Part 6

The seaman left him, and for a moment Ned stood almost drunk with exultation on the deck. Even now they were nearing the journey’s end. A few hours more, and they could turn back from this dreary, accursed wintry sea,—this gray, unpeopled desolation that had chilled his heart. It was true that the long journey home, broken by many stops, still lay before, but at least he would face the south! Once on his native shores, forever out of this twilight land and away from its voice of reproach, he could be content with his old standards, regain his old self-confidence. He could take up his old life where he had left it, forgetting these desolate wastes as he would a dream.

He was a fool ever to regret his wasted days! He laughed at himself for ever giving an instant’s thought to his father’s doleful words. The worst of the journey was over, they had only to go back the way they had come; and his puzzling sense of weakness, his premonition of disaster, most of all his superstitious fear of death had been the veriest nonsense. His imagination had simply got out of bounds.

The old _Charon_! He had been afraid of her name. Seemingly he had forgotten, for the time, that he was a man of the twentieth century, the product of the most wonderful civilization the world had ever seen. He had been frightened by old bogeys, maudlin with time-worn sentiments. And now his old egotism had returned to him, seemingly unshaken.

Presently he turned, made his way into the hold, and opened one of a pile of iron-bound wooden cases. When he returned to the dining saloon he carried a dark bottle in each hand.

“All hands celebrate to-night!” he cried. “We’re going to go home!”

Out of the sea the wind seemed to answer him. It swept by, laughing.

IX

Ned’s news was received with the keenest delight by Lenore and Mrs. Hardenworth. The latter regained her lost amiability with promptness. Lenore’s reaction was not dissimilar from Ned’s; in her native city she could come into her own again.

The bottles were greeted with shouts of delight. Ned went immediately to the sideboard and procured half a dozen glasses.

“All hands partake to-night,” he explained. “It’s going to be a _real_ party.”

He mixed whiskies-and-sodas for Lenore and Mrs. Hardenworth; then started to make the rounds of the crew with a bottle and glasses. He did not, however, waste time offering any to Bess. The latter had already evinced an innate fear of it, wholly apart from sentimentality and nonsense. She had lived in a circle and environment where strong drink had not been merely a thing to jest over and sing songs about, to drink lightly and receive therefrom pleasant exhilaration; but where it was a living demon, haunting and shadowing every hour. She had no false sophistication—her knowledge of life was all too real—and she had no desire to toy with poison and play with fire. Both were realities to her. She knew that they had blasted life on life, all as sturdy and seemingly as invincible as her own. Her abstinence was not a moral issue with her. It was simply that she knew here was a foe that met men in their pleasant hours, greeted them in friendly ways, and then, by insidious, slow attack, cast them down and left them miserably to die; and she was simply afraid for her life of it. Ned, on the other hand, would have laughed at the thought of its ever mastering him. He felt himself immune from the tragedies that had afflicted other men. It was part of the conceit of his generation.

But Ned found plenty of customers for his whisky. McNab, at the wheel, wished him happy days over two fingers of straight liquor in the glass, and Knutsen, his pale eyes gleaming, poured himself a staggering portion. “Go ahead,” Ned encouraged him when the seaman apologized for his greediness. “The sky’s the limit to-night.” And Forest in the engine room, and Julius in the kitchen absorbed a man’s-size drink with right good will.

Ned was able to make the rounds again before the call for dinner; and the attitude of his guests was changed in but one instance. McNab seemed to be measuring his liquor with exceeding care. He was a man who knew his own limits, and he apparently did not intend to overstep them. He took a small drink, but Knutsen, his superior, consumed as big a portion as before.

It was an elated, spirited trio that sat down at the little table in the saloon. Not one of them could ever remember a happier mood. Julius served the dinner with a flourish; and they had only laughter when a sudden lurch of the craft slid the sugar bowl off the table to the floor.

“Hello, the ship’s drunk too,” Ned commented gaily.

They were really in too glad a mood to see anything but sport in the suddenly rocking table. The truth was that the wind had suddenly sprung into a brisk gale, rolling heavy seas and bobbing the little craft about like a cork. The three screamed with laughter, holding fast to their slipping chairs, and Lenore rescued the bottle that was tipping precariously on the buffet.

“We’d better have a little extra one,” she told them. “I’ll be seasick if we don’t.”

She had to speak rather loudly to make herself heard. The wind was no longer laughing lightly and happily at their port bows. It had suddenly burst into a frantic roar, swelling to the proportions of a thunder clap and dying away on a long, weird wail that filled the sky and the sea. Instantly it burst forth loudly again, and the snow whipped against the glass of the ports.

Ned stood up, braced himself, and immediately poured the drinks. But it was not only to save Lenore an attack of sea-sickness. He was also swayed by the fact that the heat of the room seemed to be swiftly escaping. Fortunately, there was still warmth in plenty in the bottle, so he need not be depressed by a mere fall of temperature. He glanced about the room, rather suspecting that one of the ports had been left open. The saloon, however, was as tightly closed as was possible for it to be.

He turned at once, made his way through the gale that swept the deck, and procured Lenore’s and Mrs. Hardenworth’s heaviest coats. He noticed as he passed that Bess had sought refuge in the engine room. Ned waved to her then returned to his guests.

The room was already noticeably colder, not so much from the drop in temperature—a thermometer would have still registered above freezing—as from the chilling, penetrating quality of the wind that forced an entrance as if through the ship’s seams. There seemed no pause, now, between the mighty, roaring gusts. The long, weird wail they had heard at first was only an overtone, in some way oppressive to the imagination. The rattle at the window was loud for the soft sweep of snow. Ned saw why in a moment: the snow had changed to sleet.

There was no opportunity to make comment before Knutsen lurched into the room. “It’s tough, isn’t it?” he commented. “Mr. Cornet, I want another shot of dat stuff before I take de wheel.”

Ned, not uninfluenced by his cups, extended the bottle with a roar of laughter. “You know what’s good for you,” he commented. “Where’s McNab? Let him have one too.”

“He’s still at de wheel, but I don’t think he’d care for one. He’s a funny old wolf, at times. Mrs. Hardenworth, how do you like dis weat’er?”

“I don’t like it very well.” She held fast to the slipping table. “Of course, you’d tell us if there was any danger——”

“Not a bit of danger. Yust a squall. Dis isn’t rough—you ought to see what it would be outside dis chain of islands. But it’s mighty chilly.” He poured the stiff drink down his great throat, then buttoned his coat tight.

Ned, for a moment secretly appalled by the storm, felt his old recklessness returning. The captain said it was only a squall,—and were they not soon to turn south? In fact, their direction now was no longer north, but rather in an easternly direction toward Tzar Island. He was warm now, glowing; the rocking of the boat only increased his exhilaration.

“There’s only three or four shots left in this bottle,” he said, holding up the second of the two quarts he had taken from the case. “You’d better have one more with us before you go. A man burns up lots of whisky without hurting him any on a night like this. Then take the bottle in with you to keep you warm at the wheel.”

Knutsen needed no second urging. He was of a race that yields easily to drink, and he wanted to conquer the last, least little whisper of his fear of the night and the storm. He drank once more, pocketed the bottle, then made his way to the pilot house.

“You’re not going to try to ride her through?” McNab asked, as he yielded the wheel.

“Of course. You’re not afraid of a little flurry like dis.”

His voice gave no sign of the four powerful drinks he had consumed. A tough man physically, the truth was he was still a long way from actual drunkenness. But even a small amount of liquor had a distressing effect upon him,—a particularly unfortunate effect for one who habitually has the lives of other human beings in his charge. He always lost the fine edge of his caution. With drink upon him, he was willing to take a chance.

McNab stared into his glittering eyes, and for a moment his lips were tightly compressed. “This isn’t a little flurry,” he answered at last coldly. “It’s a young gale, and God knows what it will be by morning. You know and I know we shouldn’t attempt things here that we can do with safety in waters we’re familiar with. Right now we can run into the lea of Ivan Island and find a harbor. There’s a good one just south of the point.”

“We’re not going to run into Ivan Island. I want to feel dry land. We’re going to head on toward Tzar Island.”

“You run a little more of that bottle down your neck and you’ll be heading us into hell. Listen, Cap’n.” McNab paused, deeply troubled. “You let me take the wheel, and you go in and celebrate with the party. You won’t do any damage then.”

“And you get back to your engine and mind your own business.” Little angry points of light shot into Knutsen’s eyes. “And if you see Cornet, tell him to bring up anoder bottle. Dis one’s almost empty.”

McNab turned to the door, where for a moment he stood listening to the wild raging of the wind. Then he climbed down into the engine room.

There was nothing in his face, as he entered, to reveal the paths of his thought. He was wholly casual, wholly commonplace, seemingly not in the least alarmed. He stepped to Bess’s side, half smiling.

“I wonder if you can help me?” he asked.

The girl stood up, a straight, athletic figure at his side. “I’ll try, of course.”

“It depends—have you any influence with young Cornet?”

Bess slowly shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she told him, very gravely. “I have no influence with him at all. What is it you wanted me to do?”

“I wanted you to tell him to put up the booze. Particularly to keep the captain from getting any more. This is a bum night. It’s against the rules of the sea to scare passengers, but somehow, I figure you’re the stuff that can stand it and maybe hold out. This isn’t a night to have a shipload of drunks. There may be some tight places before the morning.

“There’s only one way.” The girl’s lips were close to his ear, else he couldn’t have heard in the roar of the storm and the flapping of the sails. “Listen, McNab. How much has he got in the dining saloon?”

“None, now, I don’t think. He only brought up two bottles, and Knutsen’s got one of ’em—not much in it, though. They must have emptied the other.”

“Then we’re all clear.” She suddenly straightened, a look of unswervable intent in her face. “McNab, it’s better to make some one—violently mad at you—isn’t it, if maybe you can save him from trouble? If you want to see him get ahead and make a success of a big venture—it isn’t wrong, is it, to do something against his will that you know is right?”

McNab looked at her as before now he had looked at strong men with whom he had stood the watch. “What are you gettin’ at?”

His voice was gruff, but it didn’t offend her. She felt that they were on common ground.

“If may be human lives are the stake, a person can’t stand by for one man’s anger,” she went on.

“Human lives are the first consideration,” the man answered. “That’s the rule of the sea. Most sea rules are good rules—built on sense—all except the one that you can’t take the wheel away from a drunken captain. What’s your idea?”

“You know as well as I do. I promised his father before I left that I’d look after Ned. He was in earnest—and Ned needs looking after now if he ever did. Mr. Cornet won’t blame me, either. Show me how to get down in the hold.”

McNab suddenly chuckled and patted her on the back with rough familiarity, yet with fervent companionship. “You’ve got the stuff,” he said. “But you can’t lift them alone. I’m with you till the last dog is hung.”

X

On the exposed deck the storm met the two adventurers with a yell. For the first time Bess knew its full fury, as the wind buffeted her, and the sleet swept like fine shot into her face. They clung to the railing, then fought their way to the hold.

Hidden by the darkness and the sleet, no one saw them carry up the heavy liquor cases and drop them into the sea. The noise of the storm concealed the little sound they made. Finally only two bottles remained, the last of a broken case.

“You take one of those and ditch it in your room,” McNab advised. “I’ll keep the other. There might come a time when we’ll find real need for ’em—as a stimulant for some one who is freezing.”

“Take care of both of them,” Bess urged. “I’m not sure I could keep mine, if any one asked for it.”

“I don’t know about that. I believe I’d bet on you. And now it’s done—forget about it.”

Soon they crept back along the deck, McNab to his work, Bess to her stateroom. The latter ignited the lantern that served to light her room, and for a moment stood staring into the little mirror that hung above her washstand. She hadn’t escaped the fear of the night and the storm and of the bold deed she had just done. Her deep, blue eyes were wide, her face was pale, the childlike appeal Ned had noticed long ago was more pronounced than ever. Presently she sat down to await developments.

They were not long in coming. She and McNab had all but encountered Ned on his way to the hold. His bottles were empty, and the desire for strong drink had not left him yet. In the darkness under the deck he groped blindly for his cases.

They seemed to evade him. Breathing hard, he sought a match, scratching it against the wall. Then he stared in dumb and incredulous astonishment.

His stock of liquor was gone. Not even the cases were left. Thinking that perhaps some shift in the position of the stores had concealed them, he made a moment’s frantic search through the hold. Then, raging like a child, and in imminent danger of slipping on the perilous deck, he rushed to the pilot house.

“Captain, do you know what became of my liquors?” he demanded. “I can’t find them in the hold.”

The binnacle light revealed the frenzy and desperation on his drawn face; the mouth was no longer smiling its crooked, boyish smile. Knutsen glanced at him once, then turned his eyes once more over his wheel. For the moment he did not seem to be aware of Ned’s presence. He made, however, one significant motion: his brown hand reached out to the bottle beside him, in which perhaps two good drinks remained, and softly set it among the shadows at his feet.

“I say!” Ned urged. “I tell you my liquor’s gone!”

The captain seemed to be studying the yellow path that his searchlight cut in the darkness. The waves were white-capped and raging; the sleet swept out of the gloom, gleamed a moment in the yellow radiance, then sped on into the night.

“I heard you,” Knutsen answered slowly. “I was thinking about it. I haven’t any idea who took it—if he’s still got it, I’ll see that he gives it back. It was a dirty trick——”

“You don’t know, then, anything about it?” As he waited, Ned got the unmistakable idea that the captain neither knew nor really cared. He was more interested in retaining the two remaining drinks in his own bottle than in helping Ned regain his lost cases. These two were enough for him. It was wholly in keeping with that strange psychology of drunkards that he should have no further cares.

“Of course I don’t know anything about ’em—but I’ll help you investigate in the morning,” he answered. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Cornet—that it should happen aboard my ship——”

“To hell with your ship! I’m going to investigate to-night.”

Ned started out, but he halted in the doorway, arrested by a sudden suspicion. Presently he whirled and made his way to Bess’s stateroom.

He knocked sharply on the door. Bess opened it wide. Then for a long second he stared into her deep-blue, appealing eyes.

“I suppose you did it?” he demanded.

She nodded. “I did it—to save you—from yourself. Not to mention perhaps saving the ship as well.”

His lip drew up in scorn. Angry almost to the verge of childish tears, he could not at first trust himself to speak. “You’ve certainly taken things into your own hands,” he told her bitterly. His wrath gathered, breaking from him at last in a flood. “You ill-bred prude, I wish I could never lay eyes on you again!”

His scornful eyes saw the pain well into her face. Evidently he had gone the limit: he couldn’t have hurt her worse with a blow of his hand. Touched a little in spite of himself, he began to feel the first prick of remorse. Perhaps it had done no good to speak so cruelly. Certainly the whiskies could not be regained. Probably the fool thought she was acting for his own good. He turned, slammed the door, and strode back to the dining saloon.

It was by far the most bitter moment in Bess’s life. She had done right, but her payment was a curse from the man she had hoped to serve. All her castles had fallen: her dreams had broken like the bubbles they were. This was the answer to the calling in her heart and the longing in her soul,—the spoken wish that she might pass from his sight forever.

For the last few days, since they had entered this strange, snowy, twilight region, she had had dreams such as she had never dared admit into her heart before. Anything could happen up here. No wonder was too great. It was the kind of place where men found themselves, where all things were in proper balance, and false standards fell away. Some way, she had been on the lookout for a miracle. But the things which had been proven false, which could not live in this bitter world of realities, were her own dreams! They had been the only things that had died. She had been a fool to hope that here, at the wintry edge of the world, she might find the happiness she had missed in her native city. The world was with her yet, crushing her hopes as its rocky crust crushes the fallen nestling before it learns to fly!

But at his post McNab had already forgotten the episode of the liquor cases. Indeed, he had forgotten many other matters of much greater moment. At the present his mind was wholly occupied by two stern realities,—one of them being that the storm still raged in unabated fury, and the other that a drunken captain was driving his craft at a breakneck speed over practically uncharted waters.

The danger lay not only in the fact that Knutsen had disregarded McNab’s good advice to seek shelter in one of the island harbors. Even now he was disregarding the way of comparative safety, was not pausing to take soundings, but was racing along before the wind instead of heading into it with the power of the auxiliary engines. With wind and wave hurling her forward, there would be no chance to turn back or avoid any island reef that might suddenly loom in their path. Knutsen was trusting to his sea gods over waters he had never sailed before, torn by storms and lighted only by a feeble searchlight.

Once more McNab lifted his head through the hatch into the pilot house; and for long seconds he studied intently the flushed face over the wheel. They hadn’t really helped matters, so far as Knutsen was concerned, by throwing the cases overboard. Seemingly his watch would be over before the fumes of the liquor he had already consumed died in his brain. At present he was in its full flush: wholly reckless, obstinate, uncertain of temper. Was there any possible good in appealing to him further?

“What now?” Knutsen asked gruffly.

“You’ve forgotten all the seamanship you ever knew,” McNab returned angrily. “There’s no hurry about reaching Tzar Island. And you’re risking every body’s life on board, sailing the way you are.”

“Are you captain of dis boat?” Knutsen demanded angrily.

“No, but——”

“Den get out of here. I know exactly what I’m doing. You’re just as safe as——”

But it came about that Captain Knutsen did not finish the sentence. McNab was never to find out, from Knutsen’s lips, just how safe he was. All at once he cried sharply in warning.

Before ever Knutsen heard that sharp cry, he knew what lay ahead. Dulled though his vision was, slow the processes of his brain, he saw that curious ridge of white foam in front,—an inoffensive-looking trail of white across their bows. At the same instant his keen ears caught a new sound, one that was only half-revealed in the roar and beat of the storm.

There was not the pause of an instant before his great, muscular arms made response. At the same instant Forest tried to apply the power of his engines in obedience to the sharp gong from above. And then both Knutsen and McNab braced themselves for the shock they knew would come.

The craft seemed to leap in the water, shuddered like a living thing, and the swath of the searchlight described a long arc into the sleet and the storm. It may have been that Knutsen shouted again—a meaningless sound that was lost quickly in the wind—but for seconds that seemed to drag into interminable centuries he sat absolutely without outward sign of motion. His great hands clutched his wheel, the muscles were set and bunched, but it was as if the man had died and was frozen rigid in an instant of incredible tension. His face utterly without expression, Forest crouched beside his engines.

There was nothing that either of them could do. The waves and wind were a power no man could stay. All their efforts were as useless as Knutsen’s shout; already the little ship was in the remorseless grasp of a great billow that was hurling her toward the ridge of white foam in front. For another instant she seemed to hang suspended, as if suddenly taken wing, and then there was a sheer drop, a sense of falling out of the world. A queer ripping, tearing sound, not loud at all, not half so terrifying as the bluster of the wind, reached them from the hold.

Cold sober, Knutsen turned in his place and gonged down certain orders to Forest. In scarcely a moment, it seemed, they were pulling the battens from the two little lifeboats on the deck.

XI

Knutsen’s brain was entirely clear and sure as he gave his orders on the deck. His hand was steady as iron. His failure to master himself had brought disaster, but he knew how to master a ship at a time like this. From the instant the _Charon_ had struck the reef, he was the power upon that storm-swept deck, and whatever hope McNab had lay in him.

In the lantern light, blasted by the wind and in the midst of the surging waves, the scene had little semblance to reality. It was a mad dream from first to last, never to be clearly remembered by the survivors: a queer, confused jumble of vivid images that could never be straightened out. The head-light still threw its glare into the sleet-filled night. The biting, chill wind swept over the deck and into the darkness. The ship settled down like a leaden weight.