HOW A GIRL APPEARED OUT OF THE NIGHT

Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

THE IRON TRAIL

By REX BEACH

Author of "THE AUCTION BLOCK" "RAINBOW'S END" "THE SPOILERS" Etc.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. IN WHICH THE TIDE TAKES A HAND

II. HOW A GIRL APPEARED OUT OF THE NIGHT

III. THE IRISH PRINCE

IV. HOW A JOURNEY ENDED AT HOPE

V. WHEREIN WE SEE CURTIS GORDON AND OTHERS

VI. THE DREAMER

VII. THE DREAM

VIII. IN WHICH WE COME TO OMAR

IX. WHEREIN GORDON SHOWS HIS TEETH

X. IN WHICH THE DOCTOR SHOWS HIS WIT

XI. THE TWO SIDES OF ELIZA VIOLET APPLETON

XII. HOW GORDON FAILED IN HIS CUNNING

XIII. WE JOURNEY TO A PLACE OF MANY WONDERS

XIV. HOW THE TRUTH CAME TO ELIZA

XV. THE BATTLE OF GORDON'S CROSSING

XVI. THE FRUIT OF THE TEMPEST

XVII. HOW THE PRINCE BECAME A MAN

XVIII. HOW THE MAN BECAME A PRINCE AGAIN

XIX. MISS APPLETON MAKES A SACRIFICE

XX. HOW GORDON CHANGED HIS ATTACK

XXI. DAN APPLETON SLIPS THE LEASH

XXII. HOW THE HAZARD WAS PLAYED

XXIII. A NEW CRISIS

XXIV. GORDON'S FALL

XXV. PREPARATIONS

XXVI. THE RACE

XXVII. HOW A DREAM CAME TRUE

I

IN WHICH THE TIDE TAKES A HAND

The ship stole through the darkness with extremest caution, feeling her

way past bay and promontory. Around her was none of that phosphorescent

glow which lies above the open ocean, even on the darkest night, for

the mountains ran down to the channel on either side. In places they

overhung, and where they lay upturned against the dim sky it could be

seen that they were mantled with heavy timber. All day long the

NEBRASKA had made her way through an endless succession of straits and

sounds, now squeezing through an inlet so narrow that the somber spruce

trees seemed to be within a short stone's-throw, again plowing across

some open reach where the pulse of the north Pacific could be felt. Out

through the openings to seaward stretched the restless ocean, on across

uncounted leagues, to Saghalien and the rim of Russia's prison-yard.

Always near at hand was the deep green of the Canadian forests, denser,

darker than a tropic jungle, for this was the land of "plenty waters."

The hillsides were carpeted knee-deep with moss, wet to saturation. Out

of every gulch came a brawling stream whipped to milk-white frenzy;

snow lay heavy upon the higher levels, while now and then from farther

inland peered a glacier, like some dead monster crushed between the

granite peaks. There were villages, too, and fishing-stations, and

mines and quarries. These burst suddenly upon the view, then slipped

past with dreamlike swiftness. Other ships swung into sight, rushed by,

and were swallowed up in the labyrinthine maze astern.

Those passengers of the Nebraska who had never before traversed the

"Inside Passage" were loud in the praises of its picturesqueness, while

those to whom the route was familiar seemed to find an ever-fresh

fascination in its shifting scenes.

Among the latter was Murray O'Neil. The whole north coast from Flattery

to St. Elias was as well mapped in his mind as the face of an old

friend, yet he was forever discovering new vistas, surprising

panoramas, amazing variations of color and topography. The mysterious

rifts and passageways that opened and closed as if to lure the ship

astray, the trackless confusion of islets, the siren song of the

waterfalls, the silent hills and glaciers and snow-soaked forests--all

appealed to him strongly, for he was at heart a dreamer.

Yet he did not forget that scenery such as this, lovely as it is by

day, may be dangerous at night, for he knew the weakness of steel

hulls. On some sides his experience and business training had made him

sternly practical and prosaic. Ships aroused no manner of enthusiasm in

him except as means to an end. Railroads had no glamour of romance in

his eyes, for, having built a number of them, he had outlived all

poetic notions regarding the "iron horse," and once the rails were laid

he was apt to lose interest in them. Nevertheless, he was almost poetic

in his own quiet way, interweaving practical thoughts with fanciful

visions, and he loved his dreams. He was dreaming now as he leaned upon

the bridge rail of the Nebraska, peering into the gloom with watchful

eyes. From somewhere to port came the occasional commands of the

officer on watch, echoed instantly from the inky interior of the

wheelhouse. Up overside rose the whisper of rushing waters; from

underfoot came the rhythmic beat of the engines far below. O'Neil shook

off his mood and began to wonder idly how long it would be before

Captain Johnny would be ready for his "nightcap."

He always traveled with Johnny Brennan when he could manage it, for the

two men were boon companions. O'Neil was wont to live in Johnny's

cabin, or on the bridge, and their nightly libation to friendship had

come to be a matter of some ceremony.

The ship's master soon appeared from the shadows--a short, trim man

with gray hair.

"Come," he cried, "it's waiting for us."

O'Neil followed into Brennan's luxurious, well-lit quarters, where on a

mahogany sideboard was a tray holding decanter, siphon, and glasses,

together with a bottle of ginger ale. The captain, after he had mixed a

beverage for his passenger, opened the bottle for himself. They raised

their glasses silently.

"Now that you're past the worst of it," remarked O'Neil, "I suppose

you'll turn in. You're getting old for a hard run like this, Johnny."

Captain Brennan snorted. "Old? I'm a better man than you, yet. I'm a

teetotaler, that's why. I discovered long ago that salt water and

whiskey don't mix."

O'Neil stretched himself out in one of Brennan's easy-chairs. "Really,"

he said, "I don't understand why a ship carries a captain. Now of what

earthly use to the line are you, for instance, except for your beauty,

which, no doubt, has its value with the women? I'll admit you preside

with some grace at the best table in the dining-salon, but your

officers know these channels as well as you do. They could make the run

from Seattle to Juneau with their eyes shut."

"Indeed they could not; and neither could I."

"Oh, well, of course I have no respect for you as a man, having seen

you without your uniform."

The captain grinned in thorough enjoyment of this raillery. "I'll say

nothing at all of my seamanship," he said, relapsing into the faintest

of brogues, "but there's no denying that the master of a ship has many

unpleasant and disgusting duties to perform. He has to amuse the

prominent passengers who can't amuse themselves, for one thing, and

that takes tact and patience. Why, some people make themselves at home

on the bridge, in the chart-room, and even in my living-quarters, to

say nothing of consuming my expensive wines, liquors, and cigars."

"Meaning me?"

"I'm a brutal seafaring man, and you'll have to make allowances for my

well-known brusqueness. Maybe I did mean you. But I'll say that next to

you Curtis Gordon is the worst grafter I ever saw."

"You don't like Gordon, do you?" O'Neil queried with a change of tone.

"I do not! He went up with me again this spring, and he had his widow

with him, too."

"His widow?"

"You know who I mean--Mrs. Gerard. They say it's her money he's using

in his schemes. Perhaps it's because of her that I don't like him."

"Ah-h! I see."

"You don't see, or you wouldn't grin like an ape. I'm a married man,

I'll have you know, and I'm still on good terms with Mrs. Brennan,

thank God. But I don't like men who use women's money, and that's just

what our friend Gordon is doing. What money the widow didn't put up

he's grabbed from the schoolma'ams and servant-girls and society

matrons in the East. What has he got to show them for it?"

"A railroad project, a copper-mine, some coal claims--"

"Bah! A menagerie of wildcats!"

"You can't prove that. What's your reason for distrusting him?"

"Well, for one thing, he knows too much. Why, he knows everything, he

does. Art, literature, politics, law, finance, and draw poker have no

secrets from him. He's been everywhere--and back--twice; he speaks a

dozen different languages. He out-argued me on poultry-raising and I

know more about that than any man living. He can handle a drill or a

coach-and-four; he can tell all about the art of ancient Babylon; and

he beat me playing cribbage, which shows that he ain't on the level.

He's the best-informed man outside of a university, and he drinks tea

of an afternoon--with his legs crossed and the saucer balanced on his

heel. Now, it takes years of hard work for an honest man to make a

success at one thing, but Gordon never failed at anything. I ask you if

a living authority on all the branches of human endeavor and a man who

can beat me at 'crib' doesn't make you suspicious."

"Not at all. I've beaten you myself!"

"I was sick," said Captain Brennan.

"The man is brilliant and well educated and wealthy. It's only natural

that he should excite the jealousy of a weaker intellect."

Johnny opened his lips for an explosion, then changed his mind and

agreed sourly.

"He's got money, all right, and he knows how to spend it. He and his

valet occupied three cabins on this ship. They say his quarters at Hope

are palatial."

"My dear grampus, the mere love of luxury doesn't argue that a person

is dishonest."

"Would you let a hired man help you on with your underclothes?"

demanded the mariner.

"There's nothing criminal about it."

"Humph! Mrs. Gerard is different. She's all class! You don't mind her

having a maid and speaking French when she runs short of English. Her

daughter is like her."

"I haven't seen Miss Gerard."

"If you'd stir about the ship instead of wearing out my Morris chair

you'd have that pleasure. She was on deck all morning." Captain Brennan

fell silent and poked with a stubby forefinger at the ice in his glass.

"Well, out with it!" said O'Neil after a moment.

"I'd like to know the inside story of Curtis Gordon and this girl's

mother."

"Why bother your head about something that doesn't concern you?" The

speaker rose and began to pace the cabin floor, then, in an altered

tone, inquired, "Tell me, are you going to land me and my horses at

Kyak Bay?"

"That depends on the weather. It's a rotten harbor; you'll have to swim

them ashore."

"Suppose it should be rough?"

"Then we'll go on, and drop you there coming back. I don't want to be

caught on that shore with a southerly wind, and that's the way it

usually blows."

"I can't wait," O'Neil declared. "A week's delay might ruin me. Rather

than go on I'd swim ashore myself, without the horses."

"I don't make the weather at Kyak Bay. Satan himself does that. Twenty

miles offshore it may be calm, and inside it may be blowing a gale.

That's due to the glaciers. Those ice-fields inland and the warm air

from the Japanese Current offshore kick up some funny atmospheric

pranks. It's the worst spot on the coast and we'll lose a ship there

some day. Why, the place isn't properly charted, let alone buoyed."

"That's nothing unusual for this coast."

"True for you. This is all a graveyard of ships and there's been many a

good master's license lost because of half-baked laws from Washington.

Think of a coast like this with almost no lights, no beacons nor buoys;

and yet we're supposed to make time. It's fine in clear weather, but in

the dark we go by guess and by God. I've stood the run longer than most

of the skippers, but--"

Even as Brennan spoke the Nebraska seemed to halt, to jerk backward

under his feet. O'Neil, who was standing, flung out an arm to steady

himself; the empty ginger-ale bottle fell from the sideboard with a

thump. Loose articles hanging against the side walls swung to and fro;

the heavy draperies over Captain Johnny's bed swayed.

Brennan leaped from his chair; his ruddy face was mottled, his eyes

were wide and horror-stricken.

"Damnation!" he gasped. The cabin door crashed open ahead of him and he

was on the bridge, with O'Neil at his heels. They saw the first officer

clinging limply to the rail; from the pilot-house window came an

excited burst of Norwegian, then out of the door rushed a quartermaster.

Brennan cursed, and met the fellow with a blow which drove him

sprawling back.

"Get in there, Swan," he bellowed, "and take your wheel."

"The tide swung her in!" exclaimed the mate. "The tide--My God!"

"Sweet Queen Anne!" said Brennan, more quietly. "You've ripped her

belly out."

"It--was the tide," chattered the officer.

The steady, muffled beating of the machinery ceased, the ship seemed

suddenly to lose her life, but it was plain that she was not aground,

for she kept moving through the gloom. From down forward came excited

voices as the crew poured up out of the forecastle.

Brennan leaped to the telegraph and signaled the engine-room. He was

calm now, and his voice was sharp and steady.

"Go below, Mr. James, and find the extent of the damage," he directed,

and a moment later the hull began to throb once more to the thrust of

the propeller. Inside the wheelhouse Swan had recovered from his panic

and repeated the master's orders mechanically.

The second and third officers arrived upon the bridge now, dressing as

they came, and they were followed by the chief engineer. To them Johnny

spoke, his words crackling like the sparks from a wireless. In an

incredibly short time he had the situation in hand and turned to

O'Neil, who had been a silent witness of the scene.

"Glory be!" exclaimed the captain. "Most of our good passengers are

asleep; the jar would scarcely wake them."

"Tell me where and how I can help," Murray offered. His first thought

had been of the possible effect of this catastrophe upon his plans, for

time was pressing. As for danger, he had looked upon it so often and in

so many forms that it had little power to stir him; but a shipwreck,

which would halt his northward rush, was another matter. Whether the

ship sank or floated could make little difference, now that the damage

had been done. She was crippled and would need assistance. His

fellow-passengers, he knew, were safe enough. Fortunately there were

not many of them--a scant two hundred, perhaps--and if worse came to

worst there was room in the life-boats for all. But the Nebraska had no

watertight bulkheads and the plight of his twenty horses between decks

filled him with alarm and pity. There were no life-boats for those poor

dumb animals penned down yonder in the rushing waters.

Brennan had stepped into the chart-room, but returned in a moment to

say:

"There's no place to beach her this side of Halibut Bay."

"How far is that?"

"Five or six miles."

"You'll--have to beach her?"

"I'm afraid so. She feels queer."

Up from the cabin deck came a handful of men passengers to inquire what

had happened; behind them a woman began calling shrilly for her husband.

"We touched a rock," the skipper explained, briefly. "Kindly go below

and stop that squawking. There's no danger."

There followed a harrowing wait of several minutes; then James, the

first officer, came to report. He had regained his nerve and spoke with

swift precision.

"She loosened three plates on her port quarter and she's filling fast."

"How long will she last?" snapped Brennan.

"Not long, sir. Half an hour, perhaps."

The captain rang for full speed, and the decks began to strain as the

engine increased its labor. "Get your passengers out and stand by the

boats," he ordered. "Take it easy and don't alarm the women. Have them

dress warmly, and don't allow any crowding by the men. Mr. Tomlinson,

you hold the steerage gang in check. Take your revolver with you." He

turned to his silent friend, in whose presence he seemed to feel a

cheering sympathy, "I knew it would come sooner or later, Murray," he

said. "But--magnificent mummies! To touch on a clear night with the sea

like glass!" He sighed dolefully. "It'll be tough on my missus."

O'Neil laid a hand upon his shoulder. "It wasn't your fault, and there

will be room in the last boat for you. Understand?" Brennan hesitated,

and the other continued, roughly: "No nonsense, now! Don't make a

damned fool of yourself by sticking to the bridge. Promise?"

"I promise."

"Now what do you want me to do?"

"Keep those dear passengers quiet. I'll run for Halibut Bay, where

there's a sandy beach. If she won't make it I'll turn her into the

rocks, Tell 'em they won't wet a foot if they keep their heads."

"Good! I'll be back to see that you behave yourself." The speaker

laughed lightly and descended to the deck, where he found an incipient

panic. Stewards were pounding on stateroom doors, half-clad men were

rushing about aimlessly, pallid faces peered forth from windows, and

there was the sound of running feet, of slamming doors, of shrill,

hysterical voices.

O'Neil saw a waiter thumping lustily upon a door and heard him shout,

hoarsely:

"Everybody out! The ship is sinking!" As he turned away Murray seized

him roughly by the arm and thrusting his face close to the other's,

said harshly:

"If you yell again like that I'll toss you overboard."

"God help us, we're going--"

O'Neil shook the fellow until his teeth rattled; his own countenance,

ordinarily so quiet, was blazing.

"There's no danger. Act like a man and don't start a stampede."

The steward pulled himself together and answered in a calmer tone:

"Very well, sir. I--I'm sorry, sir."

Murray O'Neil was known to most of the passengers, for his name had

gone up and down the coast, and there were few places from San

Francisco to Nome where his word did not carry weight. As he went among

his fellow-travelers now, smiling, self-contained, unruffled, his

presence had its effect. Women ceased their shrilling, men stopped

their senseless questions and listened to his directions with some

comprehension. In a short time the passengers were marshaled upon the

upper deck where the life-boats hung between their davits. Each little

craft was in charge of its allotted crew, the electric lights continued

to burn brightly, and the panic gradually wore itself out. Meanwhile

the ship was running a desperate race with the sea, striving with every

ounce of steam in her boilers to find a safe berth for her mutilated

body before the inrush of waters drowned her fires. That the race was

close even the dullest understood, for the Nebraska was settling

forward, and plowed into the night head down, like a thing maddened

with pain. She was becoming unmanageable, too, and O'Neil thought with

pity of that little iron-hearted skipper on the bridge who was fighting

her so furiously.

There was little confusion, little talking upon the upper deck now;

only a child whimpered or a woman sobbed hysterically. But down forward

among the steerage passengers the case was different. These were mainly

Montenegrins, Polacks, or Slavs bound for the construction camps to the

westward, and they surged from side to side like cattle, requiring

Tomlinson's best efforts to keep them from rushing aft.

O'Neil had employed thousands of such men; in fact, many of these very

fellows had cashed his time-checks and knew him by sight. He went

forward among them, and his appearance proved instantly reassuring. He

found his two hostlers, and with their aid he soon reduced the mob to

comparative order.

But in spite of his confident bearing he felt a great uneasiness. The

Nebraska seemed upon the point of diving; he judged she must be

settling very fast, and wondered that the forward tilt did not lift her

propeller out of the water. Fortunately, however, the surface of the

sound was like a polished floor and there were no swells to submerge

her.

Over-side to starboard he could see the dim black outlines of mountains

slipping past, but where lay Halibut Bay or what distance remained to

be covered he could but vaguely guess.

In these circumstances the wait became almost unbearable. The race

seemed hours long, the miles stretched into leagues, and with every

moment of suspense the ship sank lower. The end came unexpectedly.

There was a sudden startled outcry as the Nebraska struck for a second

time that night. She rose slightly, rolled and bumped, grated briefly,

then came to rest.

Captain Brennan shouted from the bridge:

"Fill your life-boats, Mr. James, and lower away carefully."

A cheer rose from the huddled passengers.

The boiler-room was still dry, it seemed, for the incandescent lights

burned without a flicker, even after the grimy oilers and stokers had

come pouring up on deck.

O'Neil climbed to the bridge. "Is this Halibut Bay?" he asked Captain

Johnny.

"It is. But we're piled up on the reef outside. She may hold fast--I

hope so, for there's deep water astern, and if she slips off she'll go

down."

"I'd like to save my horses," said the younger man, wistfully. Through

all the strain of the past half-hour or more his uppermost thought had

been for them. But Brennan had no sympathy for such sentiments.

"Hell's bells!" he exclaimed. "Don't talk of horses while we've got

women and children aboard." He hastened away to assist in transferring

his passengers.

Instead of following, O'Neil turned and went below. He found that the

water was knee-deep on the port side of the deck where his animals were

quartered, which showed that the ship had listed heavily. He judged

that she must be much deeper by the head then he had imagined, and that

her nose was crushed in among the rocks. Until she settled at the

stern, therefore, the case was not quite hopeless.

His appearance, the sound of his voice, were the signals for a chorus

of eager whinnies and a great stamping of hoofs. Heads were thrust

toward him from the stalls, alert ears were pricked forward, satin

muzzles rubbed against him as he calmed their terror. This blind trust

made the man's throat tighten achingly. He loved animals as he loved

children, and above all he cared for horses. He understood them, he

spoke their language as nearly as any human can be said to do so.

Quivering muscles relaxed beneath his soothing palm; he called them by

name and they answered with gentle twitching lips against his cheek.

Some of them even began to eat and switch their tails contentedly.

He cursed aloud and made his way down the sloping deck to the square

iron door, or port, through which he had loaded them. But he found that

it was jammed, or held fast by the pressure outside, and after a few

moments' work in water above his knees he climbed to the starboard

side. Here the entrance was obstructed by a huge pile of baled hay and

grain in sacks. It would be no easy task to clear it away, and he fell

to work with desperate energy, for the ship was slowly changing her

level. Her stern, which had been riding high, was filling; the sea

stole in upon him silently. It crept up toward him until the horses,

stabled on the lower side, were belly-deep in it. Their distress

communicated itself to the others. O'Neil knew that his position might

prove perilous if the hulk should slip backward off the reef, yet he

continued to toil, hurling heavy sacks behind him, bundling awkward

bales out of the way, until his hands were bleeding and his muscles

ached. He was perspiring furiously; the commotion around him was

horrible. Then abruptly the lights went out, leaving him in utter

blackness; the last fading yellow gleam was photographed briefly upon

his retina.

Tears mingled with the sweat that drained down his cheeks as he felt

his way slowly out of the place, splashing, stumbling, groping

uncertainly. A horse screamed in a loud, horribly human note, and he

shuddered. He was sobbing curses as he emerged into the cool open air

on the forward deck.

His eyes were accustomed to the darkness now, and he could see

something of his surroundings. He noted numerous lights out on the

placid bosom of the bay, evidently lanterns on the life-boats, and he

heard distant voices. He swept the moisture from his face; then with a

start he realized his situation. He listened intently; his eyes roved

back along the boat-deck; there was no doubt about it--the ship was

deserted. Stepping to the rail, he observed how low the Nebraska lay

and also that her bow was higher than her stern. From somewhere beneath

his feet came a muffled grinding and a movement which told him that the

ship was seeking a more comfortable berth. He recalled stories of

explosions and of the boiling eddies which sometimes accompany sinking

hulls. Turning, he scrambled up to the cabin-deck and ran swiftly

toward his stateroom.

II

HOW A GIRL APPEARED OUT OF THE NIGHT

O'Neil felt for the little bracket-lamp on the wall of his stateroom

and lit it. By its light he dragged a life-preserver from the rack

overhead and slipped the tapes about his shoulders, reflecting that

Alaskan waters are disagreeably cold. Then he opened his traveling-bags

and dumped their contents upon the white counterpane of his berth,

selecting out of the confusion certain documents and trinkets. The

latter he thrust into his pockets as he found them, the former he

wrapped in handkerchiefs before stowing them away. The ship had listed

now so that it was difficult to maintain a footing; the lamp hung at a

grotesque angle and certain articles had become dislodged from their

resting-places. From outside came the gentle lapping of waters, a

gurgling and hissing as of air escaping through the decks. He could

feel the ship strain. He acknowledged that it was not pleasant thus to

be left alone on a sinking hulk, particularly on an ink-black night--

All at once he whirled and faced the door with an exclamation of

astonishment, for a voice had addressed him.

There,--clinging to the casing, stood a woman--a girl--evidently drawn

out of the darkness by the light which streamed down across the sloping

deck from his stateroom. Plainly she had but just awakened, for she was

clothed in a silken nightrobe which failed to conceal the outlines of

her body, the swelling contour of her bosom, the ripened fullness of

her limbs. She had flung a quilted dressing-gown of some sort over her

shoulders and with one bare arm and hand strove to hold it in place. He

saw that her pink feet were thrust into soft, heeless slippers--that

her hair, black in this light, cascaded down to her waist, and that her

eyes, which were very dark and very large, were fixed upon him with a

stare like that of a sleep-walker.

"It is so dark--so strange--so still!" she murmured. "What has

happened?"

"God! Didn't they waken you?" he cried in sharp surprise.

"Is the ship-sinking?" Her odd bewilderment of voice and gaze puzzled

him.

He nodded. "We struck a rock. The passengers have been taken off. We're

the only ones left. In Heaven's name where have you been?"

"I was asleep."

He shook his head in astonishment. "How you failed to hear that

hubbub--"

"I heard something, but I was ill. My head--I took something to ease

the pain."

"Ah! Medicine! It hasn't worn off yet, I see! You shouldn't have taken

it. Drugs are nothing but poison to young people. Now at my age there

might be some excuse for resorting to them, but you--" He was talking

to cover the panic of his thoughts, for his own predicament had been

serious enough, and her presence rendered it doubly embarrassing. What

in the world to do with her he scarcely knew. His lips were smiling,

but his eyes were grave as they roved over the cabin and out into the

blackness of the night.

"Are we going to drown?" she asked, dully.

"Nonsense!" He laughed in apparent amusement, showing his large, strong

teeth.

She came closer, glancing behind her and shrinking from the oily waters

which could be seen over the rail and which had stolen up nearly to the

sill of the door. She steadied herself by laying hold of him

uncertainly. Involuntarily he turned his eyes away, for he felt shame

at profaning her with his gaze. She was very soft and white, a fragile

thing utterly unfit to cope with the night air and the freezing waters

of Halibut Bay.

"I'm wretchedly afraid!" she whispered through white lips.

"None of that!" he said, brusquely. "I'll see that nothing happens to

you." He slipped out of his life-preserver and adjusted it over her

shoulders, first drawing her arms through the sleeves of her

dressing-gown and knotting the cord snugly around her waist. "Just as a

matter of precaution!" he assured her. "We may get wet. Can you swim?"

She shook her head.

"Never mind; I can." He found another life-belt, fitted it to his own

form, and led her out upon the deck. The scuppers were awash now and

she gasped as the sea licked her bare feet. "Cold, isn't it?" he

remarked. "But there's no time to dress, and it's just as well,

perhaps, for heavy clothes would only hamper you."

She strove to avoid the icy waters and finally paused, moaning: "I

can't! I can't go on!"

Slipping his arm about her, he bore her to the door of the main cabin

and entered. He could feel her warm, soft body quivering against his

own. She had clasped his neck so tightly that he could scarcely

breathe, but, lowering her until her feet were on the dry carpet, he

gently loosed her arms.

"Now, my dear child," he told her, "you must do exactly as I tell you.

Come! Calm yourself or I won't take you any farther." He held her off

by her shoulders. "I may have to swim with you; you mustn't cling to me

so!"

He heard her gasp and felt her draw away abruptly. Then he led her by

the hand out upon the starboard deck, and together they made their way

forward to the neighborhood of the bridge.

The lights he had seen upon coming from the forward hold were still in

view and he hailed them at the top of his voice. But other voices were

calling through the night, some of them comparatively close at hand,

others answering faintly from far in-shore. The boats first launched

were evidently landing, and those in charge of them were shouting

directions to the ones behind. Some women had started singing and the

chorus floated out to the man and the girl:

Pull for the shore, sailor, Pull for the shore.

It helped to drown their cries for assistance.

O'Neil judged that the ship was at least a quarter of a mile from the

beach, and his heart sank, for he doubted that either he or his

companion could last long in these waters. It occurred to him that

Brennan might be close by, waiting for the Nebraska to sink--it would

be unlike the little captain to forsake his trust until the last

possible moment--but he reasoned that the cargo of lives in the

skipper's boat would induce him to stand well off to avoid accident. He

called lustily time after time, but no answer came.

Meanwhile the girl stood quietly beside him.

"Can't we make a raft?" she suggested, timidly, when he ceased to

shout. "I've read of such things."

"There's no time," he told her. "Are you very cold?"

She nodded. "Please forgive me for acting so badly just now. It was all

so sudden and--so awful! I think I can behave better. Oh! What was

that?" She clutched him nervously, for from the forward end of the ship

had come a muffled scream, like that of a woman.

"It's my poor horses," said the man, and she looked at him curiously,

prompted by the catch in his throat.

There followed a wait which seemed long, but was in reality of but a

few minutes, for the ship was sliding backward and the sea was creeping

upward faster and faster. At last they heard a shuddering sigh as she

parted from the rocks and the air rushed up through the deck openings

with greater force. The Nebraska swung sluggishly with the tide; then,

when her upper structure had settled flush with the sea, Murray O'Neil

took the woman in his arms and leaped clear of the rail.

The first gasping moment of immersion was fairly paralyzing; after that

the reaction came, and the two began to struggle away from the sinking

ship. But the effect of the reaction soon wore off. The water was

cruelly cold and their bodies ached in every nerve and fiber. O'Neil

did his best to encourage his companion. He talked to her through his

chattering teeth, and once she had recovered from the mental shock of

the first fearful plunge she responded pluckily. He knew that his own

heart was normal and strong, but he feared that the girl's might not be

equal to the strain. Had he been alone, he felt sure that he could have

gained the shore, but with her upon his hands he was able to make but

little headway. The expanse of waters seemed immense; it fairly crushed

hope out of him. The lights upon the shore were as distant as fixed

stars. This was a country of heavy tides, he reflected, and he began to

fear that the current was sweeping them out. He turned to look for the

ship, but could see no traces of her, and since it was inconceivable

that the Nebraska could have sunk so quietly, her disappearance

confirmed his fears. More than once he fancied he heard an answer to

his cries for help--the rattle of rowlocks or the splash of oars--but

his ears proved unreliable.

After a time the girl began to moan with pain and terror, but as

numbness gradually robbed her of sensation she became quiet. A little

later her grip upon his clothing relaxed and he saw that she was

collapsing. He drew her to him and held her so that her face lay

upturned and her hair floated about his shoulders. In this position she

could not drown, at least while his strength lasted. But he was rapidly

losing control of himself; his teeth were clicking loosely, his muscles

shook and twitched It required a great effort to shout, and he thought

that his voice did not carry so far as at first. Therefore he fell

silent, paddling with his free arm and kicking, to keep his blood

stirring.

Several times he gave up and floated quietly, but courage was ingrained

in him; deep down beneath his consciousness was a vitality, an

inherited stubborn resistance to death, of which he knew nothing. It

was that unidentified quality of mind which supports one man through a

great sickness or a long period of privation, while another of more

robust physique succumbs. It was the same quality which brings one man

out from desert wastes, or the white silence of the polar ice, while

the bodies of his fellows remain to mark the trail. This innate power

of supreme resistance is found in chosen individuals throughout the

animal kingdom, and it was due to it alone that Murray O'Neil continued

to fight the tide long after he had ceased to exert conscious control.

At length there came through the man's dazed sensibilities a sound

different from those he had been hearing: it was a human voice, mingled

with the measured thud of oars in their sockets. It roused him like an

electric current and gave him strength to cry out hoarsely. Some one

answered him; then out of the darkness to seaward emerged a deeper

blot, which loomed up hugely yet proved to be no more than a life-boat

banked full of people. It came to a stop within an oar's-length of him.

From the babble of voices he distinguished one that was familiar, and

cried the name of Johnny Brennan. His brain had cleared now, a great

dreamlike sense of thanksgiving warmed him, and he felt equal to any

effort. He was vaguely amazed to find that his limbs refused to obey

him.

His own name was being pronounced in shocked tones; the splash from an

oar filled his face and strangled him, but he managed to lay hold of

the blade, and was drawn in until outstretched hands seized him.

An oarsman was saying: "Be careful, there! We can't take him in without

swamping."

But Brennan's voice shouted: "Make room or I'll bash in your bloody

skull."

Another protest arose, and O'Neil saw that the craft was indeed loaded

to the gunwales.

"Take the girl--quick," he implored. "I'll hang on. You can--tow me."

The limp form was removed from his side and dragged over the thwarts

while a murmur of excited voices went up.

"Can you hold out for a minute, Murray?" asked Brennan.

"Yes--I think so."

"I'd give you my place, but you're too big to be taken in without

danger."

"Go ahead," chattered the man in the water. "Look after the girl before

it's--too late."

The captain's stout hand was in his collar now and he heard him crying:

"Pull, you muscle-bound heathens! Everybody sit still! Now away with

her, men. Keep up your heart, Murray, my boy; remember it takes more

than water to kill a good Irishman. It's only a foot or two farther,

and they've started a fire. Serves you right, you big idiot, for going

overboard, with all those boats. Man dear, but you're pulling the arm

out of me; it's stretched out like a garden hose! Hey! Cover up that

girl, and you, lady, rub her feet and hands. Good! Move over please--so

the men can bail."

The next O'Neil knew he was feeling very miserable and very cold,

notwithstanding the fact that he was wrapped in dry clothing and lay so

close to a roaring spruce fire that its heat blistered him.

Brennan was bending over him with eyes wet. He was swearing, too, in a

weak, faltering way, calling upon all the saints to witness that the

prostrate man was the embodiment of every virtue, and that his death

would be a national calamity. Others were gathered about, men and

women, and among them O'Neil saw the doctor from Sitka whom he had met

on shipboard.

As soon as he was able to speak he inquired for the safety of the girl

he had helped to rescue. Johnny promptly reassured him.

"Man, dear, she's doing fine. A jigger of brandy brought her to,

gasping like a blessed mermaid."

"Was anybody lost?"

"Praise God, not a soul! But it's lucky I stood by to watch the old tub

go down, or we'd be mourning two. You'll be well by morning, for

there's a cannery in the next inlet and I've sent a boat's crew for

help. And now, my boy, lay yourself down again and take a sleep, won't

you? It'll be doing you a lot of good."

But O'Neil shook his head and struggled to a sitting posture.

"Thanks, Johnny," said he, "but I couldn't. I can hear those horses

screaming, and besides--I must make new plans."

III

THE IRISH PRINCE

As dawn broke the cannery tender from the station near by nosed her way

up to the gravelly shore where the castaways were gathered and blew a

cheering toot-toot on her whistle. She was a flat-bottomed,

"wet-sterned" craft, and the passengers of the Nebraska trooped to her

deck over a gang-plank. As Captain Brennan had predicted, not one of

them had wet a foot, with the exception of the two who had been left

aboard through their own carelessness.

By daylight Halibut Bay appeared an idyllic spot, quite innocent of the

terrors with which the night had endowed it. A pebbled half-moon of

beach was set in among rugged bluffs; the verdant forest crowded down

to it from behind. Tiny crystal wavelets lapped along the shingle,

swaying the brilliant sea mosses which clung to the larger rocks.

Altogether the scene gave a strong impression of peace and security,

yet just in the offing was one jarring contrast--the masts and funnel

of the Nebraska slanting up out of the blue serenity, where she lay

upon the sloping bottom in the edge of deep water.

The reaction following a sleepless night of anxiety had replaced the

first feeling of thankfulness at deliverance, and it was not a happy

cargo of humanity which the rescuing boat bore with her as the sun

peeped over the hills. Many of the passengers were but half dressed,

all were exhausted and hungry, each one had lost something in the

catastrophe. The men were silent, the women hysterical, the children

fretful.

Murray O'Neil had recovered sufficiently to go among them with the same

warm smile which had made him friends from the first. In the depths of

his cool gray eyes was a sparkle which showed his unquenchable Celtic

spirit, and before long smiles answered his smiles, jokes rose to meet

his pleasantries.

It was his turn now to comfort Captain Johnny Brennan, who had yielded

to the blackest despair, once his responsibility was over.

"She was a fine ship, Murray," the master lamented, staring with tragic

eyes at the Nebraska's spars.

"She was a tin washtub, and rusted like a sieve," jeered O'Neil.

"But think of me losing her on a still night!"

"I'm not sure yet that it wasn't a jellyfish that swam through her."

"Humph! I suppose her cargo will be a total loss. Two hundred thousand

dollars--"

"Insured for three hundred, no doubt. I'll warrant the company will

thank you."

"It's kind of you to cheer me up," said Brennan, a little less

gloomily, "especially after the way I abandoned you to drown, but the

missus won't allow me in the house at all when she hears I left you in

pickle. Thank God the girl didn't die, anyway! I've got that to be

thankful for. Curtis Gordon would have broken me--"

"Gordon?"

"Sure! Man dear, don't you know who you went bathing with? She's the

daughter of that widow Gerard, and the most prominent passenger aboard,

outside of your blessed self. Ain't that luck! If I was a Jap I'd split

myself open with a bread-knife."

"But, fortunately, you're a sensible 'harp' of old Ireland. I'll see

that the papers get the right story, 'o buck up."

"Do you think for a minute that Mrs. Brennan will understand why I

didn't hop out of the lifeboat and give you my place? Not at all. I'm

ruined nautically and domestically. In the course of the next ten years

I may live it down, but meanwhile I'll sleep in the woodshed and speak

when I'm spoken to."

Murray knew that Miss Gerard had been badly shaken by her ordeal, hence

he made no attempt to see her even after the steamer had reached the

fishing-village and the rescued passengers had been taken in by the

residents. Instead, he went directly to the one store in the place and

bought its entire stock, which he turned over to the sufferers. It was

well he did so, for the village was small and, although the townspeople

were hospitable, both food and clothing were scarce.

A south-bound steamer was due the next afternoon, it was learned, and

plans were made for her to pick up the castaways and return them to

Seattle. At the same time O'Neil discovered that a freighter for the

"westward" was expected some time that night, and as she did not call

at this port he arranged for a launch to take him out to the channel

where he could intercept her. The loss of his horses had been a serious

blow. It was all the more imperative now that he should go on, since he

would have to hire men to do horses' work.

During the afternoon Miss Gerard sent for him and he went to the house

of the cannery superintendent, where she had been received. The

superintendent's wife had clothed her, and she seemed to have recovered

her poise of body and mind. O'Neil was surprised to find her quite a

different person from the frightened and disheveled girl he had seen in

the yellow lamplight of his stateroom on the night before. She was as

pale now as then, but her expression of terror and bewilderment had

given place to one of reposeful confidence. Her lips were red and ripe

and of a somewhat haughty turn. She was attractive, certainly, despite

the disadvantage of the borrowed garments, and though she struck him as

being possibly a little proud and cold, there was no lack of warmth in

her greeting.

For her part she beheld a man of perhaps forty, of commanding height

and heavy build. He was gray about the temples; his eyes were gray,

too, and rather small, but they were extremely animated and kindly, and

a myriad of little lines were penciled about their corners. These were

evidently marks of expression, not of age, and although the rugged face

itself was not handsome, it had a degree of character that compelled

her interest. His clothes were good, and in spite of their recent hard

usage they still lent him the appearance of a man habitually well

dressed.

She was vaguely disappointed, having pictured him as being in the first

flush of vigorous youth, but the feeling soon disappeared under the

charm of his manner. The ideal figure she had imagined began to seem

silly and school-girlish, unworthy of the man himself. She was pleased,

too, by his faint though manifest embarrassment at her thanks, for she

had feared a lack of tact.

Above all things she abhorred obligation of any sort, and she was

inclined to resent masculine protection. This man's service filled her

with real gratitude, yet she rebelled at the position in which it

placed her. She preferred granting favors to receiving them.

But in fact he dismissed the whole subject so brusquely that he almost

offended her, and when she realized how incomplete had been her

acknowledgment, she said, with an air of pique:

"You might have given me a chance to thank you without dragging you

here against your will."

"I'm sorry if I seemed neglectful."

She fell silent for a moment before asking:

"Do you detest me for my cowardice? I couldn't blame you for never

wanting to see me again."

"You were very brave. You were splendid," he declared. "I simply didn't

wish to intrude."

"I was terribly frightened," she confided, "but I felt that I could

rely upon you. That's what every one does, isn't it? You see, you have

a reputation. They told me how you refused to be taken into the boat

for fear of capsizing it. That was fine."

"Oh, there was nothing brave about that. I wanted to get in badly

enough, but there wasn't, room. Jove! It was cold, wasn't it?" His

ready smile played whimsically about his lips, and the girl felt

herself curiously drawn to him. Since he chose to make light of

himself, she determined to allow nothing of the sort.

"They have told me how you bought out this whole funny little place,"

she said, "and turned it over to us. Is it because you have such a

royal way of dispensing favors that they call you 'The Irish Prince'?"

"That's only a silly nickname."

"I don't think so. You give people food and clothes with a careless

wave of the hand; you give me my life with a shrug and a smile; you

offer to give up your own to a boatful of strangers without a moment's

hesitation. I--I think you are a remarkable person."

"You'll turn my head with such flattery if you aren't careful," he said

with a slight flush. "Please talk of something sensible now, for an

antidote--your plans, for instance."

"My plans are never sensible, and what few I have are as empty as my

pockets. To tell the truth, I have neither plans nor pockets," she

laughed, "since this is a borrowed gown."

"Pockets in gowns are entirely matters of hearsay, anyhow; I doubt if

they exist. You are going back to Seattle?"

"Oh, I suppose so. It seems to be my fate, but I'm not a bit resigned.

I'm one of those unfortunate people who can't bear to be disappointed."

"You can return on the next ship, at the company's expense."

"No. Mother would never allow it. In fact, when she learns that I'm out

here she'll probably send me back to New York as fast as I can go."

"Doesn't she know where you are?"

"Indeed no! She thinks I'm safely and tamely at home. Uncle Curtis

wouldn't object to my visit, I fancy; at any rate, I've been counting

on his good offices with mother, but it's too late now."

"I'm like you," he said; "I can't brook disappointment. I'm going on."

In answer to her questioning look he explained his plan of intercepting

the freight-steamer that night, whereupon her face brightened with

sudden hope.

"Can't I go, too?" she implored, eagerly. She was no longer the haughty

young lady he had met upon entering the room, but a very wistful child.

"I'm afraid that's hardly---"

"Oh! If only you knew how much it means! If only you knew how badly I

want to! I'm not afraid of discomforts."

"It's not that---"

"Please! Please! Be a real prince and grant me this boon. Won't you? My

heart is set upon it."

It was hard to resist her imploring eyes--eyes which showed they had

never been denied. It was hard for O'Neil to refuse anything to a woman.

"If your uncle is willing," he began, hesitatingly.

"He isn't my really uncle--I just call him that."

"Well, if Mr. Gordon wouldn't object, perhaps I can manage it,

provided, of course, you promise to explain to your mother."

Miss Gerard's frank delight showed that she was indeed no more than a

child. Her changed demeanor awakened a doubt in the man's mind.

"It will mean that you'll have to sit up all night in an open launch,"

he cautioned her.

"I'll sit up for a week."

"With the creepy water all about, and big black mountains frowning at

you!"

"Oh, fiddle!" she exclaimed. "You'll be there if I get frightened."

Rising impulsively she laid her hand on his arm and thanked him with an

odd mingling of frankness and shyness, as if there could be no further

doubt of his acquiescence. He saw that her eyes were the color of

shaded woodland springs and that her hair was not black, but of a deep,

rich brown where the sun played upon it, the hue of very old mahogany,

with the same blood-red flame running through it. He allowed himself to

admire her in silence, until suddenly she drew back with a startled

exclamation.

"What is it?"

"I forgot--I have no clothes." Her words came with a doleful cadence.