There was the usual clatter of knives and forks, and chinking of
glasses, and scurrying of stewards in the well-lighted saloon, and
during dinner the derelict they had just passed took up a large
proportion of the conversation. As to this the captain's table
constituted no exception.
"What sort of ship would she have been, Captain Lawes--English?" The
speaker was the lady passenger we heard making inquiries as to sea
superstitions. She was a bright, rather taking woman of about thirty,
making the homeward voyage with one child, a sweetly-pretty little girl,
who was made a great pet of among the passengers--indeed, a great deal
more than was good for her.
"Can't say for certain, but am inclined to think so. She must have been
a timber ship or she'd hardly have kept afloat for so long."
"How long do you think she's been like that?"
"Can't say either for certain. She may have been months, and, from the
look of her, a good few of them. Or she may have been years."
"And do you think there's anyone on board?" The captain stared.
"Anyone on board?" he echoed. "Well, not anyone living, of course. But
it's hardly likely anyone would have remained on board. The fact of her
being still afloat shows that they had plenty of time when they
abandoned her."
"But if there is? What a ghastly idea it seems, that old ship floating
about for ever in those oily seas, a floating coffin for some poor
wretches imprisoned within her! Ugh! it's horrible!"
"You've got a lively imagination, Mrs Colville," said the captain drily.
"You're not a novelist, are you?"
"Oh no; I wish I were. But isn't a half-sunk ship like that, right in
our way, rather dangerous to navigation?"
"That's exactly the wording of our log-book when we report the
occurrence: `Dangerous to navigation.'"
"But why don't you sink her, then, and get her out of the way?"
The captain stole a quick, comical glance at the passenger on his other
side.
"In the first place, as the American lady said when she was asked why
she didn't get married: `I guess I haven't time.' You see, I don't own
this boat, Mrs Colville, nor yet her cargo. What would my owners say if
I spent half the night hanging around trying to sink every derelict one
passes at sea? We're behind time as it is, thanks to the barnacles
we've accumulated. Again, she may be worth salvaging, though I don't
think so."
"Mr Ransome was saying she had been around here quite a long while. He
called her the Red Derelict; said she was a sort of Flying Dutchman, and
it was unlucky to sight her."
"I know he did," answered the captain grimly, with a complacent
recollection of the savage wigging that rash youth had received at his
hands. The other passenger struck in:
"I told him it would have been still more unlucky if we hadn't sighted
her till--say, an hour later. She was right bang in our course."
The captain looked not altogether pleased at this remark, but the
speaker was a personage of some consideration on board.
"We keep a look out, you know, Mr Wagram," he said.
"Of course. But I always notice that the first hour of these tropical
nights is the darkest, perhaps because of the suddenness with which it
rushes down. Now, a hulk like that, flush with the surface and showing
no lights, would it be discernible until too late?"
The captain knew that the chances were twenty to one it wouldn't, but
for expediency's sake he was not going to own as much. As he had said
before, passengers were a skeery crowd, and didn't want any extra
frightening.
"Chances are it would," he answered, "especially in a smooth sea like
this. There's always a disturbance on the surface as the thing rises
and falls, an extra gleam of phosphorus, or something that the lookout
man on the forecastle can't miss."
"That's satisfactory," rejoined the lady. "Do you believe in luck, Mr
Wagram?"
"In the sense in which we are going to be unlucky because we've seen a
dismantled hulk--decidedly not. The idea is too puerile even for
discussion."
"Oh, I wish I were as strong-minded! Do you know, I'm terribly
superstitious."
"Really? Well, I believe many people are," he answered politely, with a
faint dash of banter.
"Mrs Colville was trying to get at me on that very subject this
afternoon," laughed the captain. "She thought all sailor-men were born
fetish-men."
"It's all very well, no doubt," she answered. "You may laugh, and all
that, but, all the same, I wish we hadn't seen that Flying Dutchman of
yours. I'm sure it'll bring us ill luck."
Hardly were the words uttered than a hush fell upon the saloon. To the
clatter of knives and forks, the chink of glasses, and the loud hum of
voices--at this stage of the dinner at its highest--had succeeded a dead
silence. It had seemed compulsory, for it had begun without. The
regular, monotonous thrashing of the propeller--which had become almost
a necessity, so habitual was it by now--had ceased. The ship lay still
upon the smooth, oily waters. The engines had stopped.
Those who have experience of sea voyages will be familiar with the
effect produced by such an occurrence. So thoroughly has the churning
beat of the propeller become a part of one's existence that the sudden
cessation thereof is enough to awaken the soundest sleeper, and when it
befalls during waking hours, and in mid-ocean, why, then, it is not the
constitutionally timid alone who can plead guilty to a misgiving, and
the conjuring up of a disabled ship rolling helplessly on the swell, and
waiting for assistance that may be long enough in coming.
Such was the prevailing state of mind among the passengers of the
_Baleka_ at that moment. The timid decided that it was a case of
breakdown; those not timid hoped it was not. Tongues began to wag
again, but not so briskly, and immediately a steward came in and
reported something to the chief engineer, who presided at another table
in the saloon. The latter went out.
"What has gone wrong, captain?" said Mrs Colville, not without a dash of
anxiety. "Have the engines broken down?"
"I haven't been down to the engine-room to see yet," was the bland
reply. "McAndrew has just gone out, so we shall know directly."
"Ah! There now, Mr Wagram, look at that!" she exclaimed. "Didn't I say
that wretched derelict would bring us ill luck? And just as I was
saying so we stop."
"Is that ill luck?" said Wagram, with a smile. He himself had made no
comment whatever on the occurrence, but was going on with his dinner as
if nothing had happened. "It is no uncommon event at sea for the
engines to stop for a few minutes for various intelligible and harmless
reasons. Am I right, Captain Lawes?"
"Perfectly."
"But why don't they send up to let you know what's gone wrong, captain?"
persisted the lady. "I should have thought that's the first thing
they'd do."
"The fact that they don't shows that there's nothing the matter.
McAndrew knows better than to set up a scare among the passengers by
sending despatches into the saloon in the middle of dinner."
And the speaker, like Wagram, continued tranquilly to ply his knife and
fork. At heart he felt annoyed at the turn events had taken. He knew--
while despising it--the depths of asininity to which the average human
understanding will plunge in the matter of "luck" and "ill luck," and
such a coincidence as that which had befallen was sufficient to start
some idiot among the passengers getting it into the newspapers on
arrival in England. Moreover, he knew, of course, that a merchant
captain is by no means the almighty little tin god that most landsmen
think him, even while at sea, and that in the eyes of owners he is of
fairly small account. And, strange as it may seem to the enlightened
mind, the reputation of an "unlucky ship" is easier gained than lost.
So when, a minute or two later, a note was brought to him from the
engine-room he at once stood up and addressed the saloon.
There was no cause whatever for alarm, he explained. The stoppage was
due to something wrong with the machinery, but of a trifling nature, and
which was even then nearly repaired. Any minute they might be under way
again.
There was clapping of hands at this, and cries of "Hear, hear!"
Reassured tongues began to wag again, and the lowered voices and murmurs
of misgiving were heard no more. And lo! even before dinner was done,
there came a pulsation through the fabric of the ship, gentle at first,
then increasing. The beat of the propeller was heard as well as felt.
They were on the move again, and now a marked increase of hilarity was
significant of reaction after the recent depression of alarm.
"The world is very full of prize idiots, Mr Wagram," observed the
captain when the bulk of the passengers had gone out, including the lady
at his right. He had purposely sat on longer than usual.
"Yes. You could scrape together a considerable fool show out of it,"
laughed the other, filling his glass. "But between ourselves, now that
we are alone, why don't the naval people send out a gunboat to look for
this confounded hulk and sink her? They can't have so much to do on
this West Coast Station, and she must be infernally dangerous to
shipping."
"So she is really. But at sea we have to take a lot of chances--a sight
more than you landsmen would dream of, I don't mind telling _you_."
"So I should imagine. Look at this." From a notecase he extracted a
newspaper cutting and handed it to the captain. It was the identical
account of the appearance of the derelict which Haldane had read out
that happy summer morning at dear old Hilversea, and something of a sigh
escaped him at the recollection. "Think it's the same?"
"`The _Rhodesian_... Latitude 10 degrees 5 minutes North, longitude 16
degrees 38 minutes West... about 900 or 1000 tons'" ... went on the
captain, skimming the report. "H'm, h'm--it's rum, certainly, but it
might easily be. The description seems to tally exactly. Why, it's
quite a long while ago too. And the latitude isn't far out with our
present position. Yes; it's rum."
"But how the deuce can the thing stick about in one place? Seems as if
it were bound to drift away, Heaven knows where--perhaps on shore and
get broken up."
"Ever heard of circular currents, Mr Wagram? It's that that forms the
Maelstrom. There are some queer currents hereabouts too, which may
account for the thing hanging around here till the crack of doom. I
knew she'd been a long time in the water by the look of her. But may I
ask, without being curious, what made you keep that cutting--let alone
carry it about with you?"
"That's more than I can tell you, for I hardly know myself. I suppose
the circumstance struck me as an out-of-the-way strange one, so when all
at once I made up my mind for a voyage or two it came back to my mind,
and so I hunted up the number it was in and cut it out."
"Yes; it's a rum thing, very," repeated the captain, glancing again
through the newspaper cutting. "`About eight feet of iron foremast
standing, and rather more of mizzen-mast, with some rigging trailing
from it.' That's exactly the description of the hooker we've just
passed, except that there was no rigging trailing from it. But that may
have carried away or been knocked off."
"Well, it's behind _us_, at any rate," said Wagram, rising. "Let's hope
it'll soon go to the bottom of its own accord. I suppose the thing can
hardly keep afloat for ever."
To his fellow-passengers Wagram was a sealed book, in that all
conjectures as to his identity and his circumstance failed. He was very
reticent, and this they were at first inclined to resent; but a certain
charm of manner and a never-failing courtesy to all quickly dispelled
any idea that "side" might be the underlying motive of such reticence.
The fact that he had paid extra for the privilege of having a cabin to
himself, and that nearly the best on the ship, seemed to throw some
light upon his circumstances. Though reticent, however, about himself
he could not exactly be called unsociable, for he would spend his
evenings in the smoke-room, entering into the current chat over a pipe
or so. But who he was, and where from--that nobody knew.
Not much inclined for sociability was he to-night. The incident of the
derelict had brought back the past--the old happy past--and again he
seemed to live through those bright sunny days at Hilversea, surrounded
by all that made life joyous, and, underlying all, the ecstatic sense of
possession. But now--! Well, his quest was ended. He had carried it
out conscientiously, energetically, and--nothing had come of it.
No; nothing whatever. He had followed out Develin Hunt's directions to
the letter--sparing not himself. He had betaken himself, always with
care and absence of ostentation, to the locality in which that worthy
had pronounced his half-brother to be, but of the latter he could learn
nothing. Once he had lighted on what seemed a clue, but it had ended in
smoke. Then, acting upon another, he had taken ship for Australia, and
had followed it up, with like result. Once more he had returned to
South Africa, to meet again with no reward to his efforts. At last,
baffled at every turn, he had concluded he might legitimately abandon
the search, and so here we find him again on his way homeward.
His wanderings, although he had spared no expense towards the attainment
of his object, had been undertaken on no luxurious lines. He had
roughed it in strange wild places, had undergone real hardships, and on
occasions real peril, and the experience had hardened him. He was in
splendid condition, dark, sunburnt, and as hard as nails. But now had
come upon him a great home-sickness, and he was regretting the
easy-going lack of foresight which had moved him to take passage on
board the _Baleka_ instead of upon one of the more crowded but swifter
steamships of the regular mail line.
Pacing the deck in the tropical starlight he recapitulated to himself
the whole situation. All had gone below now, but he remained, as his
custom was; the swirl of the phosphorescent lines from the stem of the
ship; the muffled clank of the engines; the weird, long-drawn cry of the
lookout on the forecastle as the bells were struck every half hour--the
sole accompaniment to his meditations. It all came back--the weeks of
blank desolation following upon his father's death, and how the voice of
conscience, proving stronger than that of his advisers, had spurred him
forth upon his fruitless quest. Well, it had proved fruitless, which
seemed to point to the certainty that his advisers had been right.
It all came back. The wrench of that uprooting--of tearing himself away
from Hilversea, and all it involved; the farewells, too, though he had
avoided these as much as possible--in cowardly fashion he now told
himself. Haldane's hearty regrets and expectation to see him soon
again; Yvonne's blue eyes brimming with tears, which the affectionate
child was at no pains to conceal; the genuine grief of his humbler
friends; the last Mass in the chapel; and the final shutting out of
everything behind him as the carriage whirled him off to Bassingham
station in the murk of the winter day. Delia Calmour, too, whom he
could not but think that he and his father and the indirect influences
of their surroundings had been incidental, under Heaven, in guiding into
the way of light. Poor child! He knew she would miss him, as he
recalled the brave effort she had made to subdue all manifestation of
the extent of her regret when he had bidden her good-bye; and he smiled
to himself as he remembered certain arrangements which he had made with
his solicitors providing that, in the event of anything happening to
him, this girl whom he and his father had befriended should never be
thrown upon the world to combat that uncompromising enemy with her own
unaided resources.
Yes; Hilversea rose up before him now, fair, pleasant, restful in its
sunshine as the very plains of heaven. Soon he would be within it
again. He had trampled all considerations of self under foot and had
followed the voice of conscience--and the result had been "As you were!"
Surely he had done enough. Clearly his stewardship was his still, and,
Heaven help him, he would endeavour to fulfil it to the utmost of his
power, and would teach his son to do the same after him. Gerard? He
must have grown quite tall, he reflected. What a splendid-looking
fellow he would be.
Pacing up and down, hour after hour, Wagram's thoughts ran too fast for
his mind--and ever the silence, the swirl of the sea, and the streaking
fall of a star in the murky tropical zenith. Then came a sudden jar,
and a crash that shivered the ship from stem to stern. For a few
moments this horrible jarring vibration continued, then the whole fabric
gave a convulsive kind of heave, and the tremor ceased. All was still--
but the thrash of the propeller was no longer felt, no longer heard.
The throbbing of the engines had ceased--again.