West Wind Drift

CHAPTER VII.

He saw but little of her during the next forty-eight hours. She seemed to avoid him. At any other time and in other circumstances he undoubtedly would have resented her indifference,—a very common and natural masculine failing,—but in these strenuous hours he was too fully occupied with the affairs of life and death. Once she stopped him to inquire if Miss Clinton was still able to dress his wounds.

“Once a day,” he replied. “She's even pluckier than you are, Madame Obosky.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Indeed?”

“Yes, because she believes we are going to die—every one of us. It takes pluck to keep going when you've got that sort of thing to face, doesn't it?”

Her gesture took in the dozen or more men within range of her vision. “It should take no more pluck to keep a woman going than a man, my friend. You do not call yourself plucky, do you? I do not call myself plucky. On the contrary, I call myself a coward. I am afraid to stay in my stateroom. I like to be out in the open like zis. One has to be very, very brave, Mr. Percivail, to lie in one's bed all alone and think that death is waiting just outside the thin little walls. Miss Clinton is splendid, but she is not plucky. She is as I am: afraid of the darkness, afraid to be alone, afraid to be where she cannot know and see all zat is happening. She has a woman's courage, just as I have it,—if you please. It is the courage that depends so much on the courage of others. You think I am brave. I am brave because I am with trained, efficient men. But if the Captain were to come to me now as I stand here, and say zat the ship is to sink in ten minutes and that we all must go down with her, would I face it bravely? No! I would throw myself down on the floor and scream and pray and tear my hair. Why? Because the men had given up. I am kept up by the courage of others. That is the courage of woman. She must be supported in her pain, in her suffering, in her courage.”

“Well, if you put it that way, there are very few men who would take such an announcement from the Captain calmly.”

“Perhaps not, my friend. But if there were room for but few in the boats, who would stay behind and go down with the ship? Nine out of every ten of the men. Why? Not because they are all courageous, I grant you, but because of the horrible conceit that makes them our masters. Pride and conceit constitute what stands for courage in most men. The wild animal has no conceit, he has no pride. Does the male lion rush out to be shot in place of his mate? He do not. He sneaks off in the high reeds and leaves her to take care of herself. The Captain of this steamer is so full of pride zat he will stay on it till it goes under the wave. It is not courage, Mr. Percivail. It is his pride in the power zat—that God has give to his sex. These men here,—you, my friend,—face the danger now so unflinching for why? Because for ages and ages you have believe in and depend upon the man beside you, the men around you. Zat is the difference between man and woman. Woman believes in and depends on man. She has no faith in her own sex. So, you see, my friend, when I say I am brave and you say Miss Clinton is plucky, it is all because we have men about us who are so proud and conceited zat they will die before they will admit that they are not as helpless and as weak as we are in times like zis.”

“You may be right,” he mused, struck by her argument. “It's usually pride that makes a man stand up and fight another, even when he knows he's sure to be beaten. It's neither confidence nor courage. It's just plain fear of being a coward.”

“You will admit then that I understand the wonderful male animal which struts on two legs and rules all the other animals of the world, eh? It is the only animal in the whole big world zat—that is completely satisfied with itself. So now, Mr. Percivail, you have the secret of the so-called courage of the male of our species.”

“I hope all women haven't gone into the subject so deeply,” he said, with a rueful smile. “You make rather small potatoes of us.”

“Ah, do not say that,” she cried, “for, alas, I am denied potatoes.”

“Well, then,” he said, laughing, “if all women understood us as well as you do, we wouldn't rule the world very much longer. They'd yank us off the pedestal and revile us forevermore.”

“But you do not understand women, my friend. Did we not bring you into the world? Are you not our sons, and therefore begotten to be kings? We may despise our husbands, we may loathe our brothers and our fathers, we women, but our sons are the gods we worship. My dear Mr. Percivail, women will go on being ruled to the end of time unless they cease populating the world with sons. The mother of the man is the humblest subject of the son and yet the proudest. The mothers of kings, of emperors, of presidents,—do they think of them as kings, emperors, presidents? No. They think of them as sons. That is why man is supreme. That is why he rules. To be sure, we women are not always disposed to have our husbands rule, we even go so far as to say they are not fit to rule, but alas, the men we are permitted to know the best of all are always the sons of some one else, and so there you have the endless chain. Sons! Sons! Sons! Sons to create new sons,—sons without end, amen! God bless our sons!”

“And I say God bless our mothers!”

“In that one little sentence, Mr. Percivail, spoke from the heart, you have reveal the secret history of the world. You have account for everything.”

“You are a million years old, Madame Obosky,” he said, looking into her deep, unfathomable eyes.

She smiled. “So? And which of my sons, Mr. Percivail, do you think I love the most? Cain or Abel?”

“It would take a woman to answer that question. There's one thing certain, however. You loved both of them more than you loved Adam.”

“True. But I followed Adam out of the Garden of Eden and I have never left his heels from zat day to this. What more could any man ask?”

On the second morning after the storm, the lookout fixed his straining eyes on a far-distant, shadowy line that had not been a part of the boundless horizon the day before. Dawn was breaking, night was lifting her sheet from the new-born day. He waited. He could not be sure. Minutes that seemed like hours passed. Then suddenly his hoarse shout rose out of the silence:

“Land ho!”

Down into the heart of the ship boomed the cry, taken from the lookout's lips by one after another of the weary men below. The sweating, exhausted toilers who manned the pumps paused for a moment, then fell to work again revitalized. Out from the cabins, up from every nook and corner of the ship scrambled the excited horde, fully dressed, their faces haggard with doubt, their eyes aglow with joy. Land! In every round little window gleamed a face,—for a moment only along the portside. Nothing but the same endless ocean on the port side of the ship. Water! Sick and wounded drew themselves up to the portholes and peered out from their cells for the first time.

“Where?... Where?” ran the wild, eager cry of the scurrying throng, and there was disappointment—bitter disappointment in their voices. They had been tricked. There was no land in sight! The glasses of the ship's officers, clustered far forward, were directed toward some point off the starboard bow, but if there was land over there it was not visible to the naked eye. A junior engineer saluted Captain Trigger and left the group.

“There is land ahead,—a long way off,” he announced as he passed through the throng in the saloon deck.

Up above the clamour of questions shouted from all sides as the crazed people flocked behind the messenger of hope, rose the voice of Morris Shine.

“Land ahoy! Ahoy-yoy-yoy!” he yelled over and over again, his chin raised like that of a dog baying at the moon.

Every person on deck was either carrying a life-belt or was already encased in one. Grim orders of the night just past. Here and there were to be seen men who clutched tightly the handles of suitcases and kit bags! Evidently they were expecting to step ashore at once. In any case, they belonged to the class of people who never fail to crowd their way down the gang-plank ahead of every one else. The fashionable ocean liners always have quite a number of these on board, invariably in the first cabin.

Percival ranged the decks in quest of Ruth Clinton. She was well aft on the boat deck, where the rail was not so crowded as it was forward. Her arm was about the drooping, pathetic figure of her aunt. They were staring intently out over the water,—the girl's figure erect, vibrant, alive with the spirit of youth, her companion's sagging under the doubt and scepticism of age. He hesitated a moment before accosting them. Nicklestick, the Jew, was excitedly retailing the news to them. He went so far as to declare that he could see land quite clearly,—and so could they if they would only look exactly where he was pointing. He claimed to have been one of the very first men on board to see the land.

Ruth was hatless. Her braided brown hair had been coiled so hastily, so thoughtlessly that stray strands fell loose about her neck and ears to be blown gaily by the breeze across her cheek. Her blouse was open at the neck, her blue serge jacket flared in the wind. Every vestige of the warm, soft colour had left her face. She was deathly pale with emotion.

Percival was suddenly conscious of a mist bedimming his eyes.

Several people were grouped near them at the rail, listening to Nicklestick. The stowaway joined them. As if sensing his presence, Ruth turned suddenly and saw him.

“Oh!” she cried, tremulously. “Have—have you seen it, Mr. Percival?”

“No,” he replied. “It won't be visible for an hour or so longer. It's off there all right, though. The lookout, Captain Trigger and several others got a glimpse of it before the sun began to pull the mist up to obscure it for a little while. That's mist over there,” he went on, turning to Nicklestick. “You couldn't see the Andes Mountains if they were where that strip of land is hidden. It won't be long, Miss Clinton, before we all can see it.”

“How far away is it?” she asked, controlling her voice with an effort. “Do they know? Can they estimate?”

“I'll tell you what let's do,” he said abruptly. “Let's go up on the sun deck. I've got Mr. Gray's glasses. We can see better up there. Let me assist you, Mrs. Spofford. The sun deck is pretty badly smashed up and littered with all sorts of wreckage, but we can manage it all right.”

Mrs. Spofford looked at him intently for a moment.

“I remember you now,” she said. “Are you sure,—are you positive there is land over there?”

“I have Captain Trigger's word for it.”

“And mine, too,” added Mr. Nicklestick. “You may rest assured, Mrs. Spofford, that we will all be on dry land before many hours.”

Percival leaned close to the speaker and said in a very low but emphatic tone:

“You don't know a damn thing about it, so keep your trap closed. If you're a man, you won't go on raising false hopes in the breasts of these women.”

Nicklestick's jaw fell. He whispered:

“My God,—ain't we—you don't mean to say there is a chance we won't be able to—”

But Percival had turned away with the two women. Mrs. Spofford took his arm, leaning heavily against him. Her figure had straightened, however. He had given her the needed confidence.

They made their way up the steps leading to the topmost deck. Others had already preceded them. A dozen men and women were looking out over the sea through their binoculars. They recognized Landover, Madame Careni-Amori (clutching her jewel case), Joseppi, Fitts and one or two more. Olga Obosky was well forward, seated on the edge of a partially wrecked skylight and ventilator. Her three dancing girls were with her, closely grouped.

Percival purposely remained near the steps. He knew full well that the ship's hours were numbered. It was only a question of time when she would founder. In the lee of one of the big stacks they huddled close together and waited for the lifting of the veil. The wind was soft but strong up there at the top of the vessel. He took hope in the fact that it was blowing toward the shores of that unseen land, and that slowly but surely the Doraine was drifting thither.

Suddenly, as if a curtain were being raised, a far-off line appeared on the surface of the waters. Higher rose the curtain, and like magic the line developed into an irregular ridge, the ends of which sank below the horizon far to the right and left.

Percival felt the girl's hand on his arm. He shot a swift glance at her face. It was turned away. She staring at the mystic panorama that was being unveiled off there on the rim of the world. Her eyes were bright, her lips were parted in the ecstasy of hope revived, she was breathing deeply. The pulse in her smooth white neck was beating rapidly, rythmically. He could see it. He laid his bandaged hand firmly upon hers and pressed it tightly to his arm. She did not look around. Her every thought was centred upon the unfolding vision.

“There are trees,” she murmured, enthralled. “Trees,—and hills! See, Auntie,—but oh, how far away they are!”

For many minutes they stood there without speaking. Then from all sides came the clamour of voices,—shouts of joy, cheers,—laughter! She looked down at the clumsy object that imprisoned her hand, then swiftly up into his eyes. A warm flush spread over her face.

“I—I couldn't help it,” he muttered. “It—it looked so helpless.”

“It isn't half as helpless as yours, Mr. Percival,” she said, and smiled. She waited a moment before withdrawing her hand. “May I have the glasses, please? Had you forgotten them?”

“Completely,” he replied.

Later, while Mrs. Spofford was peering through the glasses, she drew him aside.

“Tell me about the water in the hold,” she said in a low tone. “Is it serious?”

He looked grave. “Very. If you will take a peep over the side of the ship, you'll see how low down she is in the water.”

“My aunt doesn't know the ship is leaking,” she went on, hurriedly. “I want to keep it from her as long as possible.” He nodded his head.

“Mr. Mott figures we'll stay afloat for ten or twelve hours,—maybe longer. I will see to it that you and Mrs. Spofford get into one of the boats in case we—well, just in case, you know. We will be given ample warning, Miss Clinton. Things don't look as hopeless as they did last night.” He pointed toward the land. “It looks like heaven, doesn't it?”

Her face clouded. “But only a very few of us may—” she stopped, shuddering.

“You poor little girl!” he cried brokenly. He steadied himself and went on: “It wouldn't surprise me in the least if every blessed one of us got safely ashore.”

“You do not believe that, Mr. Percival. I can tell by the look in your eyes. I want you to promise me one thing. If we have to take to the boats, you will come with us—”

He drew himself up. “My dear Miss Clinton, there is quite a difference between being a stowaway on an ocean liner and being one in a lifeboat. I have no standing on this ship. I have no right in one of her boats. I am the very last person on board to be considered.”

She looked searchingly into his eyes, her own wide with comprehension. “You mean you will make no effort to leave the ship until every one else is—”

He checked her with a gesture of his hand. “I may be one of the first to leave. But I'll not rob any one else of his place in a boat or his space on one of those rafts. I'll swim for it.”

Slowly the land crept down upon the Doraine. The illusion was startling. The ship seemed to be lying absolutely motionless; it was the land that approached instead of the other way round. A thin white beach suddenly emerged from the green background to the left, to the right an ugly mass of rocks took shape, stretching as far as the eye could reach. Farther inland rose high, tree covered hills, green as emeralds in the blazing sunlight. On a sea of turquoise lolled the listless Doraine.

Soundings were taken from time to time. Even the bottom of the ocean was coming up to meet the Doraine. Its depth appreciably lessened with each successive measurement. From fifty fathoms it had decreased to ten since the first line was dropped.

At four o'clock, Captain Trigger ordered a boat lowered and manned by a picked crew in charge of the Second Engineer. The Doraine was about five miles off shore at the time, and was drifting with a noticeably increased speed directly toward the rock-bound coast. He had hoped she would go aground in the shallow waters off the sandy beach, but there was now no chance that such a piece of good fortune was in store for her. She was going straight for the huge black rocks.

The boat's crew rowed in for observations. Even before they returned to report, the anxious officers on board the vessel had made out a narrow fissure in the rocky coast line. They assumed that it was the mouth of a small river. The Second Engineer brought back the astonishing information that this opening in the coast was the gateway to a channel that in his judgment split the island into two distinct sections. That it was not the mouth of a river was made clear by the presence of a current so strong that his men had to exert themselves to the utmost to prevent the boat being literally sucked into the channel by the powerful tide, which apparently was at its full. This opening,—the water rushed into it so swiftly that he was satisfied it developed into a gorge farther back from the coast,—was approximately two hundred yards wide, flanked on either side by low lying, formidable bastions of rock. The water was not more than fifty feet deep off the entrance to the channel.

Gradually the prow of the Doraine swung around and pointed straight for the cleft in the shore. The ship, two miles out, had responded to the insidious pressure of the current and was being drawn toward the rocks,—at first so slowly that there was scarcely a ripple off her bows; then, as she lumbered onward, she began to turn over the water as a ploughshare turns over the land.

At precisely six o'clock she slid between the rocky portals and entered a canal so straight and true that it might have been drilled and blasted out of the earth under the direction of the most skilful engineers in the world.

Soundings were hastily taken. Discovering that the water was not deep enough even at high tide to submerge the vessel when the inevitable came to pass and she sank to the bottom, Captain Trigger renewed his efforts to release the anchor chains, which had been caught and jammed in the wreckage. He realized the vital necessity for checking the Doraine in her flight before she accomplished the miracle of passing unhindered through the channel and out into the open sea beyond. The swiftness of the current indicated plainly enough that this natural canal was of no great length.

The ship slid on between the tree lined banks. The trees were of the temperate zone, with spreading limbs, thick foliage and hardy trunks. There were no palms visible, but in the rarely occurring open spaces a large shrub abounded. This was instantly recognized by Percival, who proclaimed it to be the algaroba, a plant commonly found on the Gran Chaco in Argentina. While the woodland was thick there was nothing about it to suggest the tropical jungle with its impenetrable fastnesses.

The keel of the half-sunken Doraine was scraping ominously on the bed of the channel. She shivered and swerved from frequent contact with submerged rocks, but held her course with uncanny steadiness, while every soul on board gazed with stark, despairing eyes at the land which mocked them as they passed. Far on ahead loomed the lofty hills, and beyond them lay—What? The ocean?

Gradually the passage widened. Its depth also increased. The ship no longer scraped the bottom, she no longer caromed off the sunken rocks. On the other hand, water poured into her interior with increasing force and volume, indicating a disastrous rent forward. She was sloshing along toward the centre of a basin which appeared to be half a mile wide and not more than a mile long. Directly ahead of her the hills came down to meet the water. A dark narrow cut, with towering sides, indicated an outlet for the tiny, inland sea. This gorge, toward which the Doraine was being resistlessly drawn, appeared to be but little wider than the ship itself.

Almost in the shadow of the hills, and within a dozen ship-lengths of the sinister opening, the worn, exhausted, beaten Doraine came to rest at the end of her final voyage. She shivered and groaned under the jarring impact, forged onward half her length, heeled over slightly—and died! She was anchored for ever in the tiny landlocked sea, proud leviathan whose days had been spent in the boundless reaches of the open deep.

And here for the centuries to come would lie the proud Doraine, guided to her journey's end by the pilot Chance, moored for all time in the strangest haven ever put into by man.

Behind the stranded vessel stretched centuries incalculable, and in all these centuries no man had entered here. Screened from the rest of the world, untended by chortling tugs, unheralded by raucous sirens, welcomed only by primeval solitude, the Doraine had come to rest.

She settled down on her bed of rocks to sleep for evermore, a mottled monster whose only covering was the night; indifferent to storm and calm, to time and tide, to darkness and light, she sat serene in her little sea. Her lofty walls towered high above the waves that broke tremblingly against them, as if afraid of this strange object from another world that could rest upon the bottom of the ocean and yet be so far above them.

Reported “Lost with all on board!”