THE SINKING YACHT
Lying there motionless, yet wide awake, his senses alert, every slightest
sound and movement made clearer the situation. He could feel the laboured
efforts of the vessel, the slap of waves against the side, the rush of
water astern. Occasionally the echo of a voice reached him from the deck
above, and once footsteps were audible almost over his head. The engine
strokes were regular, but slow, the vibrations shaking the boat in its
sturdy battling against the forces of the sea. The _Seminole_ rolled
heavily, yet there was nothing at all alarming in her actions, and West
felt no premonition of illness, or fear as to the sea-worthiness of the
little craft. Whoever was handling her was evidently a seaman, quite
capable of conquering a storm of this magnitude. No noise came to him
from the cabin, yet he had no thought it could be deserted. Hogan would
certainly retain a guard there, and probably others--with no duties of
seamanship weighing on them--would seek refuge there from the wind-swept
deck above. No doubt the fellows had a skipper, as neither Hogan, nor the
man Mark, bore any resemblance to a lake sailor. Quite possibly the
entire crew were innocent of what was actually transpiring aboard, and
equally indifferent, so long as their wages were satisfactory. Yet it was
even more probable that they had been selected for this special service
because of lack of ordinary scruples; men who would never question so
long as the pay was adequate for the danger involved. It seemed to West
the wind and sea were slowly decreasing in violence; there was less noise
and turmoil. The movement of the vessel began to lull him into
forgetfulness, his vigilance relapsed, his mind drifting in thought. He
endeavoured to arouse himself, to keep awake, but finally fatigue
conquered, and he sank into a deep sleep. He had no knowledge of how long
this slumber lasted, or what suddenly awakened him, so startled at the
moment that he sat up in the berth, staring into the blackness. Was it a
dream, or a reality? Had some one spoken? He could neither see nor hear
anything; the boat seemed to be motionless, not even throbbing now to the
beat of the engine--the silence was uncanny. It seemed to him his own
heart had stopped, so still it was, and he felt a cold perspiration
break out on his flesh. Something was wrong, must be wrong. Where were
they--at anchor in some harbour? or helplessly adrift on the lake? The
sea must have gone down; waves no longer dashed against the side, and
there was no shriek of wind overhead; the yacht rocked gently, as though
the swell of the sea no longer buffeted her; there was no sound of action
on the deck above. Then he heard a voice again, outside, reaching him
this time plainly through the open port.
"All set, Mapes," it said sharply. "Come on down. You finished the job?"
"Ay, ay, sir," the answer gruff, but with a tinge of excitement in the
tone. "She's fixed all right. Hold hard, now, mate."
West, thoroughly aroused, realizing instantly the importance of this
new move, and as quickly suspecting its purpose, leaped to the
port-hole, and, endeavoured to gain a glimpse without. The night was
still intensely black, the sky overcast and starless, the only glimmer
of light the reflecting of foam tipped surges. If land was near it
remained invisible, nor could he even be sure of the close proximity of
a boat. There seemed to be a smudge there at the left, a black, lumping
shadow, shapeless against the background of sea; yet he could not be
sure. Even as he gazed at it doubtfully, the dim object disappeared,
fading away like a mirage. No sound reached him to cause the vision to
seem real--no voice, no creak of oars, no flap of a sail; yet something
told him that mysterious shadow was a boat, a boat filled with men,
creeping away silently into the night, fleeing from the yacht, and
vanishing into the darkness.
My God, what could such action mean? Why were these fellows deserting the
_Seminole_, leaving him helpless aboard, locked into that stateroom? Was
the yacht disabled? sinking? and had they merely forgotten him in their
own eagerness to escape? Were they in mid-lake? or close to some point of
land? Had every one gone, leaving the vessel totally abandoned, a wreck
buffeted by the surges, doomed to go down, unseen, its final fate
unknown? Unknown! The word rising to his brain was the answer. There was
the crest of the plot. What could be easier, or safer, than this ending?
Who would ever know the truth? Who could ever prove anything, even if
they suspected? And who was there to suspect?
No one had reason to believe he was aboard the _Seminole_; not even
McAdams. If it was to their interest to get him permanently out of the
way--if Hobart had so decided--what simpler method could be found than
the sinking of the yacht? The very crew might be innocent of the
purpose, dupes of the conspiracy; they might even be unaware of his
presence aboard, and deceived by Hogan into the belief that the vessel
had opened a seam, and must sink shortly, would take to the boat without
suspecting any one was left behind. They could so testify in all honesty
if any question ever arose. The very simplicity of the scheme meant
safety; yet the possibility of such cold blooded murder had never before
occurred to him. Unknown! without a trace left; only a boat crew landing
somewhere on the coast at dawn, and scattering to the four winds. It was
a plot infernal.
West stopped, his hands clinched, his heart seeming to stop its pulsing.
But if Natalie Coolidge was also prisoner on board, what of her? Wasn't
that the very thing most probable? Of course it was; how foolish he had
been. These men, recklessly criminal, as they were, would never sacrifice
the yacht, and risk their own lives, merely to put him out of the way. He
was not important enough for that; he was but an incident. It was an
accident which had made him a prisoner. While this was--must be--a
carefully arranged plan. The girl then must be the real victim; his own
plight arose merely because he chanced to be there, and the villains dare
not leave him alive to tell the story.
The certainty of this acted like an electric shock. He had not felt
seriously alarmed before as to his own fate. He had only been conscious
of a deep anger, a mad determination to make Hogan pay. If the _Seminole_
was sinking, and beyond doubt this was the intention of those deserters,
it was going down slowly, so slowly there would be ample time for escape.
He was not asleep, but wide awake, and far from paralyzed by the danger.
He was not the sort to give up while there was any hope left. Surely the
guard in the cabin would have departed with the others, leaving him free
to act. He could smash his way out through that door, and find something
on deck to construct a raft from. This was Lake Michigan, not the ocean,
and not many hours would pass before he was picked up. Vessels were
constantly passing, and daylight would bring rescue.
But now the task became difficult. He must find the girl, and serve her.
To his surprise, his heart beat rapidly in contemplation of the task.
Surely she must welcome his coming to her assistance now. She would be
alone, free to reveal the truth of all this strange mix-up of affairs;
perhaps the old trust, the old confidence between them would be renewed.
At least in the midst of such peril, alone on the sinking yacht, facing
possible death together, he would again discover the real Natalie
Coolidge. The hope instantly inspired action. Every minute might mean
life or death; the work must be accomplished now, if ever. The _Seminole_
was evidently deserted, the boat containing the fleeing crew already far
enough away to be beyond sound of any noise he might make. He already
felt the wallowing of the deck beneath his feet, a dead, dull feeling,
evidence enough that the deserted vessel was slowly, but surely going
down. The condition could not last long; faster and faster the water
would seep into her hold, until suddenly, without warning, perhaps, she
must go down like a stone.
All these thoughts flashed across his mind almost in an instant; there
was no hesitancy, no waste of time. His eager eyes searched the narrow
confines of the stateroom for some possible weapon with which to assail
the door. The stout stool alone seemed available. Swinging this over his
shoulder, hampered by the narrowness of space, he struck again and again,
with all his strength, the upper panel splintering beneath the third
crashing blow. He could see nothing, but felt with his fingers along the
jagged ends of the shattered wood, and redoubled his efforts, striking
wildly, but with effect, until suddenly the lock gave, and the door burst
open. He was in the main cabin, which was unlit and deserted. Standing
there confused in the grim silence, unable for the instant to determine
how to advance in the dark, he could hear the rapid beating of his own
heart, and the continuous lap of waves outside. God! how sodden the deck
felt under foot; what a sickening swell hurled the craft, and such
stillness! If the girl was aboard why did she not cry out? Surely she
must have heard that noise, the rain of blows, the crunch of wood.
He stood, crouched, listening intently for something to guide him in the
right direction. And yet, even if Natalie had heard, what reason would
the girl have to suspect the truth? Likely enough she was sound asleep,
completely worn out, and with no knowledge of what had occurred on board.
It was only the sound of that voice speaking loudly in the boat alongside
which had aroused him. She had no reason to suspect desertion, no
occasion to believe any other prisoner than herself was aboard. The noise
of crashing wood, even if it awoke her, would have no special meaning to
her mind, only perhaps to add to her terror. He must act alone; there was
no other way. If he could only have a light of some kind, and not be
compelled to grope blindly about in that intense darkness.
He stepped cautiously forward, with hands outstretched, swaying to the
sudden roll of the sinking hulk underneath his feet. He struck a piece of
furniture, a bench bolted to the deck, and then his groping fingers came
in sudden contact with the cabin wall, which he followed, circling to the
left. In this manner he succeeded in finally locating the door opening
out on to the deck, and had grasped the knob, when a deep moan from the
black void behind caused him to become suddenly erect, his heart beating
like a trip-hammer. No other sound followed, no repetition, and yet there
could be no mistaking what he had heard. It was a groan, a human groan,
emanating from a spot but a few feet away. He took a single step in that
direction; then hesitated, fearful of some trap; in the silence as he
stood there poised, he could faintly distinguish the sound of some one
breathing unnaturally.
"Who is there? Who moaned just now?" he asked, struggling to control
his voice.
"I did," the answer was a mere husky whisper out of the darkness.
"Masters, the watchman; but who are you? I don't know your voice."
"It makes no difference; are you hurt? Where are you? How can I
get a light?"
"Yes, sir; I'm about done for I guess; you're over by the door, ain't
you? There's a hangin' lantern just up above, if you've got a match with
you. Say, that looks good; I didn't hardly know but I was dead, it was so
black. But I never saw you before; how did you get aboard here?"
The flame of the match caught the wick, and flared up, throwing a dim
illumination over the cabin interior. West drew down the glass, before he
ventured to glance in the direction of the voice. A man lay facing him,
curled up on the deck, his hair, matted with blood, hanging over eyes
that were burning with fever. He made no attempt to rise, apparently was
unable to move, and a dark, bloody stain covered the deck. West sprang
forward, and lifted the head on his arm.
"You are hurt--badly?" he exclaimed. "What can I do for you?"
"Nuthin', I reckon," still in that same strained whisper. "I'm done
for; no doubt of it. That guy got me. You ain't one o' that murderin'
gang, are you?"
"No; I was a prisoner on board; I came here to help a girl."
"A girl! Miss Coolidge you mean, sir?"
"Yes, Natalie Coolidge; do you know anything about her? Where she is?"
"Sure, I know; the damn whelps left her here; that was their dirty game,
sir. 'Twas because I tried to unlock her door that Hogan slugged me. The
boat's goin' down, ain't it? I know'd it was; I heard the skunks talk
about what they was goin' to do, an' then I tried to get her out, sir."
"You were the watchman?"
"Yes, sir; down in the lagoon at Jackson Park. These fellows come off to
the yacht about midnight, an' they had Miss Coolidge with 'em. That's
what fooled me, sir, an' I let 'em get aboard, thinkin' it must be all
right. After that I couldn't do nuthin'--there was six to one, an' that
'Red' Hogan had a gun in his mitt. They hustled me down into the cabin. I
didn't even know she was a prisoner until they locked her into a
stateroom; then I got wise, but it was too late."
"And she is there yet, Masters? What room is it?"
"The last one to the right, sir. Don't you mind about me; I'm done for,
but maybe there's a chance for you two."