THE storm that struck the Halfmoon took her entirely unaware. It had
sprung, apparently, out of a perfectly clear sky. Both the lookout and
the man at the wheel were ready to take oath that they had scanned the
horizon not a half-minute before Second Mate Theriere had come racing
forward bellowing for all hands on deck and ordering a sailor below to
report the menacing conditions to Captain Simms.
Before that officer reached the deck Theriere had the entire crew aloft
taking in sail; but though they worked with the desperation of doomed
men they were only partially successful in their efforts.
The sky and sea had assumed a sickly yellowish color, except for the
mighty black cloud that raced toward them, low over the water. The low
moaning sound that had followed the first appearance of the storm, gave
place to a sullen roar, and then, of a sudden, the thing struck the
Halfmoon, ripping her remaining canvas from her as if it had been
wrought from tissue paper, and with the flying canvas, spars, and
cordage went the mainmast, snapping ten feet above the deck, and
crashing over the starboard bow with a noise and jar that rose above the
bellowing of the typhoon.
Fully half the crew of the Halfmoon either went down with the falling
rigging or were crushed by the crashing weight of the mast as it hurtled
against the deck. Skipper Simms rushed back and forth screaming out
curses that no one heeded, and orders that there was none to fill.
Theriere, on his own responsibility, looked to the hatches. Ward with a
handful of men armed with axes attempted to chop away the wreckage, for
the jagged butt of the fallen mast was dashing against the ship's side
with such vicious blows that it seemed but a matter of seconds ere it
would stave a hole in her.
With the utmost difficulty a sea anchor was rigged and tumbled over
the Halfmoon's pitching bow into the angry sea, that was rising to more
gigantic proportions with each succeeding minute. This frail makeshift
which at best could but keep the vessel's bow into the wind, saving her
from instant engulfment in the sea's trough, seemed to Theriere but a
sorry means of prolonging the agony of suspense preceding the inevitable
end. That nothing could save them was the second officer's firm belief,
nor was he alone in his conviction. Not only Simms and Ward, but every
experienced sailor on the ship felt that the life of the Halfmoon was
now but a matter of hours, possibly minutes, while those of lesser
experience were equally positive that each succeeding wave must mark the
termination of the lives of the vessel and her company.
The deck, washed now almost continuously by hurtling tons of storm-mad
water, as one mountainous wave followed another the length of the ship,
had become entirely impossible. With difficulty the men were attempting
to get below between waves. All semblance of discipline had vanished.
For the most part they were a pack of howling, cursing, terror-ridden
beasts, fighting at the hatches with those who would have held them
closed against the danger of each new assault of the sea.
Ward and Skipper Simms had been among the first to seek the precarious
safety below deck. Theriere alone of the officers had remained on duty
until the last, and now he was exerting his every faculty in the effort
to save as many of the men as possible without losing the ship in the
doing of it. Only between waves was the entrance to the main cabins
negotiable, while the forecastle hatch had been abandoned entirely after
it had with difficulty been replaced following the retreat of three of
the crew to that part of the ship.
The mucker stood beside Theriere as the latter beat back the men when
the seas threatened. It was the man's first experience of the kind.
Never had he faced death in the courage-blighting form which the grim
harvester assumes when he calls unbridled Nature to do his ghastly
bidding. The mucker saw the rough, brawling bullies of the forecastle
reduced to white-faced, gibbering cowards, clawing and fighting to climb
over one another toward the lesser danger of the cabins, while the mate
fought them off, except as he found it expedient to let them pass him;
he alone cool and fearless.
Byrne stood as one apart from the dangers and hysteric strivings of
his fellows. Once when Theriere happened to glance in his direction
the Frenchman mentally ascribed the mucker's seeming lethargy to the
paralysis of abject cowardice. “The fellow is in a blue funk,” thought
the second mate; “I did not misjudge him--like all his kind he is a
coward at heart.”
Then a great wave came, following unexpectedly close upon the heels of
a lesser one. It took Theriere off his guard, threw him down and hurtled
him roughly across the deck, landing him in the scuppers, bleeding and
stunned. The next wave would carry him overboard.
Released from surveillance the balance of the crew pushed and fought
their way into the cabin--only the mucker remained without, staring
first at the prostrate form of the mate and then at the open cabin
hatch. Had one been watching him he might reasonably have thought that
the man's mind was in a muddle of confused thoughts and fears; but such
was far from the case. Billy was waiting to see if the mate would revive
sufficiently to return across the deck before the next wave swept the
ship. It was very interesting--he wondered what odds O'Leary would have
laid against the man.
In another moment the wave would come. Billy glanced at the open cabin
hatch. That would never do--the cabin would be flooded with tons of
water should the next wave find the hatch still open. Billy closed
it. Then he looked again toward Theriere. The man was just recovering
consciousness--and the wave was coming.
Something stirred within Billy Byrne. It gripped him and made him act
quickly as though by instinct to do something that no one, Billy himself
least of all, would have suspected that the Grand Avenue mucker would
have been capable of.
Across the deck Theriere was dragging himself painfully to his hands and
knees, as though to attempt the impossible feat of crawling back to the
cabin hatch. The wave was almost upon Billy. In a moment it would engulf
him, and then rush on across him to tear Theriere from the deck and hurl
him beyond the ship into the tumbling, watery, chaos of the sea.
The mucker saw all this, and in the instant he launched himself toward
the man for whom he had no use, whose kind he hated, reaching him as
the great wave broke over them, crushing them to the deck, choking and
blinding them.
For a moment they were buried in the swirling maelstrom, and then as the
Halfmoon rose again, shaking the watery enemy from her back, the two men
were disclosed--Theriere half over the ship's side--the mucker clinging
to him with one hand, the other clutching desperately at a huge cleat
upon the gunwale.
Byrne dragged the mate to the deck, and then slowly and with infinite
difficulty across it to the cabin hatch. Through it he pushed the man,
tumbling after him and closing the aperture just as another wave swept
the Halfmoon.
Theriere was conscious and but little the worse for his experience,
though badly bruised. He looked at the mucker in astonishment as the two
faced each other in the cabin.
“I don't know why you did it,” said Theriere.
“Neither do I,” replied Billy Byrne.
“I shall not forget it, Byrne,” said the officer.
“Yeh'd better,” answered Billy, turning away.
The mucker was extremely puzzled to account for his act. He did not look
upon it at all as a piece of heroism; but rather as a “fool play” which
he should be ashamed of. The very idea! Saving the life of a gink who,
despite his brutal ways, belonged to the much-despised “highbrow” class.
Billy was peeved with himself.
Theriere, for his part, was surprised at the unexpected heroism of the
man he had long since rated as a cowardly bully. He was fully determined
to repay Byrne in so far as he could the great debt he owed him. All
thoughts of revenge for the mucker's former assault upon him were
dropped, and he now looked upon the man as a true friend and ally.
For three days the Halfmoon plunged helplessly upon the storm-wracked
surface of the mad sea. No soul aboard her entertained more than the
faintest glimmer of a hope that the ship would ride out the storm; but
during the third night the wind died down, and by morning the sea had
fallen sufficiently to make it safe for the men of the Halfmoon to
venture upon deck.
There they found the brigantine clean-swept from stem to stern. To
the north of them was land at a league or two, perhaps. Had the storm
continued during the night they would have been dashed upon the coast.
God-fearing men would have given thanks for their miraculous rescue;
but not so these. Instead, the fear of death removed, they assumed their
former bravado.
Skipper Simms boasted of the seamanship that had saved the Halfmoon--his
own seamanship of course. Ward was cursing the luck that had disabled
the ship at so crucial a period of her adventure, and revolving in his
evil mind various possible schemes for turning the misfortune to his
own advantage. Billy Byrne, sitting upon the corner of the galley
table, hobnobbed with Blanco. These choice representatives of the ship's
company were planning a raid on the skipper's brandy chest during the
disembarkation which the sight of land had rendered not improbable.
The Halfmoon, with the wind down, wallowed heavily in the trough of the
sea, but even so Barbara Harding, wearied with days of confinement in
her stuffy cabin below, ventured above deck for a breath of sweet, clean
air.
Scarce had she emerged from below than Theriere espied her, and hastened
to her side.
“Well, Miss Harding,” he exclaimed, “it seems good to see you on deck
again. I can't tell you how sorry I have felt for you cooped up alone
in your cabin without a single woman for companionship, and all those
frightful days of danger, for there was scarce one of us that thought
the old hooker would weather so long and hard a blow. We were mighty
fortunate to come through it so handily.”
“Handily?” queried Barbara Harding, with a wry smile, glancing about
the deck of the Halfmoon. “I cannot see that we are either through it
handily or through it at all. We have no masts, no canvas, no boats;
and though I am not much of a sailor, I can see that there is little
likelihood of our effecting a landing on the shore ahead either with or
without boats---it looks most forbidding. Then the wind has gone down,
and when it comes up again it is possible that it will carry us away
from the land, or if it takes us toward it, dash us to pieces at the
foot of those frightful cliffs.”
“I see you are too good a sailor by far to be cheered by any
questionable hopes,” laughed Theriere; “but you must take the will
into consideration--I only wished to give you a ray of hope that might
lighten your burden of apprehension. However, honestly, I do think that
we may find a way to make a safe landing if the sea continues to go
down as it has in the past two hours. We are not more than a league from
shore, and with the jury mast and sail that the men are setting under
Mr. Ward now we can work in comparative safety with a light breeze,
which we should have during the afternoon. There are few coasts, however
rugged they may appear at a distance, that do not offer some foothold
for the wrecked mariner, and I doubt not but that we shall find this no
exception to the rule.”
“I hope you are right, Mr. Theriere,” said the girl, “and yet I cannot
but feel that my position will be less safe on land than it has been
upon the Halfmoon. Once free from the restraints of discipline which
tradition, custom, and law enforce upon the high seas there is no
telling what atrocities these men will commit. To be quite candid, Mr.
Theriere, I dread a landing worse than I dreaded the dangers of the
storm through which we have just passed.”
“I think you have little to fear on that score, Miss Harding,” said the
Frenchman. “I intend making it quite plain that I consider myself your
protector once we have left the Halfmoon, and I can count on several of
the men to support me. Even Mr. Divine will not dare do otherwise. Then
we can set up a camp of our own apart from Skipper Simms and his faction
where you will be constantly guarded until succor may be obtained.”
Barbara Harding had been watching the man's face as he spoke. The memory
of his consideration and respectful treatment of her during the trying
weeks of her captivity had done much to erase the intuitive feeling
of distrust that had tinged her thoughts of him earlier in their
acquaintance, while his heroic act in descending into the forecastle
in the face of the armed and desperate Byrne had thrown a glamour of
romance about him that could not help but tend to fascinate a girl of
Barbara Harding's type. Then there was the look she had seen in his eyes
for a brief instant when she had found herself locked in his cabin on
the occasion that he had revealed to her Larry Divine's duplicity. That
expression no red-blooded girl could mistake, and the fact that he had
subdued his passion spoke eloquently to the girl of the fineness
and chivalry of his nature, so now it was with a feeling of utter
trustfulness that she gladly gave herself into the keeping of Henri
Theriere, Count de Cadenet, Second Officer of the Halfmoon.
“O Mr. Theriere,” she cried, “if you only can but arrange it so, how
relieved and almost happy I shall be. How can I ever repay you for all
that you have done for me?”
Again she saw the light leap to the man's eyes--the light of a love
that would not be denied much longer other than through the agency of a
mighty will. Love she thought it; but the eye-light of love and lust are
twin lights between which it takes much worldly wisdom to differentiate,
and Barbara Harding was not worldly-wise in the ways of sin.
“Miss Harding,” said Theriere, in a voice that he evidently found it
difficult to control, “do not ask me now how you may repay me; I--;” but
what he would have said he checked, and with an effort of will that was
almost appreciable to the eye he took a fresh grip upon himself, and
continued: “I am amply repaid by being able to serve you, and thus to
retrieve myself in your estimation--I know that you have doubted me;
that you have questioned the integrity of my acts that helped to lead
up to the unfortunate affair of the Lotus. When you tell me that you
no longer doubt--that you accept me as the friend I would wish to be, I
shall be more than amply repaid for anything which it may have been
my good fortune to have been able to accomplish for your comfort and
safety.”
“Then I may partially repay you at once,” exclaimed the girl with a
smile, “for I can assure you that you possess my friendship to the
fullest, and with it, of course, my entire confidence. It is true that
I doubted you at first--I doubted everyone connected with the Halfmoon.
Why shouldn't I? But now I think that I am able to draw a very clear
line between my friends and my enemies. There is but one upon the right
side of that line--you, my friend,” and with an impulsive little gesture
Barbara Harding extended her hand to Theriere.
It was with almost a sheepish expression that the Frenchman took the
proffered fingers, for there had been that in the frank avowal of
confidence and friendship which smote upon a chord of honor in the man's
soul that had not vibrated in response to a chivalrous impulse for so
many long years that it had near atrophied from disuse.
Then, of a sudden, the second officer of the Halfmoon straightened to
his full height. His head went high, and he took the small hand of the
girl in his own strong, brown one.
“Miss Harding,” he said, “I have led a hard, bitter life. I have not
always done those things of which I might be most proud: but there
have been times when I have remembered that I am the grandson of one of
Napoleon's greatest field marshals, and that I bear a name that has been
honored by a mighty nation. What you have just said to me recalls these
facts most vividly to my mind--I hope, Miss Harding, that you will never
regret having spoken them,” and to the bottom of his heart the man meant
what he said, at the moment; for inherent chivalry is as difficult to
suppress or uproot as is inherent viciousness.
The girl let her hand rest in his for a moment, and as their eyes met
she saw in his a truth and honesty and cleanness which revealed
what Theriere might have been had Fate ordained his young manhood to
different channels. And in that moment a question sprang, all unbidden
and unforeseen to her mind; a question which caused her to withdraw her
hand quickly from his, and which sent a slow crimson to her cheek.
Billy Byrne, slouching by, cast a bitter look of hatred upon the two.
The fact that he had saved Theriere's life had not increased his love
for that gentleman. He was still much puzzled to account for the strange
idiocy that had prompted him to that act; and two of his fellows had
felt the weight of his mighty fist when they had spoken words of rough
praise for his heroism--Billy had thought that they were kidding him.
To Billy the knocking out of Theriere, and the subsequent kick which
he had planted in the unconscious man's face, were true indications of
manliness. He gauged such matters by standards purely Grand Avenuesque
and now it enraged him to see that the girl before whose very eyes he
had demonstrated his superiority over Theriere should so look with favor
upon the officer.
It did not occur to Billy that he would care to have the girl look with
favor upon him. Such a thought would have sent him into a berserker
rage; but the fact remained that Billy felt a strong desire to cut out
Theriere's heart when he saw him now in close converse with Barbara
Harding--just why he felt so Billy could not have said. The truth of
the matter is that Billy was far from introspective; in fact he did very
little thinking. His mind had never been trained to it, as his muscles
had been trained to fighting. Billy reacted more quickly to instinct
than to the processes of reasoning, and on this account it was difficult
for him to explain any great number of his acts or moods--it is to be
doubted, however, that Billy Byrne had ever attempted to get at the
bottom of his soul, if he possessed one.
Be that as it may, had Theriere known it he was very near death that
moment when a summons from Skipper Simms called him aft and saved his
life. Then the mucker, unseen by the officer, approached the girl. In
his heart were rage and hatred, and as the girl turned at the sound of
his step behind her she saw them mirrored in his dark, scowling face.