UNDER ARREST
Phil awakened the next morning at an early hour. Hurriedly dressing, he
went on deck.
His sleep had refreshed him and his mind was less ready to dwell on the
dark side of his life on board ship. He believed when he and Lazar had
become better acquainted the old grudge would be overshadowed in the
intimacy of the life on the ocean.
With muster-roll and station bills neatly copied in his note-books, he
was impatient for the bugle to sound the call to “quarters,” when he
would meet his division for the first time.
He watched with interest the scene about him. Petty officers and men
were busily engaged putting the finishing touches to the clean deck
and bright brass work of the vessel. Others were using a clothes-brush
carefully on their neatly fitting blue uniforms or giving a parting
rub to their broad shoes. The gunners’ mates guarded their huge guns
jealously, occasionally rubbing an imaginary spot of rust or dirt.
While the bugle call was being sounded on each of the many decks, he
was an interested spectator of the magic effect of the clear notes.
Confusion seemed to melt away into the most perfect order as men took
their places in ranks abreast the guns they served.
Lazar stood facing his division,--fifty well set up, youthful men. Back
of him were the turret guns for which his division formed the crews.
Across the deck the marine guard was paraded, the military bearing of
the soldier-sailors contrasting with the easy pose of the picturesque
sailormen about them.
The executive officer was at his station across the deck from Lazar.
Such is the formation for quarters on board a war-ship of the navy.
Each divisional officer musters his men, inspecting carefully, in order
that the standard of neatness may be maintained. He then reports the
result to the executive officer, receives his orders for drill and
returns to his station.
Upon the completion of muster the captain will be informed of the
number of absentees and then this report is signaled to the flag-ship.
Upon such a scene Phil gazed for the first time as an officer and
thrilled to the impressive ceremony. He stood at “attention” on the
right of the division.
Lazar, muster-book in hand, glanced along the double line of men until
his eyes rested on his midshipman. The precision in the attitude of
his junior caught his eye. His glance wavered and the slightest of
sneers appeared on his face. For the fraction of a second he seemed to
hesitate, then words that brought the blush of shame and anger to the
face of the unsuspecting boy struck harshly upon his ears:
“Mr. Perry, I gave you the credit for knowing that at quarters all
officers must wear sword and gloves. Go below, sir, and get yourself in
proper uniform.”
Phil stood motionless. He was stunned for the moment, not so much by
the words as by the scorn in his voice.
Almost overcome with confusion and embarrassment, he turned away and
hastily descended the ladder to the deck below.
Once more in his room he found his sword and gloves where he had placed
them but ten minutes before the call to quarters. Then had come a call
to the executive officer, and once on deck all save the scene about
him was driven from his mind. His own thoughtlessness alone could be
blamed, but the sneer in Lazar’s voice rankled.
When he again reached the deck, the men had broken ranks and the sharp
pipe of the whistles of the boatswain and his mates filled the air,
followed in sonorous tones and in perfect chorus:
“All hands unmoor ship.”
The stout hemp lines and chains securing the battle-ship to the dock
were cast off, and like writhing serpents, hauled aboard by the lusty
crew. The two great propellers churned the muddy water and the war-ship
glided out into the crowded waters of the East River.
Two handy tugs attached themselves to this unwieldy mass of steel and
slowly swung her armored bow toward the Brooklyn Bridge, spanning the
river like a huge rainbow of metal.
“Let go!” shouted the captain of the war-ship to his tiny helpmates;
then to the attentive executive officer by his side--
“Slow speed ahead!”
Quietly, the powerful engines started in motion the sixteen thousand
tons of fighting material.
“Half speed ahead,” ordered the captain.
The Brooklyn Bridge swept by overhead. The docks and shipping melted
into a confusion of masts and smoke-stacks.
Through the harbor the battle-ship glided like a great giant, then
turned and headed through the Narrows for the open sea.
The ship was soon well out on the Atlantic, the haze of the city melted
astern. The low lying coast of Long Island was dimly in sight on the
port hand.
The two friends spent the remainder of the day in getting their
bearings in their new home, and when eight o’clock came were quite
willing to seek their bunks.
It was midnight when Phil found himself by Lazar’s side on the high
bridge of the battle-ship, as junior officer of the watch.
The wind, which had been light at the start, had increased steadily in
violence until now the vessel was plunging heavily into the teeth of a
moderate gale. Her powerful engines crowded her steel shod prow with
terrific force into the rising seas, flinging tons of spray on to her
high forecastle.
Lazar stood with his face close to the canvass weather cloth, for the
protection of those on the bridge against the force of the blast, and
peered through the inky blackness.
The responsibility for the ship rested upon his shoulders for the next
four hours.
Turning toward the younger man, he motioned him nearer.
“Mr. Perry, your duties are to muster the watch on deck,” he shouted in
Phil’s ear, in order to be heard in the roar of the wind; “examine both
life-boats; see that everything movable about decks is secure. We are
going to have a bad night,” he added, glancing at the angry sea. “Your
duty is to go in the life-boat if she is called away; but I shall not
lower a boat to-night.”
Phil glanced in amazement at the officer of the deck. He could but see
the outline of his face in the gloom of his southwester.
“Did I understand you, sir, to say you would not lower a life-boat
to-night?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, sir, you did,” snapped Lazar, “in this sea to do so would mean
sending seven men to death.”
Phil made his way aft, to where the watch had gathered to keep dry
against the heavy seas of spray that periodically were flung over the
deck.
O’Neil held the lantern while Phil called off the men’s names. Then
he and O’Neil climbed out and examined the life-boats, one on each
side, swung securely from their davits, overhanging the angry water.
Then Phil went on the quarter-deck and questioned the marine sentry at
the patent life-buoy. Every one seemed to be well instructed. All was
secure.
“Keep your men from the side,” he cautioned the boatswain’s mate of the
watch; “we don’t want any one overboard in a sea like this.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied the sailor, “there ain’t any danger now; maybe
when they hoists ashes some of them lubberly firemen may get too near
the side. But I’ll warn ’um, sir.”
Returning to his station on the bridge, he sought the friendly shelter
of the weather cloth against the increasing fierceness of the wind and
stinging spray. The sound of flapping canvas and the sea breaking its
fury on the steel bow were the only sounds above the roar of the wind.
Phil counted not the time. All was too new and absorbing. His thoughts
had turned to many things when his breathing stopped and his heart sank
as a terrifying cry from aft came faintly but clearly to his ears.
“Man overboard.”
He was rooted to the spot. In helpless consternation he looked to his
officer for instructions. A human being was adrift in this angry sea,
or maybe had been already killed by a swiftly moving propeller blade.
As in a dream he saw Lazar grasp the handles of the telegraphs to the
engine room and signal “full speed astern.”
There could be but one interpretation. Lazar would lower a life-boat
after all.
Phil ran down the bridge ladder and swung himself nimbly out on the
life-boat gallery.
There he found the lee life-boat ready for lowering; six sailors sat
quietly at the thwarts, while those of the watch had led out the
boat-falls. O’Neil, the coxswain, with his hand on the strong-back,
stood ready to leap into the boat. That they were doing more than their
duty did not occur to these stout American hearts. A fellow-being was
in danger of drowning--that was enough reason for them.
“Shall I lower, sir?” the coxswain shouted to Phil as the latter swung
himself over the rail of the superstructure and stood by his side; “he
can’t live long in this sea.”
Phil surveyed hastily the strongly built boat, then his gaze traveled
down to the angry sea beneath him.
The engines were backing. He saw the heavy surge of the sea astern as
the propellers threw a powerful race current forward. Why did not the
order come? After the ship had started astern the boat could not be
lowered. Far away on the lee quarter the chemical flame of the patent
life-buoy showed a dim light against a background of troubled waters.
Under the spell of one of those impulses that seem to take possession
so absolutely of the mind in times of emergency, Phil cried:
“Lower away,” and he and O’Neil swung themselves on board the life-boat
as she dropped evenly and quickly toward the black sea beneath her.
Phil seized the handle of the steering oar in both hands, motioning
O’Neil away. The boat shivered as she struck the lumpy sea.
“Sit here, O’Neil, and hang on to my legs,” shouted Phil at the top of
his lungs, through the roaring of the gale, as the boat shot ahead on
her life-line, while with the steering oar he swung her stern in toward
the white wall of the battle-ship towering above them.
The life-line sheered the boat clear of the menacing ship.
“Let go,” shouted the youth.
“Give way! Bend to it, men,” he cautioned, turning the life-boat’s prow
toward the flicker of light appearing periodically on the crest of a
wave and quickly disappearing down into its deep trough.
Straight-backed and supple the six oarsmen sent the long, narrow boat
over the seas that seemed ready to engulf her.
“Never mind me,” shouted Phil to O’Neil, bracing his legs firmly
against the stern boards. “Stand by forward there, we shall be at the
life-buoy in a moment.”
O’Neil glanced with grave concern at the midshipman.
“Aye, aye, sir. Keep your weather eye open, sir,” he cautioned. “If you
go overboard with them rubber boots on, you’ll go to the bottom like a
shot.”
Protesting at the boy’s recklessness, he crawled forward and stood
ready to grasp the man if he were clinging to the life-buoy or yet
swimming on the surface of the angry water.
“Can you see the buoy, sir?” shouted O’Neil. “It’s broad off the
starboard bow.”
“I see it,” shouted back Phil, as he threw the stern to port and bore
down on the two flames still burning brightly amid the tempest.
“Stand by to ‘peak your oars.’ Peak!” he shouted to the crew as the
boat with a rush was brought around and headed up to the buoy.
“He’s there, boys,” cried O’Neil, joyously, as he leaned far out and
grasped a limp, bedraggled figure clinging to the life-buoy. The men
dropped the handles of their oars between their feet, raising the
blades clear of the passing waves.
“In you come, my hearty,” cried the coxswain, as his arms encircled the
half-drowned man, and he lifted him from the hungry sea to safety in
the life-boat.
Searchlights were now playing from the battle-ship. One beam of light
held steadily on the struggling boat, while the others swept fretfully
about as if they sought to pierce the dark water.
As the midshipman struggled manfully at the steering oar, holding the
bow of the boat up against the impact of the powerful seas, Lazar’s
words seemed to ring in his ears like a knell.
Fear clutched at his heart that he might by his disobedience send these
brave men to a watery grave.
As long as the oarsmen could give the boat headway, he felt confident
all would go well, but some of the men were exhausted, and the sea was
ever increasing.
“Steady, men! Give way together. This is for your lives,” he shouted,
as a white wall of water reared itself close aboard out of the
blackness to windward.
The boat seemed to fairly crawl over the angry bosom of foam.
“Stand by to peak your oars,” he shouted hoarsely. “Peak!” as the
monster wave curled over, ready to engulf them, and struck the bow of
the life-boat. She shivered to her keel and half filled with water,
then lay dead on the surface of the sea.
Wave after wave swept over the half-submerged boat, almost drowning the
exhausted crew. Phil attempted frantically to head the boat up to the
battering seas.
Casting a despairing look at his men, whose efforts were becoming ever
weaker, he read on their faces a look of hope. Throwing a swift glance
over his shoulder, he saw the misty form of the “Connecticut” loom up
out of the darkness, scarce a boat’s length away. He heard the whir of
her backing propellers; the dull boom of the sea spending its fury
against her sides; the rapidly given orders, and the scurry of shod
feet on her decks.
A line whistled overhead and fell in the midst of the exhausted crew.
“Take a turn with that line,” Phil shouted.
O’Neil grasped the line and secured it to the bow-thwart of the boat.
Phil braced himself against the jar of the tautening line.
The boat rose and fell on the angry sea, in momentary danger of
splitting herself asunder on the sides of the battle-ship. The waves,
but half broken by the armored bow, swept over the struggling men.
He felt himself grasped and held strongly by hands from above, and then
slowly hauled upward. He saw the whole boat lifted on a giant sea and
then swept wildly against the ship’s steel side. A crash of splintered
wood. Then all was darkness.
Phil opened his eyes in his own room, with Sydney and Marshall bending
over him and a doctor binding up a cut over his temple. Two or three
times he attempted to speak, to find out the worst. He knew that
the life of every man sacrificed was caused by his impulse. He had
given the order to lower the boat directly contrary to the stated
instructions of the officer of the deck.
He had not the courage to ask of the fate of his men. He had seen the
boat go to pieces with his own eyes, surely some of the crew had been
drowned.
He could not stand the suspense a moment longer. He must know all. It
would be better than this uncertainty.
“Syd, tell me what happened?” he whispered hoarsely.
“All were saved,” Sydney answered. “We abandoned the boat, of course.
You were struck by a splinter as you were being hauled on board. You
are the biggest man on this ship to-night, Phil.”
The joyful news made the overwrought boy tremble. He turned his face
away to hide his emotion.
Greatly strengthened by the happy tidings, he put on dry clothes and,
despite Sydney’s offer to stand the remainder of his watch, made his
way to the bridge to report his return to Lazar. It seemed an age
since he had responded to that terrifying cry, but the clock told him
it had been but scarce a half hour ago.
What would Lazar say? Would not success wipe away the guilt of
disobedience? What was the loss of a boat compared to the loss of a
human life?
With a cheerful ring in his voice he reported his return to duty.
“I was struck by a piece of the boat, sir,” he offered in excuse for
his tardiness. The ship had been on her course for nearly ten minutes.
Lazar turned on him fiercely. His even white teeth gleamed under his
black moustache.
“You can thank Providence, Mr. Perry, that you are alive this moment.”
His voice rose in anger. “A midshipman who cannot obey orders is a
menace to the safety of those under him. That you were not all drowned
was due to me, sir. I saved you by putting the ship between your boat
and the seas, and hauling you aboard like so much cargo.” Then in a
voice cold and passionless: “I have received the captain’s authority,
Mr. Perry, to place you under arrest for wilfully disobeying my order.
You will go to your room, sir.”
Phil turned away without a word.