I.

On the 25th of May, 1887, I sat alone upon the deck of the _Sparhawk_,

a three-masted schooner, built, according to a description in the

cabin, at Sackport, Me. I was not only alone on the deck, but I was

alone on the ship. The _Sparhawk_ was a "derelict"; that is, if a

vessel with a man on board of her can be said to be totally abandoned.

I had now been on board the schooner for eight days. How long before

that she had been drifting about at the mercy of the winds and currents

I did not then know, but I discovered afterward that during a cyclone

early in April she had been abandoned by her entire crew, and had since

been reported five times to the hydrographic office of the Navy

Department in Washington, and her positions and probable courses duly

marked on the pilot chart.

She had now become one of that little fleet abandoned at sea for one

cause or another, and floating about this way and that, as the wild

winds blew or the ocean currents ran. Voyaging without purpose, as if

manned by the spirits of ignorant landsmen, sometimes backward and

forward over comparatively small ocean spaces, and sometimes drifting

for many months and over thousands of miles, these derelicts form, at

night and in fog, one of the dangers most to be feared by those who

sail upon the sea.

As I said before, I came on board the abandoned _Sparhawk_ on the 17th

of May, and very glad indeed was I to get my feet again on solid

planking. Three days previously the small steamer _Thespia_, from

Havana to New York, on which I had been a passenger, had been burned

at sea, and all on board had left her in the boats.

What became of the other boats I do not know, but the one in which I

found myself in company with five other men, all Cuban cigarmakers, was

nearly upset by a heavy wave during the second night we were out, and

we were all thrown into the sea. As none of the Cubans could swim, they

were all lost, but I succeeded in reaching the boat, which had righted

itself, though half full of water.

There was nothing in the boat but two oars which had not slipped out of

their rowlocks, a leather scoop which had been tied to a thwart, and

the aforementioned water.

Before morning I had nearly baled out the boat, and fortunate it was

for me that up to the time of the upset we had had enough to eat and

drink, for otherwise I should not have had strength for that work and

for what followed.

Not long after daybreak I sighted the _Sparhawk_, and immediately began

to make such signals as I could. The vessel appeared to be but a few

miles distant, and I could not determine whether she was approaching me

or going away from me. I could see no sign that my signals had been

noticed, and began frantically to row toward her. After a quarter of an

hour of violent exertion, I did not appear to be much nearer to her;

but, observing her more closely, I could see, even with my landsman's

eyes, that something was the matter with her. Portions of her mast and

rigging were gone, and one large sail at her stern appeared to be

fluttering in the wind.

But it mattered not to me what had happened to her. She was a ship

afloat, and I must reach her. Tired, hungry, and thirsty I rowed and

rowed, but it was not until long after noon that I reached her. She

must have been much farther from me than I had supposed.

With a great deal of trouble I managed to clamber on board, and found

the ship deserted. I had suspected that this would be the case, for as

I had drawn near I would have seen some sign that my approach was

noticed had there been anybody on board to perceive it. But I found

food and water, and when I was no longer hungry or thirsty I threw

myself in a berth, and slept until the sun was high the next day.

I had now been on the derelict vessel for eight days. Why she had been

deserted and left to her fate I was not seaman enough to know. It is

true that her masts and rigging were in a doleful condition, but she

did not appear to be leaking, and rode well upon the sea. There was

plenty of food and water on board, and comfortable accommodations. I

afterwards learned that during the terrible cyclone which had overtaken

her, she had been on her beam ends for an hour before the crew left her

in the boats.

For the first day or two of my sojourn on the _Sparhawk_ I was as

happy as a man could be under the circumstances. I thought myself to

be perfectly safe, and believed it could not be long before I would be

picked up. Of course I did not know my latitude and longitude, but I

felt sure that the part of the Atlantic in which I was must be

frequently crossed by steamers and other vessels.

About the fourth day I began to feel uneasy. I had seen but three

sails, and these had taken no notice of the signal which I had hung as

high in the mizzen-mast as I had dared to climb. It was, indeed, no

wonder that the signal had attracted no attention among the fluttering

shreds of sails about it.

I believe that one ship must have approached quite near me. I had been

below some time, looking over the books in the captain's room, and when

I came on deck I saw the stern of the ship, perhaps a mile or two

distant, and sailing away. Of course my shouts and wavings were of no

avail. She had probably recognized the derelict _Sparhawk_ and had

made a note of her present position, in order to report to the

hydrographic office.

The weather had been fair for the most part of the time, the sea

moderately smooth, and when the wind was strong, the great sail on the

mizzen-mast, which remained hoisted and which I had tightened up a

little, acted after the manner of the long end of a weather-vane, and

kept the ship's head to the sea.

Thus it will be seen that I was not in a bad plight; but although I

appreciated this, I grew more and more troubled and uneasy. For several

days I had not seen a sail, and if I should see one how could I attract

attention? It must be that the condition of the vessel indicated that

there was no one on board. Had I known that the _Sparhawk_ was already

entered upon the list of derelicts, I should have been hopeless indeed.

At first I hung out a lantern as a night signal, but on the second

night it was broken by the wind, and I could find only one other in

good condition. The ship's lights must have been blown away in the

storm, together with her boats and much of her rigging. I would not

hang out the only lantern left me, for fear it should come to grief,

and that I should be left in the dark at night in that great vessel.

Had I known that I was on a vessel which had been regularly relegated

to the ranks of the forsaken, I should better have appreciated the

importance of allowing passing vessels to see that there was a light on

board the _Sparhawk_, and, therefore, in all probability a life.

As day after day had passed, I had become more and more disheartened.

It seemed to me that I was in a part of the great ocean avoided by

vessels of every kind, that I was not in the track of anything going

anywhere. Every day there seemed to be less and less wind, and when I

had been on board a week, the _Sparhawk_ was gently rising and falling

on a smooth sea in a dead calm. Hour after hour I swept the horizon

with the captain's glass, but only once did I see anything to encourage

me. This was what appeared like a long line of black smoke against the

distant sky, which might have been left by a passing steamer; but,

were this the case, I never saw the steamer.

Happily, there were plenty of provisions on board of a plain kind. I

found spirits and wine, and even medicines, and in the captain's room

there were pipes, tobacco, and some books.

This comparative comfort gave me a new and strange kind of despair. I

began to fear that I might become contented to live out my life alone

in the midst of this lonely ocean. In that case, what sort of a man

should I become?

It was about 8.30 by the captain's chronometer, when I came on deck on

the morning of the 25th of May. I had become a late riser, for what was

the good of rising early when there was nothing to rise for? I had

scarcely raised my eyes above the rail of the ship when, to my utter

amazement, I perceived a vessel not a mile away. The sight was so

unexpected, and the surprise was so great, that my heart almost stopped

beating as I stood and gazed at her.

She was a medium-sized iron steamer, and lay upon the sea in a peculiar

fashion, her head being much lower than her stern, the latter elevated

so much that I could see part of the blades of her motionless

propeller. She presented the appearance of a ship which was just about

to plunge, bow foremost, into the depths of the ocean, or which had

just risen, stern foremost, from those depths.

With the exception of her position, and the fact that no smoke-stack

was visible, she seemed, to my eyes, to be in good enough trim. She had

probably been in collision with something, and her forward compartments

had filled. Deserted by her crew, she had become a derelict, and,

drifting about in her desolation, had fallen in with another derelict

as desolate as herself. The fact that I was on board the _Sparhawk_

did not, in my eyes, make that vessel any the less forsaken and

forlorn.

The coming of this steamer gave me no comfort. Two derelicts, in their

saddening effects upon the spirits, would be twice as bad as one, and,

more than that, there was danger, should a storm arise, that they would

dash into each other and both go to the bottom. Despairing as I had

become, I did not want to go to the bottom.

As I gazed upon the steamer I could see that she was gradually

approaching me. There was a little breeze this morning, and so much of

her hull stood out of the water that it caught a good deal of the wind.

The _Sparhawk_, on the contrary, was but little affected by the breeze,

for apart from the fact that the great sail kept her head always to the

wind, she was heavily laden with sugar and molasses and sat deep in the

water. The other was not coming directly toward me, but would probably

pass at a considerable distance. I did not at all desire that she

should come near the _Sparhawk_.

Suddenly my heart gave a jump. I could distinctly see on the stern of

the steamer the flutter of something white. It was waved! Somebody must

be waving it!

Hitherto I had not thought of the spyglass, for with my naked eyes I

could see all that I cared to see of the vessel, but now I dashed below

to get it. When I brought it to bear upon the steamer I saw plainly

that the white object was waved by some one, and that some one was a

woman. I could see above the rail the upper part of her body, her

uncovered head, her uplifted arm wildly waving.

Presently the waving ceased, and then the thought suddenly struck me

that, receiving no response, she had in despair given up signalling.

Cursing my stupidity, I jerked my handkerchief from my pocket, and,

climbing a little way into the rigging, I began to wave it madly.

Almost instantly her waving recommenced. I soon stopped signalling, and

so did she. No more of that was needed. I sprang to the deck and took

up the glass.

The woman was gone, but in a few moments she reappeared armed with a

glass. This action filled me with amazement. Could it be possible that

the woman was alone on the steamer, and that there was no one else to

signal and to look out? The thing was incredible, and yet, if there

were men on board, why did they not show themselves? And why did not

one of them wave the signal and use the glass?

The steamer was steadily but very slowly nearing the _Sparhawk_, when

the woman removed the glass and stood up waist high above the rail of

the steamer Now I could see her much better; I fancied I could almost

discern her features. She was not old; she was well shaped; her bluish

gray dress fitted her snugly. Holding the rail with one hand she stood

up very erect, which must have been somewhat difficult, considering the

inclination of the deck. For a moment I fancied I had seen or known

some one whose habit it was to stand up very erect as this woman stood

upon the steamer. The notion was banished as absurd.

Wondering what I should do, what instant action I should take, I laid

down my glass, and as I did so the woman immediately put up hers. Her

object was plain enough; she wanted to observe me, which she could not

well do when a view of my face was obstructed by the glass and my

outstretched arms. I was sorry that I had not sooner given her that

opportunity, and for some moments I stood and faced her, waving my hat

as I did so.

I was wild with excitement. What should I do? What could I do? There

were no boats on the _Sparhawk_, and what had become of the one in

which I reached her I did not know. Thinking of nothing but getting on

board the vessel, I had forgotten to make the boat fast, and when I

went to look for it a day or two afterward it was gone. On the steamer,

however, I saw a boat hanging from davits near the stern. There was

hope in that.

But there might be no need for a boat. Under the influence of the

gentle breeze, the steamer was steadily drawing nearer to the

_Sparhawk_. Perhaps they might touch each other. But this idea was soon

dispelled, for I could see that the wind would carry the steamer past

me, although, perhaps, at no great distance. Then my hopes sprang back

to the boat hanging from her davits.

But before these hopes could take shape the woman and her glass died

out of sight behind the rail of the steamer. In about a minute she

reappeared, stood up erect, and applied a speaking-trumpet to her

mouth. It was possible that a high, shrill voice might have been heard

from one vessel to the other, but it was plain enough that this was a

woman who took no useless chances. I, too, must be prepared to hail as

well as to be hailed. Quickly I secured a speaking-trumpet from the

captain's room, and stood up at my post.

Across the water came the monosyllable, "Ho!" and back I shouted,

"Hallo!"

Then came these words, as clear and distinct as any I ever heard in my

life: "Are you Mr. Rockwell?"

This question almost took away my senses. Was this reality? or had a

spirit risen from this lonely ocean to summon me somewhere? Was this

the way people died? Rockwell? Yes, my name was Rockwell. At least it

had been. I was sure of nothing now.

Again came the voice across the sea. "Why don't you answer?" it said.

I raised my trumpet to my lips. At first I could make no sound, but,

controlling my agitation a little, I shouted: "Yes!"

Instantly the woman disappeared, and for ten minutes I saw her no

more. During that time I did nothing but stand and look at the steamer,

which was moving more slowly than before, for the reason that the wind

was dying away. She was now, however, nearly opposite me, and so near

that if the wind should cease entirely, conversation might be held

without the aid of trumpets. I earnestly hoped this might be the case,

for I had now recovered the possession of my senses, and greatly

desired to hear the natural voice of that young woman on the steamer.

As soon as she reappeared I made a trial of the power of my voice.

Laying down the trumpet I shouted: "Who are you?"

Back came the answer, clear, high, and perfectly audible: "I am Mary

Phillips."

Mary Phillips! it seemed to me that I remembered the name. I was

certainly familiar with the erect attitude, and I fancied I recognized

the features of the speaker. But this was all; I could not place her.

Before I could say anything she hailed again: "Don't you remember me?"

she cried, "I lived in Forty-second Street."

The middle of a wild and desolate ocean and a voice from Forty-second

Street! What manner of conjecture was this? I clasped my head in my

hands and tried to think. Suddenly a memory came to me: a wild,

surging, raging memory.

"With what person did you live in Forty-second Street?" I yelled across

the water.

"Miss Bertha Nugent," she replied.

A fire seemed to blaze within me. Standing on tiptoe I fairly

screamed: "Bertha Nugent! Where is she?"

The answer came back: "Here!" And when I heard it my legs gave way

beneath me and I fell to the deck. I must have remained for some

minutes half lying, half seated, on the deck. I was nearly stupefied by

the statement I had heard.

I will now say a few words concerning Miss Bertha Nugent. She was a

lady whom I had known well in New York, and who, for more than a year,

I had loved well, although I never told her so. Whether or not she

suspected my passion was a question about which I had never been able

to satisfy myself. Sometimes I had one opinion; sometimes another.

Before I had taken any steps to assure myself positively in regard to

this point, Miss Nugent went abroad with a party of friends, and for

eight months I had neither seen nor heard from her.

During that time I had not ceased to berate myself for my inexcusable

procrastination. As she went away without knowing my feelings toward

her, of course there could be no correspondence. Whatever she might

have suspected, or whatever she might have expected, there was nothing

between us.

But on my part my love for Bertha had grown day by day. Hating the city

and even the country where I had seen her and loved her and where now

she was not, I travelled here and there, and during the winter went to

the West Indies. There I had remained until the weather had become too

warm for a longer sojourn, and then I had taken passage in the

_Thespia_ for New York. I knew that Bertha would return to the city in

the spring or summer, and I wished to be there when she arrived. If,

when I met her, I found her free, there would be no more delay. My life

thenceforth would be black or white. And now here she was near me in a

half-wrecked steamer on the wide Atlantic, with no companion, as I

knew, but her maid, Mary Phillips.

I now had a very distinct recollection of Mary Phillips. In my visits

to the Nugent household in Forty-second Street I had frequently seen

this young woman. Two or three times when Miss Nugent had not been at

home, I had had slight interviews with her. She always treated me with

a certain cordiality, and I had some reason to think that if Miss

Nugent really suspected my feelings, Mary Phillips had given her some

hints on the subject.

Mary Phillips was an exceedingly bright and quick young woman, and I am

quite sure that she could see into the state of a man's feelings as

well as any one. Bertha had given me many instances of her maid's

facilities for adapting herself to circumstances, and I was now

thankful from the bottom of my heart that Bertha had this woman with

her.

I was recovering from the stupefaction into which my sudden emotions

had plunged me, when a hail came across the water, first in Mary

Phillips's natural voice, and then through a speaking-trumpet. I stood

up and answered.

"I was wondering," cried Mary Phillips, "what had become of you; I

thought perhaps you had gone down to breakfast." In answer I called to

her to tell me where Miss Nugent was, how she was, how she came to be

in this surprising situation, and how many people there were on board

the steamer.

"Miss Nugent has not been at all well," answered Mary, "but she

brightened up as soon as I told her you were here. She cannot come on

deck very well, because the pitch of the ship makes the stairs so

steep. But I am going to give her her breakfast now, and after she has

eaten something she may be stronger, and I will try to get her on

deck."

Brightened up when she knew I was near! That was glorious! That

brightened up creation.

By this time I needed food also, but I did not remain below to eat it.

I brought my breakfast on deck, keeping my eyes all the time fixed upon

Bertha's steamer. The distance between us did not seem to have varied.

How I longed for a little breeze that might bring us together! Bertha

was on that vessel, trusting, perhaps, entirely to me: and what could I

do if some breeze did not bring us together? I looked about for

something on which I might float to her; but if I made a raft I was not

sure that I could steer or propel it, and I might float away and become

a third derelict. Once I thought of boldly springing into the water,

and swimming to her; but the distance was considerable, my swimming

powers were only moderate, and there might be sharks. The risk was too

great. But surely we would come together. Even if no kind wind arose,

there was that strange attraction which draws to each other the bubbles

on a cup of tea. If bubbles, why not ships?

It was not long before nearly one-half of Mary Phillips appeared above

the rail. "Miss Nugent aas come on deck," she cried, "and she wants to

see you. She can't stand up very long, because everything is so

sliding."

Before my trembling lips could frame an answer, she had bobbed out of

sight, and presently reappeared supporting another person, and that

other person was Bertha Nugent.

I could discern her features perfectly. She was thinner and paler than

when I had last seen her, but her beauty was all there. The same smile

which I had seen so often was upon her face as she waved her

handkerchief to me. I waved my hat in return, but I tried two or three

times before I could speak loud enough for her to hear me. Then I threw

into my words all the good cheer and hope that I could.

She did not attempt to answer, but smiled more brightly than before.

Her expression seemed to indicate that, apart from the extraordinary

pleasure of meeting a friend on this waste of waters, she was glad that

I was that friend.

"She can't speak loud enough for you to hear her," called out Mary

Phillips, "but she says that now you are here she thinks everything

will be all right. She wants to know if you are alone on your ship, and

if you can come to us."

I explained my situation, but said I did not doubt but the two ships

would gradually drift together. "Is there no one to lower your boat?" I

asked.

"No one but me," answered Mary, "and I don't believe I am up to that

sort of thing. Miss Nugent says I must not touch it for fear I might

fall overboard."

"Do you mean to say," I cried, "that there is nobody but you two on

board that steamer?"

"No other living soul!" said Mary, "and I'll tell you how it all

happened."

Then she told their story. The friends with whom Miss Nugent had

travelled had determined to go to Egypt, but as she did not wish to

accompany them, she had remained in Spain and Algiers during the early

spring, and, eleven days before, she and Mary Phillips had started from

Marseilles for home in the steamer _La Fidélité_. Five days ago, the

steamer had collided in the night with something, Mary did not know

what, and her front part was filled with water. Everybody was sure that

the vessel would soon sink, and the captain, crew, and passengers--all

French--went away in boats.

"Is it possible" I yelled, "that they deserted you two women?"

Mary Phillips replied that this was not the case. They had been

implored to go in the boats, but the night was dark, the sea was rough

and pitchy, and she was sure the boat would upset before they had gone

a hundred yards. Miss Nugent and she both agreed that it was much safer

to remain on a large vessel like the _Fidélité_, even if she was half

full of water, than to go out on the dark and stormy water in a

miserable little shell of a boat. The captain got down on his knees and

implored them to go, but they were resolute. He then declared that he

would force them into the craft, but Mary Phillips declared that if he

tried that, she would shoot him; she had a pistol ready. Then, when

they had all got in the boats but the captain, two of the men jumped on

board again, threw their arms around him and carried him off, vowing

that he should not lose his life on account of a pair of senseless

Americans. A boat would be left, the men said, which they might use if

they chose; but, of course, this was more a piece of sentiment than

anything else.

"And now you see," cried Mary Phillips, "I was right, and they were

wrong. This steamer has not sunk; and I have no manner of doubt that

every soul who went away in those boats is now at the bottom of the

sea."

This was indeed a wonderful story; and the fact that Bertha Nugent was

on board a derelict vessel and should happen to fall in with me on

board of another, was one of those events which corroborate the trite

and hackneyed adage, that truth is stranger than fiction.

It was surprising how plainly I could hear Mary Phillips across the

smooth, still water. The ships did not now seem to be moving at all;

but soon they would be nearer, and then I could talk with Bertha. And

soon after (it must be so) I would be with her.

I inquired if they had food and whatever else they needed; and Mary

Phillips replied that, with the exception of the slanting position of

the ship, they were very comfortable; that she did the cooking; and

that Miss Nugent said that they lived a great deal better than when the

ship's cook cooked.

Mary also informed me that she had arranged a very nice couch for Miss

Nugent on the afterdeck; that she was lying there now, and felt better;

that she wanted to know which I thought the safer ship of the two; and

that whenever a little wind arose, and the vessels were blown nearer

each other, she wished to get up and talk to me herself.

I answered that I thought both the ships were safe enough, and should

be delighted to talk with Miss Nugent, but in my heart I could not

believe that a vessel with her bow as low as that of the _Fidélité_

could be safe in bad weather, to say nothing of the possibility of, at

any time, the water bursting into other compartments of the ship. The

_Sparhawk_ I believed to be in much better condition. Despite the fact

that she was utterly helpless as far as sailing qualities were

concerned, the greater part of her masts and rigging being in a

wretched condition, and her rudder useless, she did not appear to be

damaged. I had no reason to believe that she leaked, and she floated

well, although, as I have said, she lay rather deep in the water.

If the thing were possible, I intended to get Bertha on board the

_Sparhawk_, where there was hope that we could all remain safely until

we were rescued. With this purpose in view, the moment Mary Phillips

disappeared, I went below and prepared the captain's cabin for Bertha

and her maid. I carried to the forward part of the vessel all the

pipes, bottles, and glasses, and such other things as were not suitable

for a lady's apartment, and thoroughly aired the cabin, making it as

neat and comfortable as circumstances permitted. The very thought of

offering hospitality to Bertha was a joy.

I proposed to myself several plans to be used in various contingencies.

If the two vessels approached near enough, I would throw a line to _La

Fidélité_, and Mary Phillips would make it fast, I knew. Then with a

windlass I might draw the two vessels together. Then I would spring on

board the steamer, and when I had transferred Bertha and Mary to the

_Sparhawk_, would cut loose _La Fidélité_ to drift where she pleased.

It was possible that I might convey from one vessel to the other some

articles of luxury or necessity, but on this point I would not come to

any definite conclusion. I would consult Mary Phillips on the subject.

Another plan was that if we did not approach very close, I would

endeavor to throw a long, light line to the steamer, and Mary Phillips

would attach it to the boat which hung from the davits. Into this she

would put a pair of oars and lower it as well as she could; then I

would haul it to the _Sparhawk_, row over to the steamer, and transfer

Bertha and Mary to my vessel. It was possible that we should not have

to be very near each other for me to carry out this plan. Had I been a

seaman, I might have thought of some other plan better than these. But

I was not a seaman.

I did not waste any time in the cabin, although I was very desirous to

make it as pleasant as possible for the reception of Bertha, but when I

returned to the deck I was astonished to find that the steamer was

farther away than it had been when I went below. There was a slight

breeze from the east, which had nearly turned the _Sparhawk_ about with

her bow to the wind, but was gently carrying _La Fidélité_ before it.

I seized the speaking-trumpet, and with all my power, hailed the

steamer; and in return there came to me a single sound, the sound of

the vowel O. I could see two handkerchiefs fluttering upon the stern.

In ten minutes these were scarcely discernible.

Half-crazed, I stood and gazed, and gazed, and gazed at the distant

steamer. The wind died away, and I could perceive that she was not

becoming more distant. Then I began to hope. Another wind might spring

up which would bring her back.

And in an hour or two the other wind did spring up; I felt it in my

face, and slowly the _Sparhawk_ turned her bow toward it, and,

enrapturing sight! the steamer, with my Bertha on board, began to move

slowly back to me! The wind which was now blowing came from the

southwest, and _La Fidélité_, which before had lain to the southward of

the _Sparhawk_, was passing to the north of my vessel. Nearer and

nearer she came, and my whole soul was engaged in the hope that she

might not pass too far north.

But I soon saw that unless the wind changed, the steamer would probably

pass within hailing distance.

Soon I could see Mary Phillips on deck, speaking-trumpet in hand; and

seizing my trumpet, I hailed when as I thought we were near enough. I

eagerly inquired after Bertha, and the high voice of Mary Phillips came

across the water, telling me that Miss Nugent was not feeling at all

well. This uncertain state of affairs was making her feel very nervous.

"Can she come on deck?" I cried. "Can she use a speaking-trumpet? If I

could talk to her, I might encourage her."

"She needs it," answered Mary, "but she cannot speak through the

trumpet; she tried it, and it made her head ache. She is here on deck,

and I am going to help her stand up as soon as we get nearer. Perhaps

she may be able to speak to you."

The two vessels were now near enough for a high-pitched conversation

without the assistance of trumpets, and Mary Phillips assisted Bertha

to the side of the steamer, where I could distinctly see her. I shouted

as hearty a greeting as ever was sent across the water, bidding her to

keep up a good heart, for help of some kind must surely come to us. She

tried to answer me, but her voice was not strong enough. Then she shook

her head, by which I understood that she did not agree with me in my

hopeful predictions. I called back to her that in all this drifting

about the two vessels must certainly come together, and then, with the

assistance of the steamer's boat, we could certainly devise some way of

getting out of this annoying plight. She smiled, apparently at the

mildness of this expression, and again shook her head. She now seemed

tired, for her position by the rail was not an easy one to maintain,

and her maid assisted her to her couch on the deck. Then stood, up Mary

Phillips, speaking loud and promptly:--

"She has a message for you," she said, "which she wanted to give to you

herself, but she cannot do it. She thinks--but I tell her it is of no

use thinking that way--that we are bound to be lost. You may be saved

because your ship seems in a better condition than ours, and she does

not believe that the two vessels will ever come together; so she wants

me to tell you that if you get home and she never does, that she wishes

her share in the Forty-second Street house to go to her married sister,

and to be used for the education of the children. She doesn't want it

divided up in the ordinary way, because each one will get so little,

and it will do no good. Do you think that will be a good will?"

"Don't speak of wills!" I shouted; "there is no need of a will. She

will get home in safety and attend to her own affairs."

"I think so, too," cried Mary Phillips; "but I had to tell you what she

said. And now she wants to know if you have any message to send to your

parents, for we might blow off somewhere and be picked up, while this

might not happen to you. But I don't believe in that sort of thing any

more than in the other."

I shouted back my disbelief in the necessity of any such messages, when

Mary Phillips seized her trumpet and cried that she did not hear me.

Alas! the breeze was still blowing, and the steamer was moving away to

the northeast. Through my trumpet I repeated my words, and then Mary

said something which I could not hear. The wind was against her. I

shouted to her to speak louder, and she must have screamed with all her

force, but I could only hear some words to the effect that we were

bound to come together again, and she waved her handkerchief cheerily.

Then the steamer moved farther and farther away, and speaking-trumpets

were of no avail. I seized the glass, and watched _La Fidélité_, until

she was nothing but a black spot upon the sea.

The wind grew lighter, and finally died away, and the black spot

remained upon the horizon. I did not take my eyes from it until night

drew on and blotted it out. I had not thought of advising Mary Phillips

to hang out a light, and she was probably not sufficiently accustomed

to the ways of ships to think of doing it herself, although there could

be no doubt that there were lanterns suitable for the purpose on the

steamer. Had there been a light upon that vessel, I should have watched

the glimmer all night. As it was, I slept upon the deck, waking

frequently to peer out into the darkness, and to listen for a hail from

a speaking-trumpet.

In the morning there was a black spot upon the horizon. I fancied that

it was a little nearer than when I last saw it; but in the course of

the forenoon it faded away altogether. Then despair seized upon me, and

I cared not whether I lived or died. I forgot to eat, and threw myself

upon the deck, where I remained for several hours, upbraiding myself

for my monstrous, unpardonable folly in neglecting the opportunities

which were now lost.

Over and over again I told myself bitterly, that when I had been near

enough to the vessel which bore Bertha Nugent to converse with Mary

Phillips without the aid of a speaking-trumpet, I should have tried to

reach that vessel, no matter what the danger or the difficulties. I

should have launched a raft--I should have tried to swim--I should have

done something.

And more than that, even had it been impossible for me to reach the

steamer, I should have endeavored to reach Bertha's heart. I should

have told her that I loved her. Whether she were lost or I were lost,

or both of us, she should have known I loved her. She might not have

been able to answer me, but she could have heard me. For that terrible

mistake, that crime, there was no pardon. Now every chance was gone.

What reason was there to suppose that these two derelicts ever again

would drift together?

In the afternoon I rose languidly and looked about me. I saw something

on the horizon, and seizing the glass, I knew it to be _La Fidélité_. I

could recognize the slant of the hull, of the masts.

Now hope blazed up again. If she were nearer, she must come nearer

still. I recovered my ordinary state of mind sufficiently to know that

I was hungry, and that I must eat to be strong and ready for what might

happen.

Upon one thing I was determined. If Bertha should ever again be brought

near enough to hear me, I would tell her that I loved her. The object

of life, however much of it might be left me, should be to make Bertha

know that I loved her. If I swam toward the vessel, or floated on a

plank, I must get near enough to tell her that I loved her.

But there was no wind, and the apparent size of the steamer did not

increase. This was a region or season of calms or fitful winds. During

the rest of the day the distant vessel continued to be a black speck

upon the smooth and gently rolling sea. Again I spent the night on

deck, but I did not wake to listen or watch. I was worn out and slept

heavily.

The day was bright when I was awakened by a chilly feeling: a strong

breeze was blowing over me. I sprang to my feet. There was quite a

heavy sea; the vessel was rolling and pitching beneath me, and not far

away, not more than a mile, _La Fidélité_ was coming straight toward

me. Lightly laden, and with a great part of her hull high out of water,

the high wind was driving her before it, while my vessel, her bow to

the breeze, was moving at a much slower rate.

As I looked at the rapidly approaching steamer, it seemed as if she

certainly must run into the _Sparhawk_. But for that I cared not. All

that I now hoped for was that Bertha should come to me. Whether one

vessel sank or the other, or whether both went down together, I should

be with Bertha, I would live or die with her. Mary Phillips stood full

in view on the stern of the oncoming steamer, a speaking-trumpet in

her hand. I could now see that it was not probable that the two vessels

would collide. The steamer would pass me, but probably very near.

Before I could make up my mind what I should do in this momentous

emergency, Mary Phillips hailed me.

"When we get near enough," she shouted, "throw me a rope. I'll tie it

to the boat and cut it loose."

Wildly I looked about me for a line which I might throw. Cordage there

was in abundance, but it was broken or fastened to something, or too

heavy to handle. I remembered, however, seeing a coil of small rope

below, and hastening down, I brought it on deck, took the coil in my

right hand, and stood ready to hurl it when the proper moment should

come.

That moment came quickly. The steamer was not a hundred feet from me

when I reached the deck. It passed me on the port side.

"Be ready!" cried Mary Phillips, the instant she saw me. It was not now

necessary to use a trumpet.

"Throw as soon as I get opposite to you!" she cried.

"Is Bertha well?" I shouted.

"Yes!" said Mary Phillips; "but what you've got to do is to throw that

rope. Give it a good heave. Throw now!"

The two vessels were not fifty feet apart. With all my strength I

hurled the coil of rope. The steamer's stern was above me, and I aimed

high. The flying coil went over the deck of _La Fidélité_, but in my

excitement I forgot to grasp tightly the other end of it, and the whole

rope flew from me and disappeared beyond the steamer. Stupefied by this

deplorable accident, I staggered backward and a heave of the vessel

threw me against the rail. Recovering myself, I glared about for

another rope, but of course there was none.

Then came a shout from Mary Phillips. But she had already passed me,

and as I was to the windward of her I did not catch her words. As I

remembered her appearance, she seemed to be tearing her hair. In a

flash I thought of my resolution. Rushing to the rail, I put the

trumpet to my mouth. The wind would carry my words to her if it would

not bring hers to me.

"Tell Bertha to come on deck!" I shouted. Mary Phillips looked at me,

but did not move. I wished her to rush below and bring up Bertha. Not

an instant was to be lost. But she did not move.

"Tell her I love her!" I yelled through the trumpet. "Tell her that I

love her now and shall love her forever. Tell her I love her, no matter

what happens. Tell her I love her, I love her, I love her!" And this I

continued to scream until it was plain I was no longer heard. Then I

threw down my useless trumpet and seized the glass. Madly I scanned the

steamer. No sign of Bertha was to be seen. Mary Phillips was there, and

now she waved her handkerchief. At all events she forgave me. At such a

terrible moment what could one do but forgive?

I watched, and watched, and watched, but no figure but that of Mary

Phillips appeared upon the steamer, and at last I could not even

distinguish that. Now I became filled with desperate fury. I determined

to sail after Bertha and overtake her. A great sail was flapping from

one of my masts, and I would put my ship about, and the strong wind

should carry me to Bertha.

I knew nothing of sailing, but even if I had known, all my efforts

would have been useless. I rushed to the wheel and tried to move it,

pulling it this way and that, but the rudder was broken or jammed,--I

know not what had happened to it. I seized the ropes attached to the

boom of the sail, I pulled, I jerked, I hauled; I did not know what I

was doing. I did nothing. At last, in utter despair and exhaustion, I

fell to the deck.

But before the wind had almost died away, and in the afternoon the sea

was perfectly calm, and when the sun set I could plainly see the

steamer on the faroff edge of the glistening water. During the whole

of the next day I saw her. She neither disappeared nor came nearer.

Sometimes I was in the depths of despair; sometimes I began to hope a

little; but I had one great solace in the midst of my misery--Bertha

knew that I loved her. I was positively sure that my words had been

heard.

It was a strange manner in which I had told my love. I had roared my

burning words of passion through a speaking-trumpet, and I had told

them not to Bertha herself, but to Mary Phillips. But the manner was of

no importance. Bertha now knew that I loved her. That was everything to

me.

As long as light remained I watched _La Fidélité_ through the glass,

but I could see nothing but a black form with a slanting upper line.

She was becalmed as I was. Why could she not have been becalmed near

me? I dared not let my mind rest upon the opportunities I had lost when

she had been becalmed near me. During the night the wind must have

risen again, for the _Sparhawk_ rolled and dipped a good deal,

troubling my troubled slumbers. Very early in the morning I was

awakened by what sounded like a distant scream. I did not know whether

it was a dream or not; but I hurried on deck. The sun had not risen,

but as I looked about I saw something which took away my breath; which

made me wonder if I were awake, or dreaming, or mad.

It was Bertha's steamer within hailing distance!

Above the rail I saw the head and body of Mary Phillips, who was

screaming through the trumpet. I stood and gazed in petrified

amazement.

I could not hear what Mary Phillips said. Perhaps my senses were

benumbed. Perhaps the wind was carrying away her words. That it was

blowing from me toward her soon became too evident. The steamer was

receding from the _Sparhawk_. The instant I became aware of this my

powers of perception and reasoning returned to me with a burning flash.

Bertha was going away from me--she was almost gone.

Snatching my trumpet, I leaned over the rail and shouted with all my

might: "Did you hear me say I loved her? Did you tell her?"

Mary Phillips had put down her trumpet, but now she raised it again to

her mouth, and I could see that she was going to make a great effort.

The distance between us had increased considerably since I came on

deck, and she had to speak against the wind.

With all the concentrated intensity which high-strung nerves could

give to a man who is trying to hear the one thing to him worth hearing

in the world, I listened. Had a wild beast fixed his claws and teeth

into me at the moment I would not have withdrawn my attention.

I heard the voice of Mary Phillips, faint, far away. I heard the words,

"Yes, but--" and the rest was lost. She must have known from my aspect

that her message did not reach me, for she tried again and again to

make herself heard.

The wind continued to blow, and the steamer continued to float and

float and float away. A wind had come up in the night. It had blown

Bertha near me; perhaps it had blown her very near me. She had not

known it, and I had not known it. Mary Phillips had not known it until

it was too late, and now that wind had blown her past me and was

blowing her away. For a time there was a flutter of a handkerchief,

but only one handkerchief, and then _La Fidélité_, with Bertha on

board, was blown away until she disappeared, and I never saw her

again.

All night I sat upon the deck of the _Sparhawk_, thinking, wondering,

and conjecturing. I was in a strange state of mind. I did not wonder or

conjecture whether Bertha's vessel would come back to me again; I did

not think of what I should do if it did come back. I did not think of

what I should do if it never came back. All night I thought, wondered,

and conjectured what Mary Phillips had meant by the word "but."

It was plain to me what "yes" had meant. My message had been heard, and

I knew Mary Phillips well enough to feel positively sure that having

received such a message under such circumstances she had given it to

Bertha. Therefore I had positive proof that Bertha knew that I loved

her. But what did the "but" mean?

It seemed to me that there were a thousand things that this word might

mean. It might mean that she was already engaged to be married. It

might mean that she had vowed never to marry. It might mean that she

disapproved of such words at such a time. I cannot repeat the tenth of

the meanings which I thought I might attach to this word. But the worst

thing that it could purport, the most terrible signification of all,

recurred to me over and over again. It might mean that Bertha could not

return my affection. She knew that I loved her, but she could not love

me.

In the morning I ate something and then lay down upon the deck to

sleep. It was well that I should do this, I thought, because if Bertha

came near me again in the daytime Mary Phillips would hail me if I were

not awake. All night long I would watch, and, as there was a moon, I

would see Bertha's vessel if it came again.

I did watch all that afternoon and all that night, and during my

watching I never ceased to wonder and conjecture what Mary Phillips

meant by that word "but."

About the middle of the next day I saw in the distance something upon

the water. I first thought it a bit of spray, for it was white, but as

there were now no waves there could be no spray. With the glass I could

only see that it was something white shining in the sun. It might be

the glistening body of a dead fish. After a time it became plainer to

me. It was such a little object that the faint breezes which

occasionally arose had more influence upon the _Sparhawk_ than upon

it, and so I gradually approached it.

In about an hour I made out that it was something round, with something

white raised above it, and then I discovered that it was a

life-preserver, which supported a little stick, to which a white flag,

probably a handkerchief, was attached. Then I saw that on the

life-preserver lay a little yellow mass.

Now I knew what it was that I saw. It was a message from Bertha. Mary

Phillips had devised the means of sending it. Bertha had sent it.

The life-preserver was a circular one, filled with air. In the centre

of this, Mary, by means of many strings, had probably secured a stick

in an upright position; she had then fastened a handkerchief to the top

of the stick. Bertha had written a message and Mary had wrapped it in a

piece of oiled silk and fastened it to the life-preserver. She had

then lowered this contrivance to the surface of the water, hoping that

it would float to me or I would float to it.

I was floating to it. It contained the solution of all my doubts, the

answer to all my conjectures. It was Bertha's reply to my declaration

of love, and I was drifting slowly but surely toward it. Soon I would

know.

But after a time the course of the _Sparhawk_ or the course of the

message changed. I drifted to the north. Little by little my course

deviated from the line on which I might have met the message. At last I

saw that I should never meet it. When I became convinced of this, my

first impulse was to spring overboard and swim for it. But I restrained

this impulse, as I had restrained others like it. If Bertha came back,

I must be ready to meet her. I must run no risks, for her sake and my

sake. She must find me on the _Sparhawk_ if she should come back. She

had left me and she had come back; she might come back again. Even to

get her message I must not run the risk of missing her. And so with

yearning heart and perhaps tearful eyes I watched the little craft

disappear and become another derelict.

I do not know how many days and nights I watched and waited for

Bertha's ship and wondered and conjectured what Mary Phillips meant by

"but." I was awake so much and ate so little and thought so hard that I

lost strength, both of mind and body. All I asked of my body was to

look out for Bertha's steamer, and all that I asked of my mind was to

resolve the meaning of the last words I had heard from that vessel.

One day, I do not know whether it was in the morning or afternoon, I

raised my head, and on the horizon I saw a steamer. Quick as a flash my

glass was brought to bear upon it. In the next minute my arms dropped,

the telescope fell into my lap, my head dropped. It was not Bertha's

steamer; it was an ordinary steamer with its deck parallel with the

water and a long line of smoke coming out of its funnel. The shock of

the disappointment was very great.

When I looked up again I could see that the steamer was headed directly

toward me, and was approaching with considerable rapidity. But this

fact affected me little. It would not bring me Bertha. It would not

bring me any message from her. It was an ordinary vessel of traffic. I

took no great interest in it, one way or the other.

Before long it was so near that I could see people on board. I arose

and looked over the rail. Then some one on the steamer fired a gun or a

pistol. As this seemed to be a signal, I waved my hat. Then the steamer

began to move more slowly, and soon lay to and lowered a boat.

In ten minutes three men stood on the deck of the _Sparhawk_. Some one

had hailed me in English to lower something. I had lowered nothing; but

here they were on deck. They asked me a lot of questions, but I

answered none of them.

"Is your captain with you?" I said. They answered that he was not,

that he was on the steamer. "Then take me to him," said I.

"Of course we will," said their leader, with a smile. And they took me.

I was received on the steamer with much cordiality and much

questioning, but to none of it did I pay any attention. I addressed the

captain.

"Sir," said I, "I will be obliged to you if you will immediately cruise

to the southwest and pick up for me a life-preserver with a little

white flag attached to it. It also carries a message for me, wrapped up

in a piece of oiled silk. It is very important that I should obtain

that message without delay."

The captain laughed. "Why, man!" said he, "what are you thinking of? Do

you suppose that I can go out of my course to cruise after a

life-preserver?"