THE
CHIEF MATE'S YARNS
_TWELVE TALES OF THE SEA_
BY
CAPT. MAYN CLEW GARNETT
[Illustration]
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1911, 1912, BY
STREET & SMITH
COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
_The White Ghost of Disaster_
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE WHITE GHOST OF DISASTER 5
THE LIGHT AHEAD 42
THE WRECK OF THE "RATHBONE" 76
THE AFTER BULKHEAD 105
CAPTAIN JUNARD 123
IN THE WAKE OF THE ENGINE 148
IN THE HULL OF THE "HERALDINE" 172
A TWO-STRANDED YARN--PART I 198
A TWO-STRANDED YARN--PART II 234
AT THE END OF THE DRAG-ROPE 263
PIRATES TWAIN 279
THE JUDGMENT OF MEN 310
ON GOING TO SEA 333
THE WHITE GHOST OF DISASTER
We had been sitting in at the game for more than an hour, and no life
had entered it. The thoughts of all composing that little group of five
in the most secluded corner of the ship's smoking room were certainly
not on the game, and three aces lay down to fours up.
The morose and listless ship's officer out of a berth, although he
spoke little--if at all--seemed to put a spell of uneasiness and unrest
on the party. The others did not know him or his history; but his looks
spelled disaster and misfortune.
At last Charlie Spangler, the noted journalist, keen for a story or
two, threw down his cards, exclaiming: "Let's quit. None of us is less
uneasy than the rest of the ship's passengers."
"Yes," chimed in Arthur Linch, the noted stock-broker. "We have
endeavored to banish the all-pervading thought, 'will the ship arrive
safely without being wrecked,' and have failed miserably. Cards will
not do it." This seemed to express the sentiments of everybody except
the morose mariner, whose thoughts nobody could read or fathom. He sat
there, deep in his chair, gazing at a scene or scenes none of us could
see or appreciate.
"Well! Since we cannot take our thoughts off 'shipwreck,' we may as
well discuss the subject and ease our minds," added the journalist
again, still hot on the scent of the possible story which he felt that
the ship's officer hoarded.
The mariner, however, did not respond to this, and continued with his
memories, apparently oblivious of our presence.
Under the leadership of the journalist the discussion waxed warm for
some time, until the stock-broker, ever solicitous for the welfare of
the stock-market and conforming his opinions thereto, exclaimed loudly:
"The officers and the crew were not responsible for the collision with
the berg. It was an 'act of God!' and as such we are daily taking
chances with it. What will be, will be. We cannot escape Destiny!"
"Destiny be damned!" came like a thunderbolt from the heretofore
silent mariner, and we all looked to see the face now full of rage and
passion. "What do you know of the sea, you land pirate? What do you
know of sea dangers and responsibility for the safety of human lives?
Man! you're crazy. There is no such thing as Destiny at sea. A seaman
knows what to expect when he takes chances. If you call that an 'act of
God,' you deserve to have been there and submitted to it."
The face of Charlie Spangler was glowing. His heart beat so fast when
he heard this sea clam open up, that he was afraid it might overwork
and stop. "Our friend is right!" he exclaimed. "I infer that he speaks
from knowledge and experience. We are hardly qualified to discuss such
matters properly.
"You have something on your mind, friend. Unburden it to us. We are
sympathetic, you know. Our position here makes us so," saying which,
Spangler filled the mariner's half-empty glass and looked at him with
sympathy streaming out of his trained eyes. We all nodded our assent.
Having fortified himself with the contents of the glass before him, the
mariner spoke: "Yes, gentlemen, I am going to speak from knowledge and
experience. It was my luck to be aboard of the vessel which had the
shortest of lives, but which will live in the memory of man for many a
year.
"It is my misfortune to be one of its surviving officers. I am going
to give you the facts as they happened this last time, and a few other
times besides. It is the experiences through which I have passed that
make me wish I had gone down with the last one. I must now live on with
memories, indelibly stamped on my brain, which I would gladly forget.
Your attention, gentlemen--"
* * * * *
Captain Brownson came upon the bridge. It was early morning, and the
liner was tearing through a smooth sea in about forty-three north
latitude. The sun had not yet risen, but the gray of the coming
daylight showed a heaving swell that rolled with the steadiness that
told of a long stretch of calm water behind it. The men of the
morning watch showed their pale faces white with that peculiar pallor
which comes from the loss of the healthful sleep between midnight and
morning. It was the second mate's watch, and that officer greeted the
commander as he came to the bridge rail where the mate stood staring
into the gray ahead.
"See anything?" asked the master curtly.
"No, sir--but I smell it--feel it," said the mate, without turning his
head.
"What?" asked Brownson.
"Don't you feel it?--the chill, the--well, it's ice, sir--ice, if I
know anything."
"Ice?" snarled the captain. "You're crazy! What's the matter with you?"
"Oh, very well--you asked me--I told you--that's all."
The captain snorted. He disliked the second officer exceedingly. Mr.
Smith had been sent him by the company at the request of the manager of
the London office. He had always picked his own men, and he resented
the office picking them for him. Besides, he had a nephew, a passenger
aboard, who was an officer out of a berth.
"What the devil do they know of a man, anyhow! I'm the one responsible
for him. I'm the one, then, to choose him. They won't let me shift
blame if anything happens, and yet they sent me a man I know nothing of
except that he is young and strong. I'll wake him up some if he stays
here." So he had commented to Mr. Wylie, the chief mate. Mr. Wylie had
listened, thought over the matter, and nodded his head sagely.
"Sure," he vouchsafed; "sure thing." That was as much as any one
ever got out of Wylie. He was not a talkative mate. Yet when he knew
Smith better, he retailed the master's conversation to him during a
spell of generosity engendered by the donation of a few highballs by
Macdowell, the chief engineer. Smith thanked him--and went his way
as before, trying to do the best he could. He did not shirk duty on
that account. Wylie insisted that the captain was right. A master was
responsible, and it was always customary for him to pick his men as far
as possible. Besides, as Wylie had learned from Macdowell, Brownson had
a nephew in view that would have filled the berth about right--so Wylie
thought--and Smith was a nuisance. Smith had taken it all in good part,
and smiled. He liked Wylie.
Brownson sniffed the air hungrily as he stood there at the bridge rail.
The air was chilly, but it was always chilly in that latitude even in
summer.
"How does she head?" he asked savagely of the man at the steam-steering
gear. The man spoke through the pilot-house window in a monotone:
"West--three degrees south, sir."
"That's west--one south by standard?" snapped Brownson.
"Yes, sir," said Smith.
"Let her go west--two south by binnacle--and mark the time accurately,"
ordered Brownson.
He would shift her a bit. The cool air seemed to come from the
northward. It was as if a door in an ice box were suddenly opened and
the cold air within let out in a cold, damp mass. A thin haze covered
the sea. The side wash rolled away noisily, and disappeared into the
mist a few fathoms from the ship's side. It seemed to thicken as the
minutes passed.
Brownson was nervous. He went inside the pilot house and spoke to the
engineer through the tube leading to the engine room.
"How is she going?"
"Two hundred and ten, sir; never less than two and five the watch."
"Well, she's going too almighty fast--shut her down to one hundred,"
snapped Brownson. "She's been doing twenty-two knots--it's too
fast--too fast, anyhow, in this weather. Ten knots will do until the
sun scoffs off this mist. Shut her down."
The slowing engines eased their vibrations, and the side wash rolled
less noisily. There was a strange stillness over the sea. The silence
grew as the headway subsided.
The captain listened intently. He felt something.
There is always that strange something that a seaman feels in the
presence of great danger when awake. It has never been explained. But
all good--really good--masters have felt it; can tell you of it if they
will. It is uncanny, but it is as true as gospel. The second officer
had felt it in the air, felt it in his nerves. He felt--_ice_. It was
danger.
Smith stood there watching the haze that seemed to deepen rather than
disperse as the morning grew. The men turned out and the hose was
started, the decks were sluiced down, and the gang with the squeegees
followed. Two bells struck--five o'clock. Smith strained his gaze
straight into the haze ahead. He fixed and refixed his glasses--a pair
of powerful lenses of fifteen lines. He had bought them for fifty
dollars, and always kept them near him while on watch.
A man came up the bridge steps.
"Shall I send up your coffee, sir?" he asked.
"Yes, send it up," said Smith, in a whisper. He was listening.
Something sounded out there in the haze. It was a strange, vibrating
sound, a sort of whispering murmur, soft and low, like the far-away
notes of a harp. Then it ceased. Smith looked at the captain who stood
within the pilot-house window gazing down at the men at work on the
deck below. The noise of the rushing water from the hose and their low
tones seemed to annoy him. They wore rubber boots, and their footsteps
were silent; but he gruffly ordered the bos'n to make them "shut up."
"Better slow her down, sir--there's ice somewhere about here," said the
second mate anxiously. He was thinking of the thousand and more souls
below and the millions in cargo values.
"Who's running this ship--me or you?" snarled Brownson savagely.
It was an unnecessary remark, wholly uncalled for. Smith flushed
under his tan and pallor. He had seldom been spoken to like that. He
would have to stand it; but he would hunt a new ship as soon as he
came ashore again. It was bad enough to be treated like a boy; but to
be talked to that way before the men made it impossible, absolutely
impossible. It meant the end of discipline at once. A man would retail
it, more would repeat it, and--then--Smith turned away from the bridge
rail in utter disgust. He was furious.
"Blast the ship!" he muttered, as he turned away and gazed aft. His
interest was over, entirely over. He would not have heard a gun fired
at that moment, so furious was the passion at the unmerited insolence
from his commander.
And then, as if to give insult to injury, Brownson called down the tube:
"Full speed ahead--give her all she'll do--I'm tired of loafing around
here all the morning." Then he rang up the telegraph, and the sudden
vibrations told of a giant let loose below.
The _Admiral_ started ahead slowly. She was a giant liner, a ship of
eight hundred feet in length. It took some moments to get headway upon
that vast hull. But she started, and in a few minutes the snoring of
the bow wave told of a tearing speed. She was doing twenty-two and a
half knots an hour, or more than twenty-five miles, the speed of a
train of cars.
The under steward came up the bridge steps with the coffee. Smith took
his cup and drank it greedily, almost savagely. He was much hurt. His
feelings had been roughly handled. Yet he had not even answered the
captain back. He took his place at the bridge rail and gazed straight
ahead into the gray mist. He saw nothing, felt nothing, but the pain
of his insult.
"Let him run the ship to hell and back," he said to himself.
There was a puff of colder air than usual. A chill as of death itself
came floating over the silent ocean. A man on lookout stood staring
straight into the mist ahead, and then sang out:
"Something right ahead, sir," he yelled in a voice that carried like
the roar of a gun.
Brownson just seized the lever shutting the compartments, swung it,
jammed it hard over, and screamed:
"Stop her--stop her--hard over your wheel--hard over----"
His voice ended in a vibrating screech that sounded wild, weird,
uncanny in that awful silence. A hundred men stopped in their stride,
or work, paralyzed at the tones coming from the bridge.
And then came the impact.
With a grinding, smashing roar as of thousands of tons coming together,
the huge liner plunged headlong into the iceberg that rose grim and
silent right ahead, towering over her in spite of her great height. The
shock was terrific, and the grinding, thundering crash of falling tons
of ice, coupled with the rending of steel plates and solid planks, made
chaos of all sound.
The _Admiral_ bit in, dug, plowed, kept on going, going, and the
whole forward part of her almost disappeared into the wall of white.
A thousand tons of huge flakes slammed and slid down her decks,
burying her to the fore hatch in the smother. A thousand tons more
crashed, slid, and plunged down the slopes of the icy mountain and
hurled themselves into the sea with giant splashes, sending torrents
of water as high as the bridge rail. The men who had been forward were
swept away by the avalanche. Many were never seen again. And then, with
reversed engines, she finally came to a dead stop, with her bows jammed
a hundred feet deep in the ice wall of the berg.
After that it was panic. All discipline seemed to end in the shock
and struggle. Brownson howled and stormed from the bridge, and Smith
shouted orders and sprang down to enforce them. The chief mate came
on deck in his underclothes and passed the word to man the boats. A
thousand passengers jammed the companionway and strove with panic and
inhuman fury to reach the deck.
One man clad in a night robe gained the outside of the press, and,
running swiftly along the deck, flitted like a ghost over the rail, and
disappeared into the sea. He had gone crazy, violently insane in the
panic.
Brownson tied down the siren cord, and the roar shook the atmosphere.
The tremendous tones rose above the din of screaming men and cursing
seamen; and then the master called down to the heart of the ship, the
engine room.
"Is she going?" he asked.
"Water coming in like through a tunnel," came the response. "Nearly up
to the grates now----"
That was all. The man left the tube to rush on deck, and the captain
knew the forward bulkheads had gone; had either jammed or burst under
that terrific impact. The ship was going down.
Brownson stood upon the bridge and gazed down at the human tide below
him. Men fought furiously for places in the small boats. The fireroom
crew came on deck and mingled with the passengers. The coal dust showed
upon their white faces, making them seem strange beings from an inferno
that was soon to be abolished. They strove for places in the lifeboats
and hurled the weaker passengers about recklessly. Some, on the other
hand, helped the women. One man dragged two women with him into a boat,
kicking, twisting, and roaring like a lion. He was a big fellow with a
red beard, and Brownson watched him. The mate struck him over the head
with a hand spike for refusing to get out of the boat, and his interest
in things ended at once and forever.
The crew, on the whole, behaved well. Officers and men tried to keep
some sort of discipline. Finally six boats went down alongside into
the sea, and were promptly swarmed by the crowds above, who either
slid down the falls or jumped overboard and climbed in from the sides.
The sea was as still as a lake; only the slight swell heaved it. Great
fields of floating particles of ice from the berg floated about, and
those who were drenched in the spray shivered with the cold.
The _Admiral_, running at twenty-two knots an hour, had struck straight
into the wall of an iceberg that reached as far as the eye could see in
the haze. It towered at least three hundred feet in the air, showing
that its depth was colossal, probably at least half a mile. It was a
giant ice mountain that had broken adrift from its northern home, and,
drifting southward, had survived the heat of summer and the breaking of
the sea upon its base.
Smith had felt its dread presence, felt its proximity long before he
had come to close quarters. The chill in the air, the peculiar feeling
of danger, the icy breath of death--all had told him of a danger that
was near. And yet Brownson had scoffed at him, railed at his intuition
and sense. Upon the captain the whole blame of the disaster must fall
if Smith told.
The second officer almost smiled as he struggled with his boat.
"The pig-headed fool!" he muttered between his set teeth. "The
murdering monster--he's done it now! He's killed himself, and a
thousand people along with him----"
Smith fought savagely for the discipline of his boat. His men had
rushed to their stations at the first call. The deck was beginning
to slant dangerously as the falls were slacked off and the lifeboat
lowered into the sea. Smith stood in the press about him and grew
strangely calm. The action was good for him, good for the burning fury
that had warped him, scorched him like a hot blast while he had stood
silently upon the bridge and taken the insults of his commander. Women
pleaded with him for places in the boat. Men begged and took hold of
him. One lady, half clothed, dropped upon her knees and, holding his
hand, which hung at his side, prayed to him as if he were a deity, a
being to whom all should defer. He flung her off savagely.
Bareheaded now, coatless, and with his shirt ripped, he stood there,
and saw his men pass down sixteen women into his craft; pass them down
without comment or favor, age or condition. Thirty souls went into his
boat before he sprang into the falls and slid down himself. A dozen men
tried to follow him, but he shoved off, and they went into the sea. His
men got their oars out and rowed off a short distance.
Muttering, praying, and crying, the passengers in his boat huddled
themselves in her bottom. He spoke savagely to them, ordered them under
pain of death to sit down. One man, who shivered as he spoke, insisted
upon crawling about and shifting his position. Smith struck him over
the head, knocking him senseless. Another, a woman, must stand upon the
thwarts, to get as far away as possible from the dread and icy element
about her. He swung his fist upon her jaw, and she went whimpering down
into the boat's bottom, lying there and sobbing softly.
Furiously swearing at the herd of helpless passengers who endangered
his boat at every movement, he swung the craft's head about and
stood gazing at his ship. After a little while the crowd became more
manageable, and he saw he could keep them aboard without the certainty
of upsetting the craft He had just been debating which of them he
would throw overboard to save the rest; save them from their own
struggling and fighting for their own selfish ends. He was as cold
as steel, hard, inflexible. His men knew him for a ship's officer
who would maintain his place under all hazards, and they watched him
furtively, and were ready to obey him to the end without question.
"Oh, the monster, the murdering monster!" he muttered again and again.
His eyes were fixed upon the bridge. High up there stood Brownson--the
captain who had sent his liner to her death, with hundreds of
passengers.
Brownson stood calmly watching the press gain and lose places in the
boats. Two boats actually overloaded rolled over under the immense
load of human freight. The others did not stop to pick them up. They
had enough to do to save themselves. The ship was sinking. That was
certain. She must have struck so hard that even the 'midship bulkheads
gave way, or were so twisted out of place that the doors failed. The
chief engineer came below him and glanced up.
As he did so, a tremendous, roaring blast of steam blew the
superstructure upward. The boilers had gone. Macdowell just gave
Brownson a look. That was all. Then he rushed for a boat.
Brownson grinned; actually smiled at him.
The man at the wheel asked permission to go.
"I'm a married man, sir--it's no use of me staying here any longer," he
ventured.
"Go--go to the devil!" said Brownson, without interest. The man fled.
Brownson stopped giving any more orders. In silence he gazed down
at the press of human beings, watching, debating within himself the
chances they had of getting away from that scene of death and horror.
The decks grew more and more steep. The liner was settling by the
head and to starboard. She was even now twisting, rolling over; and
the motion brought down thousands of blocks of ice from the berg. The
engines had long since stopped. She still held her head against the ice
wall; but it would give her no support. She was slipping away--down to
her grave below.
Brownson gazed back over the decks. He watched the crowd impersonally,
and it seemed strange to him that so much valuable fabric should go to
the bottom so quickly. The paint was so clean and bright, the brass
was so shiny. The whole structure was so thoroughly clean, neat, and
in proper order. It was absurd. There he was standing upon that bridge
where he had stood so often, and here below him were hundreds of dying
people--people like rats in a trap.
"Good Heaven--is it real?"
He was sure he was not awake. It must be a dream. Then the terrible
knowledge came back upon him like a stroke; a blow that stopped his
heart. It was the death of his ship he was watching--the death of his
ship and of many of his passengers. Suddenly Brownson saw the boat of
the second mate, and that officer standing looking up at him.
The master thought he saw the officer's lips move. He wondered what the
man thought, what he would say. He had insulted the officer, made him a
clown before the men. He knew the second mate would not spare him. He
knew the second mate would testify that he had given warning of ice ten
minutes before they struck. He also knew that the man at the wheel had
heard him, as had the steward who brought up the coffee, and one or two
others who were near.
No, there must be no investigation of his, Brownson's, blame in the
matter. The master dared not face that. He looked vacantly at Smith.
The officer stood gazing straight at him.
The liner suddenly shifted, leaned to starboard, heeled far over,
and her bows slipped from the berg, sinking down clear to her decks,
clear down until the seas washed to the foot of her superstructure
just below Brownson. Masses of ice fell from her into the sea. The
grinding, splashing noise awoke the panic again among the remaining
passengers and crew. They strove with maniac fury to get the rafts and
other stuff that might float over the side. Two boats drew away full
to the gunwales with people. The air below began to make that peculiar
whistling sound that tells of pressure--pressure upon the vitals of the
ship. She was going down.
Brownson still stood gazing at his second mate.
Smith met the master's eye with a steady look. Then he suddenly forgot
himself and raised his hand.
"Oh, you murdering rat, you cowardly scoundrel, you devil!" he roared
out.
Brownson saw the movement of the hand, saw that it was vindictive,
furious, and full of menace. He could not hear the words.
He smiled at the officer, raised his hand, and waved it in reply. It
seemed to make the mate crazy. He gesticulated wildly, swore like a
maniac--but Brownson did not hear him. He only knew what he was doing.
He turned away, gave one more look over the sinking ship.
"She's going now--and so am I," he muttered.
Then he went slowly into his chart room, opened a drawer, and took out
a revolver that he always kept there. He stood at the open door and
cocked the weapon. He looked into its muzzle, and saw the bullet that
would end his life when he pulled the trigger.
He almost shuddered. It was so unreal. He could not quite do it. He
gazed again at the second mate. He knew the officer was watching him,
knew Smith would not believe he had the nerve to end the thing then and
there. It amused him slightly in a grim sort of way. Why, he _must_
die. That was certain. He could never face his own family and friends
after what he had done. As to getting another ship--that was too absurd
to think of.
The form of a woman showed in the boat. She had risen from the bottom,
where the blow of the officer had felled her in her frenzy. Brownson
saw her, recognized her as his niece, the sister of the man he had
wished to put in Smith's place. It was for his own nephew he had
insulted his officer, had caused him to relax and lose the interest
that made navigation safe, in the hope that Smith would leave and let
his relative get the berth.
He wondered if Smith knew. He stood there with the revolver in his hand
watching for some sign from his second officer. Smith gazed at him in
fury, apparently not noticing the girl whom he had just before knocked
into the boat's bottom to keep order. She stood up. Smith roughly
pushed her down again. Brownson was sure now--he felt that Smith knew
all.
But he put the revolver in his pocket. He would not fire yet.
The ship was listing heavily, and the cries of the passengers were
dying out. All who had been able to get away had gone, somehow, and
only a few desperate men and women, who could not swim and who were
cool enough to realize that swimming would but prolong an agony that
was better over quickly, huddled aft at the taffrail. They would take
the last second left them, the last instant of life, and suffer a
thousand deaths every second to get it. It was absurd. Brownson pitied
them.
Many of these women were praying and talking to their men, who held
them in a last embrace. One young woman was clinging closely to a
young man, and they were apparently not suffering terror. A look of
peacefulness was upon the faces of both. They were lovers, and were
satisfied to die together; and the thought of it made them satisfied.
Brownson wondered at this. They were young enough and strong enough to
make a fight for life.
A whistling roar, arose above all other sounds. The siren had ceased,
and Brownson knew the air was rushing from below. The ship would drop
in a moment. He grasped the pistol again. He dreaded that last plunge,
that drop into the void below. The thought held him a little. The ocean
was always so blue out there, so clear and apparently bottomless, a
great void of water. He wondered at the depth, what kind of a dark bed
would receive that giant fabric, the work of so many human hands. And
then he wondered at his own end there. His own end? What nonsense! It
was unreal. Death was always for others. It had never been for him. He
had seen men die. It was not for him yet. He would not believe it. He
would awaken soon, and the steward would bring him his coffee.
Then he caught the eye of Smith again in that boat waiting for the
end out there. His heart gave an immense jolt, began beating wildly.
The ship heeled more and more. The ice crashed and plunged from her
forward. Brownson was awakening to the real at last. He felt it in
those extra heartbeats; knew he must hurry it. Then he wondered what
the papers would say; whether they would call him a coward, afraid
to face the inevitable. He hoped they would not. But, then, what
difference would it all make, anyhow--to him? He was dead. His interest
was over. What difference would it make whether he was a coward or
not? Men knew him for what he was, but he existed no longer. He was
dead.
While he stood there with these thoughts in his mind, his nerve half
lacking to end the thing, it seemed to him it was lasting for an
eternity. He was growing tired of it all. He turned away again and
entered the chart room.
His cat crawled from somewhere and rubbed its tail and side against his
leg. Then the animal jumped to the table, and he stroked it; actually
stroked it while Smith watched him, and swore at him for a cold-blooded
scoundrel.
The ship sank to her superstructure. Her stern rose high in the air.
It was now impossible to stand on deck without holding on. Some of the
remaining passengers slid off with parting shrieks. They dropped into
that icy sea.
Brownson felt the end coming now, and turned again to the doorway,
looking straight at his second mate. Smith was trying to quell the
movement among his crowd which was endangering his boat again.
The captain clutched the door jamb and watched. Then the ship began
to sink. He could not make up his mind to jump clear. There was Smith
looking at him. He dared not be saved when hundreds were being killed.
No, he could not make that jump and swim to a boat under that officer's
gaze. And yet at the last moment he was about to try it. Panic was
upon him in a way that he hardly realized. He simply could not face
the black gulf he was dropping into with his health and full physical
powers still with him. It was nature to make a last effort for his
life. Then, before he could make the jump overboard, he saw Smith again
shaking his hand at him and howling curses.
He pulled the pistol. An ashy whiteness came over his face. Smith saw
it. He stopped swearing; stopped in his furious denunciation of the man
who had caused so much destruction. He also saw the pistol plainly, and
wondered at the captain's nerve.
"You are afraid, you dog--you are afraid--you daren't do it, you
murdering rat!" he yelled.
The men in the boat were all gazing up at the chart-house door where
the form of their commander stood.
"He's going to shoot, sir," said the stroke oarsman.
"He's afraid--he won't dare!" howled Smith.
Brownson seemed to hear now. The silence was coming again, and the
sounds on the sinking ship were dying out.
Brownson gazed straight at his second officer. Smith saw him raise the
pistol, saw a bit of blue smoke, saw his commander sink down to the
deck and disappear. A cracking and banging of ice blocks blended with
the report, and the ship raised her stern higher. Then she plunged
straight downward, straight as a plummet for the bottom of the Atlantic
Ocean. Smith knew his captain had gone to his end; that he was a dead
man at last.
He stood watching the mighty swirl where the liner had gone under. The
men in his boat were also looking. They had seen all.
"Look--look!" shrieked a passenger. "The captain has shot himself!"
"She's gone--gone for good!" cried another. "Oh, the pity of it all!"
Smith did not reply. He was still gazing at the apparition he had
seen in that chart-house door; the figure of the man shooting himself
through the head. It had chilled his anger, staggered him. The awful
nerve of it all, the horror----
"Hadn't we better see if we can get one or two more in her, sir?" asked
the stroke oarsman. "I see a woman swimming there."
Smith did not answer. He seemed not to hear. Then he suddenly awoke to
his surroundings. He was alive to the occasion, the desperate situation.
"Give way port--ease starboard--swing her out of that swirl--hard on
that port oar," he ordered.
* * * * *
Smith looked around for the other boats. The chief mate's was in sight,
showing dimly through the haze. She was full of people, crowded, and
it was a wonder how she floated with the screaming, panic-stricken
passengers, who fought for places in her in spite of Wylie's oaths and
entreaties. Smith glared.
"The fools!" he muttered. "If they would only think of something
besides their own hides for a second. But they won't. They never do.
It's nature, and when the trouble comes they fight like cats."
He steered away from what he saw was trouble. He would not pick up the
participants in the scuffle when they overturned the boat. He was full
up now, carrying all his boat would hold. She rocked dangerously with
every shifting of the crowd, that still trembled and scuffled for more
comfort in her. Her gunwales were only a few inches above the sea, and
it might come on to blow at any minute.
"Sit down!" he roared to the old man, who would shift and squirm about
in the boat, interfering with the stroke oarsman, who jammed his oar
into the small of the fellow's back, regardless of the pain it caused.
"Sit down or I'll throw you overboard! Do you hear?"
The old man whimpered and struggled for a more comfortable position;
and Smith reached over with the tiller and slammed him heavily across
the shoulders, knocking him over.
"If you get up again I'll kill you, you cowardly old nuisance!" he said
savagely.
The old man lay quiet and trembling. A young woman upbraided Smith for
brutality and talked volubly.
"Talk, you little fool!" he said. "Talk all you want to, but don't you
get moving about in this boat, or I'll break your pretty neck."
"You are a monster," said the girl.
"Yes; but if I'd had my way, you would have been safe and sound below
in your room instead of out here in this ice," snapped Smith.
The girl quieted down, and then spoke to the young woman, who lay in
the bottom of the boat where she had fallen when Smith struck her down.
She was the niece of Captain Brownson.
"I never heard of such utter brutality in my life," she said.
Miss Billings, who had first found fault, agreed with her.
"Was your brother aboard, Miss Roberts?" asked Smith.
"Yes, he was--I think he went in the mate's boat--why do you ask?"
"Oh, I was just thinking--that's all. He would have been second officer
next voyage. That seemed to be fixed, didn't it?"
"Yes; and if it had, this thing would not have happened," said the girl.
"No; probably it would not," said the second officer sadly. He spoke,
for the first time, with less passion. He thought of the manner they
had taken to get his berth, the insults, the infamy of the whole thing.
"No; I don't suppose you knew how it was done," said he, half aloud.
The girl sat up. She had stopped whimpering from the blow.
Smith watched her for a few minutes while he swung the boat's head for
the gray mist ahead where he knew lay the iceberg. He thought the face
pretty, the figure well rounded and perfectly shaped. He felt sorry he
had used such harshness in making her behave in the boat. But there
was no time for silly sentiment. That boat must be manned properly
and kept afloat, and the slapping of a girl was nothing at all. She
might start a sudden movement and endanger the lives of all. Absolute
trimming of the craft was the only way she could be safe to carry the
immense load. The men rowed slowly and apparently without object. Smith
headed the boat for the ice.
A long wall of peculiar pale blueness suddenly burst from the haze
close to them. It was the iceberg. He swung the boat so that she would
not strike it, and followed along the ragged side.
The two young women gazed up at the pale blueness caused by the fresh
water in the ice. It was a beautiful sight. The pinnacles were sharp
as needles, and they pierced the mist in white points, tapering down
to the white-and-blue sheen at the base, where the ocean roared and
surged in a deep-toned murmur. Great pieces broke from the mass while
they gazed. Smith steered out and sheered the boat's head away from the
dangerous wall. It was grand but deadly. A large block lay right ahead.
"Ease starboard," he said.
The craft swung clear. The mist from the cold ocean thinned a little.
Right ahead was a flat plateau, a raised field of ice joining the berg.
It sloped down suddenly to the sea, and the swell broke upon it as upon
a rocky shore. A long, flat floe stretched away from the higher part.
It was a field of at least a half mile in length. The huge berg reached
a full half mile further. The whole was evidently broken from some
giant glacier in the Arctic.
Smith debated his chances within himself. He scorned to ask his men,
for he had seen much ice before in his seagoing. To remain near the
berg was to miss a ship possibly; but to row far off was to miss fresh
water. He had come away without either food or water, owing to the
furious panic. He knew very well that, within a few hours at most, the
famished folk in his boat would rave for a drink. They must have water,
at least, even if they must do without food.
The iceberg lay right in the path of ships, as his own had proved, the
liner running upon the great circle from New York to Liverpool. There
was the certainty of meeting, or of at least coming close to a vessel
shortly, for others of his line would run the same circle, the same
course, as he had run it before.
With giant liners going at twenty-five knots speed, they usually kept
pretty close to the same line, for there were few currents that were
not accurately known over that route. The Gulf Stream was a fixed unit
almost; and in calm weather other ships would certainly reckon with
accuracy to meet its set. If he rowed far off the line, then he might
or might not meet a ship. If he did not, then there would soon be death
and terror in that boat.
He decided to keep close to the berg, and ordered his men to give way
slowly while he navigated the field and skirted it, keeping just far
enough out to avoid the dangerous breaks and floating pieces.
The morning wore away, and the occupants of his boat began to grow
restless. They had been cramped up for several hours now, and they were
not used to sitting in a cold, open boat in a thick, misty haze without
food or water. The old man began to complain. Several women began to
ask for water. One woman with three children begged him to go ashore
and get them a piece of ice to allay their thirst. Smith saw that the
effects of the wild excitement were now being felt, and the inevitable
thirst that must follow was at hand.
He headed the boat for a low part of the field.
"Easy on your oars," he commanded. The boat slid gently upon the
sloping ice.
"Jump out, Sam," he said to the bow oarsman. "Jump out and take the
painter with you." The man did so, hauling the line far up the floe.
One by one the rest were allowed to climb out of the boat. They
gathered upon a part of the field that rose a full ten feet above the
sea; and there they began trying to get small pieces of ice to eat. It
was as salt as the sea itself, and they were disappointed, spitting it
out. Smith took a man along with him and started for the berg. The boat
was left in charge of four men, who held her off the floe.
Within half an hour, the whole crowd had managed to get fresh-water
ice. The second officer kept them close to the boat and watched for
any signs of change in the weather. They were allowed to go a short
distance and get the stiffness from their limbs by exercise.
"I am very tired and cold. Can I get back into the boat?" asked Miss
Roberts, after she had been stamping her feet upon the floe for half an
hour.
Smith looked at her. The print of his hand was plainly marked upon her
face. He felt ashamed.
"Yes, you can go aboard," he said; and then, as if in apology for what
he had done, he explained: "You must keep quiet in that boat, you know.
You must not try to walk about, for it endangers the whole crowd. You
understand, don't you?"
"Yes, I'll try and keep still, but my feet get so cold and I grow so
stiff."
"Well, you must forgive me for having used you roughly. I had to do it.
There was no time for politeness in that panic." He came close to her.
His eyes held a light she feared greatly, and she shrank back.
"I hope it is not a time now for politeness," she said, with meaning.
"Oh, I wouldn't hurt you," said Smith.
"I hope not," said the girl.
Miss Billings asked if she could go aboard also. Smith allowed her, and
called the boat in.
The two girls climbed into the boat, and the older women commented
spiritedly upon the favors of youth. Smith shut them up with an oath.
The woman with the three children huddled them back aboard as the ice
caused them to shiver with the cold on their little feet. They had
neglected to put on their shoes. The women, for the most part, were
only half dressed, and few, if any, had on shoes. They had rushed on
deck at the first alarm, and the time allowed for dressing was short.
The ship had gone down within fifteen minutes from the first impact
with the berg.
Smith walked to and fro upon the ice for some time. The sun shone for a
few moments, but was quickly hidden again in the haze.
A gentle breeze began to blow from the southward, and the haze broke up
a little. Smith began to get nervous about the ice, and finally ordered
all his people back into the boat, where they huddled and shivered,
hungry but no longer thirsty.
During all these hours there had been no further sign of the other
boats. Smith knew that at least ten of them had gone clear of the
sinking ship. The chief mate's boat was the one he was most interested
in at present. He wanted to see the man who had indirectly caused the
disaster; the man whom Brownson was playing up for the berth of second
officer. The thing was a reality now since the tragedy. Before it, he
had looked upon the matter as slight indeed.
The second mate headed his boat out and kept clear of the drifting
ice; but always under the lee of the berg, which offered considerable
shelter from both wind and sea, which were rising. The danger of
floating ice was not great during daylight, and he swung the small boat
close and rode easily, keeping her dry and clear of water. He dreaded
the plunging he must inevitably undergo in the open ocean with that
load of women.
With the increasing breeze, the haze lifted entirely until the horizon
showed clear all around. There was no sign of the other boats. Smith
knew then that they had steered off to the southward to avoid the ice.
As the sea began to grow, the masses of ice broke adrift with distinct
and loud reports, the plunging pieces from the higher parts making
considerable noise above the deepening roar of the surge upon the base.
At three in the afternoon, Smith began to feel nervous. The ice was
breaking up fast, and immense pieces were floating in the sea which
bore them toward him. They grew more and more dangerous to the small
craft, and the officer headed away from the vicinity and sought the
open at last.
By five that afternoon, when the light was fading, he was riding a
heavy sea, that grew rapidly and rolled quickly, the combers breaking
badly and keeping two men busy bailing the boat. She made water fast.
The night came on with all its terrors, and the small boat was in great
danger. Smith tried his best to keep her headed to the sea, which
was now running high and strong. His men began to weaken under the
continuous strain; and by ten that night they could no longer hold the
boat's head to the sea. She fell off once or twice, and nearly filled
when in the trough. There was little to do but make a last effort to
hold her. The steady second officer came to his last resource.
There were five oars in the boat. Four of these he lashed into a drag
by fastening two of them in the shape of a cross, and then lashing the
other two across the end of the cross. He had a spare line of some
length in the boat; and with this bent to the painter, he had a cable
of at least twenty fathoms, which he led over the bows and to the drag.
The drag was weighted with some chain that lay forward. The fifth oar
he kept aboard, and used it himself for a sweep to hold her head as
nearly as possible behind the drag and to the sea.
He was tired, sore, and hungry, but he kept the boat's head true for
hours, and his people huddled down in the bottom, and prayed or swore
as the humor took them. The children wept, and some of the older women
fainted and lay prone. These gave no trouble. Some of the younger ones
still insisted on moving about, and brought the wrath of the mate upon
them in no uncertain manner. Smith was making a fight for their lives,
and would not tolerate any hysteria. He smote all who disobeyed with
his usual impersonal and rough manner; but the two girls were now too
much cowed to give him trouble. They lay in the boat's bottom and wept
and sobbed the night long, holding to each other, while the boat tossed
high in the air or fell far down the slopes of ugly seas. And all the
time the water broke over her low gunwales as she sat well down under
her load of living freight.
It was about midnight when the old man, who had been unruly from the
first, sprang upon a thwart and plunged over the side with a shrill
scream.
Smith saw him, and made, a pass to catch him with the oar; but the old
fellow drifted out of reach. The second officer swung the boat as far
as possible toward him; but still he could not reach the figure that
showed floating for a few moments in the darkness. Then Miss Roberts,
who was close to the stern sheets, spoke up.
"Oh, the pity of it, the pity of that old man dying like this! Will no
one save him?" she cried.
Her companion sat up.
"There's no one aboard here who can do anything but bully us women. If
we had a man here, we might save him. I would jump after him myself,
but I can't swim. It's horrible to see him drown right alongside of us
in this darkness."
Smith heard and smiled grimly. He was tired out, sore, and almost
exhausted, but he was full of pluck and fight still. To drop the
steering oar might prove fatal if a comber struck the boat. He called
to the stroke oarsman who took the oar. Smith took the stern line, gave
a turn about a cork jacket that lay upon the seat, and then over the
side he went, calling the men to haul him in when he gave the word.
The affair had only taken a few moments, and the form of the old fellow
was hardly under the surface. Smith floundered to him; but, being a
poor swimmer, as most sailors are, he was quite exhausted when he
finally grabbed him. Instead of easing on the line, he hung dead upon
it, hardly able to keep his face out of the sea. The girls watched him
over the gunwales, but keeping their places. Two men started to haul
him in without waiting for a signal; and they hove upon the line with a
right good will. It was old and dry-rotted, as most lines in lifeboats
are, and it parted.
Smith felt the slack, and knew what it meant. The cork jacket held him
above the surface, and he looked at the boat which seemed so far away
in the darkness, but in reality was only a few fathoms. Yet it was too
far for him to make it again. It meant his death, his ending.
He tried to swim, but the exertion of the day had been too much. His
efforts were weak and ill-directed, and he floundered weakly about,
drifting farther away all the time.
The stroke oarsman called for another line. There was none except that
of the drag. It would not do to haul it in. The boat was doing all she
could now to keep herself afloat, and to risk her broadside in the sea
might be fatal for all hands.
Miss Roberts begged some one to go to the officer's assistance. Smith
seemed to hear and understand. He floundered with more vigor. There
was not a man among the boat's crew who dared to go over the side in
the night. There was nothing more to do but watch and hope that the
second mate would finally make it. But he did not. He struggled on for
many minutes. They could see him now and then fighting silently in the
night. He still seemed to hold the old man with one hand.
"It is dreadful--can no one do anything for him?" begged Miss Roberts.
"I can't swim a stroke, lady," said the man at the steering oar.
No one volunteered to go. Smith slowly drifted off as the boat sagged
back upon her drag. Then he disappeared entirely in the darkness.
"The brute--I didn't think it was in him," said Miss Billings, with
feeling.
"Don't talk that way," said Miss Roberts. "Don't talk that way of a man
who did what he has done. I forgive him with all my heart----"
The morning dawned, and the sea rolled with less vigor. The boat was
still able to keep herself clear. The white faces of the men told of
the frantic endeavor. The women were now nearly all too exhausted to
either care for anything or do anything. They lay listless upon the
boat's bottom, and she made better weather for that fact. By nine
o'clock a steamer was heading for them; and within an hour they were
safe aboard and bound in for New York. They arrived a few days later.
The chief mate's boat had kept her course to the southward after
leaving the berg--she had gone ahead of Smith's. By midnight that night
she was almost dead ahead of the second officer's boat when Smith
jumped in to save the old man.
Daylight showed Wylie a dark speck on the horizon; and at the same time
he saw the smoke of the approaching steamer. He had made bad weather
of it, also; but with more men and less women in his craft he had kept
to the oars, and, when it was very bad, had run slowly before it for
several hours. This had brought him from many miles in advance to but
a few ahead of Smith's boat; and he was rowing slowly ahead again by
daylight. He sighted her, and noticed there were no oars; but he saw
the man steering, and rightly guessed that they were hanging onto a
drag.
Mr. Roberts, the nephew of Captain Brownson, sat close to the mate. He
had relieved him several times during the night. Large and powerful, he
was able to aid the chief mate very much.