The Wreck of the Titan - Morgan Robertson (electronic reader txt) 📗

sea on each beam, but nothing ahead or astern; nor could he hear voices on deck unless pitched in a high key, for the men, their training strong upon them, remained forward.

There was nothing on either horizon at present. The boat was storming along to the southward, as he knew by a glance at the "telltale" overhead, and all seemed well with the runaways until a sudden stopping of the engines roused him up, to peer out the deadlights, and speculate as to what was ahead.

But he saw nothing, from either side, and strained his ears for sounds from the deck. There was excitement above. Voices from forward came to him, muffled, but angry and argumentative. They grew louder as the men came aft, and soon he could distinguish Jenkins' loud profanity, drowning the protests of the others.

"She's afire and her boats are burned. There's a woman aboard. I tell you we're not going to let 'em drown. Over with that boat, or I'll stretch some o' you out on deck— Oh, you will, Forsythe?"

Then came a thud, as of the swift contact of two hard objects, and a sound as of a bag of potatoes falling to the deck, which told Denman that some one had been knocked down.

"Go ahead with the machine, Sampson," said Jenkins again, "and forward, there. Port your wheel, and steer for the yacht."

Denman sprang to a starboard deadlight and looked. He could now see, slantwise through the thick glass, a large steam yacht, afire from her mainmast to her bow, and on the still intact quarter-deck a woman frantically beckoning. Men, nearer the fire, seemed to be fighting it.

The picture disappeared from view as the boat, under the impulse of her engines and wheel, straightened to a course for the wreck. Soon the engines stopped again, and Denman heard the sounds of a boat being lowered. He saw this boat leave the side, manned by Hawkes, Davis, Forsythe, and Kelly, but it soon left his field of vision, and he waited.

Then came a dull, coughing, prolonged report, and the voices on deck broke out.

"Blown up!" yelled Jenkins. "She's sinking forward! She's cut in two! Where are they? Where's the woman? That wasn't powder, Riley. What was it?"

"Steam," answered the machinist, coolly. "They didn't rake the fires until too late, I suppose, and left the engine under one bell possibly, while they steered 'fore the wind with the preventer tiller."

"They've got somebody. Can you see? It's the woman! Blown overboard. See any one else? I don't."

Riley did not answer, and soon Jenkins spoke again.

"They're coming back. Only the woman—only the woman out o' the whole crowd."

"They'd better hurry up," responded Riley. "What's that over to the nor'ard?"

"Nothing but a tramp," said Jenkins, at length. "But we don't want to be interviewed. Bear a hand, you fellows," he shouted. "Is the woman dead?"

"No—guess not," came the answer, through the small deadlight. "Fainted away since we picked her up. Burned or scalded, somewhat."

CHAPTER VI

Denman saw the boat for a moment or two as it came alongside, and noticed the still form of the woman in the stern sheets, her face hidden by a black silk neckerchief. Then he could only know by the voices that they were lifting her aboard and aft to the captain's quarters. But he was somewhat surprised to see the door that led to these quarters opened by Jenkins, who beckoned him.

"We've picked up a poor woman, sir," he said, "and put her in here. Now, we're too busy on deck to 'tend to her, Mr. Denman, and then—we don't know how; but—well, you're an educated man, and a gentleman. Would you mind? I've chased the bunch out, and I won't let 'em bother you. It's just an extension of your cruising radius."

"Certainly," said Denman. "I'll do what I can for her."

"All right, sir. I'll leave this door open, but I must lock the after companion."

He went on deck by the wardroom stairs, while Denman passed through to the woman. She lay on a transom, dripping water from her clothing to the carpet, and with the black cloth still over her face; but, on hearing his footsteps, she removed it, showing a countenance puffed and crimson from the scalding of the live steam that had blown her overboard. Then, groaning pitifully, she sat up, and looked at him through swollen eyelids.

"What is it?" she exclaimed, weakly. "What has happened? Where is father?"

"Madam," said Denman, gently, "you have been picked up from a steam yacht which exploded her boilers. Are you in pain? What can I do for you?"

"I don't know. Yes, I am in pain. My face."

"Wait, and I will get you what I can from the medicine-chest."

Denman explored the surgeon's quarters, and returned with bandages and a mixture of linseed oil and lime water. He gently laved and bound the poor woman's face, and then led her to the captain's berth.

"Go in," he said. "Take off your wet clothes, and put on his pajamas. Here they are"—he produced them from a locker—"and then turn in. I will be here, and will take care of you."

He departed, and when he saw the wet garments flung out, he gathered them and hung them up to dry. It was all he could do, except to look through the surgeon's quarters for stimulants, which he found. He poured out a strong dose of brandy, which he gave to the woman, and had the satisfaction of seeing her sink into profound slumber; then, returning to the wardroom, he found Jenkins waiting for him.

"I am after a sextant, Mr. Denman," he said, "an almanac—a nautical almanac. Forsythe wants them."

"You must find them yourself, then," answered Denman. "Neither under parole nor confinement will I aid you in any way unless you surrender."

"Nonsense," said Jenkins, impatiently, as he stepped past Denman, and approached a bookcase. "When we're through with the boat you can have her."

He had incautiously turned his back. Denman saw the protruding butt of his pistol in Jenkins' pocket, and, without any formulated plan for the future, only seeing a momentary advantage in the possession of the weapon, pounced on his shoulders, and endeavored to secure it.

But he was not able to; he could only hold on, his arms around Jenkins' neck, while the big sailor hove his huge body from side to side, and, gripping his legs, endeavored to shake him off.

No word was spoken—only their deep breathing attested to their earnestness, and they thrashed around the wardroom like a dog and a cat, Denman, in the latter similitude, in the air most of the time. But he was getting the worst of it, and at last essayed a trick he knew of, taught him in Japan, and to be used as a last resort.

Gripping his legs tightly around the body of Jenkins, he sagged down and pressed the tips of his forefingers into two vulnerable parts of the thick neck, where certain important nerves approach the surface—parts as vulnerable as the heel of Achilles. Still clinging, he mercilessly continued the pressure, while Jenkins swayed back and forth, and finally fell backward to the floor.

Denman immediately secured the pistol; then, panting hard, he examined his victim. Jenkins was breathing with the greatest difficulty, but could not speak or move, and his big eyes glared piteously up at his conqueror. The latter would have ironed him at once, but the irons were forward in the armroom, so he temporarily bound him hand and foot with neckties replevined from his fellow officers' staterooms.

Then, relieving Jenkins of his keys, he went through the forward door to the armroom, from which he removed, not only wrist and leg arms, but every cutlass and service revolver that the boat was stocked with, and a plentiful supply of ammunition.

First properly securing the still inert and helpless Jenkins, he dragged him to a corner, and then stowed the paraphernalia of war in his room, loading as many as a dozen of the heavy revolvers.

He was still without a plan, working under intense excitement, and could only follow impulses, the next of which was to lock the wardroom companion down which Jenkins had come, and to see that the forward door and the after companion were secured. This done, he sat down abreast of his prisoner to watch him, and think it out. There was no change in Jenkins; he still breathed hard, and endeavored unsuccessfully to speak, while his eyes—the angry glare gone from them—looked up inquiringly.

"Oh, you're all right, Captain Jenkins," said Denman. "You'll breathe easier to-morrow, and in a week, perhaps, you may speak in a whisper; but you are practically deprived from command. So make the best of it."

Jenkins seemed willing to, but this did not solve the problem; there were twelve other recalcitrants on deck who might not be so easily jujutsued into weakness and dumbness.

As the situation cleared, he saw two ways of solving it, one, to remain below, and from the shelter of his room to pot them one by one as they came down; the other, to take the initiative, assert himself on deck behind the menace of cocked revolvers, and overawe them into submission.

The first plan involved hunger, for he could eat nothing not provided by them; the other, a quick and certain ending of the false position he was in—a plan very appealing to his temperament.

He rose to his feet with a final inspection of Jenkins' bonds, and, going to his room, belted and armed himself with three heavy revolvers, then opened the wardroom companion door, and stepped to the deck. No one was in sight, except the man at the wheel, not now steering in the close, armored conning tower, but at the upper wheel on the bridge.

He looked aft, and, spying Denman, gave a shout of warning.

But no one responded, and Denman, with a clear field, advanced forward, looking to the right and left, until he reached the engine-room hatch, down which he peered. Riley's anxious face looked up at him, and farther down was the cringing form of King, his mate of the starboard watch. Denman did not know their names, but he sternly commanded them to come up.

"We can't leave the engines, sir," said Riley, shrinking under the cold argument of two cold, blue tubes pointed at them.

"Shut off your gas, and never mind your engines," commanded Denman. "Come up on deck quietly, or I'll put holes in you."

King shut off the gas, Riley turned a valve that eased off the making steam, and the two appeared before Denman.

"Lie down on deck, the two of you," said Denman, sharply. "Take off your neckerchiefs, and give them to me."

They obeyed him. He took the two squares of black silk—similar to that which had covered the face of the rescued woman, and with them he bound their hands tightly behind their backs.

"Lie still, now," he said, "until I settle matters."

They could rise and move, but could not thwart him immediately. He went forward, and mounted to the bridge.

"How are you heading?" he demanded, with a pistol pointed toward the helmsman.

"South—due south, sir," answered the man—it was Davis, of the starboard watch.

"Leave the wheel. The engine is stopped. Down on deck with you, and take off your neckerchief."

Davis descended meekly, gave him his neckerchief, and was bound as were the others. Then Denman looked for the rest.

So far—good. He had three prisoners on deck and one in the wardroom; the rest were below, on duty or asleep. They were in the forecastle—the crew's quarters—in the wireless room below the bridge, in the galley just forward of the wardroom. Denman had his choice, and decided on the forecastle as the place containing the greatest number. Down the fore-hatch he went, and entered the apartment. A man rolled out of a bunk, and faced him.

"Up with your hands," said Denman, softly. "Up,