ARE THEY ALL SAFE?
Phronsie thought a moment, and then said to herself, “Yes, I think
I better bring her here, and then we will all be together.” So
slipping out of her stateroom, she went hurriedly, making her way with
difficulty, as the distance was a good one, and the ship rolled badly,
to old Mrs. Benson’s door. “Mrs. Benson,” she said, gently rapping, “it
is I, Phronsie Pepper.”
“Yes, deary.” The little old lady was not asleep, but lay in a happy
doze, in which she was living over again all the beautiful days in her
little English cottage with her lads about her. “Yes, deary; I’ll be
there in a minute.”
“Please hurry, Mrs. Benson,” begged Phronsie.
“And so I will,” said old Mrs. Benson; and presently she opened the
door, and appeared before Phronsie in a short gown and petticoat, her
white hair tucked under a frilled nightcap.
“Anything happened, deary?” she asked anxiously, looking up into
Phronsie’s face.
Phronsie drew her in softly to the middle of the stateroom, and closed
the door. “Dear Mrs. Benson,” she said, taking her hands,--“I want you
to go with me to my stateroom, so that we can all be near each other.”
“And so I will, deary, if you want me to,” said the old woman
obediently; “but what is the matter? Has anything happened?”
“Yes,” said Phronsie; “but don’t make a noise, for the men are working
hard to save us all, and the people are not to know yet, for they would
be so frightened we should all be lost.” She held her mouth close to
the cap-frills. “The ship is on fire!”
Old Mrs. Benson broke away from her with a deep groan, and fell on her
knees by the berth. “Oh, my pretty lads, my pretty lads!”
“Mrs. Benson,” said Phronsie, laying a hand on the thin shoulders,
“there isn’t a moment to lose, for I cannot be away from Grandpapa. I
must go back at once, and you must go with me; come.”
“The Lord forgive me for keeping you,” said the old lady, staggering
to her feet; “now, deary, I’m ready.”
“You better put your dress on,” said Phronsie.
“No, deary; I’ll not wait for anything, or keep you a minute longer.
I’ll go as I am.” She glanced back around the room, as if bidding
everything good-by; then picked up a little picture on the table, and
tucked it into her bosom.
“We must take this,” said Phronsie, pulling out the life-preserver
quickly.
“Yes,” said the little old woman with a shiver.
“And you better lock your door,” said Phronsie, “and take the key, Mrs.
Benson.”
“All right, deary,” said the old woman with another good-by glance.
They were on their way to Phronsie’s stateroom, when suddenly the cry
arose, “Fire! Fire!” and a heavy body staggered by them, pushing them
to right and to left, as he lunged against each stateroom door with a
thud, screaming, “Fire! Fire!”
“Oh, hurry, hurry, Mrs. Benson!” exclaimed Phronsie, helping her along.
The little old lady sank helplessly to the floor.
“Oh, I can’t, deary!” she moaned; “it’s struck me here,” laying her
hand on her heart.
“Then I must carry you,” said Phronsie desperately.
By this time the passage was filling with smoke, and a hoarse babel of
sounds, like a distant roar, broke upon their ears.
A man, one of the crew, ran by so roughly that he brushed Phronsie’s
cheek with his arm. “Oh, please carry this poor woman to my stateroom!”
she cried to him.
[Illustration: “The sailor roared out, ‘The ship’s on fire!’ and was
plunging on.”]
“Leave me, leave me, deary,” the little old lady was saying. “Good-by,
deary; oh, leave the old woman and save yourself!”
The sailor roared out, “The ship’s on fire!” and was plunging on.
“I know it,” said Phronsie; “oh, carry her for me, please!” The hood of
her cloak fell back, and she clasped her hands entreatingly.
“I didn’t know ’twas you,” exclaimed the sailor, looking at her for the
first time; “you’re the one that writ me the letter to my folks.”
“Yes,” said Phronsie.
He seized old Mrs. Benson, and swung her to his shoulder, “Come,” he
cried to Phronsie, “they’re to lower the boats; I’ll save ye both.”
“I must go to Grandpapa,” cried Phronsie, “save her;” and dashed off by
herself.
“No use,” roared the sailor roughly, “you’ll all be lost together. Come
this way;” but he followed her with an oath, with the little old lady.
Stateroom doors were being flung open, and heads thrust out. Now and
then a woman screamed, and men were shouting and cursing. And above it
all that dreadful roar and the blinding smoke!
“Grandpapa! O Grandpapa!” cried Phronsie, reaching the door and
kneeling at it, “O Grandpapa, please hurry, and open the door to
Phronsie!”
“Leave away,” cried the sailor, dropping the little old lady, and
pushing Phronsie aside. Then he backed off, and dashed at the door with
his fist.
“Oh, what is that?” called old Mr. King, sitting straight in his berth.
“Let me in, Grandpapa dear!” begged Phronsie.
“Er--oh--why, Phronsie, child!” Old Mr. King threw wide the door, and
drew her to her feet with a hasty hand.
“Grandpapa,” cried Phronsie, “there is not an instant to lose--the ship
is on fire, Grandpapa. Quick! get his life-preserver,” to the sailor.
Old Mr. King put up a hasty hand, “Not till you have on yours,
Phronsie.”
“No nonsense!” roared the sailor at him, dragging out the
life-preserver to fling it over the handsome white head.
“I’ll get mine in a minute,” cried Phronsie, fastening old Mrs.
Benson’s to her trembling figure.
The rushing of feet, the babel of hoarse cries, the awful roar, and the
stifling smoke made it well-nigh impossible for them to see and to hear
each other. Phronsie knew that the sailor was securing a life-preserver
around her; and then, above all the awful confusion, she heard a voice.
“Joel!” she cried.
“I’ll take her,” cried Joel, “and the other one. Do you look out, Jim,
for the old gentleman. To the boats, my man, to the boats!”
He gathered Phronsie up, and old Mrs. Benson too, the sailor picking up
Mr. King; and never any of them could tell how, but presently they were
in the wild confusion of the hurrying throngs, and crowded in together
at the side of the ship, where they were lowering the boats.
And here Joel leaped away.
“Stay where you are,” he commanded them; drawing his revolver as he
sprang to the captain’s side, who single-handed was trying to keep the
half-crazed crew from leaping into the boat.
“I’ll shoot the first man of you who drops into that boat,” yelled Joel
at the crew. In their wild fury to get first at the boats as they were
lowered, they were knocking the passengers to right and left in their
craze. When they saw him, and knew it was the same man who had worked
at their side for nine long hours, they sullenly gave up and backed
away.
[Illustration: “‘I must go to Grandpapa,’ cried Phronsie, ‘save her;’
and dashed off by herself.”]
“I think I’ll go in this boat, don’t you know,” said a voice close to
them.
“O Livingston! don’t go and leave me.” There was no drawl now in the
shrill, thin voice. “O Miss Pepper, save me! save me!” clutching her.
“Take your hands off,” roared Joel at her, pulling Phronsie away from
her grasp. “No Bayley, the women and children and old people must go
first.”
“Oh, mercy!” shrieked Mrs. Bayley, wild with terror; “oh, save me
somebody! I’ll give any one a thousand dollars to save me,” she
screamed. She had her jewels in a small bag, which she huddled up to
her bosom. But no one heard her, as all rushed on, trampling down the
weaker ones, to get at the boats.
“Is Grandpapa in?” cried Phronsie, as Joel lifted her high, and handed
her over to Jim’s long arms ahead.
“Yes, dear.”
“And Mrs. Benson?”
“Yes, Phronsie.”
“O Joel--_you_!” she cried as she was swung off, and felt herself
drop, drop, to be caught by other strong arms. She lifted her eyes,
her yellow hair streaming away from her face as she called him; and he
turned his begrimed and haggard one at her an instant as he smiled, and
continued to help the women down.
“This boat is full--not another soul comes on,” cried the sailors
shoving off, as a woman, more dead than alive, was dropped in.
Phronsie looked up at Joel; he waved his hand at her, and she turned
and threw her arms around Grandpapa’s neck.
* * * * *
The ship’s surgeon bent over the handsome white-haired old gentleman
with the young girl clinging to his neck. They had brought them on
together in that way when picked up, drifting aimlessly in an open
boat, the exhausted sailors drooping over their oars. He listened
carefully for their breathing while he applied all the restoratives,
but they seemed to have passed on over the tide together.
“Oh, my deary; let me try!” It was the little old woman whom they
brought up next, sodden with the salt spray, and laid down beside them.
She raised herself by a violent effort, and threw her wet hands over
Phronsie’s white face. “Oh, my lamb--quick, doctor, now! See, her eyes
are moving--oh, my pretty deary!”
“Grandpapa,” said Phronsie feebly.
“Yes, my lamb,” cried old Mrs. Benson in the energy of hope; “see, she
is coming to!”
But Dr. Ransom knew he had a far more difficult case before him to
work back the receding life into the old body; and he left her to the
woman’s care while he applied the restoratives to Mr. King.
“Lend a hand here, will you?” cried Mrs. Benson to a woman who had not
ceased to bemoan the loss of her possessions since she had been put,
the last passenger, in the boat before they swept off; “do you rub her
feet, while I chafe her hands--oh, my lamb!”
“I cannot do anything,” exclaimed the woman petulantly, and turning
away her head, as she huddled up against the cabin sofa; “my heart is
broken. I’ve lost all--all--and at the last some villain twitched away
my bag of jewels. Oh! what shall I do?”
“Do you talk of jewels,” cried old Mrs. Benson at her, her eyes blazing
underneath her white hair, “at such a time as this--oh, my lamb!”
chafing busily the cold hands.
“And I really cannot help you,” whined the other, “for I am nearly dead
myself.”
“Grandpapa!” Phronsie opened her eyes, and put her hand weakly up.
“Yes, yes, deary,” said the old woman comfortingly. “Has he come to?”
her lips framing the words over to the surgeon.
“No.”
“Oh, my Lord! Yes, yes, deary. There, there, my lamb.”
“Where is Grandpapa?” asked Phronsie faintly.
“He’s right here, my pretty lamb,” said the old woman, her hot tears
raining down on Phronsie’s cold face.
Phronsie gave a sigh of relief. “Joel,” she tried to say, but the
sounds died away in her throat.
“Oh, dear me! I wish somebody would take care of me,” complained the
person on the sofa. “My dear woman, now that Miss Pepper is all right,
will you give me a little attention? I am wringing wet, and as cold as
ice.”
Old Mrs. Benson never turned her head. One of the sailors looked in.
“Bring me some hot water,” she said.
“Oh, my good sir!” exclaimed the other woman, springing up to a sitting
posture, “will you come here? I want you this instant.”
“Bring the hot water!” commanded Mrs. Benson--and he disappeared.
“I do not suppose you know who I am, you ignorant, low-down woman,”
cried the other passionately. “I am Mrs. Livingston Bayley of New York,
now of Bayley Manor, England. Now will you cease your insults to me?”
“Any change?”
The surgeon’s lips framed the word “no,” as he turned his face an
instant; in a second he darted back like lightning, and seized a
spoonful of restorative which he held to the white lips. A long-drawn
sigh, faint but distinct, was heard. Old Mrs. Benson hid her face on
Phronsie’s arm and cried like a child--this time for joy.