Mr. Block looked uneasily out over the tumbling ocean, focusing his gaze on a section of the horizon that for want of something more definite than mere hope lay in a direct line with the City of New York.
“And ven you stop to think,” said he wistfully, “that we are still something like six thousand miles from home,—oh, veil! Vat's the use? I bet you I never go so far avay from my business again. Vat a fool I vas to make this trip ven the whole ocean is full of submarines and German agents and plotters and—Yes, vat a fool ven I had so many high-priced men vorking for me who vas crazy to come. But my vife she vould do it. Paris and London every year it used to be, so she must haf a little holiday or she vill die, she say. Veil, here we are. And ven I think vat a long holiday it is going to be maybe,—by gracious, I could kick myself for not giving in to my brother-in-law ven he begged so hard to be allowed to make the trip because he needed the change from not being avay from the office for five years, and his vife and children too. His vife she needed a change as much as he, vat with not being able to get into any good hotels in the summer time and not being able to keep out of them in the vinter time, she vas nearly distracted. No, I vas selfish. My vife she vas selfish too,—and him her own brother. Vy shouldn't he haf a vacation vonce in awhile?”
He turned abruptly to the sailor who lounged near the perspiring Percival.
“How far is it to land, my frient?” he inquired.
The sailor touched his cap. “Which way, sir?” he asked solemnly. “Fore or aft?”
(Percival said to himself: “By golly, I'll bet that man is an American.”)
“Vat? Land,—you know vat I mean,—the end of the ocean. How far avay is it?”
The sailor calculated. “Well, the nearest land, sir, I should say, is about three hundred miles away, to port.”
“How deep is it here?” asked Mr. Nicklestick, moving away from the rail suddenly.
The sailor glanced down at the water, squinted an eye, and then spoke reassuringly.
“It ain't half as deep here as it is a little furder on,” he said. “It's only a shade over three miles where we are now, sir. We're comin' to the deepest part of the ocean,—ought to be there inside of a couple of hours. Here, you! On the job, on the job!”
“You ought to search that man carefully,” advised Mr. Nicklestick.
“I have,” growled the sailor. “He says he never uses it in that form. I guess he's tellin' the truth.”
“Never uses what?”
“Tobacco, sir.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Nicklestick, and, catching a glimpse of Madame Obosky emerging upon the deck, unceremoniously deserted his companions and hurried off to join her, his speed being suddenly accelerated by the spectacle of Mr. Shine, the motion picture magnate, who approached the lady from an equidistant station and with similar haste. Mr. Block, being a trifle near-sighted and in some doubt as to the whereabouts of his wife, peered here and there intently, and then bore down upon the celebrated Russian dancer, who, it would seem, was in dire need of consolation.
Mr. Fitts followed them with a glance over his glasses and then turned to the sailor man.
“I suppose it's against orders for me to speak to this man,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
The architect sighed, and walked away.
The parade became more interesting as the lack of news from the investigators restored a sort of hopeful optimism to the breasts of the anxious company. Those who had maintained a stubborn air of bravado, now became almost offensively jaunty. Others, frankly terrified at the outset, sauntered timidly away from the life-boats to which they were assigned. Every one was glad that the Captain had ordered a life-boat drill on the first afternoon out, and every one was glad that he had ignored the demand of Mr. Landover that the boats be lowered the instant he discovered that his passengers were in peril. No news was good news, argued the majority, and jesting was in order.
Peter Snipe, the novelist, got out a pad of paper and began jotting down impressions. Madam Careni-Amori and Signor Joseppi exchanged the first friendly words they had spoken to each other in weeks, and in full view of an entranced audience linked arms and strode bravely to and fro, the former clasping a huge jewel case to her ample bosom, the latter chafing perceptibly under the weight of an invisible belt stuffed to its capacity with banknotes and gold. Chilean ladies and Chilean gentlemen, dazzling Brazilian ladies and pompous Brazilian gentlemen, smug Argentinians, lordly Castilians, garrulous Portuguese, lofty English gentlemen and supercilious English ladies, friendly and irrepressible Americans,—all of them swinging their sea-legs with new-found abandon—clattered solidly around the wind-swept circuit. New faces appeared in the procession, new voices were raised with energy, new figures sprang into existence with marvellous rapidity. It seemed to Percival that the population doubled and tripled and quadrupled with every throb of the powerful engines. He saw his “bunkie” of the night before,—the man who was trying so hard to die and couldn't,—he saw him plunging along with the throng, pale but valiant, ferociously glaring at every one who smoked.
A small group of American nurses, some young and pretty, others young and homely, but all of them sprightly and clear-eyed,—nine of them, in fact—tramped by in “columns of three.”
Percival's guardian jerked his head in their direction after they had passed, and volunteered this bit of information:
“Hornswoggled, them girls was. Come all the way down from New York six months ago. Promised double pay and plenty of work in the American colony. Sore as crabs, all of 'em. They got double pay all right, all right, but there was some misunderstandin' as to what single pay was to be to start off with. Single pay turned out to be just whatever suited the people that employed 'em, seein's they were nearly seven thousand miles away from God and up against it, so they're beatin' it back home to volunteer for service in France. I heard one of 'em say she could save more money workin' for nothin' in France than she could earn in a year down here at double pay. What'd you say your name was, young feller?”
“Percival.”
“I mean your last name.”
“That's it.”
“Come off! Nobody ever had a last name like that.”
“You ought to hear what my first name is,—and my middle one, too. You said a little while ago you'd never seen any one of my size with bigger and harder muscles. Well, if you knew what my full name is, old man, you'd understand why I began developing them,—I've got a lot more too that you can't see,—when I first began going to school.”
“What is your other names?” inquired the sailor curiously.
“Algernon Adonis,” said Percival.
The sailor was silent for a moment, thinking of the proper thing to say. Then he said:
“You're dead right. It takes a heap of muscle to pertect a name like that.”
Three women stopped in front of the two men. Percival kept his eyes lowered.
“Why,—why, Auntie,—I know him,” fell from the lips of one of the trio. There was not only surprise in her voice but a trace of awe as well.
The swabber looked up quickly. He found himself gazing straight into the eyes of the speaker. Her lips were parted, her head was bent slightly forward, her eyes expressed utter incredulity and bewilderment. Her companion, an elderly lady, and a bespectacled young woman who carried an arm-load of steamer-rugs, stared not at him but at the girl who had delivered this startling announcement.
“I mean I,—that is, I may be mistaken,” stammered the latter, suddenly averting her eyes. A wave of crimson swept over her face.
“Undoubtedly,” exclaimed the elderly lady with great positiveness. Turning to inspect the object under discussion, she sustained a shock that caused her to stiffen and draw in her breath quickly.
Percival was smiling in a most friendly and encouraging manner. He went farther, and lifted his disreputable white canvas hat.
“Oh, goodness!” exclaimed the young lady in a sort of panic. “Are you—is it really you, Mr. Percival?”
Mr. Percival glanced inquiringly at his guard.
“That's his name, Miss,” said that worthy. “And that's one of the three reasons why he's got them muscular arms you're lookin' at. Sorry, though, but my orders are not to allow any one to speak to him.”
“Are you crazy, Ruth?” cried the older lady, aghast. “It's the stowaway every one is talking about. The one who tried to blow up the ship.”
The young lady returned Percival's smile,—rather a diffident, uncertain effort, to be sure, but still a smile,—and murmured something about night before last at the Alcazar Grand.
“What are you saying, Ruth? Do you mean to say you met this man at the Alcazar Grand?”
“Yes, Aunt Julia,” said the other wrinkling her pretty forehead in perplexity. “He—he danced with me.”
“He—you danced with him?” gasped the horrified Aunt Julia.
“Don't you remember? Phil Morton introduced him to us. I—I can't believe my eyes.”
“I can't believe mine,” snapped the elder woman. “I never saw this fellow before in my life. The idea! Phil Morton having a friend like—You are mistaken. And people are staring at us.”
“Just the same,” said her niece, stubbornly, “I did dance with him, and, what's more, I danced more than once with him. Didn't I, Mr. Percival?”
Mr. Percival, still beaming, again looked at the sailor appealingly.
“You can tell it to me,” said the latter, furtively glancing to the right and left before making the concession.
Looking straight into the sailor's eyes, Percival said:
“Yes, Miss Clinton. I had four dances with you,—and a lemon squash.”
“Wait a moment, Aunt Julia,” protested the young lady, holding back. “Would you mind telling me, Mr. Percival, how you happen to be here and in this plight? You didn't mention sailing on the Doraine.”
Mr. Percival, to the sailor: “Neither did you, Miss Clinton. You certainly are no more surprised than I am.”
“Why are you on board as a stowaway? Phil Morton told me you belong to an old Baltimore family and had all kinds of—that is, you were quite well-off.”
Mr. Percival, to the sailor: “Please don't blush, Miss Clinton. I'm not the least bit sensitive. Money isn't everything. I seem to be able to get along without it. Later on, I hope to have the opportunity to explain just why—”
“That'll do,” interrupted the sailor. “Here comes the Captain.”
Captain Trigger hove in sight around the corner of the deck building, with Chief Engineer Gray and the Second Officer.
“I don't know what to make of you,” said Miss Clinton, sorely puzzled. Her aunt was clutching her arm. “You seemed so awfully jolly the other night. And—and just look at you now.”
She moved away, followed by the bespectacled young woman and the steamer-rugs, graceful despite the sudden yank with which her aunt set her in motion. Percival managed to keep an eye on her till she turned the corner. Then he sighed.
The Captain halted in front of him.
“Are you acquainted with Mrs. Spofford and her niece, Percival?” he inquired.
“Miss Clinton has done me the honour to remember meeting me night before last at the Alcazar Grand, sir. Mrs. Spofford is not so generous.”
“I see,” said Captain Trigger reflectively. “You will report at once to Mr. Gray. He will give you a less public job, as you call it.” A twinkle came into his eyes. “He doesn't like the hat you're wearing. Nor the shirt. Nor the boots.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And, by the way, Percival, as soon as you are slightly refurbished I want you to stroll through the second cabin and if possible identify the two stewards who came to No. 22. Let me see, was it during the day or at night?”
“Some time during the night, sir. Eleven or half-past, I should say.”
“Very well.”
An hour later he reported to Captain Trigger. “I have seen all of the stewards, sir, according to Mr. Codge, and I do not recognize any of them as the men who came to No. 22. I had a fairly good view of them, too, from beneath the lower berth. They spoke in a language I did not understand—”
“Do you understand German?”
“No, sir. I know it when I hear it, however. They were not speaking German. I may have been wrong, but I came to the conclusion that they were transferring some one to No. 22. They brought in two suitcases, and left them when they went out. I—”
Captain Trigger brought his clenched fist down on the table with a resounding, emphatic bang.
“Now, we have it! That Chicago detective is right, by gad!”
He turned to the small group of officers clustered behind him. Fresh alarm,—real consternation,—had leaped into the eyes of every man of them.
“Then—then, that means our search isn't over?” cried Mr. Mott, starting up.
“It does! Every inch of this ship,—every damned inch of it, from stem to stern. Overlook nothing, Mr. Mott. Don't delay a second.”
Percival was alone with the agitated Captain an instant later. Trigger's eyes were rather wild and bloodshot. The younger man's face blanched. He knew now that the danger was real. He waited for the Captain to speak.
“Percival, the two men you saw in 22 were not stewards. They were the men who jumped overboard. You tell me they left two bags there when they went out of the room. Well, they were not there this morning when the regular steward went into the room. They have disappeared. But the contents of those bags are still somewhere on board this ship. And if they are not found in time, by gad, sir, we will all be in Kingdom Come before we know it.”
The first explosion occurred at eleven minutes past six. The chart-house and part of the bridge were blown to pieces. Three dull, splintering crashes ensued in rapid succession, proving beyond question that the bombs were set to automatically explode at a given time. One of them wrecked the engine-room; another blew a great hole in the stern of the ship, above the water line; the third destroyed the wireless house and carried away a portion of the deck with it.
There were eight in all of these devilish machines in the heart of the Doraine. Some time prior to the first explosion, the feverish searchers had uncovered four of them, cunningly planted in the most vital parts of the ship. Two were taken from the lower hold, one at each end of the vessel, and two more were found close to the carefully protected section of the vessel in which a rather insignificant but deadly shipment of high explosives was stored.
The discovery of the four bombs and their immediate consignment to the sea saved the ship from being blown to bits. With another hour to spare, it is more than probable the remaining four would have been found, notwithstanding the amazing cleverness with which they were hidden, so thorough and so dogged was the search. Confusion, terror, stupefaction and finally panic followed the successive blasts. The decks were strewn with people prostrated by the violent upheavals, and many there were who never got up again. Stunned, dazed, bewildered, those who were able to do so scrambled to their feet only to be hurled down again and again. Shrieks, groans, prayers,—and curses,—filled the brief, ghastly silences between the muffled detonations. The great vessel surged and rolled and plunged like a tortured animal.
The splintering of wood, the rending of plates, the shattering of glass, and above all this horrid turmoil the mighty roaring and hissing of steam!... And the wild, gurgling cries of the frantic unfortunates who had leaped into the sea!
Out of the chaos with incredible swiftness came the paralysis of despair, and out of that slowly but surely groped the never-failing courage of the men who go down to the sea in ships. Hoarse commands lifted above the groans and prayers, and strong but shaken figures sprang with mechanical precision to the posts allotted them. Life-boat after life-boat went down into the sea that glistened with the slanting rays of an untroubled sun, low-lying at the end of day.
Fire broke out in several places. Down into the bowels of the ship plunged the resolute, undaunted heroes who remained behind, the chosen complement reserved for just such an emergency by the far-seeing master.
Above the hissing of steam and the first feeble cracklings of flame, rose the stentorian voice of the Captain from his post at the base of the demolished bridge.
“Fight, men! Fight! Fight! There are dying men below! Stand by! Fight for them!”
He was bloody and almost unrecognizable as he stood there clutching a stanchion for support. His legs were rigid, his body swayed, but his spirit was as staunch as the star that had guided him for fifty years through the trackless waste.
And while these doughty, desperate spirits fought the fire and smoke with every means at their command, down in the suffocating depths of the ship, braving not only the peril visible and at hand, but the prospect of annihilation in the event that a belated bomb projected its hideous force into the nest of high explosives,—while these men fought, the smiling, placid sea was alive with small white craft that bobbed in the gleaming sunlight, life-boats crowded to the gunwales with shuddering, bleak-eyed men, women and children waiting to pick up those who stayed behind, and who inevitably would be driven overboard by the resistless, conquering flames.
Cruising about at a safe distance from the menacing hull, these boats managed to rescue a few of the beings who had leaped overboard in the first mad panic of fear, but many there were who went down never to be seen again. No boat was without its wounded—and its dead; no boat was without its stricken, anxious-eyed survivors who watched and prayed for the salvation of loved ones left behind. With straining eyes they searched the surface of the sea, peered at the occupants of near and distant boats, stared at the scurrying figures on the decks of the smoking steamer, hoping,—always hoping,—and always sobbing out the endless prayer.
At last, as the sun sank below the blue-black horizon, exhausted, red-eyed, gasping men struggled up from the drenched, smothering interior of the ship, and hurled themselves, not into the sea, but prone upon the decks! They had conquered! The scattered, vagrant fires, attacked in their infancy, while still in the creeping stage, had been subdued.
Darkness fell. A chill night air stole out of the east, stealthily trailing the sun. Will-o'-the-wisp lights bespecked the sea, surrounding the black hulk that lay motionless in the center of the circle. Lanterns in a score or more of small boats bobbed fitfully in the gentle swell. Presently lights appeared on board the Doraine, one here, one there, then others in twos and threes,—some of them stationary, others moving slowly from place to place. The life-boats crept closer, still closer. Then, out from the silent hulk, came the voice of man. It was the voice of the First Officer, hoarse and unrecognizable, but sharp with authority. Other voices repeated the commands from various parts of the ship,—commands to the encircling will-o'-the-wisps.
The word came down to the scores who filled the boats that they were to lie by until sunrise, keeping in close contact with each other and at no great distance from the ship. The most thorough, careful examination of the steamer was in progress. If it was found that she was in no danger of foundering,—and the word was most reassuring,—all of them would be taken aboard in the morning. Nothing could be done at present. A few hours more would tell the tale.
And then, for the first time since the disaster, the note of the croaker was heard. Each and every boat contained at least one individual who knew exactly what ought to be done in a crisis like this.
Mr. Landover addressed the benumbed, unresisting occupants of the boat into which he had climbed with commendable reluctance as one of the last persons to leave the ship.
“Why don't they begin sending out S. O. S. calls? What's the wireless for, if not to be used at a time like this? Say, you! Yell up there to some of those damned muddled-headed idiots and tell them what to do. Tell them that I say for them to send out calls for help. What's that? What did you say?”
The steward in charge of the boat repeated his remark and Mr. Landover at once said he would report him to Captain Trigger.
“But it won't do any good,” complained the banker despairingly. “Captain Trigger hasn't got the backbone of a fishworm. He'd let you tell him to go to hell and never think of jacking you up for it. No wonder we're in the fix we're in now. If he'd had the sense of a jelly-fish he'd have—Here! Sit still! You'll upset the boat, you fool! What—What are you going to do with that oar?”
“I'm going to crack you over the bean with it if you don't take back what you said about Captain Trigger,” said the steward, very earnestly. “Take it back, do you hear me?”
“My God, would you murder me for a little thing like that?”
Mr. Nicklestick aroused himself from the torpor of despair.
“Take it back, Mr. Landover,—please do. If he misses you, he'll get me sure, it's so dark, and so help me God, I got nothing but the deepest respect for Captain Trigger. He's a vonderful man, steward. Don't make any mistake. You hear me say he is a vonderful man? Veil,—”
“Oh, shut up, Nicklestick,” grated Landover, crouching down behind the gentleman addressed.
The steward sat down. “I'd do it in a minute if it wasn't for the women an' children in this boat.”
“I intend to have every officer on that steamer arrested for criminal negligence the instant I set foot in New York,” boomed the banker. “I call upon every one of you, my fellow-passengers, to testify to the utter lack of precaution taken by the men in charge of that ship. And what effort are they making to bring help to us now? By gad, if I was in command of that vessel I'd be shooting wireless calls to every—Great Scott! What's that?”
“That's a rocket, you blamed old fool!” roared the steward.
“Good God!” gasped the exasperated banker. “Are we having a celebration with fireworks?”
The dull, hapless occupants of the lifeboats watched with fascinated eyes the first of the giant rockets that whizzed and roared its way up from the deck of the ship, an endless arrow of fire piercing the night. A loud report, the scattering of a hundred stars, and then—denser blackness than before.
Morning came. Up out of the east stole a sickly grey. It turned slowly into pink, and then suddenly the sea once more was blue and smiling. In the heart of the dancing cordon lay the weirdly camouflaged Doraine, inert, sinister, as still and cold as death. No smoke issued from her stacks to cheer the wretched watchers; no foam, no spray leaped from her mighty bow. She was a great, lifeless thing. Waves lapped gently against her sides and fell away only to come back again in playful scorn for the vast object that had rent and baffled them so long. On high fluttered the Stars and Stripes, gay in the presence of death, a sprightly harbinger of hope flaunting defiance in the face of despair.
Men, stripped to the waist, grimy and shining with the sweat of hours, moving about in knots of three and four—always in knots of three or four as if afraid to disintegrate—leaned upon the rail and watched the approach of the crowded boats, looked down into pallid, anguished faces with their eager, hungry eyes, eyes that devoured the groups along the rail. Now and then a glad shout of joy went up from one of the boats, and a figure in the huddled mass was transformed into a responsive thing of life.
In each of the square, black openings in the hull of the ship stood men with ropes and ladders. The great steel doors lay flat against the sides, swung wide to admit this time a human cargo. From the interior of the vessel came the brisk, incessant clatter of hammers against wood and steel; from the decks broke the loud, commanding voices of men calling out directions; from the gliding, slapping boats went up the hearty shouts of understanding and obedience, the rattling of boat-hooks, the grinding of oars in the locks, the murmur of voices revived.
“Vomen and children first!” was the shrill, oft-repeated exhortation from one of the boats.
And up in the centre of another sprang a fine, imposing figure, from whose lips rolled these thrilling words:
“By God, they're great! They're great, after all! God bless Captain Trigger and every man-jack of them!”
“Get down!” roared his still unpacified critic, the steward. “You'll fall overboard, you dam' fool!”
The gaunt, coatless Mr. Mott commanded the port side of the vessel; Mr. Codge, the purser, the starboard. Fighting men in the breeches and leggings of the American Navy; blackened and bandaged stokers, sailors and landsmen comprised the motley company that stood ready to drag the occupants of the boats up into the dank, smoke-scented maw of the ship.
One by one, in regular, systematic order, the lifeboats came alongside. There was no confusion, no bungling. They bumped gently against the towering rows of plates, and, made fast by ropes with ample play, gave up in time their precious cargoes. No one lifted up his voice in rejoicing, for there were dead and injured back in the shadows; there were grief-stricken, anxious men and women crouching out there in the sunshine; there were limp, unconscious women and half-dead children; and over all still hung the ominous cloud of catastrophe fat with prophecies of perils yet to come.
They had gone out from a ship filled with a monstrous clangour and confusion, they were returning to a tomblike hulk, a lonely mass in which echoes would abound, a thing of sighs and silences, the corpse of a mammoth that had throbbed yesterday,—but never more.
Up in the curving triangle of the forward deck were two long, canvas-covered rows. The dead! Forty-six twisted, silent forms lying side by side, some calm in death, others charred and mutilated beyond all possibility of identification. Every man in the engine-room at the time of the explosion was now a mangled, unrecognizable thing. Engineers, electricians, stokers,—all of them wiped out in the flash of an eye,—burnt, boiled, shattered. Half a dozen women, as many children, lay with the silent men.
The injured had been placed in staterooms on the promenade deck, regardless of previous occupancy or subsequent claim. There lay the score and a half of seriously injured, and there toiled the ship's surgeon and his volunteer helpers. Sailor and merchant, worker and idler, scholar and dolt, steerage and first cabin, wealth and poverty, shared alike in the disposition of quarters and shared alike in attention. There was no discrimination. One life was as good as another to the doctor and his men, the poor man's moan as full of suffering as that of the rich man, the wail of the steerage woman as piteous as that of her sister above.
Captain Trigger was one of the injured. He swore a great deal when the doctor ordered him to bed. Ribs and a broken arm? Why the devil should he be put to bed for something a schoolboy would laugh at? Mr. Shannon and two of the younger officers were killed by the explosion that wrecked the bridge and chart house. Chief Engineer Gray died in the engine-room. Cruise was blown to pieces in the wireless house. His assistant, the cripple with the charmed life, was dead.
A few seconds before the first explosion took place he blew out his brains with a big navy revolver. The last seen of Cruise was when he appeared in the door of his station, an expression of mingled rage and alarm on his face. Pointing frantically at the figure of his assistant as it shot down the steps and across the deck, he shouted:
“Get that man! Get him! For God's sake, get him!”
It all happened in a few seconds of time. The shrill laugh of the fleeing assistant, the report of the revolver, an instant of stupefaction,—and then the dull, grinding crash.
It will never be known what Cruise had heard or seen in the last moments of his life. No one on board the Doraine, however, doubted for an instant that he had discovered, too late, the truth about his misshapen assistant. They now knew with almost absolute certainty the identity of the odd man in that devilish trio, the man whose footsteps Percival had heard, the man who stayed behind to guarantee the consummation of the hideous plot. Coward in the end, he shirked the death he was pledged to accept. He knew what was coming. Unlike his braver comrades, he took the simplest way.
The count began. Late in the afternoon it was completed. There were forty-six known dead on board the Doraine, the majority being members of the crew. Seventeen persons were missing, chiefly from the steerage. Twenty-nine seriously injured were under the doctor's care. Some of them would not recover. A hundred or more persons suffered from shock, bruises, cuts and exposure, but only a few of them required or demanded attention. In spite of their injuries, they fell to with the spirit that makes for true heroism and devoted themselves to the care of the less fortunate, or to the assistance of the sorely-tried officers and men who strove to bring order out of chaos.
Among the survivors were two American surgeons and a physician from Rio Janeiro. They, with the nurses, all of whom had been saved, immediately went to the relief of the ship's doctor, and in short order an improvised hospital was established. There was a remarkable unanimity of self-sacrifice among the passengers. High and low, they fell to in a frenzy of comradeship, and worked side by side in whatsoever capacity they were needed, whether fitted for it or not. No man, no woman, who was able to lift a helping hand, failed in this hour of need. The bereaved, as well as those who were untouched by a personal grief, gave all that was in them, tearfully, grimly, ardently.
Menial labour fell to the lot of the lordly but uncomplaining Landover, to Block and Nicklestick, Jones and Snipe, and even to the precious Signor Joseppi, who, forgetting his Caruso-like throat, toiled and sweated in the smoky saloon.
Morris Shine, the motion picture magnate, the while he laboured amidst the wreckage of the after deck, lamented not the cheerless task but the evil fate that prevented the making of the most spectacular film the world had ever known.
Madame Careni-Amori, Madame Obosky and her dancers; bejewelled Jewesses and half-clad emigrants; gentle women unused to toil and women who were born to it; the old and the young—all of them, without exception,—rose from the depths of despair and faced the rigours of the day with unflinching courage, gave out of a limitless store of tenderness all that their strength could spare.
And through a neglected, abandoned field of pearls and gold and precious stones, limped unchallenged the tireless figure of “Soapy” Shay, diamond thief, a bloody bandage about his head, an exalted light in his pain-stricken eyes. His one-time captor lay stark and cold in the gruesome line in the bow of the boat. It was “Soapy” Shay who staggered out of the rack and smoke with the burly, stricken detective in his arms, and it was “Soapy” Shay who wept when the last breath of life cased out through his tortured lips. For of all the company on board the Doraine, there was but one whom “Soapy” knew, but one who called him by name and shared tobacco with him,—and that one was William Spinney, the man who was taking him back to a place where mercy would not be shown.
After the sun had set and the decks were dark and deserted except for the men employed in the gruesome business, the dead were lowered into the sea, swathed in canvas and weighted with things that were made to kill,—shells from the gunners' hoard. Swiftly, methodically, one after the other, they slid down to the black, greedy waters, sank to the grave that is never still yet always silent, to the vast, unexplored wilderness that stretches around the world. The thin little missionary from the barren plateaus of Patagonia and the plump priest from the heart of Buenos Aires monotonously commended each and every one of them to the mercy of God!
The sun came up again in the morning over a smiling, happy sea that licked the sides of the Doraine with the tenderness of a dog.
The plight of the hapless steamer could not be disguised. Even the most ignorant passenger knew that the wrecked engines could not be repaired or compounded. They knew that the Doraine was completely paralysed. The power to move at will was for ever lost, the force that had driven her resistlessly along the chosen path was still. The powerful propellers were idle, the huge stern-post wrenched so badly that the rudder was useless. She was adrift, helplessly adrift. Of what avail the wheel and a patched-up rudder to the mass that lay inert, motionless on the smiling sea?
Every one on board realized, with sinking heart, that the Doraine was to go on drifting, drifting no man knew whither, until she crossed the path of a friendly stranger out there in the mighty waste. No cry of distress, no call for help could go crackling into the boundless reaches. That was the plight of the Doraine and her people on the mocking day that followed the disaster, and unless fate intervened that would be her plight for days without end.
Mr. Mott, temporarily in command, addressed the passengers in the main saloon, where they had congregated at his request. He did not mince matters. He stated the situation plainly. It was best that they should realize, that they should understand, that they should know the truth, in order that they might adapt themselves to the conditions he was now compelled of necessity to impose upon them. They were, so to speak, occupying a derelict. Help might come before nightfall, it might not come for days. He hoped for the best but he intended to prepare for the worst.
Without apology he laid down a rigid set of rules, and from these rules, he made it perfectly clear, there could be no deviation. The available supply of food was limited. It was his purpose to conserve it with the greatest possible care. Down in the holds, of course, was a vast store of consigned foodstuffs, but he had no authority to draw upon it and would not do so unless the ship's own stock was exhausted. Passengers and crew, therefore, would be obliged to go on short rations. “Better to eat sparingly now,” he said, “than not to eat at all later on.” He concluded his remarks in this fashion:
“Remember that we are all in the same boat. We don't know how long we'll be drifting like this and we don't know where we're drifting to. It's an everlastingly big ocean we're on. We ought to thank God we're not at the bottom of it now. If we're lucky we'll be picked up soon, if not,—well, it's up to us, every one of us, to make the best of it. We're alive, and that's certainly something. We'll all find it easier if we keep ourselves busy. That's why I'm asking you, one and all, to do a good day's work regularly, one way or another, from now until relief comes. We can't have any loafers or quitters on board this ship. That means everybody, rich and poor. You may think I'm putting a hardship on you, seeing as how you have paid for your passage and all that, but what I'm ordering you to do ain't a marker to what you'd be doing if you were out there in lifeboats, eight hundred miles from shore, and—well, we won't go into that. We've got to make the best of it, my friends. We're up against it good and plenty, that's the plain facts of the case. There's no use in me saying it's all going to turn out right in a day or so, because I don't know a da—- blamed thing about it. We're in God's hands. Maybe it will help to pray, but I doubt it. All I've got to say is this: go down on your knees as much as you like, but don't lick!”
Signor Joseppi lifted his voice, but not in song. In very bad English he wanted to know how long the Captain thought it would be before they were rescued, and when he was informed that it might not be for weeks or even months, he cried out in worse English that he was ruined. He would have to violate his contract! No impressario would think of engaging him again! His wonderful American tour! If he was not rescued within a week—Oh, my God, the consequences! He did not regret the paltry two thousand a week—for thirty weeks—but to violate a contract!
Mr. Mott looked rather helpless. He appreciated the fact that Signor Joseppi was a very great personage, but what was he saying? Was it—could it be mutiny?
“I'm sorry, Mr. Joseppi,” he broke in, “but if Madame Amori is willing to take her regular turn at making up berths, I guess it won't hurt you to help every now and then in the dining-room.”
Signor Joseppi did not understand a word of it. He turned to the man at his elbow for enlightenment.
“What did he say?” he whispered.
“He says you have a perfectly marvellous voice and that he'd give two thousand any time to hear you sing,” replied his neighbour in excellent Italian.
Whereupon the Signor favoured the severe-looking Mr. Mott with a beaming smile and as deep a bow as he could make in such close quarters.
“A most courteous officer,” he said to his neighbour. “It will be a joy to serve him, my friend. We should, one and all, do what he asks of us, no matter how mean the task. I, Joseppi,—you have heard of Joseppi, my friend?—I shall be the example for all of you. Should he say, 'Wash the dishes, Joseppi,' then will I wash the dishes. I, Joseppi, who never washed a dish in his life. Should he say, 'Cook the meals, Joseppi,' then will Joseppi, who never cooked a thing in his life, then will Joseppi cook the meals. Should he say, 'Joseppi, scrub the floor,' then will I scrub the floor. Should he say, 'Signor, steer the ship,' then will I do my best to steer the ship. I who have never steered a ship. So let me be your example, my friend.”
“That's fine,” said his neighbour, as they moved off together. “But supposing he asks you to sing occasionally to amuse the rest of us,—what then?”
“Amuse?” cried the Signor. “Amuse?”
“Well, then, entertain.”
The great Joseppi pursed his lips. His brows grew dark with trouble.
“Ah, but that would be violating my contract,” he said. “My contract specifically states that under no circumstances may I—” Then suddenly, as if renouncing a sacred principle, his brow cleared, and he cried out: “Damn the contract! Joseppi's voice is his own. Joseppi will do as he pleases with it. Let him but make the request, my friend,—and Joseppi will sing till he drops from exhaustion.” Lowering his voice to a confidential undertone, he went on: “And that, my friend, is more than you will find Careni-Amori willing to do. There is one cold-blooded, grasping woman for you. Money! She thinks of nothing but money. And flattery! Ah, how she thrives on flattery. That woman, my friend, beautiful as she is, has no more heart than a—”
“Excuse me, please,” broke in his listener, in English. “I've got to beat it.”
He had caught sight of a slim young figure at the head of the stairs,—a girl in a rumpled blue serge tailor-suit and a tan-coloured sport hat pulled well down over her dark hair. He made his way through the crowd and caught her up as she passed out on the deck.
“I've been terribly worried about you,” he began without other greeting, planting himself in front of her. “I thought maybe you might have—but, thank the good Lord, you weren't.”
She looked momentarily bewildered. Then she recognized him and held out her hand. Her face was serious, unsmiling, her voice low and tired.
“Isn't it dreadful, Mr. Percival? What a terrible experience it has been. Oh—and I am glad you came through safely, too. But—” as her eyes narrowed anxiously,-“you were hurt. Your hands?”
“I can't very well shake hands with you, Miss Clinton,” said he. “Scorched a little, that's all. You'd think it was serious, the way they're bandaged. One of the sailors fixed them up for me last night. I can't tell you how glad I am that you are all right. And your aunt? Is she—” He paused.
“Auntie is all right, Mr. Percival. She's in bed. Shock and exposure. We were out there all night. In one of the boats. Katherine,—” her voice shook a little,—“Katherine is gone. She leaped overboard. I—I saw her go. I shall never forget it,—never. Aunt Julia's maid. For, oh, so many years, Mr. Percival.” She spoke in sharp, broken sentences, as if breathless. “You must have been terribly burned. Your hair,—your eyes, how bloodshot they are.”
“Smoke,” he said succinctly. “Singed on this side only. Really nothing serious. I got off very lightly.”
“Some of the men were frightfully burned,” she said with a shudder. “I am trying to be a nurse. There are two men in my—in my—”
“I know,” he broke in hastily. “Don't talk about it, Miss Clinton. It's corking of you to take hold like this. Corking!”
“Tell me about yourself. Where were you when it happened?”'
“I hate to admit it, but I was having a bite to eat down in the galley. You see, they'd somehow forgotten to give me anything to eat,—in the excitement, of course,—and I had been so busy myself it didn't occur to me to be hungry till rather late in the day. I managed to get on deck but not until after the bombs had all gone off. My friend, Mr. Gray,—the Chief Engineer, you know,—was down in the engine-room. That's how I got my hands burned. Not badly, I assure you, but—well, they may be a little scarred. You may not know it, but Mr. Gray and I came from the same place. Baltimore. He belonged to a fine old family there—and he'd been very kind to me. Poor fellow! Penned in. They never had a chance down there. He was—well, he died a few minutes after he was dragged out here on the deck. His clothes were on fire. But let's not talk about it. Tell me, is there anything I can do to make you more comfort-able? Or your aunt? I'm what you might call officer of the deck at present. Mr. Mott—”
“You ought to be in bed, Mr. Percival,” she interrupted sharply. “Your face is burned, too,—you must be suffering terribly. Wait! Now don't tell me you are not. I know better. I've seen those other men who were burned. I—”
“It's nothing, I tell you,” he interrupted, almost roughly. “There are dozens of men worse off than I am, and are they in bed? Not much. This is no time to lie down, Miss Clinton, if you've got a leg to stand on. See that little chap over there with his head and hands covered with bandages,—and barely able to drag his feet after him? He's an American jockey. I don't know his name. He was blown twenty or thirty feet across the after-deck. Brought up at the bottom of a companion-way. He's nothing but cuts and bruises from head to foot. But he's around on his wobbly little pins today, just the same, trying to edge in on some sort of a job. Couldn't keep him in bed.”
Miss Clinton's eyes were full of wonder and incredulity. “I cannot understand it,” she said. “My cousin was with the American Ambulance in France. He says that the slightest flesh wound sends a soldier to the hospital.”
“They haven't any choice in the matter. Besides, it isn't the same. Poor devils, they may have been at it in the trenches for weeks and months. A wound of any sort means a pleasant vacation. Still,” he went on after a moment, a faint derisive smile on his lips, “we had a big husky up in Camp who insisted on going to bed every time he had the nosebleed.”
She was looking into his blood-shot eyes, infinite pity and concern in her own.
“Will you let me dress your hands, Mr. Percival, whenever it is necessary? I am getting used to it now.”
“It's good of you, Miss Clinton,” he replied gratefully. “But I think you'd better stick to the fellows who really need attention. Don't add an extra ounce to your burden. You'll need all of your strength and courage to face the demands of the next few days. Those chaps have just begun to suffer. They're going to have a tight squeeze getting through,—if they get through at all. You have not answered my question. Is there anything I can do for you or your aunt?”
“No,—not a thing,” she said. “We are quite all right. As Mr. Mott said, we are all in the same boat, Mr. Percival. We've got to make up our minds to that. We can't have the comforts and the luxuries we had day before yesterday. Whatever is left of them, we must share with others.”
“Even with stowaways,” he ventured, but not fatuously.
“No one is likely to forget how our only stowaway came by his wounds,” she said simply. “Despite your modesty, I am quite certain who it was that carried the Chief Engineer on deck, Mr. Percival. While his clothes were burning, too.”
Percival turned his face away and many seconds passed before he spoke.
“By the way,” he said at last, a trifle unsteadily, “at regular intervals the gun up there in the bow is to be fired. You must not be alarmed when it goes off. There is a chance that some ship may hear the report. The British have a few warships down here, you know. They would investigate if they got word of big guns being fired anywhere in these parts. Mr. Mott will give warning when the gun is to be fired, so that every one will understand. I—I just thought I'd tell you.”
“Thank you. Good-bye for the present. I must get back to my wounded.”
“Keep your spirits up,” he said. “That's the principal job now, Miss Clinton. Good-bye,—and thank you.”
He watched her as she moved off down the deck. He could not help noticing that her figure drooped perceptibly. In his mind's eye he saw her as she was but two days before, straight, graceful, full of the joy of living, with a stride that was free and swinging. He recalled her lovely, inquiring grey eyes as she stared at him on that ignominious afternoon, the parted red lips and the smile that came to them, the smartly dressed hair, the jaunty hat, the trim sport suit of tan-coloured jersey—he recalled the alluring picture she made that day, and sadly shook his head.
“Poor girl,” he said to himself, and walked slowly in the opposite direction, favouring his left leg.
He went down to see the Captain. The old seadog was stretched out in his berth, a look of pain and utter despair in his eyes. One of the Russian dancers, a rather pretty girl of a distinctly Slavic type, was cleaning up the room. The ship's doctor had just left.
“Feeling a bit more comfortable, sir?” inquired the young man.
“I wish you'd get this girl out of here,” growled Captain Trigger with difficulty. “I want to swear.”
“I think it would be all right to go ahead with it, sir,” said Percival. “She doesn't understand a word of English.”
The Captain shook his head. “I'll let it wait.” Then, looking at his visitor's bandaged hands: “How are your hands, my lad?”
“Fairly easy. The doctor says the burns are not deep. Mr. Mott asked me to step in and see you, sir, and give you my opinion as to the bombs. You see, I've had a great deal of experience with high explosives. There isn't the slightest doubt in my mind that you found and got rid of the worst of them. The officer in charge of the gun-crew agrees with me. They planted the big ones, the ones that were to destroy the ship, down in the hold, where there was less chance of discovery. The others, I am convinced, were much smaller. It would have been impossible to hide a bomb of any noticeable size in any of the places where the explosions occurred. They went about it very cunningly, very systematically. Of course, no one saw the bombs that exploded, but judging by the actual results, they could not have been very powerful.”
“And I also,” said the Captain, “thank God we dug out the big ones.” He scowled forlornly. “Dr. Cullen says I am in for a week of this, Percival. You don't think so, do you?”
Percival smiled. “I am more or less of an expert on explosives, sir,” he replied.
“Umph,” grunted Captain Trigger. “I see. Just the same, I think I'll be up and about by tomorrow. If I were your age, young man, you can bet I wouldn't be lying here in this bed.”
“On the other hand, if I were your age, Captain Trigger,” said Percival, “I'd probably have sense enough to do exactly what the doctor ordered.”
Captain Trigger's mouth fell open.
“Well, of all the damned—” he began, and then swallowed hard.