CHAPTER XII. THE END OF THE “CROONAH”.
Our life is given us as a blank;
Ourselves must make it blest or curst.
A man came running along and clutched at Luke’s arm.
“Captain wants you, sir, immediate!” he cried.
“All right,” answered Luke. “Here, take this lady and put her into a boat.”
Mrs. Ingham-Baker was clinging to him.
“Luke,” she said firmly, “you must provide us with a lifeboat--a safe one. I will not stand this neglect.”
“Here!” cried Luke to the man. “Take her away.”
“You come along o’ me, marm,” said the man, with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll pervide ye with a lifeboat, bless yer heart!”
And in the dim light of the saloon stairhead lamp, Luke and Agatha were left facing each other.
“Why did you not let me know you were coming?” he asked sharply. He looked round with haggard eyes; they were quite alone.
“I had no time. We just caught the boat by an hour.”
She was singularly quiet. Both of them seemed to forget that every moment lost increased the danger of their position.
“Why did you come?” he asked.
She looked at him, and there was that in her eyes that makes men mad.
“Because I could not stay away from you.”
His breath came sharply with a catch.
For a few moments they forgot such things as life and death. They did more, they defied death; for surely such love as this is stronger than the mere end of life. Again it was the possibility of something good and something strong that lurked hidden behind the worldliness of Agatha Ingham-Baker, and Luke FitzHenry, of all men, alone had the power of bringing that possibility to the surface.
All around them the wind moaned and shrieked through the rigging; the waves, beating against the sheer side of the doomed Croonah, filled the air with a sound of great foreboding--the deep voice of an elemental power that knows no mercy. Within twenty feet of them men and women were struggling like dumb and driven animals for bare life--struggling, shouting, quarrelling over a paltry precedence of a minute or so in going to the boats; within a hundred yards of them, out over the dark waters, Agatha’s mother, thrown from an overturned boat, was struggling her last struggle, with her silly old face turned indignantly up to heaven. But they saw none of these things.
All the good men were wanted for the boats, and the captain, with two officers only and a few stewards, defended the gangway against the rush of the panic-stricken native crew.
“FitzHenry! FitzHenry!” the old captain shouted. “For God’s sake, come here!” For Luke alone was dreaded by the lascars.
But Luke and Agatha heeded nothing. These people, these lives, were nothing to them, for a passionate love is the acme of selfishness.
They heard the sounds, however; they heard the captain calling for the man who had never failed him.
“I wrecked her for you,” said Luke, in Agatha’s hungry ears. “I did it all for you.”
And at last the woman’s vanity was satisfied; it was thrown a sop that would suffice for its eternal greed. Luke had done this thing for her. She was quick enough to guess how and why, for she knew Willie Carr. She knew that good ships are thrown away for money’s sake. The Croonah had been thrown away for her sake--the Croonah, the patient, obedient servant to Luke’s slightest word, almost an animal in its mechanical intelligence, filling that place in the sailor’s heart that some men reserve for their horses and others for their wives. Women have been jealous of a ship before now. Eve was jealous of the Terrific; Agatha had always been jealous of the Croonah. And now the ship had been thrown away for her, and with his ship Luke had cast away his unrivalled reputation as a seaman, his honour as a gentleman, his conscience. He was a criminal, a thief, a murderer for Agatha’s sake. She, true to her school, to her generation, to her training, was proud of it; for she was one of those unhappy women who will not have their lovers love honour more.
There was a sudden roar far down in the bowels of the vessel, and immediately volumes of steam issued from every skylight. The inrushing sea had broken down the bulk-heads, the water had reached the engine-rooms. In an instant Luke was alive to the danger--the good sailor that was within the man all awake. His trained ears and the tread of his feet on the deck told him that the screw was still.
“Come,” he cried to Agatha, “you must get away in the next boat.”
But Agatha resisted his arm. That which had hitherto been mere pertness in her manner and carriage had suddenly grown into a strong determination. The woman was cool and fearless.
“Not without you,” she answered. “I will not leave the ship until you do.”
“I must stay till the last,” he said.
She looked at him with a little smile, for women love courage, though it sometimes frightens them. She never dreamt of danger to either of them. Her trust in Luke was all-sufficient, without reserve, without hesitation.
“Then I will stay too.”
For a moment his iron nerve--a nerve which had deliberately planned all this destruction--wavered.
“Why did you not let me know you were coming?” he asked desperately.
“I had no time,” she answered, with a singular shortness, for she could not tell him that a letter from Mrs. Harrington to her mother--the companion to that received by Luke at Valetta--had brought about this sudden decision. She could not tell him that, egged on by a transparent hint from Mrs. Harrington that Luke was to be her heir, she and her mother had taken the first boat to Malta; that she had deliberately planned to marry him for the money that was to be his. Such a confession was impossible at that time; with his arms still round her, the mere thought of it nauseated her. For a moment, she saw herself as others had seen her--a punishment which for some women is quite sufficient.
At this moment a man came running along the deck--the same quartermaster who had taken charge of Mrs. Ingham-Baker. He was a man of no nerves whatever, and of considerable humour.
“Any more ladies?” he was shouting as he ran. “Any more for the shore?”
He laughed at his own conceit as he ran--the same fearless laugh with which he sent Mrs. Ingham-Baker down the gangway to her death. He paused, saw Luke and Agatha standing together beneath the lamp.
“Captain’s callin’ you like hell!” he cried. “Engine-room’s full. The old ship’s got it this time, sir.”
“All right, I know,” answered Luke curtly; and the man ran on, shouting as he went.
At this moment the Croonah gave a shiver, and Luke looked round hastily. He ran to the rail and looked over with a quick sailor’s glance fore and aft. He turned towards Agatha again, but before he could reach her the steamer gave a lurch over to starboard. The deck seemed to rise between them. For a moment Agatha stood above him, then she half ran, half fell, down the short steep incline into his arms. Luke was ready for her, with one foot against the rail--for the deck was at an angle of thirty and more; no one could stand on it. He caught her deftly, and the breeze whirling round the deck-house blew her long hair across his face.
She never changed colour. There was the nucleus of a good and strong woman somewhere in Agatha Ingham-Baker. She clung to her lover’s arms and watched his face with a faith that nothing could shake. Thus they stood during three eternal seconds while the Croonah seemed to hesitate, poised on the brink. Then the great steamer slowly slid backwards, turning a little as she did so.
There was a sickening sound of gurgling water. The Croonah was afloat, but only for a few seconds. There was no time to lower another boat, and all on board knew it. There were not many remaining, for the passengers had all left the ship--the stokers, the engineers. Amidships the captain stood, surrounded by his officers and a few European sailors--faithful to the end. They had only one boat left, and that was forward, half under water--out of the question. So they stood and waited for the ship to sink beneath them.
In the distance, on the rough sea, now grey in the light of a sullen dawn, two boats were approaching, having landed their human freight on Burling Island.
“Now, my lads,” cried the captain, “if any of you are feeling like going overboard, over you go.”
One man slowly took off his coat. He stooped down and unlaced his boots, while the others watched him. It seemed to take him hours. The bows of the great steamer were almost buried in the broken seas; her stern was raised high in the air, showing the screw and the rudder.
The man who preferred to swim for it looked round with a strange smile into the quiet, rough faces of his undismayed companions. It seemed to be merely a choice of deaths.
“Well, mates,” he said, “so long!”
He dived overboard and swam slowly away.
Luke watched him speculatively. He knew that had he been alone he could have saved himself quite easily. With Agatha his chances were less certain. Agatha it was who had spoilt his careful calculation. Without conceit--for he was a stubbornly self-depreciating man--he knew that his absence from his captain’s side had just made the difference--the little difference between life and death--to twenty or thirty people. Had he been beside the captain and the other officers the native crew would have worked quietly and intrepidly; there would have been time for all hands to leave the Croonah before she slipped back into deep water.
The great steamer rolled slowly from side to side, like a helpless dumb animal in death agony, but she never righted herself, her decks were never level. At length she gave a roll to leeward and failed to recover herself. From some air-shaft there came a ceaseless whistle, deep and sonorous, like the emission of air from the bunghole of a beer-barrel. The engines were quite still, even the steam had ceased to rise.
Luke stood holding Agatha with one arm. He was watching the two boats making their way through the choppy sea towards them, and Agatha was watching his face.
The Croonah was now lying right over on her beam ends. Luke was standing on the wire network of the rail. Suddenly he threw himself backwards, and as they fell through space Agatha heard the captain’s voice quite distinctly, as from the silence of another world.
“She’s going!” he cried.
They struck the water together, Luke undermost, as he had intended. Agatha shut her eyes and clung to him. They seemed to go down and down. Then suddenly she heard Luke’s voice.
“Take a breath,” he gasped short and sharp. His voice was singularly stern.
With his disengaged hand he put her hair from her face. She opened her eyes and saw him smiling at her; she saw a huge piece of wreckage poised on the edge of a wave over his head; she saw it fall; she felt the shock of it.
Luke’s arm lost its hold; he rolled over feebly in the water, the blood running down his face, a sudden sense of sleep in his brain. He awoke again to find himself swimming mechanically, and opened his eyes. Close to him something white was floating half under water. Spread out over the surface of the wave Agatha’s long hair rose and fell like seaweed, almost within his grasp. It was like a horrible nightmare. He tried to reach it, but his arms were powerless; he could not make an inch of progress; he could only keep himself afloat. Agatha’s face was under water. On the rise of a wave he saw her little bare foot; it was quite still. He knew that she was dead, and the blessed sleepiness took him again, dragging him down.
. . . . .
So the last of the Croonah was her good name written large on a yellow telegram form, nailed to the panel of the room technically known as the Chamber of Horrors at Lloyd’s.
Around this telegram a group of grave-faced men stood in silence, or with muttered words of surprise.
“The Croonah!” they said, “the Croonah!” as if a pillar of their faith had fallen. For once no one had a theory: no carpet mariner could explain this thing.
Against the jamb of the window, behind them all, Willie Carr stood leaning.
“Done anything on her?” some one asked him.
“Yes, bad luck,” he answered. “Had friends on her, too.”
It was a long and expansive telegram, giving the list of the lost, twenty-nine in all, and among the names were mentioned Mrs. Ingham-Baker and her daughter.
“Ship in charge of second officer,” said the telegram. And lower down, at the foot of the fatal list: “Second officer picked up unconscious. Doing well.”
Suddenly Willie Carr moved, and, turning his back somewhat hastily, looked out of the window.
Fitz had just come into the dreary, fateful little room, conducted thither by the Admiralty agent. He read the telegram carefully from beginning to end.
“Luke on the Burlings!” he muttered, as he turned to go. “Luke! I can’t understand it. He must have been mad!”
And after all Fitz only spoke the truth; but it was a madness to which we are all subject.