ELSIE GOES ON DECK
As a little yeast leavens much flour so does the presence of a few
stout-hearted men give strength and courage to a multitude. Although
the rumor soon went the rounds that the giant wave which pooped the
ship had carried away two of her six boats, there were no visible signs
of flurry in the measures taken to equip the remaining boats for use.
The men had confidence in their officers; every one worked smoothly and
well.
All told, there were eighty persons on board when the _Kansas_ left
Valparaiso. Of these, seventeen, including the officers, were of
European birth or lineage. The remaining sixty-three were men of mixed
nationalities, ranging from Spanish-speaking Chileans to negroes. There
were eight under-stewards, a cook and his assistants, and nearly fifty
sailors and firemen. Unfortunately, the explosion in the stokehold had
killed the chief engineer and one of his juniors, while six stokers
were dead and several injured.
It was discovered that, before he died, the chief had shut off steam,
and thus prevented the accident from assuming far more serious
proportions. The second engineer, a Newcastle man named Walker, who
rushed to the engine-room at the first indication of a mishap, found
his chief lying in collapse on the lever platform. Walker promptly
opened certain levers which allowed the steam to escape freely; then he
carried his comrade out of the spume to the deck. It was too late.
Partial suffocation had placed too great a strain on a diseased heart;
by the time Dr. Christobal was summoned, a brave man was dead.
Courtenay, who had left instructions that he was to be called when the
Evangelistas light was sighted, was sound asleep. In the elevated
quarters assigned to the captain, the noise of the explosion differed
little from the thunderous blows of the sea. But the stopping of the
engines awoke him instantly. He felt the ship lurch away from her
course, and saw the quick swerve of the compass indicator over his
head. As he ran down the gangway leading from the bridge he heard the
officer of the watch say:
“Something given way in the engine-room, sir.”
Several minutes elapsed before he, or Walker, aided by willing
volunteers, could penetrate the depths of the stoke-hold. The place was
a charnel-house, a stifling pit, filled with the charred contents of
the furnaces, which gave off the most noisome fumes owing to the rapid
condensation of steam and water escaping from the damaged pipes. But
the gale raging without served one good purpose in driving plenty of
air down the ventilating cowls. Gradually, the choking atmosphere
cleared. Courtenay was the first to reach the lowermost rung of the
iron ladder, whence he looked with the eyes of despair on a scene of
death and ruin.
The electric light was uninjured. It revealed the bodies of several
men, either dead or insensible, lying amidst the scattered coal.
Shovels, stoking-rods, and pieces of iron plate had been hurled about
in wild confusion. The door of one furnace was blown clean out of its
bolts; furnace bars and fire-bricks strewed the iron deck, while, each
time the ship rolled, the heavy clank of loose metal somewhere in the
engine-room proved that the damage was not confined solely to the
stoke-hold.
If Courtenay could have dropped quietly into the sea through the stout
hull of the _Kansas_ he would have welcomed the certain result in that
bitter moment. But he was the captain, and men would look to him for
salvation. Well, he would do all that was possible, and, at any rate,
die at his post. So, choking back his misery, he organized the work of
rescue. Slings were formed of ropes, and those men in whom any signs of
life were visible were the first to be lifted to the upper deck. The
stoke-hold was quickly emptied of its inanimate occupants; living and
dead alike were carried to the untenanted second-class saloon forward.
Then Courtenay left Walker to solve the puzzle of the accident and
report on its extent, while he climbed back to the bridge, there to
tackle the far more pressing problem of the measures to be adopted if
he would save his ship.
It was typical of the man that his first act was to wipe the grime of
the stoke-hold off his face and hands. Then he drew a chart from the
locker in which he had placed it two hours earlier. Mr. Boyle, who had
been attending to the signals both by siren and rocket, joined him.
Courtenay pointed to a pin-mark in the sheet.
“We were there at six o’clock,” he said, and his voice was so steady
that he seemed now to be free from the least touch of anxiety. “The
course was South-40-East, and, against this wind and sea, together with
a strong current to the nor’east, we would make eight knots under easy
steam. Therefore, by eight o’clock, when the furnaces blew out, we were
here.”
He jabbed in a pin a little further down the chart. Mr. Boyle, whose
peculiar gifts in the way of speech were accurately described by Dr.
Christobal, grunted agreement.
“Huh,” he said.
Courtenay glanced at a chronometer.
“It is now a quarter to nine,” he went on, “and I reckon that since the
ship swung round we have been carried at least six knots to the
nor’east.”
“Huh,” growled Mr. Boyle again, but he bent a trifle nearer the chart.
To his sailor’s eyes the situation was quite simple. Unless, by God’s
providence, some miracle happened, the _Kansas_ was a doomed ship. The
pin stuck where the Admiralty chart recorded soundings of one hundred
fathoms with a fine sand bed. The longitude was 75-50 west of Greenwich
and latitude 51-35 south. Staring at them from the otherwise blank
space which showed the wide expanse of the Pacific was an ominous note
by the compilers of the chart:
“Seamen are cautioned not to make free with these shores, as they are
very imperfectly known, and, from their wild, desolate character, they
cannot be approached with safety.”
Right in the track of the drifting ship lay a vaguely outlined trio of
dread import: “Breakers; Islet (conical); Duncan Rock.” Behind this
sinister barrier stood the more definite White Horse Island, while,
running due north and south a few miles away to the eastward, was a
wavering dotted line which professed to mark the coast of Hanover
Island. Lending a fearful significance to the unknown character of the
region, a printed comment followed the dotted line: “This coast is laid
down from distant observations on board the Beagle.” So the sea face of
Hanover Island had not been visited by civilized man for nearly sixty
years! There, not three hours’ steaming distance from the regular track
of Chilean commerce, was a place so guarded by reefs on one hand, and
impenetrable, ice-capped mountains on the other, that a proper survey
was deemed impracticable even by officers of the British Navy, a
service which has charted nearly every rock and shoal and tiny islet on
the face of the waters.
Neither man spoke while their practised scrutiny took in these details.
The roaring chaos of the gale told what fate awaited them. The
elemental forces had donned the black cap of the judge and sentenced
them to speedy destruction.
Mr. Boyle pursed his lips; he looked sideways at Courtenay.
“Huh,” he said. “What’s to be done?”
“I propose,” answered the captain, coolly, “to endeavor—”
It was then that the giant wave leaped madly over the poop, as though
the sea were resolved to swallow its prey without further warning. The
second officer, outside on the bridge, had to cling to a stanchion for
his life. Courtenay and Boyle saw two boats wrenched from their davits
and carried overboard, while a bulkhead forward was smashed into
matchwood. The half-caste quarter-master at the wheel muttered
“Madonna!” and tried to remember a prayer.
“I propose,” continued Courtenay, raising his voice so that the other
might hear, “to give the ship steering-way by hoisting the foresail.
Will you see to it? Then I intend to warn the passengers, and make such
preparations as are possible before we strike.”
“Huh,” agreed Mr. Boyle. He took the short cut over the rails. In a few
seconds the captain heard a flow of ornate Spanish, and he knew that
Mr. Boyle was getting the scared Chileans to work.
Then Courtenay went to his own cabin, in which, in the haste of his
exit, he had imprisoned Joey. The dog received him with delight, for
Joey knew a real gale from a sham one, as well as any man before the
mast. Courtenay patted his head, opened a drawer in the writing-table,
and drew forth two photographs, which he kissed. He replaced them,
locked the drawer, and went out, letting the dog come with him. That
was his farewell to his mother and sister; it was the first and last
sign of sentiment he exhibited during that night of great endurance.
When he returned from the saloon, he found the chief officer examining
the chart.
“Do you think we have any chance of making Concepcion Strait?” he
asked, pointing to the doubtfully marked channel which separates
Hanover and Duke of York Islands.
“If we set the mains’le we might bear up a bit.”
“Try it.”
“Huh,” said Mr. Boyle, and he was off again into the spindrift.
Be it understood that the sails carried by a big vessel like the
_Kansas_ are of little practical value save under certain conditions of
wind and sea, when they are rigged to steady her, and thus give help to
helm and propeller. Still, they might serve now to carry the ship a
point or two towards the north, and this was the sole avenue of escape
which remained. Here, again, was one of those trivial circumstances
which are so potent in the shaping of events. Had either of the sails
blown out, or had the mainsail been set at the same time as the
foresail, the course followed during the next few hours must have been
deviated from to some extent, and the alteration of a cable’s length in
direction could not fail to exercise the most momentous result on the
fortunes of the _Kansas_. But ships are singularly akin to men in
respect to the apparent vagaries of fate. A moment’s hesitation, a mere
pace to right or left, may mean all the difference between success and
failure, safety and danger.
Leaving the chart on the table, where it was secured by drawing-pins,
Courtenay went back to his cabin to obtain a pair of sea-boots. Seeing
Joey sitting on his tail and shivering, unable to indulge in a
comfortable lick because the taste of salt water was hateful, he hunted
for a padded mackintosh coat which he had procured for the dog’s
protection in cold latitudes. He ransacked two lockers before he found
it. Several articles were tumbled in a heap on the floor in his haste,
and he did not trouble to pack them away again. He buckled Joey into
the garment, fastened his own oilskins, and rejoined the second officer
on the bridge. A glance showed him the dark wall of the mainsail rising
abaft the after funnel. The quarter-master at the wheel, having
recovered his wits, was keeping the ship’s nose up to the wind by a
steady pressure to port. The gale was as fierce as ever. The second
officer shouted in Courtenay’s ear:
“I am afraid, sir, the wind has shifted a point.”
Courtenay looked at the compass. The ship was bearing exactly
northeast. He had hoped that the sails would enable her to shape due
north, at least; unquestionably some spiteful fiend was urging her
headlong to ruin. Had the wind but veered as much to the south, he
might have chanced the run through Concepcion Strait, or even weathered
Duke of York Island. He nodded to his junior, whose presence on the
bridge was a mere matter of form, owing to the powerless condition of
the ship and the impenetrable wrack of foam and mist that barred vision
ahead, and strode off on a tour of inspection. As wind and sea were now
beating more directly on the port side, there was some degree of
shelter along the covered-in deck to starboard. He found that two boats
had been cleared of their hamper and lowered on the davits until they
could be swung in on the promenade deck. The men were thus able to
provision them more easily than in their exposed berths on the spar
deck. He watched the workers for a few minutes, showed them how to stow
and lash some biscuit tins more securely, and continued his survey,
meaning to look in on Walker and the doctor.
He had to pass the cabins set apart for the two girls. The ports were
lighted, and through one window he could see some one peering out at
him. Owing to the thickness of the glass and its blurred condition, he
could not tell whether the occupant was Elsie or Isobel, or Isobel’s
maid, but, whoever it was, a hand seemed to signal to him to open the
door.
He unfastened the bolts, and held a half door slightly ajar. Joey, ever
eager to be out of the pelting storm, hopped inside, and Courtenay
heard Elsie exclaim:
“Good gracious, Joey! Where is your life-belt?”
“Do you want anything?” asked Courtenay, through the chink.
Elsie smiled at him. She was wrapped in a heavy ulster, and had a Tam
o’ Shanter tied firmly on her head by a stout veil.
“Mr. Malcolm thought we had better bring life-belts from our cabins. I
came for mine, and I looked out and saw you. I wanted to ask you what
had become of Dr. Christobal. I hope you don’t mind?”
“Not in the least. I am just going to him. Would you care to come?”
“Oh, I shall be most pleased.”
“He is attending the injured men, you know. And there are—others there,
who are beyond his help.”
“Perhaps I may be of some assistance.”
“Come, then. When I open the door, step out quickly and hold tight to
that rail. And don’t move until I tell you.”
His manner was curt enough to please the superioress of a nunnery.
Elsie was awed instantly by the glimpse she obtained of the flying scud
within the narrow area of the saloon lights, but she obeyed directions,
and presently found herself clinging desperately to the brass hand-rail
which ran, breast high, along the outer wall of her cabin. She saw
Courtenay kneel to fasten a bolt, and she wondered how a man encumbered
with heavy boots could be so active. Then she felt an arm grip her
tightly round the waist, and she heard a voice, which sounded as if it
had traveled down a long corridor, shouting in her ear:
“Lean well back and trust to me. Let go!”
She had no idea that wind could blow like that, especially when the
ship was going in the same direction. It shrieked and whistled and tore
at the canvas side-awnings with a vehemence that threatened to rip them
from their stays. Courtenay held her glued to his left side, and there
was something reassuring in his vice-like grasp. She had a dim notion
that he need not squeeze her quite so earnestly, until she passed a
gangway which led to the port side, between the deck cabins and the
music-room. Then she changed her opinion; were it not for the strong
arm which held her she would have been blown into the sea.
To reach the forward saloon they had to pass the boats near which
Courtenay had halted. The sailors saw them. During the first lull one
of the men said:
“The señor captain is escorting one of the English señoritas from the
saloon.”
“Where is he taking her to?” asked another.
“Who knows?”
“It will be all the same wherever she is. If the ship goes, we go.”
“Who can tell? These English are stupid. They always try to save women
first. Once, when I was on the—”
A few words in Spanish reached them from Mr. Boyle, and they went on
with their work. But such muttered confidences are eloquent of mischief
when the pinch comes.
At the forward end of the promenade deck, just beneath the bridge,
Elsie received another reminder of the force of the wind, which was
rendered almost intolerable by the lashing of the spray.
“I—can’t—go on,” she gasped. Courtenay felt, rather than heard, that
she was speaking to him. Without further ado, he picked her up in his
arms, and deposited her, all flushed and breathless, in the shelter of
the fore saloon hatch. If she were so anxious to see her friend the
doctor, he was determined she should not be disappointed.
“No time for explanations,” he said, while she tremblingly clutched at
a rail which gave support down the companion-way. “Dr. Christobal is
below. But—I fear you will find a shocking scene. Perhaps you had
better let me take you back.”
“No, no, not on my account. I think I am past feeling any sentiment. I
would far rather do something, be of some use, however slight.”
A pungent smell of iodoform came to them up the hatchway. Joey, who had
followed bravely in their wake, and was now a few steps down the
stairs, crept back, awed.
“At least, let me ask Dr. Christobal if you may come. You will be quite
safe here if you grip the rail. Even if a sea breaks over the hatch it
cannot touch you. May I leave you? And do you mind holding Joey?”
Elsie detected a return to his earlier manner, and she was grateful to
him for it. She did not like him so well when he was stern and curt.
“Yes,” she said. “That is only reasonable; but please tell him I shall
not be in the way, I know that there are wounded men to be attended,
and dead men down there, too. I shall not scream or faint, believe me.”
“I am sure of that. Not one woman in a thousand could have played and
sung to cheer others, as you did after the accident happened.”
It might have been the reaction from her exciting passage along the
deck, but Elsie experienced a sudden warm glow in her face. Somehow, it
was delightful to hear those words from such a man in the hour of his
supremest trial. For she realized what it meant to him, even though his
life were saved, if the _Kansas_ became a wreck.
She stooped, ostensibly to grasp the dog’s collar.
“Before you leave me,” she said, “let me tell you how sorry I am for
you.”
He ran down the stairs, and entered the small saloon, which had been
hastily converted into a hospital. Perhaps it would be better described
as a mortuary, for it held more dead than living. Christobal, aided by
two sailors, was wrapping lint round a fireman’s seared arm. Happily,
there was an abundance of cotton sheets available, and the men tore
them into strips. But the comparatively small supply of cotton wool
carried in the ship’s stores, and in the doctor’s private medicine
chest had long since given out.
“Miss Maxwell is here. She asked me to bring her to you in case she
might be able to render you some assistance,” explained Courtenay.
Christobal drew himself upright, with the slowness of an elderly man
whose joints are stiffening.
“Miss Maxwell here?” he repeated, obviously surprised, if not
displeased. He waved a hand towards the men laid on mattresses on the
deck. Most were quite motionless; others writhed in agony. “She cannot
come—it is impossible.”
“It is her wish.”
“Quite impossible. Where is she?”
“Standing in the companion.”
Courtenay saw that the girl could do no good now in that chamber of
death; the mere memory of it would be an abiding horror. He wanted
Christobal himself to send her away, but the doctor had taken off his
coat and bared his arms. His appearance was grimly business-like.
“Will you tell her how much I am obliged to her for her kind thought.
But you see—it cannot be permitted. Please say that I hope to join her
in the saloon in a quarter of an hour. My work is nearly ended. I am
sure you will make her understand that this is not a place for a
woman.”
Again he swept the row of silent bodies with a comprehensive hand. Yet
the trivial thought intruded itself on the sailor that this elegant old
Spaniard delegated the task of explanation to him solely because he did
not wish to appear before Miss Maxwell in a somewhat disheveled state.
He dismissed the notion at once.
“How many?” he asked, glancing at the quiet forms which bore no
bandages.
“Eleven, now. By the way, just one word. What chance have we?”
Christobal put the concluding sentence in French.
Courtenay answered in the same language: “A very poor one. But I shall
come to the saloon and warn you. That will be only fair, don’t you
think?”
“Most certainly. Well—I may as well finish here.” And the doctor signed
to his helpers to lift the next sufferer on to the table.
Courtenay returned to the stairway. At the top stood Elsie, looking
eagerly for his reappearance. A sense of unutterable anguish shook him
for a second as he saw the sweet face, instinct with life and beauty,
gazing down at him. How monstrous it was to think of such a fair woman
being battered out of recognition against the rocks. He bit his lip
savagely, and it is to be feared the words he swallowed were not those
of supplication. But his eyes were calm and his voice well under
control when he said:
“Dr. Christobal is captain below there, Miss Maxwell, and he absolutely
vetoes your presence. He was exceedingly distressed at being compelled
to send you such a message. However, he will soon explain matters to
you in person, as he is coming aft almost at once.”
Elsie was disappointed. She dreaded the return to the saloon, with its
queerly assorted company. When she quitted them, they were in a state
of indescribable distress. Gray and the Englishman were helping the
chief steward to adjust life-belts; but Isobel was in a frenzy of
despair, her maid had fainted, de Poincilit and the Spaniards were
muttering alternate appeals to the saints and oaths of utter
abandonment, and Mrs. Somerville was almost unconscious, while her
husband knelt by her side and wrung his hands in abject misery.
Anything was better than to go back to that woful assembly, yet she
choked down a protest and said quietly:
“I am ready. I am afraid I have been a bother to you, Captain
Courtenay.”
“Say, rather, you have given me hope. I think Heaven has work for you
to do in the world. Let me go out first. Never mind Joey. He can
struggle along behind. Steady now. Head down and lean well against the
wind.”
Elsie found, to her amazement, that there was less sense of danger in
facing the wind than in being driven along before it. Moreover, she had
greater confidence during this second transit over the exposed portion
of the deck. She felt Courtenay dragging her on irresistibly until they
gained the lee of the smoking-room. He let her rest there, beneath the
ladder leading to the bridge. Then a strange revulsion of feeling came
to him. He experienced an overwhelming desire not to be parted from
her; he had a sickening fear that he might never see her again; so he
shouted, very close to her cheek:
“Would you like to sit in my cabin a little while, if I bring Miss
Baring?”
She thought that would be splendid. Courtenay, if any one, would
succeed in calming Isobel. In order to make herself heard she, in turn,
had to put her lips quite near to Courtenay’s face.
“Yes,” she cried, “I shall be only too pleased. But be patient with
her; she is very frightened.”
There is no accounting for the workings of a man’s mind. Courtenay, at
no time a lady’s man, most certainly had other matters to attend to
just then. Yet here he was thinking only of a woman’s comfort. His
dismal forebodings were banished by a rush of absurd delight at the
thought that he would have an opportunity of speaking to her
occasionally. What a brave girl she was! What a wife for a sailor! In
truth, these were mad notions that jostled in his brain when his life
and her’s were not worth an hour’s purchase. He drew her to the foot of
the ladder.
“Run ahead, Joey!” he cried. The dog, a weird little figure leaning
forward at a ridiculous angle against the tearing wind, obeyed
instantly. “Now, you,” he said to Elsie, “but wait until I pass you at
the top.”
Though her skirts were troublesome, she managed the ascent. Then she
was taken off her feet again, and hardly knew where she was until she
found herself in the haven of Courtenay’s cabin. Joey was glad to be
there, too. He shook himself noisily in his heavy coat.
“You won’t mind if I fasten the door on you?” and the captain so far
forgot his anxiety as to smile.
“No, indeed,” and she smiled in response.
“Very well. I shall bring Miss Baring in about five minutes. You won’t
stir till we come?”
“What? Face that gale without you?” She almost laughed at the idea. He
bolted the door, and he ran into the chart-house to tap the barometer.
It moved appreciably. It was rising! Ah, if only the wind moderated, he
could save the _Kansas_ yet! He glanced at the compass. Still the same
course. Not a fraction of a point gained to the north. That was bad.
The ship was already within the danger zone. Pray Heaven for a falling
wind, or even a change to the southward! Still, it was in an altogether
more cheerful mood that he regained the promenade deck and made his way
towards the saloon.
He was in the very act of entering the doorway when a shudder ran
through the ship, and she lifted slightly. Clinging to a rail, he
waited, rigid as a statue. A second time the great steel hull shook,
but much more violently. Then the _Kansas_ ran her nose into a shoal,
swung round broadside to the sea, lifted again, struck heavily, and
listed to port.
Courtenay was on the starboard side. He heard a yell of dismay from the
men attending to the boats. Screams came from the saloon. The sea
leaped triumphantly over the rails and nearly smothered him with its
dense spray. So this was the end? It had come all too soon. And what a
place for the ship to be cast away! Twenty miles from the nearest land,
in the midst of a sea where no boat could live. God help them all!