thickly that they seemed to touch--and did touch--each
other. Dead! all of them. Some newly dead; others long dead; but all
unburied, waiting in the haven of dead ships for the long-deferred
end. The trees were not trees, but masts hung with ravelled cordage;
the beaches were the black hulls of ships; and the white houses were
deck-houses or patches of canvas.
For a moment no one spoke. Dorothy stood staring, every muscle tense,
while the tears dripped slowly from her distended eyes. Jackson’s mouth
fell open; his pistol hand fell nerveless to his side. For the first
time he realized the situation.
As they gazed, the sun with tropic suddenness dropped below the horizon
and hid the scene.
Howard’s voice broke the silence. “Now,” he encouraged, “we can get to
work.”