"Where is George?" she asked. "I thought he was coming, and the
captain, too."
"Both in the starboard boat," I answered. "You're in here with me,
where I can take care of you. Shove off!" I commanded. "Both boats
shove off, and get away from here."
The second mate had charge of the other boat, and together we shot
away from the ship, putting a hundred yards between us before pausing
to wait for the captain's boat from the other side. But it did not
appear at once. Instead, we heard loud shouts, and the name "Grace" in
Morton's tremulous voice.
"Miss Morton is here," I sang out, but, if heard, I was not answered.
Then the shouts ceased, and Morton's figure appeared on the opposite
rail.
"Grace!" he called. "Grace, where are you?"
"I'm here, George," she answered. "I'm safe. Save yourself."
"Here!" I bellowed. "Here with me! Get back into your boat."
But instead he jumped down on deck, out of our sight. We pulled back
toward the ship, and waited, a fair swimming distance away. Then, as a
box of matches bursts into fame, so did that huge ship. The main-hatch
covers flew into air, tangible and visible; and as they fell, the black
pillar of smoke increased in size and solidity, while each oaken rail
became a line of fire, and even the masts, dried by the heat of weeks,
turned to fiery red columns in a few minutes.
But the top of the cabin was still immune from the flames. And up the
after steps by the side of the companion climbed Morton. He ran to
the skylight, turned around, went part way back, and then retraced his
steps, calling again for his sister.
"Jump overboard!" I shouted. "Jump, for your life!"
He did not jump. With his hands to his nostrils he shuffled forward
toward the monkey-rail that overlooked the main deck, halting at
moments, only to shuffle again. He turned around once and took a
few steps backward, then wheeled suddenly and resumed his shuffling
advance. I called again and again for him to jump, and Grace joined
me in pleading screams, while I heard the captain calling from the
other side. But to no avail; the god that he worshiped was calling the
louder. He staggered now, reached the rail, and with arms extended as
though in supplication, plunged into the inferno beneath.
Only once since then has anyone spoken of him to me. It was the gray
old skipper, who, after our rescue, wanted to set me right.
"You thought he fired the ship," he said, "for he told me of your
suspicions, and felt badly. But he did not. It was all my fault, for I
should have calked the ship at Hongkong. That three-day gale that we
met let the water down on the jute. It was spontaneous combustion."
But, in mercy to each other, Grace and I never mention his name.