by Louis Tracy
CHAPTER VII
THE WRECK
Up to the last the ship's path was dogged by misfortune. She approachedHanover Island at a point where the sea was comparatively open; hence,the tremendous waves rolling in from the Pacific were not only uncheckedby island breakwaters, but their volume and force were actuallyincreased by the gradual upward trend of the rock floor.
Still, undaunted by conditions which suggested the plight of a doomedcraft being hurried to the lip of a cataract, keen eyes searched thefrowning coast-line for one of the many estuaries which pierced theland, some merely the mouths of short-lived rivers, others againcarrying the ocean currents to the very base of the Andes.
At last an opening did seem to present itself. The great rock walls,springing sheer from sea level to a height of a thousand feet or more,fell apart, and, so far as might be judged, a wide and deep channelflowed inland.
It was at this crisis, when life or death for all on board might dependon the veriest trifle, that the captain had to decide whether or not tolet go both anchors and endeavor to ride out the gale.
He was an experienced and cool-headed sailor. He knew quite well thatthe odds were heavy against an anchor holding in such ground, or, if itheld, against any cable standing the strain of a six-thousand-ton shipin that terrific sea. But, as Maseden learned subsequently, he soughtadvice.
The first and second officers were consulted in turn, and each confirmedtheir chief's opinion that the only practicable course was to run intothe passage which still offered a comparatively clear way ahead.
So the _Southern Cross_ sped on.
The second officer came forward with some of the crew to superintend thedropping of the anchor. The fourth officer took charge of the aftanchor. All other members of the crew stood by the boats.
Maseden, feeling oddly remote and unclassed among men of his own race,followed the second officer to the forecastle deck. There, at least, hecould stare his fill at the inferno of rock and broken water which thevessel was approaching, though even his landsman's eyes saw that she wasin a waterway of considerable width, while each mile now traversed musttend to diminish the seas and bring a secure anchorage within the boundsof possibility.
No one paid heed to him. Among these stolid sailor-men he was a "Dago,"a somewhat dandified specimen of the swaggering _vaqueros_ they had metat times in the drinking dens of South American ports. He was minded tohave speech with the second officer, and proclaim once and for all thathe was of the same kith and kin; but the impulse was stayed by a glanceat the set, resolute face, intent only on obeying a signal from thecaptain. It was no time for confidences. He questioned even if thesailor would have answered.
A touch on a lever would set a winch spinning as the anchor leaped toits task. The man charged with carrying out that duty without hitch ordelay could spare thought for nothing else.
One of the deck-hands, stationed near the chocks, chanced to be the verySpaniard whose life had been endangered by the falling block on the dayafter the ship left Cartagena. The ship's carpenter was ill, and theSpaniard was carpenter's mate.
Maseden caught his eye, and the man smiled wanly.
"You did me a good turn the other day, senor," he said. "Let me repayyou now."
"But how?" came the surprised inquiry.
"Underneath my bunk, the lowest one on the left in number seven berth,you will find my kit-bag. Beneath some clothes is a bottle of good oldbrandy. Get it, and drink it quickly."
"Why?"
"You will put a pint of honest liquor to good use, and in ten minutesyou won't care what happens."
"I have no desire to die drunk," said Maseden quietly.
The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders.
"You'll never have a better excuse for swallowing excellent cognac," hegrinned.
"Shut up, you two!" growled the officer.
He had not understood a word of their talk. He simply voiced theeminently American notion that anything said in the Spanish languagecould not be of the least importance just then.
Oddly enough, Maseden was angered by being thus outcasted, as it were.He was tempted to retort, but happily checked the words on his lips.Nerves were apt to be on a raw edge in such conditions, he remembered.Even the stern-faced ship's officer, awaiting a command which wouldsettle the fate of the _Southern Cross_ once and for all, might wellresent the magpie chattering of a couple of Spaniards.
Maseden turned for an instant to look at the bridge. The captain stoodthere, apparently the most unmoved person on board. The sails, tuggingfiercely at their rings and bolts, still kept the ship under control,notwithstanding the ten-knot tidal current which carried her onwardirresistibly. The foresail was bellied out to port, so the captainremained on the starboard side of the bridge, whence he had anuninterrupted view ahead.
Suddenly two cloaked figures emerged from the obscurity of thesmoking-room and hurried to the transverse rail which guarded the forepart of the promenade deck. With them came some men, among whom Masedenrecognized Sturgess; while another man, who caught the arm of one of thegirls in a helpless sort of way, was probably Mr. Gray.
Evidently there was no concealing the ship's peril from the passengersnow. Everyone wore a life-belt, and was clothed to resist the cold. Aplausible explanation of this general flocking out on to the deck wasthat they had discerned the cleft in the rocky heights through a blurredwindow, and refused to remain any longer in the sheltered uncertainty ofthe smoking-room.
At this period there was little or no difficulty in keeping one's feet.The great hull of the _Southern Cross_ swung easily on an even keel withthe onrush of the sea-river. The ship was not fighting now, butyielding--a complacent leviathan held captive by a most puissant andruthless enemy.
During the few seconds Maseden stared at the veiled women. One of thosetwo--which one he could not tell--was his wife. It was the maddest, mostfantastic thing he had ever heard of. In a spirit of sheer deviltry hewaved a greeting. One of the girls raised a hand to her face--perhaps toher lips.
What did it matter? In all human probability that was their eternalfarewell. He waved again, and turned resolutely to scan the frowningheadlands now rapidly closing in on both sides of the vessel's path.
About that time a new and disturbing sound reached his ears. Hithertothere had been nothing but the unceasing chant of the gale, the thud andswish of the seas, the steady plaint of the ship, and an occasionalcrash like a volley of musketry when the crest was torn off some giantroller and flung against poop or superstructure. But now there came acrashing, booming noise, irregular, yet almost continuous, and evergrowing louder and more insistent; a noise almost exactly similar todistant gun-fire and the snarling explosions of heavy projectiles.
It was the noise of the bitterest and longest war ever waged. Those oldenemies, sea and land, were engaged in deadly combat, and, as ever, thesea was winning.
Even while the _Southern Cross_ swung past an overhanging fortress ofrock, a mighty bastion crumbled into ruin. It was singular to watch acloud of dust mingle with the spindrift--to note how the next breakerclimbed higher in assault over the vantage ground provided by thesuccessful sap.
A disconcerting feature of the ship's hurried transit into thisunchartered territory was the clearness with which all things werevisible above a height of some twelve feet from the surface of the sea;whereas, below that level, the clouds of spray and flying scud formed analmost impenetrable wall.
Taking his eyes from the everchanging panorama, Maseden looked over theside. The foam-flecked water was black but fairly transparent. In itsdepths he was astounded by the sight of writhing, sinister shapes likethe arms of innumerable devil-fish.
At first he experienced a shock of surprise so close akin to horror thathe felt the chill of it, as though one of these fearsome tentacles werealready twined around his shrinking body. Then he realized that he hadbeen startled by some gigantic species of seaweed. The ship was crossinga submarine forest. Down there in the depths on this January day in thesouthern hemi
sphere some mysterious form of plant life was enjoying itsleafy June.
But science had no joys for him in that hour. Better the outlook on cragand clearing sky than a furtive glimpse of the limbs and foliage ofthat monstrous growth.
All at once a cry from the look-out in the bows sent a quiver throughevery hearer.
"Rock ahead!"
After a pause, measured by seconds, but seeming like as many minutes,the same voice shouted:
"Channel opens to starboard!"
The ship answered the helm. She swept past a jagged little islet soclosely that a sailor could have cast a coil of rope ashore.
Forthwith another sound mingled with the crash of the breakers. The rockhad been bored right through by the waves, and the gale set up a note inthe tunnel such as no organ-builder ever dreamed of.
That mighty chord pursued the _Southern Cross_ for nearly half a mile.It was a melancholy and depressing wail. Maseden, whose faculties weresupernaturally alert, noticed that the South American sailor's face hadturned a sickly green. The man was paralyzed with fright. His right handfumbled in a weak attempt to cross himself.
Out of the tail of his eye the second officer caught the gesture.
"Pull yourself together, you swab!" he said bitingly. "What the hellgood will you be if you give way like that?"
The Spaniard grasped the sense of command in the words rather than theirmeaning. He was no coward. He even contrived to grin. It was a tonic tobe cursed by an American, even though the pierced rock howled like alost soul!
Still the _Southern Cross_ drove on. The tidal stream was, if anything,swifter than ever, but the size of the waves had diminished sensibly.The walls of the straits had closed in to within a half-mile span. Therecould not be the slightest doubt that the vessel was actually passingthrough one of the waterways which connect the Pacific with Smyth'sChannel.
Maseden, after scanning the interior highlands for the hundredth time,glanced again at the second officer. The grimness of the clean-cut,stern face had somewhat relaxed. Quite unconsciously the sailor'sexpression showed that hope had replaced calm-visaged despair. Given anunhindered run of another mile, the ship could at least drop anchor withsome prospect of success.
The strength of the tide would diminish in less than an hour, and itmight be possible to maneuver in the slack water for a comparativelysafe berth. Next day, if the weather moderated as promised by thebarometer, the steam pinnace could spy out the land in front.
Smyth's Channel was not so far away--perhaps fifty miles. Once there,the _Southern Cross_ could repair damage and proceed under her own steamto Punta Arenas.
A gleam of yellow light irradiated the surface mist, which had grownmarkedly denser. The clouds were parting, and the sun was vouchsafingsome thin rays from the northwest.
The mere sight was cheering. The blood ran warmer in the veins. It wasas though the ship's company, after days and nights of cold andstarvation, had been miraculously supplied with food and hot liquids.
Then the golden radiance died away, and simultaneously came the cry:
"Reef ahead!"
There was no need for further warning by the men in the bows. The_Southern Cross_ had hardly traveled her own length before every personin the fore part of the ship, together with the occupants of bridge andpromenade deck, became aware that a seemingly impassable barrier layright across the channel. At the same time the line of cliffs fell awayto the southward.
Beyond the reef, then, lay a wide stretch of land-locked water; itsunexpected existence explained the frantic haste of the tidal current.It was cruel luck that nature should have thrown one of her defensiveworks across that bottle-neck entrance. A few cables' lengths away wassafety; here, unavoidable--sullen and rigid as death himself--were therock fangs.
At the supreme moment the second officer never turned his head. His eyeswere riveted on the motionless figure standing on the starboard side ofthe bridge.
The captain raised his hand; the sails flapped loudly in the wind; bothanchors splashed overboard with hoarse rattling of chains. The afteranchor failed, but the forward one held at a depth of ten fathoms.
The second officer was quick to note the sudden strain, and easedit--once, twice, three times. But it was now or never. The ship wasswinging in the stream, and her stern-post would just clear the fringeof the reef if the anchor made good its grip.
The _Southern Cross_ had gone round, with a heavy lurch to port, causedby the tremendous pressure of wind and wave, and was almost stationarywhen the cable parted. The thick chain flew back with all the impetus ofsix thousand tons in motion behind it.
Missing Maseden by a hair's breadth, it struck the foretop, and the sparsnapped like a carrot. It fell forward, and the identical block whichhad nearly brought about the death of the South American sailor nowcaught his rescuer on the side of the head.
In the same instant a heavy stay dragged Maseden bodily over thefore-rail and he pitched headlong to the deck, where, however, theactual fall was broken by the stout canvas of the sail.
A woman screamed, but he could not hear, being knocked insensible.
"All hands amidships!" shouted the captain, and there was a race for theladders. One man, however, the Spaniard, stooped over the youngAmerican's body. His eyes were streaming with tears.
"Good-by, friend!" he sobbed. "Maybe this is a better way than thatopened by my bottle of brandy!"
He was sure that the _vaquero_ who swore like an _Americano_ had beenkilled, because blood was flowing freely from a scalp wound; but helifted Maseden's inert form, and, without any valid reason behind theaction, placed him in his bunk, as the cabin door stood open.
Then he ran after the others.
Poor fellow! He little dreamed that he was repaying a thousand-fold thefew extra days of life the good-looking _vaquero_ had given him.
Almost immediately the ship struck. There was a fearsome crash ofrending plates and torn ribs, the great vessel reeled over, struck againand bumped clear of the outer reef.
Now, too late, the after anchor lodged in a sunken crevice; the cabledid not yield, because the vessel was sucked into a sort of backwash anddriven, bow on, close to an apparently unscalable cliff.
She settled rapidly. As it happened a submerged rock smashed herkeel-plate beneath the engine-room, and the engines, together with thestout framework to which the superstructure was bolted amidships, becameanchored there, offering a new obstacle to the onward race of the seaspouring over the reef.
Every boat was either smashed instantaneously or wrenched bodily fromits davits. Two-thirds of the hull fell away almost at once, theforecastle tilting towards the cliff, and the poop being swept into deepwater.
With the after part went at least half the ship's company, their lastcries of despair being smothered by the continuous roar of the wind andthe thunder of the waves. The bridge, with the rooms immediately below,remained fairly upright, but the smoking-room, and officers' quartersclose to it, were swept by water breast high.
Some one--who it was will never be known--had ordered the passengers torun into the smoking-room when the forward cable parted. Now, with themagnificent courage invariably shown by American sailors even when thegates of death gape wide before their eyes, the first and secondofficers contrived to hoist the two girls to the chart-room behind thebridge.
Sturgess, behaving with great gallantry, helped the women first, andthen their father, who was floating in the room, to reach the onlyavailable gangway. Others followed, but the difficulty of rescue--ifsuch a sorrowful transition might be called a rescue--was enhanced bythe noise and sudden darkness.
Ever the central citadel of the _Southern Cross_ was sinking lower. Everthe leaping waves and their clouds of spray tended more and more to shutout the light.
Seven people were plucked from immediate death in this fashion. Alltold, officers, crew and passengers, the survivors of seventy-four soulsnumbered twelve.
There was a thirteenth, because Maseden was lying high and dry in hisbunk. But of him
they took no count.
They gathered in the chart-room. Those who still retained their sensestried to revive the more fortunate ones to whom was vouchsafed amerciful oblivion of their common plight. Even in the temporary haven ofthe chart-room the conditions quickly savored of utter misery. Thewindows were blown away. The doors were jammed open by the warping ofthe deck. Wind, waves and sheets of spray seemed to vie with demoniacenergy as to which could be most cruel and deadly. The ceaselesswarping and working of what was left of the ship presaged completecollapse at any moment, and the din of the reef was stupefying.
Still, the captain did not abate one jot of his cool demeanor. He eyedthe sea, the rocks, the remains of his ship and the beetling crags fromwhich he was cut off by sixty feet of raging water.
Then he deliberately turned his back on it all. Going to a locker, heproduced a screwdriver and began methodically drawing the screws of thedoor-hinges.
The chief officer thought that the other man's brain had yielded to thestress.
"What are you doing, sir?" he said, placing a hand gently on hisfriend's shoulder.
"We haven't a ten-million to one chance of remaining here till the galegives out," was the calm answer, "but we may as well rig up some sort ofprotection from the weather. There are four lockers and four doors.Let's block up those broken windows as well as we can."
A curiously admiring light shone in the chief officer's eyes. He saidnothing, but helped. Soon a corner was completely walled. They decidedit was better to have one section thoroughly shielded than the wholeonly partially.
They made a quick job of it. The girls, Mr. Gray, and two men recoveringconsciousness were allotted to the angle.
Then the captain opened one of the three bottles of claret stored in alocker, and portioned out the contents among the survivors.
There was no need to measure the share of a heavily-built Spaniard whowas reputed to be a wealthy rancher from the Argentine. His spine wasbroken when the ship lurched over the reef. He was found dead when theytried to move him to the sheltered corner.
And now a pall of darkness spread swiftly over the face of the waters.The tide fell, but the ship sank with it. She no longer rocked and shookunder the blows of the waves. It seemed as though she knew herselfcrippled beyond all hope of succor, and only awaited another tide tomeet annihilation.
Wind and sea were more furious than ever. In all likelihood, the galewould blow itself out next day. But long before dawn the rising tidewould have made short work of what was left of the _Southern Cross_.
Never was a small company of Christian people in a more hopelessposition. Every boat was gone. They had no food. They were wet to theskin, and pierced with bitter cold. Even the hardy captain's teethchattered as he took a pipe from his pocket, rolled some tobacco betweenthe palms of his hands, and said smilingly to those near him:
"This is one of the occasions when a water-tight pipe-lighter is a realtreasure. Who'd like a smoke? You must find your own pipes. I can supplysome 'baccy and a light!"
