“What dismasted you?”
They explained the meeting with the steamer and Seldom’s misdoing; then requested information about the salvage laws.
“Boys,” said the pilot, “I’m sorry for you. I saw the start of this voyage, and you appear to be decent men. You’ll get no salvage; you’ll get no wages. You are mutineers and pirates, with no standing in court. Any salvage which the Almena has earned will be paid to her owners and to the three men whom you deprived of command. What you can get—the maximum, though I can’t say how hard the judge will lay it on—is ten years in state’s prison, and a fine of two thousand dollars each. We’ll have to stop at quarantine. Take my advice: if you get a chance, lower the boats and skip.”
They laughed at the advice. They were American citizens who respected the law. They had killed no one, robbed no one; their wages and salvage, independently of insurance liabilities, would pay for the stores bought, and the loss of the spars. They had no fear of any court of justice in the land; for they had only asserted their manhood and repressed inhuman brutality.
The pilot went forward, talked awhile with the three, and left them with joyous faces. An hour later he pointed out the Almena’s number flying from the masthead of the steamer.
“He’s telling on you, boys,” he said. “He knew you when you helped him, and used you, of course. Your reputation’s pretty bad on the high seas. See that signal-station ashore there? Well, they’re telegraphing now that the pirate Almena is coming in. You’ll see a police boat at quarantine.”
He was but partly right. Not only a police boat, but an outward-bound man-of-war and an incoming revenue cutter escorted the ship to quarantine, where the towline was cast off, and an anchor dropped. Then, in the persons of a scandalized health-officer, a naval captain, a revenue-marine lieutenant, and a purple-faced sergeant of the steamboat squad, the power of the law was rehabilitated on the Almena’s quarterdeck, and the strong hand of the law closed down on her unruly crew. With blank faces, they discarded—to shirts, trousers, and boots—the slop-chest clothing which belonged to the triumphant Captain Benson, and descended the side to the police boat, which immediately steamed away. Then a chuckling trio entered the ship’s cabin, and ordered the steward to bring them something to eat.
Now, there is no record either in the reports for that year of the police department, or from any official babbling, or from later yarns spun by the sixteen prisoners, of what really occurred on the deck of that steamer while she was going up the bay. Newspapers of the time gave generous space to speculations written up on the facts discovered by reporters; but nothing was ever proved. The facts were few. A tug met the steamer in the Narrows about a quarter to twelve that morning, and her captain, on being questioned, declared that all seemed well with her. The prisoners were grouped forward, guarded by eight officers and a sergeant. A little after twelve o’clock a Battery boatman observed her coming, and hied him around to the police dock to have a look at the murderous pirates he had heard about, only to see her heading up the North River, past the Battery. A watchman on the elevator docks at Sixty-third Street observed her charging up the river a little later in the afternoon, wondered why, and spoke of it. The captain of the Mary Powel, bound up, reported catching her abreast of Yonkers. He had whistled as he passed, and though no one was in sight, the salute was politely answered. At some time during the night, residents of Sing Sing were wakened by a sound of steam blowing off somewhere on the river; and in the morning a couple of fishermen, going out to their pond-nets in the early dawn, found the police boat grounded on the shoals. On boarding her they had released a pinioned, gagged, and hungry captain in the pilot-house, and an engineer, fireman, and two deck-hands, similarly limited, in the lamp-room. Hearing noises from below, they pried open the nailed doors of the dining-room staircase, and liberated a purple-faced sergeant and eight furious officers, who chased their deliverers into their skiff, and spoke sternly to the working-force.
Among the theories advanced was one, by the editor of a paper in a small Lake Ontario town, to the effect that it made little difference to an Oswego sailor whether he shipped as captain, mate, engineer, sailor, or fireman, and that the officers of the New York Harbor Patrol had only under-estimated the caliber of the men in their charge, leaving them unguarded while they went to dinner. But his paper and town were small and far away, he could not possibly know anything of the subject, and his opinion obtained little credence.
Years later, however, he attended, as guest, a meeting and dinner of the Shipmasters’ and Pilots’ Association of Cleveland, Ohio, when a resolution was adopted to petition the city for a harbor police service. Captain Monahan, Captain Helward, Captain Peck, and Captain Cahill, having spoken and voted in the negative, left their seats on the adoption of the proposition, reached a clear spot on the floor, shook hands silently, and then, forming a ring, danced around in a circle (the tails of their coats standing out in horizontal rigidity) until reproved by the chair.
And the editor knew why.
THE BRAIN OF THE BATTLESHIP, by Morgan Robertson
Build an inverted Harvey-steel box about eight feet high, one hundred and fifty feet long, half as wide, with walls of eighteen-inch thickness, and a roof of three, and you have strong protection against shot and shell. Build up from the ends of the box two steel barbettes with revolving turrets as heavy as your side-walls; place in each a pair of thirteen-inch rifles; flank these turrets with four others of eight-inch wall, each holding two eight-inch guns; these again with four smaller, containing four six-inch guns, and you have power of offense nearly equal to your protection. Loosely speaking, a modern gun-projectile will, at short range, pierce steel equal to itself in cross-section, and from an elevated muzzle will travel as many miles as this cross-section measures in inches. Placed upon an outlying shoal, this box with its guns would make an efficient fortress, but would lack the advantage of being able to move and choose position.
Build underneath and each way from the ends of the box a cellular hull to float it; place within it, and below the box, magazines, boilers, and engines; construct above, between the turrets, a lighter superstructure to hold additional quick-fire guns and torpedo-tubes; cap the whole with a military mast supporting fighting-tops, and containing an armored conning-tower in its base; man and equip, provision and coal the fabric, and you can go to sea, confident of your ability to destroy everything that floats, except icebergs and other battleships.
Of these essentials was the first-class coast-defense battleship Argyll. She was of ten thousand tons displacement, and was propelled by twin screws which received ten thousand horse-power from twin engines placed below the water-line. Three long tubes—one fixed in the stem, two movable in the superstructure—could launch Whitehead torpedoes—mechanical fish carrying two hundred and twenty pounds of guncotton in their heads—which sought in the water a twenty-foot depth, and hurried where pointed at a thirty-knot rate of speed. Their impact below the water-line was deadly, and only equaled in effect by the work of the ram-bow, the blow of the ship as a whole—the last glorious, suicidal charge on an enemy that had dismounted the guns, if such could happen.
Besides her thirteen-, eight-, and six-inch guns, she carried a secondary quick-fire battery of twenty six-pounders, four one-pounders, and four Gatling guns distributed about the superstructure and in the fighting-tops. The peculiar efficacy of this battery lay in its menace to threatening torpedo-boats, and its hostility to range-finders, big-gun sights, and opposing gunners. A torpedo-boat, receiving the full attention of her quick-fire battery, could be disintegrated and sunk in a yeasty froth raised by the rain of projectiles long before she could come within range of torpedo action; while a simultaneous discharge of all guns would distribute over seven thousand pounds of metal with foot-tons of energy sufficient to lift the ship herself high out of water. Bristling, glistening, and massive, a reservoir of death potential, a center of radiant destruction, a spitting, chattering, thundering epitome of racial hat
red, she bore within her steel walls the ever-growing burden of progressive human thought. She was a maker of history, a changer of boundaries, a friend of young governments; and it chanced that on a fine tropical morning, in company with three armored cruisers, four protected cruisers, and a fleet of torpedo-boats and destroyers, she went into action.
She was stripped to bare steel and signal-halyards. Davits, anchors, and cables were stowed and secured. Ladders, gratings, stanchions, and all movable deck-fittings were below the water-line. Wooden bulkheads, productive of splinters, were knocked down and discarded, while all boats, with the plugs out, were overboard, riding to a sea-anchor made up of oars and small spars.
The crew was at quarters. Below, in the magazine, handling-rooms, stoke-holds, and bunkers, bare-waisted men worked and waited in stifling heat; for she was under forced draft, and compartments were closed, even though the enemy was still five miles away. The chief and his first assistant engineer watched the main engines in their twin compartments, while the subordinate aids and machinists attended to the dynamos, motors, and auxiliary cylinders that worked the turrets, pumps, and ammunition-hoists. All boilers were hot and hissing steam; all fire-pumps were working; all fire-hose connected and spouting streams of water. Perspiring men with strained faces deluged one another while they waited.
In the turrets were the gun-crews, six men to a gun, with an officer above in the sighting-hood; behind the superstructure-ports were the quick-fire men, sailors and marines; and above all, in the fighting-tops, were the sharp-shooters and men who handled the one-pounders and Gatling guns—the easiest-minded of the ship’s company, for they could see and breathe. Each division of fighters and workers was overseen by an officer; in some cases by two and three.
Preparatory work was done, and, excepting the “black gang,” men were quiescent, but feverish. Few spoke, and then on frivolous things, in tones that were not recognized. Occasionally a man would bring out a piece of paper and write, using for a desk a gun-breech or -carriage, a turret-wall, or the deck. An officer in a fighting-top used a telegraph-dial, and a stoker in the depths his shovel, in a chink of light from the furnace. These letters, written in instalments, were pocketed in confidence that sometime they would be mailed.
From the captain down each man knew that a large proportion of their number was foredoomed; but not a consciousness among them could admit the possibility of itself being chosen. The great first law forbade it. Senior officers pictured in their minds dead juniors, and thought of extra work after the fight. Junior officers thought of vacancies above them and promotion. Men in the turrets bade mental good-by to their mates in the superstructure; and these, secure in their five-inch protection, pitied those in the fighting-tops, where, cold logic says, no man may live through a sea-fight. Yet all would have volunteered to fill vacancies aloft. The healthy human mind can postulate suffering, but not its own extinction.
In a circular apartment in the military mast, protected by twelve inches of steel, perforated by vertical and horizontal slits for observation, stood the captain and navigating officer, both in shirt-sleeves; for this, the conning-tower, was hot. Around the inner walls were the nerve-terminals of the structure—the indicators, telegraph-dials, telephones, push-buttons, and speaking-tubes, which communicated with gun-stations, turrets, steering-room, engine-rooms, and all parts of the ship where men were stationed. In the forward part was a binnacle with small steering-wheel, disconnected now, for the steering was done by men below the water-line in the stern. A spiral staircase led to the main-deck below, and another to the first fighting-top above, in which staircase were small platforms where a signal-officer and two quartermasters watched through slits the signals from the flag-ship, and answered as directed by the captain below with small flags, which they mastheaded through the hollow within the staircase.
The chief master-at-arms, bareheaded, climbed into the conning-tower.
“Captain Blake, what’ll we do with Finnegan?” he said. “I’ve released him from the brig as you ordered; but Mr. Clarkson won’t have him in the turret where he belongs, and no one else wants him around. They even chased him out of the bunkers. He wants to work and fight, but Mr. Clarkson won’t place him; says he washes his hands of Finnegan, and sent me to you. I took him to the bay, but he won’t take medicine.”
Captain Blake, stern of face and kindly of eye, drew back from a peep-hole, and asked: “What’s his condition?”
“Shaky, sir. Sees little spiders and big spiders crawling round his cap-rim. Him and the recording angel knows where he gets it and where he keeps it, sir; but I don’t. I’ve watched him for six months.”
“Send him to me.”
“Very good, sir.”
The master-at-arms descended, and in a few moments the unwanted Finnegan appeared—a gray-bearded, emaciated, bleary-eyed seaman, who brushed imaginary things from his neck and arms, and stammered, as he removed his cap: “Report for duty, sir.”
“For duty?” answered the captain, eying him sternly. “For death. You will be allowed the honorable death of an English seaman. You will die in the fighting-top sometime in the next three hours.”
The man shivered, elevated one shoulder, and rubbed his ear against it, but said nothing, while Mr. Dalrymple, the navigating officer, with his eyes at a peep-hole and his ears open to the dialogue, wondered (as he and the whole ship’s company had wondered before) what the real relation was between the captain and this wretched, drunken butt of the crew. For the captain’s present attitude was a complete departure. Always he had shielded Finnegan from punishment to the extent that naval etiquette would permit.
“I have tried for six years,” continued the captain, “to reform you and hold you to the manhood I once knew in you; but I give you up. You are not fit to live, and will never be fitter to die than this morning, when the chance comes to you to die fighting for your country. But I want you to die fighting. Do you wish to see the surgeon or the chaplain?”
“No, no, no, cappen; one’s bad as t’ other. The chaplain’ll pray and the doctor’ll fill me up wi’ bromide, and it just makes me crazy, sir. I’m all right, cappen, if I only had a drink. Just give me a drink, cappen—the doctor won’t—and send me down to my station, sir. I know it’s only in my head, but I see ’em plain, all round. You’ll give me a drink, cappen, please; I know you’ll give me a drink.”
He brushed his knees gingerly, and stepped suddenly away from an isolated speaking-tube. Captain Blake’s stern face softened. His mind went back to his midshipman days, to a stormy night and a heavy sea, an icy foot-rope, a fall, a plunge, and a cold, hopeless swim toward a shadowy ship hove to against the dark background, until this man’s face, young, strong, and cheery then, appeared behind a white lifebuoy; and he heard again the panting voice of his rescuer: “Here ye are, Mr. Blake; boat’s comin’.”
He whistled down the speaking-tube, and when answered, called: “Send an opened bottle of whisky into the conning-tower—no glasses.”
“Thankee, sir.”
The captain resumed his position at the peep-hole, and Finnegan busied himself with his troubles until a Japanese servant appeared with a quart bottle. The captain received it, and the Jap withdrew.
“Help yourself, Finnegan,” said the captain, extending the bottle; “take a good drink—a last one.” Finnegan took the equivalent of three. “Now, up with you.” The captain stood the bottle under the binnacle. “Upper top. Report to Mr. Bates.”
“Cappen, please send me down to the turret where I b’long, sir. I’m all right now. I don’t want to go up there wi’ the sogers. I’m not good at machine-guns.”
“No arguments. Up with you at once. You are good for nothing but to work a lever under the eye of an officer.”
Finnegan saluted silently and turned toward the stairs.
“Finnegan!”
He turned. The captain extended his hand. “Finnegan,” he said, “I don’t forget that night, but you must go; the eternal fitness of things demands
it. Perhaps I’ll go, too. Good-by.”
The two extremes of the ship’s company shook hands, and Finnegan ascended. When past the quartermasters and out of hearing, he grumbled and whined: “No good, hey? Thirty years in the service, and sent up here to think of my sins like a sick monkey. Good for nothin’ but to turn a crank with the sogers. Nice job for an able seaman. What’s the blasted service a-comin’ to?”
The two fleets were approaching in similar formation, double column, at about a twelve-knot speed. Leading the left column was the Lancaster, and following came the Argyll, Beaufort, and Atholl, the last two, like the Lancaster, armored cruisers of the first class. On the Lancaster’s starboard bow was the flag-ship Cumberland, a large unarmored cruiser, and after her came the Marlborough, Montrose, and Sutherland, unarmored craft like the flag-ship, equally vulnerable to fire, the two columns making a zigzag line, with the heaviest ships to the left, nearest the enemy.
Heading as they were, the fleets would pass about a mile apart. Led by a black, high-sided monster, the left column of the enemy was made up of four battleships of uncouth, foreign design and murderous appearance, while the right column contained the flag-ship and three others, all heavily armored cruisers. Flanking each fleet, far to the rear, were torpedo-boats and destroyers.
“We’re outclassed, Dalrymple,” said Captain Blake. “There are the ships we expected—Warsaw, Riga, Kharkov, and Moscow, all of fighting weight, and the Obdorsk, Tobolsk, Saratov, and Orenburg. Leaving out the Argyll, we haven’t a ship equal to the weakest one there. This fight is the Argyll’s.”
“And the Argyll is equal to it, captain. All I fear is torpedoes. Of course our ends and superstructure will catch it, and I suppose we’ll lose men—all the quick-fire men, perhaps.”
“Those in the tops surely,” said the captain. “Dalrymple, what do you think? I don’t feel right about Finnegan. He belongs in the turret, and I’ve sentenced him. Have I the right? I’ve half a mind to call him down.” He pushed a button marked “Forward turret,” and listened at a telephone.
The Sea-Story Megapack Page 113