West Wind Drift

CHAPTER VIII.

Captain Trigger and a dozen men stood on the boat deck with guns and revolvers, facing several hundred sullen, determined men and women from the steerage. Night had not yet fallen; the shadow of the hills, however, was reaching half way across the oval pool; gloom impenetrable had settled on the wooded shores.

With the striking of the Doraine, nearly every one on board was hurled to the decks. As she heeled over five or six degrees in settling herself among the rocks, a panic ensued among the ignorant people of the steerage. They scrambled to their feet and made a rush for the boats, shouting and screaming in their terror. Other passengers were trampled under foot and sailors standing by the davits were hurled aside.

Captain Trigger, anticipating just such a stampede, rushed up with members of the gun crew. The gaunt, broken old master of the Doraine drove the horde back from the boats, but as he stood there haranguing them in good maritime English he could see plainly enough that they were not to be so easily subdued. The first panic was over, but they were crazed by the fear that had gripped them for days; they believed that the ship was soon to sink beneath their feet; safety lay not more than a hundred yards away,—and it was being denied them by this heartless, unfeeling despot.

They were mainly low-caste Portuguese bound for Rio and Bahia, and they had obeyed him through all those tortuous days out on the deep where he was the shepherd and they the flock. But now,—now they could well afford to turn upon and rend him, for he had brought them safe to land and they no longer owed him anything!

“My God, I don't want to shoot any of them,” groaned the Captain, steadying himself against the rail. “But they've got guns, and they're crazy. I—”

Some one touched his arm, and a firm, decisive voice spoke in his ear.

“I'm used to handling gangs like this, Captain Trigger. They don't understand you, but they'll damn soon understand me, if you'll turn the job over to me. I'm not trying to be officious, sir, and I'm not even hinting that you can't bring 'em to their senses. I know how to handle 'em and you don't, that's all. They're not sailors, you see. And it isn't mutiny. They need a boss, sir,—that's what they need. And they need him damned quick, so if you don't mind saying the word,—they're ready to make a rush, and if—”

“Go ahead, Percival,—if you can hold them—”

“Say no more!” shouted Percival, and stepped resolutely forward. His hands were bare,—swollen, red and ugly; his eyes were as cold as steel, his voice as sharp as a keen-edged sword. He spoke in Spanish to the wavering, threatening horde.

“You damned, sneaking, low-lived cowards! What sort of swine are you? Have you no thought for the women you've trampled upon and beaten out of your path,—your own women, as well as the others,—think of them and ask yourselves if you are men. I'm in command of this ship now, and, by God, I'm going to let you get into those boats and start for shore. Don't cheer! You don't know what's coming to you. I'm going to turn that cannon on you up there and blow every one of you to hell and gone before you get fifty feet from the side of this ship. You don't believe that, eh? Well, that's exactly what I'm going to do. Lieutenant Platt!” He called over his shoulder in English to the young commander of the gun's crew. “Get some of your men up there and train that gun so as to blow these boats to smithereens. Quick!” In a half-whisper to the Captain: “It's all right. I know what I'm talking about.” Then to the crowd: “We don't want you on board this ship a minute longer than we can help. We've got no room for dogs here among decent white men and women. Do you understand that? We don't want to have anything more to do with you, either here or on shore. I'm going to wipe you out, every damned one of you,—men women and children. You're not fit to live. You're going to climb into those boats now and get off this ship. You'll never realize how safe you are here till you get down there in the water and hear that gun go off. Come on! Get a move! We're through with you, now and for ever. Nobody's going to stop you. I'm even going to have the boats lowered for you, so as not to delay matters.” He shouted after Lieutenant Platt: “Be lively, please. You've got your orders. We'll make short work of this pack of wolves.” To Captain Trigger, authoritatively: “Withdraw your men, sir. I am going to let them leave the ship. At once, sir! Do you mean to disobey me, sir?” He gave the captain a sly wink.

Then as the bewildered master withdrew with his armed men, he turned once more to the mob. “Come on! Step lively, now! No rushing! Take your turn. Every blasted one of you, I mean. What the hell are you hanging back for,—you? You were so darned eager to go a little while ago, what's the matter with you now? No one's trying to stop you. Here are the boats. Put up your guns and knives, and pile in. You're absolutely free to go, you swine. We'll be damned good and rid of you, and that's all we're asking. It's a pity to waste powder and cannon-balls on you, when we may have use for all we've got later on, killing the lions and tigers and anacondas up there in the woods, but I'm going to do it.”

He stepped back. Not a man or woman moved. They stood transfixed, packed in a huddled mass along the deck. Then a woman cried out for mercy. The cry was taken up by other women. Percival halted and faced them once more.

“Get into those boats!” he roared savagely. “It won't do you a bit of good to whine and pray and squeal. I'm through with you. You've got to—Well?”

Several of the men edged forward, some of them trying to smile.

“Would you kill us when we are only trying to save our lives?” called out one of them, finding his courage and voice.

“I don't want to talk to you. Get in!”

“We have as much right to remain on this ship as anybody else,” shouted another. “We paid for our passage. We are honest, hard-working—”

“No use! I'll give you ten minutes to climb into those boats.”

There was a moment's silence. “And what will you do if we refuse to leave the ship?” cried one of the men.

“Be quiet!” he bawled at the whimpering women. “We cannot hear what the gentleman has to say.”

“You'll soon find out what I'll do, if you don't obey me inside of ten minutes,” replied Percival.

“But the ship is not going to sink any more,” protested another, looking over the rail timidly. “She is safe. We do not wish to leave now.”

Captain Trigger and Mr. Mott joined Percival. In an undertone he told them what he had said to the mob.

“And now, gentlemen,” he whispered in conclusion, “it's up to you to intercede in their behalf. They're as tame as rabbits now. They know the ship's all right, and they believe I intend to blow 'em to pieces if they once put off in the boats. Start in now, Captain, and argue with me. Plead for them. They know who I am. They know I come from the hills and they think I'm a bloodthirsty devil. They're like a lot of cattle. Most of them are simple, honest, God-fearing people,—and if we handle them properly now we'll not have much trouble with them in the future. And only the Good Lord knows what the future is going to bring.”

So the three of them argued, two against one. Finally Percival threw up his hands in a gesture of complete surrender.

“All right, Captain. I give in. Perhaps you are right. I suppose it would be butchery.”

There were a few in the crowd who understood English. These edged forward eagerly, hopefully. They called out protestations against the “slaughter.”

“Tell them you have reconsidered, Mr. Percival,” said the Captain. “They are to remain on board.”

Excited shouts went up from the few who understood, and then the word went among the others that they were to be spared. There were cries of relief, joy, gratitude, and not a few fell upon their knees!

Percival stood forth once more. Silence fell upon the throng.

“The Captain has put in a plea for you, and I have decided to grant it. You may remain on board. Now, listen to me! No one is to leave this ship until tomorrow morning. We are safe here. We are stuck fast on the bottom, and nothing can happen to us at present. Tomorrow we will see what is best to be done. Every man and woman here is to return to the task he was given by Mr. Mott at the beginning of our troubles. We've got to eat, and sleep, and—Wait a minute! Well, all right,—beat it, if you feel that way about it.”

He stood watching them as they excitedly withdrew toward the bow of the ship, breaking up into clattering groups, all of them talking at once.

Captain Trigger laid his hand on the young man's shoulder.

“If it had not been for you, Percival, this deck would now be red with blood,—and some of us would be dead. You saved a very ticklish situation. I take off my hat to you, and I say, with a full heart, that I shall never again doubt your ability to handle men. No one but an American could have tricked that mob as you did, my lad.”

From various points of vantage the foregoing scene had been witnessed by uneasy, alarmed persons from upper cabins. Overwhelmed and dismayed by the rush of the yelling mob, the elect had fled for safety, urged by a greater fear than any that had gone before,—the fear of rioting men.

A few of them, more daring and inquisitive than the rest, had ventured recklessly into the zone of danger. Among them were Ruth Clinton and Madame Olga Obosky, who, disregarding the command of Mr. Mott, were the only women to venture beyond the protecting corner of the deck building. They stood side by side, bracing themselves against the downward slope of the deck. Half-way forward were Trigger and the armed gunners, and beyond them the dense, irresolute mass of humanity. Percival, in rounding the corner to go to the assistance of Captain Trigger, observed with dismay the exposed position in which the two women had placed themselves. He paused to cry out to them sharply:

“What are you doing here? Get back to the other side. Can't you see there is likely to be shooting? Don't stand there like a couple of idiots! You're right in line if that gang begins to fire.”

“He is tearing off his bandages,” cried Ruth, as Percival hurried on.

Madame Obosky was silent, her gaze fixed intently on the brisk, aggressive figure of the man who had called them idiots. She understood every word he uttered to the Portuguese. Her eyes glistened with pride when he stepped forward to tackle the mob single-handed, and as he went on with his astonishing speech she actually broke into a soft giggle. Her companion looked at her in amazement.

“Why do you laugh?” she demanded hotly. “Those dreadful creatures may tear him to pieces. He is unarmed and defenceless. They could sweep him—”

“You would laugh also if you understood,” interrupted Olga, her eyes dancing. “Oh, what a grand—what do you call it?—bluff? What a magnificent bluff he is doing! It is beautiful. See,—they whisper among themselves,—they have back down completely. Wait! I will presently tell you what he have said to them.”

“I never dreamed any man could be so fearless. Look at the odds against him. There are scores of them,—and they—”

“Pooh! Do you suppose he would stand up and fight them if they rushed at him? Not he! He would turn and run as fast as he could. He is no fool, my dear. He is a very intelligent man. So he would run if they make a single move toward him.”

“I think this is rather a poor time to accuse him of cowardice, Madame Obosky, in view of what he—”

“Have I accused him of cowardice?”

“I'd like to know what you call it. You say he would run if they—”

“But that would not be cowardice. It would be the simplest kind of common sense. He is so very sure of himself. It is not courage. It is confidence. That is his strength. He would be a fool to stand in front of them empty-handed if they were to charge upon him. Maybe when you have known him as long as I have, you will realize he is not a fool,—about himself or any one else.”

Ruth stared at her. “Unless I am greatly mistaken, Madame Obosky, I have known Mr. Percival as long if not longer than you have.”

“You do not know him at all,” rejoined the Russian brusquely. “Be still, please! I must hear what he is saying to them now.” A little later she turned to the American girl and laid her hand on her arm. “For-give me, if I was rude to you. I am so very much older than you that I—how old are you, Miss Clinton?”

“I am twenty-five,” replied the other, surprised into replying.

“And I am twenty-six,” said Madame Obosky, as if she were at least twice the age of her companion. “See! They are dispersing. It's all over. Come! Let us go back to the other side.”

“I am not ready to go back to the other side,” protested the American girl, resisting the hand on her arm. “Why should we go back, now that the danger is over?”

“Because we must not let him catch us here,” urged Olga in some agitation.

“And why not, pray?”

The Russian looked at her in astonishment. “But surely you heard him tell us to go back to the other side. You heard him call us idiots, Miss Clinton?”

And Ruth Clinton suffered herself to be hurried incontinently around the corner of the deck building.

“Once, in Moscow, I saw a Grand Duke confront a mob of students who had gathered in the street near his house. They were armed and they had come to destroy this man himself. There were hundreds of them. He walked straight toward them, his head erect, his shoulders squared, and when they stopped he spoke to them as if they were dogs. When he had finished, he turned his back upon them and walked away. They might have filled him with bullets,—but they did not fire a shot. At the corner he entered his carriage and disappeared. And then what did he do? He fainted, that Grand Duke, he did. Fainted like a stupid, silly young girl. But while he was standing before zat—-that mob of terrorists he was the strongest man in Russia. Nevertheless, he was afraid of them. You have therefore the curious spectacle to perceive, Miss Clinton, of one man being afraid of hundreds, and of hundreds of men at the same time being afraid of one. Man, he is a queer animal, eh?”

It was not long before the doubts and fears of all on board the Doraine gave way to a strange, unnatural state of exhilaration. It represented joy without happiness, relief without security, exultation without conviction,—for, after all, there still remained unanswered the question that robbed every sensation of its thrill. While they were singing the hymns of thanksgiving in the saloon that night, and listening to the fervent prayers; while they ate, drank and were merry, their thoughts were not of the day but of the morrow. What of the morrow? In the eyes of every one who laughed and sang dwelt the unchanging shadow of anxiety; on every face was stamped an expression that spoke more plainly than words the doubts and misgivings that constituted the background of their jubilation. They had escaped the sea, but would they ever escape the land? Had God, in answer to their complaints and prayers, directed them to a land from which the hand of man would never rescue them? Were they isolated here in the untraversed southern seas, cast upon an island unknown to the rest of the world? Or were they, on the other hand, within reach of human agencies by which the world might be made acquainted with their plight?

Uppermost in every mind was the sickening recollection, however, that for days they had ranged the sea without sighting a single craft. They were far from the travelled lanes, they were out of the worth-while world. Hope rested solely on the possibility that the hills and forests hid from view the houses and wharves of a desolate little sea-town set up by the far-reaching people of the British Isles.

The story of Percival's achievement was not long in going the rounds. It went through the customary process of elaboration. By the time it reached his ears,—through the instrumentality of Mr. Morris Shine, the motion picture magnate,—it had assumed sufficient magnitude to draw from that enterprising gentleman a bona fide offer of quite a large sum for the film rights in case Mr. Percival would agree to re-enact the thrilling scene later on. In fact, Mr. Shine, having recovered his astuteness and his courage simultaneously, was already working at the preliminary details of the most “stupendous” picture ever conceived by man. His deepest lament now was that he had neglected to bring a good camera man down from New York, so that on the day of the explosion he could have “got” the people actually jumping overboard, and drowning in plain sight—(although he did not see them because of the trouble he was having to get a seat in one of the life-boats),—and the wounded scattered over the decks, the fire, the devastation, the departure and return of the boats, the storm and all that followed, including himself in certain judiciously preserved scenes, and the whole production could have been made at practically no cost at all. There never had been such an opportunity, complained Mr. Shine the moment he felt absolutely certain that the opportunity was a thing of the past.

“No wonder he got away with it,” said Mr. Landover to a group of rejuvenated satellites. “He is hand in glove with them, that fellow is. I wouldn't trust him around the corner. Why, it's perfectly plain to anybody with a grain of intelligence that he's the leader of that gang of anarchists. All he had to do was to speak to them,—in their own language, mind you,—and back they slunk to their quarters. They obeyed him because he is their chosen leader, and that's all there is to this—What say, Fitts?”

Mr. Fitts, who was not a satellite but a very irritating Christian gentleman, cleared his throat and said:

“I didn't speak, Mr. Landover. I always make a noise like that when I yawn. It's an awfully middle-class habit I've gotten into. Still, don't you think one obtains a little more—shall we say enjoyment?—a little more enjoyment out of a yawn if he lets go and puts his whole soul into it? Of course, it isn't really necessary to utter the 'hi-ho-hum!' quite so vociferously as I do,—in fact, it might even be better to omit it altogether,—if possible,—when some one else is speaking. There are, I grant you, other ways of expressing one's complete mastery of the art of yawning, such as a prolonged but audible sigh, or a sort of muffled howl, or even a series of blissful little shrieks peculiar to the feminine of the species,—any one of these, I admit, is a trifle more elegant and up-to-date, but they all lack the splendid resonance,—you might even say grandiloquence,—of the old-fashioned 'hi-ho-hum!' to which I am addicted. Now, if you will consider—”

“My God!” exclaimed the banker, with a positively venomous emphasis on the name of the Deity. “Who wants to know anything about yawns?”

Mr. Fitts looked hurt. “I am sorry. My mistake. I thought you were trying to change the subject when you interrupted my yawn.”

“That fellow's a damn' fool,” said the banker, as Fitts strolled off to join another group.

“Try one of these cigars, Mr. Landover,” said Mr. Nicklestick persuasively. “Of course, they're nothing like the kind you smoke, but—”

“Is mine out? So it is. No, thank you. I'll take a match, however, if you have one about you.”

Four boxes were hastily thrust upon the great financier.

“Haf you noticed how poor the matches are lately, Mr. Landover?” complained Mr. Block.

“As for this vagabond being superintendent of a mining concession up in Bolivia,” continued Landover, absentmindedly sticking Mr. Nicklestick's precious, box of matches into his own pocket, “that's all poppycock. He's an out-and-out adventurer. You can't fool me. I've handled too many men in my time. I sized him up right from the start. But the devil of it is, he's got all the officers on this boat hypnotized. And most of the women too. I made it a point to speak to Mrs. Spofford and her niece about him this morning,—and the poor girl has been making quite a fool of herself over him, you may have observed. Mrs. Spofford owns quite a block of stock in our institution, so I considered it my duty to put a flea in her ear, if you see what I mean.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said Mr. Nicklestick.

“She should have been very grateful,” said Mr. Block.

Mr. Landover frowned. “I'm going to speak to her again as soon as she has regained her strength and composure. Nerves all shot to pieces, you understand. Everything distorted,—er—shot to pieces, as I say. I dare say I should have had more sense than to—er—ahem!—two or three days' rest, that's what she needs, poor thing.”

“Absolutely,” said Mr. Nicklestick.

“You can't tell a woman anything when she's upset,” said Mr. Block, feelingly.

“Miss Clinton is a very charming young lady,” said Mr. Nicklestick, giving his moustache a slight twist. “I should hate to see her lose her head over a fellow like him.”

“She is a splendid girl,” said Landover warmly. “One of the oldest families in New York. She deserves nothing but the best.”

“That's right, that's right,” assented Mr. Nicklestick. “I don't know when I've met a more charming young lady, Mr. Landover.”

“I didn't know you had met her,” observed the banker coldly.

“Oh, yes,” replied Mr. Nicklestick. “We were in the same lifeboat, Mr. Landover, you know,—all night, you know, Mr. Landover.”