The reversing of the engines had not stopped the momentum of the ship
when Alan reached the open deck. She was fighting, but still swept
slowly ahead against the force struggling to hold her back. He heard
running feet, voices, and the rattle of davit blocks, and came up as
the starboard boat aft began swinging over the smooth sea. Captain
Rifle was ahead of him, half-dressed, and the second officer was giving
swift commands. A dozen passengers had come from the smoking-room.
There was only one woman. She stood a little back, partly supported in
a man’s arms, her face buried in her hands. Alan looked at the man, and
he knew from his appearance that she was the woman who had screamed.
He heard the splash of the boat as it struck water, and the rattle of
oars, but the sound seemed a long distance away. Only one thing came to
him distinctly in the sudden sickness that gripped him, and that was
the terrible sobbing of the woman. He went to them, and the deck seemed
to sway under his feet. He was conscious of a crowd gathering about the
empty davits, but he had eyes only for these two.
“Was it a man—or a woman?” he asked.
It did not seem to him it was his voice speaking. The words were forced
from his lips. And the other man, with the woman’s head crumpled
against his shoulder, looked into a face as emotionless as stone.
“A woman,” he replied. “This is my wife. We were sitting here when she
climbed upon the rail and leaped in. My wife screamed when she saw her
going.”
The woman raised her head. She was still sobbing, with no tears in her
eyes, but only horror. Her hands were clenched about her husband’s arm.
She struggled to speak and failed, and the man bowed his head to
comfort her. And then Captain Rifle stood at their side. His face was
haggard, and a glance told Alan that he knew.
“Who was it?” he demanded.
“This lady thinks it was Miss Standish.”
Alan did not move or speak. Something seemed to have gone wrong for a
moment in his head. He could not hear distinctly the excitement behind
him, and before him things were a blur. The sensation came and passed
swiftly, with no sign of it in the immobility of his pale face.
“Yes, the girl at your table. The pretty girl. I saw her clearly, and
then—then—”
It was the woman. The captain broke in, as she caught herself with a
choking breath:
“It is possible you are mistaken. I can not believe Miss Standish would
do that. We shall soon know. Two boats are gone, and a third lowering.”
He was hurrying away, throwing the last words over his shoulder.
Alan made no movement to follow. His brain cleared itself of shock, and
a strange calmness began to possess him. “You are quite sure it was the
girl at my table?” he found himself saying. “Is it possible you might
be mistaken?”
“No,” said the woman. “She was so quiet and pretty that I have noticed
her often. I saw her clearly in the starlight. And she saw me just
before she climbed to the rail and jumped. I’m almost sure she smiled
at me and was going to speak. And then—then—she was gone!”
“I didn’t know until my wife screamed,” added the man. “I was seated
facing her at the time. I ran to the rail and could see nothing behind
but the wash of the ship. I think she went down instantly.”
Alan turned. He thrust himself silently through a crowd of excited and
questioning people, but he did not hear their questions and scarcely
sensed the presence of their voices. His desire to make great haste had
left him, and he walked calmly and deliberately to the cabin where Mary
Standish would be if the woman was mistaken, and it was not she who had
leaped into the sea. He knocked at the door only once. Then he opened
it. There was no cry of fear or protest from within, and he knew the
room was empty before he turned on the electric light. He had known it
from the beginning, from the moment he heard the woman’s scream. Mary
Standish was gone.
He looked at her bed. There was the depression made by her head in the
pillow. A little handkerchief lay on the coverlet, crumpled and
twisted. Her few possessions were arranged neatly on the reading table.
Then he saw her shoes and her stockings, and a dress on the bed, and he
picked up one of the shoes and held it in a cold, steady hand. It was a
little shoe. His fingers closed about it until it crushed like paper.
He was holding it when he heard someone behind him, and he turned
slowly to confront Captain Rifle. The little man’s face was like gray
wax. For a moment neither of them spoke. Captain Rifle looked at the
shoe crumpled in Alan’s hand.
“The boats got away quickly,” he said in a husky voice. “We stopped
inside the third-mile. If she can swim—there is a chance.”
“She won’t swim,” replied Alan. “She didn’t jump in for that. She is
gone.”
In a vague and detached sort of way he was surprised at the calmness of
his own voice. Captain Rifle saw the veins standing out on his clenched
hands and in his forehead. Through many years he had witnessed tragedy
of one kind and another. It was not strange to him. But a look of
wonderment shot into his eyes at Alan’s words. It took only a few
seconds to tell what had happened the preceding night, without going
into details. The captain’s hand was on Alan’s arm when he finished,
and the flesh under his fingers was rigid and hard as steel.
“We’ll talk with Rossland after the boats return,” he said.
He drew Alan from the room and closed the door.
Not until he had reentered his own cabin did Alan realize he still held
the crushed shoe in his hand. He placed it on his bed and dressed. It
took him only a few minutes. Then he went aft and found the captain.
Half an hour later the first boat returned. Five minutes after that, a
second came in. And then a third. Alan stood back, alone, while the
passengers crowded the rail. He knew what to expect. And the murmur of
it came to him—failure! It was like a sob rising softly out of the
throats of many people. He drew away. He did not want to meet their
eyes, or talk with them, or hear the things they would be saying. And
as he went, a moan came to his lips, a strangled cry filled with an
agony which told him he was breaking down. He dreaded that. It was the
first law of his kind to stand up under blows, and he fought against
the desire to reach out his arms to the sea and entreat Mary Standish
to rise up out of it and forgive him.
He drove himself on like a mechanical thing. His white face was a mask
through which burned no sign of his grief, and in his eyes was a deadly
coldness. Heartless, the woman who had screamed might have said. And
she would have been right. His heart was gone.
Two people were at Rossland’s door when he came up. One was Captain
Rifle, the other Marston, the ship’s doctor. The captain was knocking
when Alan joined them. He tried the door. It was locked.
“I can’t rouse him,” he said. “And I did not see him among the
passengers.”
“Nor did I,” said Alan.
Captain Rifle fumbled with his master key.
“I think the circumstances permit,” he explained. In a moment he looked
up, puzzled. “The door is locked on the inside, and the key is in the
lock.”
He pounded with his fist on the panel. He continued to pound until his
knuckles were red. There was still no response.
“Odd,” he muttered.
“Very odd,” agreed Alan.
His shoulder was against the door. He drew back and with a single crash
sent it in. A pale light filtered into the room from a corridor lamp,
and the men stared. Rossland was in bed. They could see his face dimly,
upturned, as if staring at the ceiling. But even now he made no
movement and spoke no word. Marston entered and turned on the light.
After that, for ten seconds, no man moved. Then Alan heard Captain
Rifle close the door behind them, and from Marston’s lips came a
startled whisper:
“Good God!”
Rossland was not covered. He was undressed and flat on his back. His
arms were stretched out, his head thrown back, his mouth agape. And the
white sheet under him was red with blood. It had trickled over the
edges and to the floor. His eyes were loosely closed. After the first
shock Doctor Marston reacted swiftly. He bent over Rossland, and in
that moment, when his back was toward them, Captain Rifle’s eyes met
Alan’s. The same thought—and in another instant disbelief—flashed from
one to the other.
Marston was speaking, professionally cool now. “A knife stab, close to
the right lung, if not in it. And an ugly bruise over his eye. He is
not dead. Let him lie as he is until I return with instruments and
dressing.”
“The door was locked on the inside,” said Alan, as soon as the doctor
was gone. “And the window is closed. It looks like—suicide. It is
possible—there was an understanding between them—and Rossland chose
this way instead of the sea?”
Captain Rifle was on his knees. He looked under the berth, peered into
the corners, and pulled back the blanket and sheet. “There is no
knife,” he said stonily. And in a moment he added: “There are red
stains on the window. It was not attempted suicide. It was—”
“Murder.”
“Yes, if Rossland dies. It was done through the open window. Someone
called Rossland to the window, struck him, and then closed the window.
Or it is possible, if he were sitting or standing here, that a
long-armed man might have reached him. It was a man, Alan. We’ve got to
believe that. It was a _man_.”
“Of course, a man,” Alan nodded.
They could hear Marston returning, and he was not alone. Captain Rifle
made a gesture toward the door. “Better go,” he advised. “This is a
ship’s matter, and you won’t want to be unnecessarily mixed up in it.
Come to my cabin in half an hour. I shall want to see you.”
The second officer and the purser were with Doctor Marston when Alan
passed them, and he heard the door of Rossland’s room close behind him.
The ship was trembling under his feet again. They were moving away. He
went to Mary Standish’s cabin and deliberately gathered her belongings
and put them in the small hand-bag with which she had come aboard.
Without any effort at concealment he carried the bag to his room and
packed his own dunnage. After that he hunted up Stampede Smith and
explained to him that an unexpected change in his plans compelled them
to stop at Cordova. He was five minutes late in his appointment with
the captain.
Captain Rifle was seated at his desk when Alan entered his cabin. He
nodded toward a chair.
“We’ll reach Cordova inside of an hour,” he said. “Doctor Marston says
Rossland will live, but of course we can not hold the _Nome_ in port
until he is able to talk. He was struck through the window. I will make
oath to that. Have you anything—in mind?”
“Only one thing,” replied Alan, “a determination to go ashore as soon
as I can. If it is possible, I shall recover her body and care for it.
As for Rossland, it is not a matter of importance to me whether he
lives or dies. Mary Standish had nothing to do with the assault upon
him. It was merely coincident with her own act and nothing more. Will
you tell me our location when she leaped into the sea.”
He was fighting to retain his calmness, his resolution not to let
Captain Rifle see clearly what the tragedy of her death had meant to
him.
“We were seven miles off the Eyak River coast, a little south and west.
If her body goes ashore, it will be on the island, or the mainland east
of Eyak River. I am glad you are going to make an effort. There is a
chance. And I hope you will find her.”
Captain Rifle rose from his chair and walked nervously back and forth.
“It’s a bad blow for the ship—her first trip,” he said. “But I’m not
thinking of the _Nome_. I’m thinking of Mary Standish. My God, it is
terrible! If it had been anyone else—_anyone_—” His words seemed to
choke him, and he made a despairing gesture with his hands. “It is hard
to believe—almost impossible to believe she would deliberately kill
herself. Tell me again what happened in your cabin.”
Crushing all emotion out of his voice, Alan repeated briefly certain
details of the girl’s visit. But a number of things which she had
trusted to his confidence he did not betray. He did not dwell upon
Rossland’s influence or her fear of him. Captain Rifle saw his effort,
and when he had finished, he gripped his hand, understanding in his
eyes.
“You’re not responsible—not so much as you believe,” he said. “Don’t
take it too much to heart, Alan. But find her. Find her if you can, and
let me know. You will do that—you will let me know?”
“Yes, I shall let you know.”
“And Rossland. He is a man with many enemies. I am positive his
assailant is still on board.”
“Undoubtedly.”
The captain hesitated. He did not look at Alan as he said: “There is
nothing in Miss Standish’s room. Even her bag is gone. I thought I saw
things in there when I was with you. I thought I saw something in your
hand. But I must have been mistaken. She probably flung everything into
the sea—before she went.”
“Such a thought is possible,” agreed Alan evasively.
Captain Rifle drummed the top of his desk with his finger-tips. His
face looked haggard and old in the shaded light of the cabin. “That’s
all, Alan. God knows I’d give this old life of mine to bring her back
if I could. To me she was much like—someone—a long time dead. That’s
why I broke ship’s regulations when she came aboard so strangely at
Seattle, without reservation. I’m sorry now. I should have sent her
ashore. But she is gone, and it is best that you and I keep to
ourselves a little of what we guess. I hope you will find her, and if
you do—”
“I shall send you word.”
They shook hands, and Captain Rifle’s fingers still held to Alan’s as
they went to the door and opened it. A swift change had come in the
sky. The stars were gone, and a moaning whisper hovered over the
darkened sea.
“A thunder-storm,” said the captain.
His mastery was gone, his shoulders bent, and there was a tremulous
note in his voice that compelled Alan to look straight out into
darkness. And then he said,
“Rossland will be sent to the hospital in Cordova, if he lives.”
Alan made no answer. The door closed softly behind him, and slowly he
went through gloom to the rail of the ship, and stood there, with the
whispered moaning of the sea coming to him out of a pit of darkness. A
vast distance away he heard a low intonation of thunder.
He struggled to keep hold of himself as he returned to his cabin.
Stampede Smith was waiting for him, his dunnage packed in an oilskin
bag. Alan explained the unexpected change in his plans. Business in
Cordova would make him miss a boat and would delay him at least a month
in reaching the tundras. It was necessary for Stampede to go on to the
range alone. He could make a quick trip by way of the Government
railroad to Tanana. After that he would go to Allakakat, and thence
still farther north into the Endicott country. It would be easy for a
man like Stampede to find the range. He drew a map, gave him certain
written instructions, money, and a final warning not to lose his head
and take up gold-hunting on the way. While it was necessary for him to
go ashore at once, he advised Stampede not to leave the ship until
morning. And Stampede swore on oath he would not fail him.
Alan did not explain his own haste and was glad Captain Rifle had not
questioned him too closely. He was not analyzing the reasonableness of
his action. He only knew that every muscle in his body was aching for
physical action and that he must have it immediately or break. The
desire was a touch of madness in his blood, a thing which he was
holding back by sheer force of will. He tried to shut out the vision of
a pale face floating in the sea; he fought to keep a grip on the
dispassionate calmness which was a part of him. But the ship itself was
battering down his stoic resistance. In an hour—since he had heard the
scream of the woman—he had come to hate it. He wanted the feel of solid
earth under his feet. He wanted, with all his soul, to reach that
narrow strip of coast where Mary Standish was drifting in.
But even Stampede saw no sign of the fire that was consuming him. And
not until Alan’s feet touched land, and Cordova lay before him like a
great hole in the mountains, did the strain give way within him. After
he had left the wharf, he stood alone in the darkness, breathing deeply
of the mountain smell and getting his bearings. It was more than
darkness about him. An occasional light burning dimly here and there
gave to it the appearance of a sea of ink threatening to inundate him.
The storm had not broken, but it was close, and the air was filled with
a creeping warning. The moaning of thunder was low, and yet very near,
as if smothered by the hand of a mighty force preparing to take the
earth unaware.
Through the pit of gloom Alan made his way. He was not lost. Three
years ago he had walked a score of times to the cabin of old Olaf
Ericksen, half a mile up the shore, and he knew Ericksen would still be
there, where he had squatted for twenty years, and where he had sworn
to stay until the sea itself was ready to claim him. So he felt his way
instinctively, while a crash of thunder broke over his head. The forces
of the night were unleashing. He could hear a gathering tumult in the
mountains hidden beyond the wall of blackness, and there came a sudden
glare of lightning that illumined his way. It helped him. He saw a
white reach of sand ahead and quickened his steps. And out of the sea
he heard more distinctly an increasing sound. It was as if he walked
between two great armies that were setting earth and sea atremble as
they advanced to deadly combat.
The lightning came again, and after it followed a discharge of thunder
that gave to the ground under his feet a shuddering tremor. It rolled
away, echo upon echo, through the mountains, like the booming of
signal-guns, each more distant than the other. A cold breath of air
struck Alan in the face, and something inside him rose up to meet the
thrill of storm.
He had always loved the rolling echoes of thunder in the mountains and
the fire of lightning among their peaks. On such a night, with the
crash of the elements about his father’s cabin and the roaring voices
of the ranges filling the darkness with tumult, his mother had brought
him into the world. Love of it was in his blood, a part of his soul,
and there were times when he yearned for this “talk of the mountains”
as others yearn for the coming of spring. He welcomed it now as his
eyes sought through the darkness for a glimmer of the light that always
burned from dusk until dawn in Olaf Ericksen’s cabin.
He saw it at last, a yellow eye peering at him through a slit in an
inky wall. A moment later the darker shadow of the cabin rose up in his
face, and a flash of lightning showed him the door. In a moment of
silence he could hear the patter of huge raindrops on the roof as he
dropped his bags and began hammering with his fist to arouse the Swede.
Then he flung open the unlocked door and entered, tossing his dunnage
to the floor, and shouted the old greeting that Ericksen would not have
forgotten, though nearly a quarter of a century had passed since he and
Alan’s father had tramped the mountains together.
[Illustration: The long, black launch nosed its way out to sea.]
He had turned up the wick of the oil lamp on the table when into the
frame of an inner door came Ericksen himself, with his huge, bent
shoulders, his massive head, his fierce eyes, and a great gray beard
streaming over his naked chest. He stared for a moment, and Alan flung
off his hat, and as the storm broke, beating upon the cabin in a mighty
shock of thunder and wind and rain, a bellow of recognition came from
Ericksen. They gripped hands.
The Swede’s voice rose above wind and rain and the rattle of loose
windows, and he was saying something about three years ago and rubbing
the sleep from his eyes, when the strange look in Alan’s face made him
pause to hear other words than his own.
Five minutes later he opened a door looking out over the black sea,
bracing his arm against it. The wind tore in, beating his whitening
beard over his shoulders, and with it came a deluge of rain that
drenched him as he stood there. He forced the door shut and faced Alan,
a great, gray ghost of a man in the yellow glow of the oil lamp.
From then until dawn they waited. And in the first break of that dawn
the long, black launch of Olaf, the Swede, nosed its way steadily out
to sea.