OCTOBER 19th.--Everything, then, is clear. The uneasiness of the crew,
their frequent conferences, Owen’s mysterious words, the constant
scourings of the deck and the oppressive heat of the cabins which had
been noticed even by my fellow-passengers, all are explained.
After his grave communication, Curtis remained silent. I shivered with a
thrill of horror; a calamity the most terrible that can befall a voyager
stared me in the face, and it was some seconds before I could recover
sufficient composure to inquire when the fire was first discovered.
“Six days ago,” replied the mate.
“Six days ago!” I exclaimed; “why, then, it was that night.”
“Yes,” he said, interrupting me; “it was the night you heard the
disturbance upon deck. The men on watch noticed a slight smoke issuing
from the large hatchway and immediately called Captain Huntly and
myself. We found beyond all doubt, that the cargo was on fire, and what
was worse, that there was no possibility of getting at the seat of the
combustion. What could we do? Why; we took the only precaution that
was practicable under the circumstances, and resolved most carefully
to exclude every breath of air from penetrating into the hold, For some
time I hoped that we had been successful. I thought that the fire was
stifled; but during the last three days there is every reason to make us
know that it has been gaining strength. Do what we will, the deck gets
hotter and hotter, and unless it were kept constantly wet, it would be
unbearable to the feet. But I am glad, Mr. Kazallon,” he added; “that
you have made the discovery. It is better that you should know it.”
I listened in silence, I was now fully aroused to the gravity of the
situation and thoroughly comprehended how we were in the very face of a
calamity which it seemed that no human power could avert.
“Do you know what has caused the fire?” I presently inquired.
“It probably arose,” he answered, “from the spontaneous combustion of
the cotton. The case is rare, but it is far from unknown. Unless the
cotton is perfectly dry when it is shipped, its confinement in a damp
or ill-ventilated hold will sometimes cause it to ignite; and I have no
doubt it is this that has brought about our misfortune.”
“But after all,” I said, “the cause matters very little. Is there no
remedy? Is there nothing to be done?”
“Nothing; Mr. Kazallon,” he said. “As I told you before, we have adopted
the only possible measure within our power to check the fire. At one
time I thought of knocking a hole in the ship’s timbers just on
her waterline, and letting in just as much water as the pumps could
afterwards get rid of again; but we found the combustion was right
in the middle of the cargo and that we should be obliged to flood
the entire hold before we could get at the right place. That scheme
consequently was no good. During the night, I had the deck bored in
various places and water poured down through the holes; but that again
seemed all of no use. There is only one thing that can be done; we must
persevere in excluding most carefully every breath of outer air, so that
perhaps the conflagration deprived of oxygen may smoulder itself out.
That is our only hope.”
“But, you say the fire is increasing?”
“Yes; and that shows that in spite of all our care there is some
aperture which we have not been able to discover, by which, somehow or
other, air gets into the hold.”
“Have you ever heard of a vessel surviving such circumstances?” I asked.
“Yes, Mr. Kazallon,” said Curtis; “it is not at all an unusual thing for
ships laden with cotton to arrive at Liverpool or Havre with a portion
of their cargo consumed; and I have myself known more than one captain
run into port with his deck scorching his very feet, and who, to save
his vessel and the remainder of his freight has been compelled to unload
with the utmost expedition. But, in such cases, of course the fire has
been more or less under control throughout the voyage; with us, it
is increasing day by day, and I tell you I am convinced there is an
aperture somewhere which has escaped our notice.”
“But would it not be advisable for us to retrace our course, and make
for the nearest land?”
“Perhaps it would,” he answered. “Walter and I, and the boatswain, are
going to talk the matter over seriously with the captain to-day. But,
between ourselves, I have taken the responsibility upon myself; I have
already changed the tack to the south-west; we are now straight before
the wind, and consequently we are sailing towards the coast.”
“I need hardly ask,” I added; “whether any of the other passengers are
at all aware of the imminent danger in which we are placed.”
“None of them,” he said; “not in the least; and I hope you will not
enlighten them. We don’t want terrified women and cowardly men to add to
our embarrassment; the crew are under orders to keep a strict silence on
the subject. Silence is indispensable.”
I promised to keep the matter a profound secret, as I fully entered into
Curtis’s views as to the absolute necessity for concealment.