—BUT GOES ON AGAIN INTO THE UNKNOWN
This final waiting for the chance of succor seemed to be the hardest
trial of all. The door had been hooked back to keep it wide open, so
wind and sea invaded the trim privacy of the cabin. Spray leaped over
the ship in such dense sheets that a considerable quantity of water
quickly lodged on the port side where Courtenay’s bunk was fixed. There
was no means of escape for it in that quarter, and the angle at which
the _Kansas_ lay would permit a depth of at least two feet to
accumulate ere the water began to flow out through the door to the
starboard.
At the great crises of existence the stream of thought is apt to form
strange eddies. Courtenay, when the ship struck, and it was possible
that each second might register his last conscious impression, found
himself coolly reviewing various explanations of the existence of an
uncharted shoal in a locality situate many miles from the known danger
zone. Elsie, strung half-consciously to the highest tension by the
affrighting probability of being set adrift in a small boat at the
mercy of the sea roaring without—a sea which pounded the steel hull of
the _Kansas_ with such force that the great ship seemed to flinch from
each blow like a creature in pain—Elsie, then, faced by such an
intolerable prospect, was a prey to real anxiety because the wearing
apparel scattered by Courtenay on the floor was becoming soaked in
brine.
She actually stooped to rescue a coat which was not yet saturated
beyond redemption. As she lifted the garment, a packet of letters, tied
with a tape, fell from its folds. She placed the coat on the
writing-table, and endeavored to stuff the letters into a pigeon-hole.
They were too bulky, so she laid them on the coat. In doing this she
could not avoid seeing the words, “Your loving sister, Madge,” written
on the outer fold of the last letter in the bundle.
And that brought a memory of her previous visit to the captain’s
stateroom; the contrast between the careless chatter of that glorious
summer afternoon and the appalling midnight of this fourth day of the
voyage was something quite immeasurable; it was marked by a void as
that which separates life and death. She was incapable of reasoned
reflection. A series of mental pictures, a startling jumble of
ideas—trivial as the wish to save the clothes from a wetting,
tremendous as the near prospect of eternity—danced through her brain
with bewildering clearness. She felt that if she were fated to live to
a ripe old age she would never forget a single detail of the furniture
and decorations of the room. She would hear forever the dolorous
howling of the gale, the thumping of the waves against the quivering
plates, the rapid, methodic thud of the donkey-engine, which, long
since deserted by its cowardly attendant, was faithfully doing its work
and flooding the ship with electric light.
She could scarcely believe that it was she, Elsie Maxwell, who stood
there on the tremulous island of the ship amidst a stormy ocean the
like of which she had never seen before. She seemed to possess an
entity apart from herself, to be a passive witness of events as in a
dream; presently, she would awake and find that she was back in her
pleasant room at the Morrisons’ hacienda, or tucked up in her own
comfortable cabin. Yet here was proof positive that the terror which
environed her was real. Bound up with the thunder of the gale were the
words, “Your loving sister, Madge”—evidently the sister Captain
Courtenay had spoken of—“matron of a hospital in the suburbs of
London,” he said. Would he ever see her again? Or his mother? Had he
thought of them at all during this night of woe? Beneath his iron mask
did tears lurk, and dull agony, and palsied fear—surely a man could
suffer like a woman, even though he endured most nobly?
And then, not thinking in the least what she was doing, she scrutinized
the closely tied packet. She wondered idly why he treasured so many
missives. Each and every one, oddly enough, was written on differently
sized and variously colored note-paper. And it could be seen at a
glance that they were from as many different people. The outside letter
was the most clearly visible. Miss Courtenay wrote a well-formed,
flowing hand. If handwriting were a clue to character, she was a
candid, generous, open-minded woman.
But what was this? Elsie suddenly threw down the letters. She had read
a sentence at the top of the page twice before she actually grasped its
purport. When its significance dawned on her, she flushed violently.
For this was what she read:
“I am glad of it, too, because under no other circumstances would I
wish to greet and embrace the woman destined to be your wife.”
The knowledge that she had involuntarily intruded on Captain
Courtenay’s private affairs brought her back with a certain slight
shock to a sense of actualities. The storm, the horrible danger she was
in, emerged from shadow-land. Why had he not come for her? Surely there
must have been some further mishap! Heavens! Was she alone on the ship,
alone with the dead men and the dying vessel? Her head swam with a
strange faintness, and she placed a hand to her eyes. She felt that she
must leave the cabin at once, and strive to make her way unaided along
the deck. Yes, whatever happened, she would go now. It was too dreadful
to wait there any longer in ignorance as to her fate.
Then Joey sprang in through the doorway, and, with that splendid
disregard for sentiment displayed by a fox-terrier who has just come
out of a first-rate fight, shook his harness until it rattled.
But he eyed the inrush of the sea with much disfavor, so he leaped up
on the table beside Elsie, and looked at her as though he would ask why
she had permitted this sacrilege.
Though the dog was apparently unscathed and in the best of condition,
his head and forepaws were blood-stained. His advent dispelled the mist
which was gathering in the girl’s brain. She feared a tragedy, yet Joey
assuredly would not be so cheerful, so daintily desirous to avoid the
splashing water in the cabin, if his master were injured. She was
doubtful now whether to go on deck or not. The mere presence of the dog
was a guarantee that Courtenay had not quitted the ship. Indeed, Elsie
colored again, and more deeply, at the disloyalty of her ungoverned
fear. Joey’s master would be the last man to desert a woman, no matter
what the excuse. She strove to listen for any significant noises
without, but wind and sea rendered the effort useless to untrained
ears, and there was no shooting or frenzied yells to rise above the
storm.
“Oh, Joey,” she said, “I wish you could speak!”
The sound of her own voice startled her. In a fashion, it gave her a
measure of time. It seemed so long since she had heard a spoken word.
The captain could certainly have gone round the whole ship since he
left her. What could have detained him? She was yielding to nervousness
again, and was on the point of venturing out, at least as far as the
deck-house ran, to see if she could distinguish what was taking place
on the after part of the vessel, when Dr. Christobal entered.
“I suppose you thought you were forgotten,” he cried with a pleasant
smile, for Christobal would have a smile for a woman even on his
death-bed. “There, now! Don’t try to explain your feelings. You have
had a very trying time, and I want you to oblige me by drinking this.”
“This” was a glass of champagne, which he hurriedly poured out of a
small bottle he was carrying into a glass which he produced from a
pocket. The trivial action, no less than Dr. Christobal’s manner,
suggested that they were engaged in some fantastic picnic. The outer
horrors were not for them, apparently. They were as secure as
sight-seers in the Cave of the Winds, awe-smitten tourists who cling to
a rail while mighty Niagara thunders harmlessly overhead.
The mere sight of the wine caused Elsie to realize that her lips and
palate were on fire with salt. At one moment she had not the slightest
cognizance of her suffering; at the next, she felt that speech was
impossible until she drank. Never before had she known what thirst was.
A somewhat inferior vintage suddenly assumed a bouquet which surpassed
the finest cru ever dreamt of by Marne valley vigneron.
“Ah, that is better,” said the doctor. “Now, if you don’t mind, we
shall have the door closed.”
With peace suddenly restored to the room, and her faculties helped more
than she suspected, Elsie began to wonder what had happened.
“Where are the others?” she asked; “and why are you taking things so
coolly? Captain Courtenay said—”
“Captain Courtenay said exactly what he meant. But circumstances proved
too strong for him. We shall not be able to leave the ship just yet.”
“Can’t they lower any of the boats?”
“Most decidedly. Two boats have been gone some time. I imagined you
knew that. Did not the captain tell you?”
At another time Elsie would have laughed at the prevalent delusion that
she enjoyed Courtenay’s confidence so thoroughly. But she felt that her
companion’s glib tone was artificial. Something had occurred which he
was keeping from her. She believed that he had gone to the saloon to
procure the wine so that she might have what men called Dutch courage
when bad news came.
“I have not exchanged a dozen words with the captain since you refused
my help in the fore cabin,” she said. “He had other matters to attend
to than explaining the progress of events to me. Why cannot you trust
me? I shall not scream, nor faint, nor hinder you in your work; I ask
you again— Where are the others?”
“You mean Miss Baring and Mrs. Somerville?”
“Yes.”
“If they are living, they are far enough away by this time. When their
boat was lowered it was cast off prematurely—”
“Purposely?”
“Well—yes. Courtenay had just placed Miss Baring’s maid on board when
some of the crew let go the ropes. What could we do? We were forced to
depend on them.”
“Is there no other boat?”
Christobal threw out his hands in his characteristic gesture. He was so
emphatic that he spilled some of the wine.
“You take it bravely,” he said. “I may as well give you the whole
story. The first boat lowered was lost, through the men’s own bungling,
the captain says. Then there was a desperate fight for the three
remaining craft. Most of the officers were killed. Courtenay got a few
of us together when Isobel and Mrs. Somerville joined you here, and we
held off such of the madmen as tried to seize the jolly-boat. They
managed to lower two life-boats, but, between murder and panic, not
half of the crew escaped in that way. Four men, who were left behind,
promised obedience, and Malcolm, the steward, was placed in charge,
with Mr. Gray as second in command. One of the engineers, acting on the
captain’s orders, brought a can of oil from the engine-room and threw
it over the side in handfuls. The result was magical. We lowered the
boat easily, placed Monsieur de Poincilit on board, because he was
worse than the women, and then Courtenay, as you know, brought Isobel,
the minister’s wife—who refused to go without her husband—and the maid.
There was room for you and another, so, at the captain’s request,
Tollemache and I tossed for the vacancy. Meanwhile, Courtenay had
turned to go for you, when we heard a shout from Gray; two of the
Chileans had cast off the ropes which kept the boat alongside. Gray,
who was fending her from the ship with the boat-hook, jabbed one fellow
in the face with it; but he was too late. The boat raced off into the
darkness. And here we are!”
That Christobal left several things unsaid Elsie knew quite well. He
plumed himself on the reserve he had acquired from his English mother,
though in all matters pertaining to nationality he was a true hidalgo.
Indeed, there was a touch of vanity in the way he examined the sparkle
of the champagne he now poured into Elsie’s empty glass. He scrutinized
the wine with the air of a connoisseur. He was looking for the gas to
rise in three or four well-defined spirals. And he nodded doubtfully,
before drinking it, as one might say:
“The right brand, but of what year?”
Then it dawned on the girl that both her elderly friend and she herself
were accepting an extraordinary situation with remarkable nonchalance.
“How many of us remain on the ship?” she asked.
“Very few—on the effective list. The captain, an engineer whose name I
do not know, Mr. Tollemache, and ourselves make up the total.”
“Where is Mr. Boyle?”
“Ah, poor Boyle! I fear he is done for. He is very badly wounded. I
bandaged him as well as I could, but the call on deck was imperative.”
“Is he in the saloon? Should we not go to him?”
“I have only just left him. The hemorrhage has stopped, and I gave him
some brandy. Believe me, we can do nothing more for him. I told
Courtenay it was quite useless to place him on board the boat. You may
be sure he was not forgotten.”
“I did not imagine that any one would be forgotten,” said Elsie, and,
for some reason, the light in her eyes caused Christobal to go on
rapidly:
“We have a whole crowd of injured men on board, Miss Maxwell. At
present we can render them no aid. I thought it wisest to obey orders.
The captain told me to bring you some wine and remain with you here. It
will not be for long.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The ship appears to be lodged hard and fast on a reef or sandspit. I
am told the tide is rising. If that is so, our only hope is in the raft
which our three allies are now constructing. With a falling tide we
might have a breathing-space at low water. As it is, well—”
Christobal, with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other,
nevertheless waved them. Elsie, whose nervous system at this juncture
was proof against any but the last pang of imminent death, could almost
have laughed at the queer figure he cut, brandishing his arms and
standing awkwardly on the inclined deck. She bent her head to hide the
smile on her lips; she noticed that Joey was panting, the use of his
teeth on various wet legs during the tussle for the jolly-boat having
caused him to swallow more salt-water than he cared for. Elsie’s
sympathies were aroused. While assuaging her own thirst she had
neglected the dog. She took a carafe of water from its wooden stand
near the table, and poured some of the contents into a tumbler. Joey’s
thanks were ecstatic. He yelped with delight at the mere thought of a
drink.
While the dog was lapping a second supply, the _Kansas_ shifted again
with a disconcerting suddenness. The water in the cabin swirled across
the floor as the ship was restored to an even keel. The movement
dislodged the packet of letters. It fell, and Elsie rescued it a second
time. Christobal watched her with undisguised admiration.
“Really,” he said, “I find you wonderful.”
“Why?” Certainly she might be pardoned for seeking an explanation of
any compliment just then.
“Why? Por Dios! Excuse me, but that slipped out sideways. Just imagine
any woman being able to attend to a dog and pick up a bundle of letters
at the very instant the ship appeared to be slipping off into deep
water!”
“Is not that the best thing that can happen?”
“My dear young lady, we should sink instantly.”
“How do you know?”
“Well—er—I don’t exactly know, but I assume that the hull was broken
long since.”
“I don’t see why you should take that for granted. These very movements
seem to me to argue buoyancy. Somehow, I feel far safer here than if I
were—”
She was interrupted by the opening of the door, and the consequent roar
of the gale. It was Walker, the engineer, a lank, swarthy man, with
long black mustaches which drooped forlornly down the sides of his
mouth. He shouted, with the inimitable accent of Tyneside:
“Yo’ wanted, Docto’ Chwistobal. The captain thinks Mr. Boyle is
bettaw.”
“May I come, too?” asked Elsie.
“No, missie. You bide he-aw.”
“Please tell me before you go—is the ship full of water?”
“She’s dwy as a bone,” said Walker. A sea splashed over him and sent a
shower into the cabin. “A vewy wet bone,” he added, with a broad grin,
for the Northumbrian had a ready wit though he had such a solemn jowl,
and he could not pronounce an “r” to save his life.
“Between you and the captain, I am beginning to be infected by belief,”
said Christobal to Elsie. “Let me recommend you to close the door
behind us.”
And she was left with the dog for company once more. A chronometer
showed that the hour was past midnight. She knew sufficient of the sea
to understand that the clock was probably accurate, as the course had
practically followed the same meridian since the _Kansas_ quitted
Valparaiso. So the ship and those left on board had entered on another
day! How little she had thought that to be possible when the awful
knowledge first came to her that the _Kansas_ was ashore! How long ago
was that? Then she remembered that when Courtenay placed her in his
cabin with the promise to bring Isobel to her, she had noticed the
time—eleven o’clock. Was it conceivable that only one hour had elapsed
since she and her four-footed friend were flung all of a heap into a
corner by the impact of the vessel against the sand-bank? One hour!
Surely there was some mistake; she puzzled over the problem, recounting
each event since the conclusion of dinner, and finally convinced
herself that her recollection was not at fault. An hour—one of
eternity’s hours! A verse of the 90th Psalm came to her mind:
“For a thousand years in Thy sight are but as yesterday when it is
past, and as a watch in the night.”
The words had a new and solemn meaning to her. Yesterday was her
thousand years—this was her watch in the night—and it would pass as a
tale that is told. Involuntarily she turned to the bookcase behind her,
and took the Bible from the little library of books which she had
laughingly described as “a curious assortment.” It was her intent to
find the psalm containing that awe-inspiring verse, and read the whole
of it, but, in turning over the leaves, she came upon a scrap of paper
with notes on it. The handwriting was scholarly and legible. She
thought that Captain Courtenay would probably write just such a hand.
Though her cheeks tingled a little at the memory of the words in his
sister’s letter, there was no harm in reading a memorandum evidently
intended to mark a passage in the book. The items were sufficiently
striking:—“Meribah—a place of strife; Selah—a repetition, or sort of
musical _da capo_.”
This stirred her to seek an explanation. She searched the two pages
which opened at the marker, and, in the seventh verse of the 81st
Psalm, she found the key:
“Thou calledst in trouble, and I delivered thee; I answered thee in the
secret place of thunder; I proved thee at the waters of Meribah.
Selah.”
The phrases were strangely appropriate to her present environment. They
were almost prophetic, and there was even a sinister sound in the
concluding instruction to the “chief musician upon Gittith” in this
psalm of Asaph. That was the terrible feature of her vigil. There was
no knowing when or how it would end. She closed the book in a state
more closely approximating to hysterical fright than she had been at
any previous time during that most trying night. The truth was, though
she could not realize it, that her senses were far too alert, her brain
too preoccupied, to permit of such an ordered task as reading. In her
mind’s eye, she saw the boats, with their cowering occupants, plunging
and tossing in that frenzied sea. By contrast, she was far better off
on the ship. Yet, were it not for the action of some cowardly Chilean,
she must have gone with Isobel and the others. It was torturing to
think that her fancied security was really more perilous than the more
apparent plight of the storm-tossed boats. No wonder she could not
read, though the words were inspired!
And Joey was becoming restless. He danced backwards and forwards on the
table where he had taken refuge from the invading flood. Indeed, the
dog knew, long before Elsie, that the _Kansas_ was afloat again. At
last she noticed that the water in the cabin was gurgling to and fro,
and, in the same instant, she felt the regular swing of the moving
ship. She was speculating on the outcome of this new condition of
affairs when the door opened and Walker thrust his lantern-jawed face
within. He grinned cheerfully.
“I’ve come to fetch you to yo’ cabin, miss,” he announced. “The ship’s
under weigh, an’, as yo’ pwobably winging wet, the captain says you
ought to change yo’ clo’es.”
Joey followed her out, but deserted her instantly. She saw the reason,
when Walker helped her to reach the bridge companion. Courtenay was in
the chart-house, at the wheel. He gave her a friendly nod as she
passed. Somehow, Elsie felt safe now that the ship was in the captain’s
hands again.