They had the water out, but, being flooded so long, the motor would not start. Again I went out to row, this time in a larger circle, shouting at regular intervals. I recalled that I had done the same thing for Howard twenty years ago on Alligator Island in Georgia. Obsessed by the anxiety and strain the past day's hellish influence suggested and haunted me with the thought that this time he was lost, the prize lost, and little Jim fatherless! I tell you it was torture any man would escape if he could. I recalled waiting for the break of day as I did on Alligator Island, and prayed that things would turn out the way they did that time. In this instance it was different, however. The prize submarine may have been injured and sunk so far away that Howard was unable to swim back.
Before dawn, after long and hard work, I cleared the Titian's motor of water and had her running. I knew then I could swiftly search in daylight, and when the first rays were showing in the horizon Don made coffee.
As I ate and drank I walked about scanning the water as far as the slowly advancing light would allow, with no results. At first a light fog obscured the coral islands, the direction in which I knew he must drift. The marine and I cursed it. But I stopped suddenly as I heard old Don in the cabin praying earnestly for the safety of his master. The sincere supplication moved and comforted.
He was right. It was no time to curse. He put plenty of food and water in the Titian before I started and looked to see if the rifle in the holster before me was all right, little Jim's rifle that always went with the Titian; then said as I was leaving that he would continue to pray for little Jim's father and me until we both returned, and, say what you will, it gave me a quiet strength.
"I know you gwine to find him," he called to me as the little propeller began to lash the water viciously as if it, too, knew what was at stake and gathered express speed like a greyhound with its quarry in sight.
It wasn't yet broad daylight and patches of fog hung in places, which I recall annoyed me to irritation, as the Titian shot out in the direction I thought the prize would drift. I had gone perhaps three miles before I saw a dark spot that I first thought was a denser fog, but as I drew near it I could discern the high stern of a merchant vessel. Yes, it was a vessel, and the Titian seemed to know and tightened its grip on the water until I came close enough to read on its stern, Monserat of Vera Cruz. I could recall an old English-built vessel by that name that sailed under the Mexican flag between Mexico and California ports, and bore a doubtful reputation with the custom-house officials on the Pacific Coast. As this flashed through my mind I changed my course to avoid coming too close. I saw she was at anchor, the same dirty black sides that seemed to rush by in their evident intent to run us down. She needed paint and was so old that she had been built of iron, before steel began to be used in ship construction.
Scotty wanted to explain why he didn't see her coming and head her off before she struck, and how he forced her to anchor by two shots into her upper works. As soon as he stopped I came alongside with him giving a broadside view of the Monserat.
"Have you seen anything of the submarine? This fellow cut us apart and it has been drifting."
"No—been sailing close around this fellow all night, so that he didn't play any more tricks until you go aboard," he replied, looking very haggard and hungry from his all-night patrol, eating the food I gave him ravenously.
"You did right, Scotty. Hold him at anchor until I return. I've got to locate the submarine first for she may be still floating into some dangerous position."