His Unknown Wife

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER VIII

  ONE CHANCE IN A MILLION

  Maseden was badly hurt and quite stunned. Of that there could be nomanner of doubt. He was blissfully unaware of the destruction of theship, and did not regain his senses until long after the captain andsome few of the men gathered in the dismantled chart-room had indulgedin what was to prove their last pipeful of tobacco.

  Even when a species of ordered perception was restored he was whollyunable during an hour or more to collect his wits sufficiently tounderstand just what had happened.

  Certain phenomena were vaguely disturbing; that was all. He knew, forinstance, that the _Southern Cross_ was wrecked, because the deck wastilted permanently at an alarming angle. As the downward slope wasforward, however, and his bunk lay across it and on the forward side ofthe door the physical outcome was by no means unpleasant, since his bodywas wedged comfortably between the mattress and the bulkhead.

  He was dry and warm. The weather-proof garments of the pampas wereadmirably adapted to resist exposure, while the pitch of the deck, aidedby the conformation of the bows, diminished the striking power of thewaves and carried the spray and broken water clean over the remains ofthe forecastle.

  Maseden's position resembled that of a man ensconced in a dry niche of acave behind a waterfall. So long as he did not move and the cavern heldintact he was safe and comfortable. Happily, a long time elapsed betweenthe first glimmer of consciousness and the moment when the knowledge wasborne in on him that he was actually beset by immediate and most deadlyperil.

  He imagined that the ship had been cast ashore after he met with somerather serious accident, that some kind Samaritan had tucked him intohis own berth, and that, in due course, some one would look in on himwith a cheery inquiry as to how he was faring. His answer would havebeen that his head ached abominably, that his mouth and throat were onfire, and that a long drink of cold water was the one thing needed tosend him to sleep and speedy recovery.

  He did not realize that when he dropped face downward into the folds ofthe sail he had swallowed a quantity of salt water lodged thereinstantly by the pelting seas. It was not until he moved, and yieldedto a fit of vomiting, which relieved the pain in his head and clearedhis faculties, that the dreadful truth began to dawn in his mind.

  Once, however, the process of clear reasoning set in, it developedrapidly. He noticed, in the first instance, that the angle of the deckwas becoming steeper. It was strange, he thought, that although thelight was failing, no one came near. His ears, too, told him that seaswere still hammering furiously on every side.

  Finally, a marked movement of the forecastle as it slipped over a smoothrock race, owing to the increase of dead weight brought about by thefalling tide, induced a species of alarmed curiosity which proved a mostpotent tonic. At one moment feeling hardly able to move, the next he wasscrambling out of the bunk and climbing crab-like through the doorway.

  Then he saw that the forecastle deck had been torn away in line with theforward bulkhead of the fore hold. With some difficulty, being stillphysically weak and shaken, he raised head and shoulders above thisjagged edge and peered over.

  Then he understood. The ship was in pieces on the reef. Two bits of herstill remained; the forecastle, a stubborn wedge nearly always the lastpart of a steel-built vessel to collapse, and the bridge, with itsbacking of the chart house. All else had gone--the funnels had fallenan hour earlier.

  Even the steel plates and stout wood work of the superstructure hadmelted away from the six strong ribs to which the sunken engines werebolted, leaving the bridge and chart house in air.

  Already, too, one of the six pillars which had proved the salvation ofthat forlorn aerie had yielded to the strain and snapped. In thehalf-light it was difficult to discern just what support was given tothe squat rectangle of the chart-house; Maseden had to look long andsteadily through the flying scud before he gathered the exact facts.

  The upper deck of the forecastle shut off any glimpse of the cliffs. Allhe could see was the reef, much more visible now, but still partiallysubmerged by every sea; beyond it, a howling wilderness of broken water,and in the midst of this depressing picture, the ghost-like chart-houseand bridge.

  But he recalled vividly enough the sight of an awesome precipice closeat hand before something had hit him and robbed him of senses. If theship, or what was left of her, was lodged on the reef towards which shewas being driven at the time of his mishap, the shore could not be fardistant.

  Within a foot of where he lay on the deck, clinging to it as a manmight save himself from falling off the steeply-pitched roof of a house,was the big bole of the foremast, on which the rings of the sails formeda sort of ladder. He pulled himself up, stretched his body along themast in the opposite direction, and made out the uneven summit of thecliff above the straight line of the upper deck.

  He was exposed to the weather here, but the waves were not breakingacross the forecastle now, and the spray and biting wind tendedrather to dissipate the feeling of lassitude which had proved quiteoverpowering while he remained in the bunk. He raised himself cautiouslyanother foot or so, and the rugged wall of the precipice loomed so closethat at first he fancied the wreck was touching it.

  The broken topmast, however, swaying in the wind, and still held to itsmore solid support by a couple of wire stays, pointed drunkenly at thecliff, and the pulley dangling from it was occasionally dashed by thegale against an overhanging ledge.

  Even while Maseden was arriving at a pretty accurate estimate of the wayin which he had been injured--because he now recalled the parting ofthe anchor cable--the forecastle moved again, the wet and frowning wallbecame even more visible, and although an awesome gap intervened, theswaying, pointed spar seemed to offer a fantastic glimpse of a means ofescape.

  As yet, the truck, or top of the mast, was fully sixteen feet distantfrom the face of the cliff. But it had been twenty feet or more distanta moment ago, and that last movement of the hull had lessened the widthof the chasm.

  What if the spar jammed? Could a man obtain foothold on that slimy rocksurface?

  He thought it possible. A deep crevice seemed to promise some vagueprospect of upward progress to one who could climb, and to whom any riskwas preferable to the certain fate which must attend remaining on thewreck during the coming tide.

  But, notwithstanding his partial recovery, he still felt very feeble andquite unequal to more exertion. As nothing in the way of an attempt tosave his life was possible until the broken topmast was lodged firmlyagainst the cliff, he wondered whether he would find some sort of foodin the forecastle.

  It was improbable, of course. Meals were brought from the cook's galleyamidships, and utensils only were stored in the lockers of the dingysaloon in which he and many of the sailors used to eat.

  Still, spurred by the necessity of doing something to take his mind offthe fearsome alternative should the forecastle topple over sideways, oreven remain in its present position, he turned his back on the cliff.With never a glance at the bridge, he regained the sloping deck, loweredhimself to the doorway of his own cabin, and peered into the gloom inthe effort to determine how best and where to begin his search.

  At first his heart sank, because the saloon was awash. Then heremembered the Spanish sailor's queer offer of a bottle of brandy,stored in a kit-bag in number seven berth, "the lowest bunk on theleft."

  Number seven! Had he not seen the man at odd times entering or leavingthe second cabin on the port side? At any rate, there was no harm intrying.

  Crawling farther into the darkness, he walked on what was normally thecross bulkhead of the saloon, groped to a doorway, found a kit-bag inthe stated position, opened it, and came upon a bottle of brandy!

  He drank a little. Luckily it was not the raw spirit beloved of suchmen as its late owner, but sound, mellow liquor, which the Spaniardhad probably bought as a medicine.

  Be that as it may, the brandy exercised the magical effect which goodcognac always produces in those wise enough not t
o vitiate the bloodwith alcohol when in robust health. For the first time since he wasstruck down, Maseden felt himself capable of putting forth physicaleffort involving sustained muscular exertion.

  He returned to his own cabin, secured the poncho, or cloak, and wrappedthe bottle in it. Rummaging round in the dark, he laid hands on a strap,with which he buckled the folded poncho tightly to his shoulders. Thenreviewing the prospects which awaited an unfortunate castaway on thatinhospitable coast, he endeavored to get at his own trunk.

  Therein, however, he failed. The iron frame of the bunk had buckled, andthe trunk was held as in a vise.

  Realizing that he had very little time before the light in the interiorof the forecastle would vanish altogether, he hurried back to theSpaniard's berth and hauled out the kit-bag. He had an uncomfortablefeeling that he was robbing the dead, but if it were practicable to landany sort of stores the effort should be made.

  He had not a moment to spare for further search. The forecastle slippedagain, and he experienced no little difficulty in regaining his perch onthe solid stump of the foremast, on which, so nearly had it approachedthe horizontal, he could sit quite easily.

  The dangling spar, he estimated, was now about eight feet from thecliff. Would it catch the rock wall while any glimmer of light remained,or would some new movement of the wreck divert its progress? He couldonly hope for the best and be ready to seize the opportunity when, ifever, it presented itself.

  To his thinking, the gale was moderating; but he dared not indulge inthe smallest hope that the forecastle would live through the next tide.The heavy swell of the Pacific after a westerly storm would create aworse sea on the reef than that already experienced. Probably thebreakers would be more destructive immediately after than during thegale.

  It was at that moment, when in a plight seldom equaled and neversurpassed by any man destined to survive a disastrous shipwreck, thatMaseden's thoughts reverted to his fellow passengers. There was noneed to watch the spar, since he could not fail to become aware of anyfurther movement of the forecastle, so he lashed the kit-bag to a sailring, again turned his back on the cliff, and gave close attention tothe chart-house.

  Despite the increasing darkness it was a good deal more visible nowthan when he had looked that way earlier. No dense clouds of spray orspindrift intervened; hence he noticed for the first time the improvisedshutters which had replaced the glass front of the structure on theseaward side.

  He was wondering whether or not it was possible that some one mightstill be living on the only other part of the ship still intact, whenhe became aware of a figure silhouetted against the sky above the canvasscreen of the bridge.

  It was, in fact, the captain, who crept out of the chart-house every nowand then to examine the state of the iron uprights and the condition ofthe reef. The gallant old sailor had abandoned, or never formed, anynotion of escape, because nothing could live for an instant on the reefitself, and he could not possibly detect the chance of salvation offeredby the broken mast. But the nature of the man demanded that he shouldkeep watch and ward over those committed to his care. In all likelihoodhe experienced a vague sense of relief in being able to discharge eventhe melancholy duty of noting the gradual breaking-up of the supports.

  Three had gone, two on the port side and one on the starboard. When thethird stanchion yielded on the port side, bridge and chart-room wouldfall with a crash and there would be an end. He said nothing of this tothe unhappy company within.

  "The weather is improving," he told them cheerfully, as Maseden heardlater. "I can't honestly give you any prospect of escape, but--whilethere's life there's hope!"

  And all the time he was listening for the ominous crack which would bethe precursor of that final sinking into the depths! The marvel wasthat the middle of the ship had held together so long, but by no miracleknown to man could what was left of her survive the next tide.

  Yet why should he add to misery already abyssmal? Death would be ablessed relief; waiting for certain death was the worst of tortures.

  No one answered. The survivors--of the twelve four were dead now--wereperishing with cold and dumbly resigned to their wretched fate. Had itnot been for the protection afforded by the improvised screen, nonewould have been alive even then.

  The wind still swirled and eddied into every nook and cranny. Thoughhuddled together, the little group of men and women were conscious ofno warmth. It was with the greatest difficulty that those not clad inoilskins kept any garments on their bodies.

  So merciless is the havoc of the sea that its victims are stripped nakedeven while clinging to the battered hulk of a ship, though this lastdevice of a seemingly demoniac savagery is easily accounted for. Noproduct of loom or spinning machine can withstand the disintegratingeffects of breaking waves helped by a fierce gale. The seams andfastenings of ordinary garments cannot resist the combined assault. Insuch circumstances, a woman's flimsy attire will be torn off her in afew minutes, while the strongest of boots have been known to collapseafter some hours of this kind of exposure.

  Luckily a number of oilskins were kept in the chart-room of the_Southern Cross_; these were quickly served out to the shivering girls,whose clothing had practically melted away as though made of thin paper.

  Soon after the captain had tried to hearten them with that scrap ofproverbial philosophy, one of the girls, Nina, screamed in an elfin notethat dominated even the roaring of the reef for an instant. Her fatherhad collapsed. It was useless to pretend that he might only havefainted. They who fell now were doomed. In Mr. Gray's case, he was deadere he sank down.

  The chief officer put a consoling hand on the girl's shoulder. He was aBostonian, and had daughters of his own. In that hour of tribulation hisspeech reverted to the homely accents of New England.

  "It comes hard to see your father drop like that," he said. "But it'sbetter so. He's just spared a bit of the trouble we may have to face."

  "It is not that," wailed the girl brokenly. "I'm thinking of my mother.She will never know. Oh, if I could only make her understand, I wouldnot care!"

  A strange answer, the sailor deemed it, most probably. At that instanthe caught the captain's eye. Both men had the same thought. The deadshould be thrown overboard and thus lessen the weight supported by theone stanchion on the port side.

  But of what avail were such precautions? They might as well all gotogether, the quick and the dead. Why should any of them wish to live onuntil the sea rose again in the small hours of the morning?

  The girls were crying in each other's arms. Two of the men lifted Gray'sbody and placed it with four others. Five gone out of twelve!

  The captain, speaking in the most matter-of-fact way, suggested thatthey should open and drink the last bottle of claret before the lightfailed.

  "It's a poor substitute for a meal," he said, "but it's the only thingwe can lay hands on."

  The chief officer nodded his head towards the grief-stricken sisters.

  "Maybe we can wait a bit longer," he said. "You couldn't persuade themto touch it just now.... What's that, sir? Did you hear anything?"

  "No. What could we possibly hear?"

  "It sounded like a voice, some one hailing."

  "I think I know whose voice it is," said the captain. He himself hadalmost yielded to the delusion. It was distressing to find the sameeery symptom of speedy breakdown in his old friend, the chief officer.

  Both men listened, nevertheless, and were convinced. In silence theywent out into the open, walking stealthily. Each knew that any unduemovement might send the remains of the ship headlong to the reef. Theystrained their eyes in the only possible direction from which a voicemight have come--the scrap of forecastle, sixty feet nearer theheadland, or, incredible as it seemed, the headland itself. They couldsee nothing. Maseden's body was not only in line with the receding angleof the foremast, but that piece of the wreck was merged in the gloom ofthe towering rock.

  Maseden saw them, however, and shouted again, striving his uttermost nowthat he ha
d attracted attention.

  With each effort at speech his voice was becoming stronger. Though itwas useless to think of conveying an intelligible message through theuproar of wind and water, he fancied he could get into communicationwith the inmates of the chart-room, provided they were on the alert. Ineffect, he had a knife, and was surrounded by an abundance of tangledcordage, and it would be a strange thing if after so many years ofactive life on a South American ranch he could not cast a weighted lassoas far as the bridge.

  He began fashioning the necessary coil at once, working with feverishhaste, because his refuge was on the move again, and ever towards theland. A trial cast fell short, as he had not allowed enough lee-way forthe wind. He was gathering up the rope preparatory to another effortwhen a great voice boomed at him from the shadows:

  "You have no chance here. You are as well off where you are. If you hearme, hail three times!"

  The captain was using a megaphone.

  Maseden yelled "Hi!" three times, thinking the short, sharp syllablewould carry best. Then, with splendid judgment, he threw the lasso in alateral parabola that landed its end across the rail of the bridge,where it was promptly made fast by the first officer.

  Again came that mighty voice:

  "Is there any hope of escape on your side? If so, hail three times."

  He replied. After a short delay he heard the order:

  "Haul in!"

  Attached to the noose of his rope was another rope, and a second thinnerone, rigged as a "whip," or communicating cord. Tied at the junction wasthe megaphone. The intent of the senders was plain. He was to bawldirections, and they would obey.

  He fancied that by this time the topmast must be near the rock, if notquite touching it, but he had decided already that he would either savethose hapless people in the chart-room or die in the attempt.

  Perhaps his "wife" was there yet. Unless those American sailors hadbroken the first law of their order of chivalry, the women committed totheir care had been safeguarded.

  Well, he owed her a life. Now he might be able to repay the debt infull.

  He had never before handled a speaking trumpet, so his initial essay wasbrief:

  "Can you hear?"

  He could just catch three faint sounds in answer.

  "As soon as a sailor can cross by the rope, send one," he shouted, "Ishall need help at this end. I have made fast the heavy rope. Shall Ihaul in the whip?"

  There was a pause of a few seconds, but he counted on that. Then he feltthree tugs on the thinner cord, and began to haul steadily. Soon, by thesagging of the main rope and the weight at the end of the whip, herealized that some one was making the transit.

  Before long he discerned a figure coming towards him hand over handalong the rope. The man's feet were caught midway by the seas boilingover the reef, but Maseden knew that the gallant fellow's forwardmovement was never checked, and in a very little while the breathlesschief officer was seated astride the mast beneath him.

  "Who in the world are you?" demanded the newcomer; at any rate, he usedwords to that effect.

  Maseden answered in kind, and explained his project; whereupon the chiefofficer seized the megaphone and bellowed the necessary instructions. Ona given signal the two men hauled on the whip.

  This time a figure lashed to a life-buoy, which, in turn, was tied to apulley traveling on the guide-rope, came to them out of the darkness. Itwas a woman, hardly in her senses, yet able to obey when told to sitastride the mast and hold fast to a ring.

  "We can hardly find room for five more people here," shouted the chiefofficer. "Are you game to shin along the mast and see if that loose sparis practicable yet?"

  "Yes," said Maseden.

  He vanished in the darkness. He was absent fully five minutes, a periodwhich, to the waiting chief officer, who alone knew what was actuallyhappening, must have seemed like as many hours. Then Maseden returned.By this time there were two more astride the foremast, four in all. Hetied the nearest one to his back with a rope.

  "Can you steady yourself by placing your hands on my shoulders, but notaround my neck?" he said.

  For answer two slim hands caught his shoulders. He began working his wayforward into the gloom.