“How long can you give us?”
The man who asked this question turned his head and looked up through
a maze of bright machinery. But he did not rise from his recumbent
position. He was, in fact, lying on his face on a steel-bar grating--in
his shirt-sleeves--his hands black with oil and steel filings.
The captain of the Mooroo--far up above on the upper platform--leant his
elbow on the steel banister and reflected for exactly two seconds. He
was in the habit of sleeping and thinking very quickly.
“I reckon that we will be on the rocks in about twenty minutes to half
an hour--unless you can get her going.”
The chief engineer muttered something which was not audible above the
roar of the wind through the rigging and the wash of the green seas that
leapt over the bulwarks of the well-deck.
“What?” yelled the captain, leaning over the balustrade.
“D--n it,” reiterated the chief, with his head hidden.
They were all down there--the whole engineer's staff of the Mooroo--in
their shirt-sleeves, lying among the bright steel rods--busy at their
craft--working against time for their lives.
It was unfortunate that the engines should have held good right across
the Arabian Sea, through the Red Sea, through the trying “fast” and
“slow” and “stand by” and “go ahead” of the Canal--right through to the
Pointe de Raz light, which was blinking down upon them now.
The ship had been got round with difficulty. Her sails, all black with
coal-dust and the smoke of many voyages, had been shaken out. They
served to keep the vessel's bluff prow pushing into the gale, but that
was all. The Mooroo was drifting--drifting.
While the passengers were at dinner the engines had suddenly stopped,
and almost before the fact had been realized, the captain, having
exchanged glances with his officers, was out of the saloon.
“Something in the engine-room,” said the doctor and the fifth
officer--left at table. The engineer had probably stopped to replace a
worn washer or something similarly simple.
The stewards hurried to and fro with the dishes. And the passengers went
on eating their last dinner on earth in that sublime ignorance which is
the prerogative of passengers.
Mrs. Judge Barrowby, who, in view of the captain's vacant chair on her
left hand, took, as it were, moral command of the ship, was heard to
state in a loud voice that she had every confidence in the officers and
the crew.
Young Skeen, of the Indian Intelligence, who sat within hearing of Mrs.
Judge Barrowby, for his own evil ends and purposes, thereafter said that
he could now proceed with his dinner--that his appetite was beginning to
return.
“Of course,” he went on to say, “if Mrs. Judge Barrowby says that it is
all right--”
But he got no farther than this. For a young lady with demure eyes and
twitching lips, who was sitting next to him, whispered that Mrs. Judge
Barrowby was looking, and that he must behave himself.
“I have every confidence in Mrs. Judge Barrowby,” he, nevertheless,
managed to assure a grave-looking man across the table.
The truth was that Mrs. Judge Barrowby had had her eye on these two
young people all the voyage. There was no reason that they should not
fall in love with each other, and marry and be happy ever afterwards;
but Mrs Judge Barrowby felt that it was incumbent upon them to ask
her first, or at all events to keep her posted as to the progress of
matters, so that she might have the satisfaction of knowing more than
her neighbours. But the young people simply ignored her.
Lady Crafer, the mother of the girl with the demure eyes, was a foolish
woman, who passed most of her days in her cabin; and Mrs. Judge Barrowby
felt, and went so far as to say to more than one person, that the least
that a nice-minded girl could, under the circumstances, do was to place
herself under the protection of some experienced lady--possibly herself.
From the fact that Evelyn Crafer had failed to do this, Mrs. Judge
Barrowby intimated that each might draw an individual inference.
While these thoughts were in course of lithography upon the expressive
countenance of the lady at the captain's end of the saloon table,
strange things were taking place on the deck of the good steamship
Mooroo. The entire crew had, in fact, been summoned on deck. The boats
were being pushed out--the davits swung round, the tarpaulin covers
removed, and the awnings unbent. Life-belts were being collected in the
music-room on deck, and the purser had given orders to the stewards to
prolong dinner as much as possible.
“Let 'em have their dinner first,” the captain had said significantly.
And all the while the Mooroo was drifting.
Immediately over the stern rail a light came and went at regular
intervals on the horizon, while to eastward, at a higher elevation, a
great, yellow staring eye looked out into the night. This was the light
on the westernmost point of Europe--the Pointe de Raz. The smaller
beacon, low down on the horizon, was that of the Ile de Sein, whose few
inhabitants live by what the sea brings them in--be it fish or wreckage.
There is enough of both. A strong current sets north and east, and it
becomes almost a “race” in the narrow channel between the Ile de Sein
and the rock-bound mainland. The Mooroo was in this current.
The captain had said no more than the truth. There are times when nature
is too strong for the strongest man and the keenest brain. There was
simply nothing to be done but to try and get the repair completed in
time--and on deck to send up rockets, and--to prepare for the worst.
This the captain had done--even to unlacing his own boots. The latter is
always a bad sign. When the captain thinks of his own boots it is time
for others to try and remember the few good deeds they may have done.
In ten minutes the passengers knew; for the captain went and told
them--before they had their dessert. The result was confusion, and a
rush for the saloon stairs. The boats were already lowered and alongside
the gangway steps in a terrible sea.
The old ladies did wonderfully well, considering their age and other
things. Mrs. Judge Barrowby was heard to say that she would never travel
by anything but P. and O. in future, and that it was all her husband's
fault. But she was third on the stairs, and in time to select the
roomiest life-belt. Lady Crafer was a great believer in stewards. She
clung to one, and, calling upon Evelyn to follow her, made very good
practice down the saloon.
There was no doubt whatever about young Skeen of the Indian
Intelligence. He simply took charge of Evelyn Crafer. He took possession
of her and told her what to do. He even found time to laugh at Mrs.
Judge Barrowby's ankles as she leapt over a pile of dirty plates.
“Stay here,” he cried to Evelyn. “It is useless going with that rabble.
Our only chance is to stay.”
She obeyed him. Women sometimes do it still. They stood in the gaily
lighted saloon, and witnessed the rush for the deck--a humiliating
sight.
When at length the stairs were clear, Skeen turned and looked into her
face. Then suddenly he took her in his arms and kissed her. They had
been drifting towards this for some weeks past. Circumstances had
hurried it on. That was all.
“Dear,” he said, “will you stay here while I go on deck and see
what chances there are? If you once get up there in the dark and the
confusion, I shall lose you.”
“Yes,” she answered; and as she spoke there was a great crash, which
threw her into his arms a second time, and made a clean sweep of the
tables. They stood literally ankle-deep in wine-glasses, dessert, and
plates. The Mooroo had taken the rocks. There was a rolling crash on the
deck overhead, and a confused sound of shouting.
“You will stay?” cried Skeen again.
“Yes--dear.”
He turned and left her there, alone.
On deck he found a crowd. The passengers were being allowed to go to the
boats. Taking into consideration the darkness, the roaring sea, and the
hopelessness of it all, the organization was wonderful. The children
were going first. A quarter-master stood at the head of the gangway
steps and held the people in check. When Skeen arrived, Mrs. Judge
Barrowby was giving this man a piece of what she was pleased to call her
mind.
“Man,” she was saying, “let me pass! You do not know who I am. I am the
wife of Judge Barrowby.”
“Marm, you may be the wife of the harkangel Gabriel as far as I knows;
but I've my orders. Stand aside please. Any more babies in arms?” he
cried.
But Mrs. Judge Barrowby knew the value of a good useful life, and
persistently blocked up the gangway.
“One woman is as good as another,” she said.
“Ay, except the mothers, and they're better,” said the man, pushing her
aside to let a lady and her child pass.
“THAT woman!” cried Mrs. Judge Barrowby. “A woman who has been the talk
of the whole ship--before ME--a flirting grass widow!”
“Gawd knows,” said the man, holding her back. “It's little enough to
fight about.”
“I will report you, man.”
“Yes, marm, to the good God, and I ain't afraid o' HIM! NOW you may go!”
And, fuming, Mrs. Judge Barrowby went down to her death. Not one boat
could reach the shore through such a surf, as captain and crew well
knew; but there are certain formalities vis-a-vis to human lives which
must be observed by ship-captains and doctors and others.
Skeen ran to the other side. Lights were twinkling through the spray;
the land was not two hundred yards off, but it was two hundred yards of
rock and surf. There was only one chance.
Skeen kicked off his boots and ran back to the saloon. It was all a
matter of seconds. For a few moments the brilliant lights dazzled him,
and he looked round wildly for Evelyn Crafer. A great fear seized his
heart as in a grip of cold iron--but only for a moment. He saw her. She
was kneeling by the table, unaware of his presence.
“Oh God,” she was praying aloud, “save him--save HIM from this danger!”
He heard the words as he stopped to lift her like a child from her
knees--bringing her back from God to man.
And the end of the Mooroo was a girl sitting before a driftwood fire in
the cottage of the old cure of the Ile de Sein, while at her feet knelt
a man with his broken arm bound to his side. And he was stroking her
hands softly and repeatedly. He was trying to soothe her and make her
understand that she was safe.
“Give her time, my son,” the old cure said, with his deep, wise smile.
“She only requires time. I have seen them before taken from the sea
like her. They all require time. It is in our nature to recover from all
things--in time.”