Frank refrained from pointing out to her that she had been just as determined to get to Skagway as Captain Hoffman was, if not more so. That wouldn’t do any good.
Fiona pawed hair out of her eyes and moaned. “We’re all going to die,” she said. “Frank…Frank, come in my cabin and hold me. I…I don’t want to die alone.”
“None of us are going to die,” he told her. “And I’m covered with melting ice right now.”
“I don’t care.” She clutched at his arms. “I’m so scared, I can’t be alone—”
With a grinding racket, the ship gave a sudden lurch. The deck tilted for a second under Frank’s feet, then settled back. That tilt was enough to throw Fiona into his arms. She screamed in fear as she fell against him. He held on tightly to her to keep her from toppling to the floor.
Eyes wide, she stared up at him and exclaimed, “Oh, my God! We hit something! We’re going to sink!”
“No, we’re not,” Frank said, although he didn’t know if that was true. “I’ll go find the captain and see what happened.”
By now, the doors of the other cabins were opening and the brides started to pour out into the corridor. Fear had banished their sickness for the moment. Several of them cried out, demanding to know what was going on.
Meg Goodwin was really the only one who didn’t look like she was on the verge of hysteria. Frank called her over and practically thrust Fiona into her arms.
“Take care of Mrs. Devereaux,” he said. “I’ll go find out what’s going on.”
“We hit something,” Meg said. “It’s just a matter of how bad the damage is.”
Frank figured she was right about that. He said, “I’ll be back as quick as I can.”
He left the crowd of panicky women in the corridor and ran up the stairs to the deck. Something felt wrong, and as he emerged from the hatch, he could tell what it was. The ship had started to list a little to the right. Starboard, that was what the sailors called it, Frank told himself, then shoved that thought aside because it didn’t matter now. The important thing was that the Montclair must have suffered some serious damage, or it wouldn’t be tilting like that.
As he hurried toward the bridge, slipping a little on the ice that coated the deck, he saw that a frigid fog had closed in around the ship, but through those billows of white, he saw dark, hulking shapes sliding past. Ice-mantled pine trees thrust up from some of them. The ship was in the middle of a bunch of rocks and tiny islands, Frank realized. That meant they were a lot closer to shore than he had thought they were.
He wondered if Hoffman had known just how close those rocks were. Frank had a hunch that they had taken the captain by surprise.
Unfortunately, the storm was as fierce as ever. The waves tossed the Montclair back and forth. Frank felt the deck shuddering under his feet as the engines strained mightily to keep up. As he started to climb the steps to the bridge, he heard a dull boom somewhere from the bowels of the ship, and felt an even stronger shudder go through the vessel.
“Damn it,” he said under his breath. He didn’t know what the explosion meant, but it couldn’t be anything good. A boiler bursting, maybe?
He stumbled onto the bridge, saw Hoffman wrestling with the wheel while he shouted orders to several officers clustered around him. Over the howling of the wind, Frank caught one of the commands.
“Ready the lifeboats!”
Frank Morgan wasn’t the sort of man who ever gave in to despair, but even his fighting heart sank a little at the sound of those words. Hoffman wouldn’t order his men to prepare the lifeboats unless he planned to abandon the ship, and he wouldn’t abandon ship unless it was sinking. Frank glanced out at the storm-tossed waves and the jagged rocks sticking up through them like fangs. The thought of trusting his life and the lives of Fiona and the brides to a little boat in that maelstrom made a chill even icier than the wind go through him.
“Captain!” Frank shouted as he came up behind Hoffman. “Captain, what can I do to help?”
Hoffman spun toward him. “Morgan! Get those women together and into a lifeboat! The ship’s going down!”
“Do you have enough lifeboats for everybody?”
“Of course! They’ll be crowded, but we can make it! I recognize these islands! We’re not far from Glacier Bay. I…I miscalculated somehow!” Hoffman’s pale face under the rain hat was stricken as he made that admission. “But the current will carry the boats in to shore if they can stay off the rocks! You’ll be all right! Take as many supplies as you can, and if you follow the shoreline, it’ll take you to Skagway!”
The idea of trekking a hundred miles or more overland in weather like this wasn’t very appealing, but it beat the hell out of drowning in the icy Pacific, Frank thought. He nodded and turned to hurry back belowdecks.
Fiona and Meg were waiting for him, and to his surprise, so were Pete Conway, Neville, and a couple of other gold-hunters. Fiona grabbed his arm and asked, “What did the captain say?”
“Get some warm clothes on and grab everything else you can,” Frank said. “We’re abandoning ship.”
“So it is sinking!” Conway exclaimed. “We hit a rock or something, didn’t we?”
Frank nodded. “That’d be my guess. The same thing goes for you and your friends, Pete. Grab as many supplies as you can and head for the lifeboats.”
Conway looked scared, but he didn’t waste time asking any more questions. He turned to the others and said, “Let’s go, fellows.”
The next few minutes were barely controlled chaos. Frank made sure that the women were gathering supplies and understood what they were supposed to do; then he headed for the cargo hold where Stormy, Goldy, and Dog were. The horses would have to swim for shore. They wouldn’t fit in a lifeboat. He knew their chances of survival were slim, but he couldn’t leave them here. If any animals had the strength, stamina, and gallant hearts to make it through this ordeal, it was Stormy and Goldy.
The horses were frightened but not panicking. Dog barked furiously as Frank swung down into the hold. He came to Frank and reared up to slobber on his face. Frank grinned and roughed up the thick fur around Dog’s neck. “Stay with me, boy,” he said. “We’ll find room for you in the lifeboat.”
He looked around for the heavy planks that formed the ramp, intending to put them in place so that Stormy and Goldy could get out of there. He had just found them when a couple of sailors dropped into the hold.
“Captain Hoffman sent us to help you!” one of the men said. “He figured you’d want to get those horses of yours out of there!”
“Thanks!” Frank said. “Let’s get that ramp up!”
With grunts of effort, Frank and the two sailors wrestled the planks into place. Then Frank said, “We’ll need some of these supplies when we get to shore. Load as many of the crates as you can into the lifeboats!”
The men got busy with that while Frank slipped harnesses on the two horses and led them up the ramp to the deck. It was slippery for them, too, and he worried they might fall and break a leg before they ever got off the ship.
The women staggered up from below, their arms full of bundles. One of the ship’s officers had them place the supplies in one lifeboat, then climb into another themselves. “Hang on, ladies!” he told them, lifting his voice over the gale. “We’re about to swing you over the side!”
Several of the women screamed as the boat swung out on its davits and then was lowered to the stormy sea. It bobbed and leaped, and they had to hang on for dear life.
Frank bit back a curse as he watched. He wished he was in the same lifeboat, but it was too late to do anything about that. He’d been too busy loading supplies to stop.
Pete Conway came up beside him, grunting with the effort of carrying a crate. “I don’t know…what’s in here…Mr. Morgan,” the young man said, “but I reckon…we can probably use it!”
Frank recognized the crate containing the rifles, pistols, and ammunition and realized that Conway was carrying by himself what it had tak
en two sailors to load onto the ship. He took hold of it and helped Conway put it in one of the lifeboats.
Captain Hoffman came along the deck, shouting, “All passengers in the lifeboats! All passengers off! Abandon ship! Abandon ship!” He paused and looked at Frank. “God, I’m sorry, Morgan! I…I don’t know what happened!”
Frank didn’t say anything. He didn’t know if Hoffman was truly to blame for this catastrophe or if it was purely a case of bad luck, and right now he didn’t care. He took hold of Conway’s arm and said, “Climb in, Pete! I’ll be right back!”
He hurried over to his horses, grabbed their harnesses, and led them toward the edge of the deck where a section of railing had been swung out to let the lifeboats through. “You boys are gonna have to swim for it!” he told them. “I never had a better pair of trail partners! I’ll see you on shore!”
Frank didn’t know if the horses would jump off into the water or not. He didn’t have a chance to find out, because at that moment someone yelled, “Look out! The rocks!” and the Montclair gave a violent lurch. A rending crash of wood and metal and rock filled the air. The impact threw Frank off his feet.
He landed on the icy deck and slid toward the edge. Twisting, he slapped at the deck to try to slow himself, but the ship kept tilting. Timbers groaned and snapped and bulkheads crumpled as the waves drove it against a giant rock. Frank had no chance to stop his slide.
Like a rocket, he shot off the deck and plummeted toward the icy water below.
Chapter 13
The fall tried to suck all the breath out of Frank’s body. He managed to drag a little air into his lungs just before he hit the water. It slammed against him like a frozen fist, and as he went under, its frigid grip closed around him and threatened to squeeze the very life out of him. Fighting against the panic that welled up inside him, he kicked hard in an effort to propel himself back to the surface.
Something struck a heavy blow against his shoulder. He spun around and grabbed at it. His hand came out of the water. Someone grabbed it and hauled hard, lifting him. Frank’s head broke the surface. He gasped for air through teeth that began to chatter involuntarily as the wind hit his soaked body.
His rescuer wrapped brawny arms around him and hauled him up, into one of the lifeboats. The small part of Frank’s brain that was still functioning in spite of the cold told him that the boat was what he had rammed with his shoulder.
“Gather around him! Get him out of the wind!” That was Pete Conway’s voice bellowing orders. Obviously, the boat containing Conway and some of the supplies had made it into the water. Frank felt bodies crowding around him, and it was a blessed relief as they cut the wind. He still felt like he was frozen through and through. The water had sapped every bit of warmth out of his body.
Frank couldn’t see anything. His eyes seemed to be frozen shut. He lifted a hand and pawed clumsily at them, finally forcing them open.
His sight returned in time for him to see the Montclair break up on the jagged rocks. The waves threw spume and broken boards high in the air as the ship splintered apart into sections. Frank didn’t know if anyone was left on board, but if they were, he didn’t see how they could survive such devastation. It was one of the most terrible things he had ever seen.
He looked around, hoping to see the other lifeboats or maybe even Stormy or Goldy swimming for shore, but there was too much fog, too many crashing waves. As far as he could tell, the narrow boat containing him, Conway, half a dozen other cheechakos, and some crates of supplies was alone on the vast, storm-tossed sea.
“Look out!” one of the men yelled. A rock loomed up in front of them. The lifeboat seemed to be headed straight for it, but somehow the current carried it past.
They weren’t as lucky the next time. A man screamed as a wave lifted the boat and brought it crashing down against a rock. The boat broke in half, dumping men and crates into the water. Frank grabbed one of the crates as he fell, and this time he didn’t go all the way under. As the crate bobbed up, carrying him with it, he looked around, hoping to spot Conway.
Someone was thrashing around nearby. Frank held on to the crate with one arm and used the other to paddle toward the man. His muscles didn’t want to work very well because of the cold, but he managed to make enough headway that he could reach out and grab the man’s coat. He pulled the man closer and yelled, “Grab the crate! Grab the crate!”
Pete Conway’s head broke the surface. His blond hair was plastered to his skull. He flailed around for a second before he got one arm wrapped around the crate. With both Frank’s and Conway’s weight on it, the crate rode low in the water. It might not be enough to keep them both afloat. Frank looked around, spotted another crate floating nearby, and kicked them toward it. Once the second crate was within reach, he let go of the first one and grabbed it instead.
It was a struggle to think. His brain seemed to be slowing down more and more in the cold. But Frank could feel the current and remembered what Hoffman said about it carrying them to shore. He yelled, “Pete! Pete!” until he got Conway’s attention, then pointed in that direction. “Kick, Pete! Kick!”
Hanging on to the crates, they began trying to swim, helping the current carry them in. Frank’s muscles were really stiffening up, though, and he knew that Conway had to be experiencing the same thing.
“Hold on! Kick!”
They would freeze to death in just a few more minutes, Frank knew. The blood would thicken in their veins and cease to flow. Their stiff, brittle fingers would slip off the crates. They would sink below the surface as the cold, briny water filled their lungs, and their lives would be over.
“No!”
Frank didn’t know if he yelled the word out loud, or if the defiant shout was only in his head. But he knew he wasn’t going to give up and allow death to claim him without a fight. As long as there was breath in his body, he would continue to struggle against fate.
“Kick, Pete! Hang on and kick, damn it!”
Slowly, foot by foot, the two men struggled on, borne ceaselessly toward an unknown destiny.
Later, Frank didn’t know if he lost consciousness somewhere along the way, or if he simply blocked out the incredible torment his body suffered on the way to shore. All he knew for sure was that he lying on solid ground again, and his mouth was filled with sand.
He lifted his head, sputtering and choking as he spit out the sand. As he looked around, he saw pine trees nearby, with strands of fog twined around their branches. The trees bordered a narrow beach that disappeared in the fog in both directions.
A few yards away, Pete Conway lay facedown on the sand as well. The crates he and Frank had been clinging to sat there with water swirling in and out around them. Frank forced his frozen muscles to work and crawled over to Conway.
“Pete!” he called as he fumbled to take hold of the young man’s shoulder with stiff fingers. “Pete, wake up!”
For a moment, Frank thought Conway was dead. But then the cheechako let out a groan, then coughed and choked on the sand that filled his mouth, too. He managed to roll onto his side and rasped, “Mister…Morgan?”
Frank tugged at Conway’s sodden coat. “Come on.” Through chattering teeth, he added, “L-let’s g-get into the trees.”
On hands and knees at first, then forcing themselves upright into a stumbling walk, the two men made it to the trees and sank down among them. The thick trunks blocked the wind, and the canopy of interwoven branches was solid enough so that the carpet of fallen needles was somewhat dry.
“A f-fire,” Frank said. “We need a fire.”
He didn’t know if any of the other lifeboats had made it to shore, didn’t know about Fiona or the young women, Dog or Stormy or Goldy. But at this moment there was only room in his stunned brain for one thing: survival.
And survival meant a fire.
“How…how can we build a fire?” Conway asked. “We’re…we’re soaked…we don’t have…any matches…”
Frank’s hands felt twice t
heir normal size. If he had to make a fast draw right now, he would have been out of luck.
He couldn’t have pulled an iron anyway, he realized, since his holster was empty. His Colt was gone.
But the bowie knife that was sheathed on his left hip was still there, held in place by the rawhide thong attached to the sheath. His heart leaped with hope as he touched the knife’s handle. He forced his hand into one of the pockets of his jeans, searching, searching…
It was there. The piece of flint that he habitually carried was still in his pocket. He fished it out, fumbling with it, then held it tightly in one hand while he used the other to scrape up a mound of pine needles. They had been falling here for centuries, slowly decaying into a fine, powdery carpet. When he had a nice little mound, he drew the knife.
Flint and steel…an ancient solution to the age-old problem of being cold and wet. He struck the flint against the blade and sent a few tiny sparks flying into the air. They fell on the heap of pine needles and duff, but no flames resulted. Frank struck flint and steel together again and again and again…
He lost track of how many tries it took before a tiny, almost invisible thread of smoke climbed into the air from the pile. Frank leaned closer, saw the spark still glowing faintly, blew on it gently. The glow became brighter. Frank blew on it again.
A little tongue of flame licked up.
Frank sent up a prayer of thanksgiving to El Señor Dios. A couple more pine needles caught fire and curled as they burned, spreading the flame to the others around them. Frank held his hands over the little fire and winced at the unfamiliar heat it gave off. It seemed like a thousand years since he had been anything except frozen.
“Pete! Pete, warm your hands. We got to get the blood flowing again so we won’t get frostbite.”
Conway didn’t respond. Frank glanced over at the young man and saw that he was leaning against a tree trunk with his eyes closed. Again, Frank thought for a second that Conway was dead, but then he saw the cheechako’s massive chest rising and falling shallowly.
Winter Kill Page 9
