West Wind Drift

CHAPTER V.

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.