A dark scrimmage of men was surging about the motor launch that was hoisted in amidships. They hacked savagely at the tackle, with curses and shrieks, black faces and white, a shifting, squirming medley. Lang caught a glimpse of Harding hitting out. Knives flashed. A figure in a white sweater was shot out of the mob, falling on the deck. Louie raised his arm and projected two tiny red flashes, the reports drowned by the uproar.
Then the motor boat went over with a great splash, and the wave of its launching surged over the Cavite’s deck.
“Keep out of that. This way!” Carroll was saying, dragging him toward the other side.
Here hung the other boat, seldom used, and forgotten at the moment. Letting go Rockett, Carroll strove to loosen the tackle, which seemed jammed. The Cavite lurched heavily forward. A surge seemed to wash clear over her.
Lang snatched a life belt and slipped it over Rockett’s shoulders. He could see no other. Carroll was still wrenching desperately and swearing at the boat. Leaning heavily on his shoulder, Rockett muttered hoarsely in Lang’s ear.
“I’m going under. Remember—I trust you. Go to—my house north of Persia. See six and nine—the digger—twelve o’clock. Noon. Remember—the negro digger——”
The whole deck suddenly tilted forward as the ship plunged bow first, till Rockett and Lang tumbled together down the slope into black water. Lang went under, came up, but Rockett had gone. Everything was black, and in terror of being drawn down with the sinking ship he struck out desperately, blindly.
He was no great swimmer, but he made headway with sheer energy. He found himself suddenly clear of the ship. A long way behind him she towered up, standing on end, her stern rising yards into the fog, towering like a skyscraper, as she hung balanced before finally sinking. He saw the rusty hull, the screw, the rudder hanging high overhead. He took it all in with one terrified glance, and the same glance showed him a floating object a yard away, a big deck chair which he gripped.
The next minute the nightmare figure of the steamer plunged down, in a vast flood that seemed to carry him with it. He clung like death to the wooden chair frame, almost beaten out of consciousness, holding his breath, hardly realizing it at last when he found himself afloat again. A heavy swell went over him; another heaved him and dropped him; and his misted eyes saw again the great blurred glow of the strange steamer, much more distant now, and all around him a frothing welter.
He still held the chair, but he was almost too weak to cling to it. Boats would be coming, he knew; he had only to keep afloat a few minutes more. The swell of the Cavite’s sinking was subsiding, but his hands slipped from the chair frame; he almost went under, recovered himself with a wild clutch, almost gave up hope. Dimly he heard a shout. Something was floating within a few feet. It was an overturned boat, with a man dimly outlined astride the keel. Lang could never have reached it unaided, but somehow, he knew not how, he found himself supported, assisted, half dragged upon the rounded boat keel.