CHAPTER XVIII
THE DERELICT
Drifting along the ocean currents of the world are scores of abandoned, water-logged ships, washed by the waves and buffeted by the winds, yet still, by some miracle, keeping afloat. Every one of them tells of some tragedy of the sea—of some supreme moment of peril, when, thinking the end at hand, the crew has taken to the boats and left their ship to its fate. And there is no peril of the deep more dreaded by mariners, for it is one that can not be foreseen nor guarded against. Lying low in the waves, heavy and water-logged, these hulks drift down upon a ship unseen in the watches of the night; there is a crash, a rush of water—and another tragedy has been enacted.
Another tragedy which, only a few short years ago, too frequently meant the loss of the ship and every soul on board. How often has some stately vessel, thronged with happy people, set sail from a crowded harbour over a fair summer sea, upon a voyage seemingly certain to prove prosperous and pleasant—never to be seen again! How agonized those first days of uncertainty when the ship did not appear at the port for which it had set sail. Days passed, and still no word from it; days and days, during which hope changed to doubt and doubt to despair; days and days, until finally men knew that it would never appear—that it had vanished into the deep—that it had struck an iceberg or a derelict and sunk with all on board.
But science, with its giant strides, has changed all that. The ship may go down, but at least she can give warning of her danger. For in a little cubby-hole on the upper deck, his hand upon his instrument, sits the wireless operator, flashing to the four winds of heaven the “C. Q. D., C. Q. D.,” which tells of deadly peril and the need of instant aid. And every ship within a hundred miles, catching that signal, turns in her tracks and speeds, full steam ahead, to render what aid she can. Truly, a fearful and wonderful thing, this wireless, with its slender filaments and lofty masts and bursts of ether-compelling flame, yoking to man’s service something more impalpable than the air itself, binding ocean to ocean around the whole face of the earth. An accident may happen—that ship may go down—the derelict may do its deadly work—but at least the world will know. And if there is any vessel within reaching distance, the passengers will be saved! Ill-fated Bourgogne, slowly settling beneath the icy waters off the Grand Banks, with aid just beyond the horizon, but all unconscious of her desperate need; ill-fated Naronic, lost with all on board, how or where for all time unsolved and unsolvable; ill-fated Republic, sending forth her cry for aid through the night and through the fog, lost, indeed, but with every living soul saved uninjured—a new tale and a new wonder on history’s page!
But here was a derelict of a new kind—a derelict on land—no less deadly than the derelict on sea; standing four-square in the way of traffic, a threat and a mystery.
Some such thought as this ran through Allan’s mind, as he stood for an instant staring in astonishment at the deserted train. Why was it here? Why had it been abandoned? What stress of peril was it had compelled its crew to leave it? What peril could there be to drive them not only from the train, but from the neighbourhood? The question staggered the reason. Above all, why had its headlight been extinguished? That seemed to argue design—seemed to argue malicious intent—seemed to argue that the missing crew were deserters, traitors—as much a traitor as the soldier who deserts in the face of the enemy.
And then, as the steam popped off from the abandoned locomotive, he awoke with a start to the necessity for instant action.
“We’ve got to get that train in on a siding,” he said to the brakeman. “We’ll have to back up to Schooley’s. It’s only a mile. Ask Leaveland and his engineer to come here right away.”
As the fireman hurried away, Allan ran forward and swung himself up into the cab of the deserted engine. He glanced at the water gauge and saw that there was plenty of water in the boiler, but he opened the door of the fire-box as an extra precaution. Evidently the engine had been abandoned only a short time before, for the fire was burning briskly. He saw that the brakes had been applied and the throttle closed—