The Cruise of the Pelican

by H. Bedford-Jones

Then there was the fog; another chance. If the fog had only slightly lessened, so those aboard the Pelican could see stern of the wreck, they would finish their work with rifles should Dennis emerge. Thus there was a double chance against him. Should he find himself out of water at the stern of the wreck, his only hope then would be that the fog still held thick as ever.

His ears were roaring now, and paining with an ache that thrummed at each pulse-beat. The air was steadily growing worse; Dennis paused to press more air up from his billowing suit, and gained momentary relief.

It occurred to him that he still had one friend aboard the Pelican—the steward. His knife had been removed purposely; the steward had noticed its absence; therefore, the little Cockney was not in on the murder-scheme. Dennis laughed slightly and turned again to his task of climbing.

Dragging himself up that slimy steep decking was hard work, and he cursed the tremendous weights that held him down; the buoyancy seemed gone out of him with his weariness. Then, suddenly, he came to a dead halt, straining his eyes to look upward and ahead, and keen despair went through him like a knife.

He had gained the after hatchway which was uncovered and yawned in a black hole to his right. Directly in front of him was the overhang of the poop—an eight-foot wall which, owing to the position of the wreck, deserved its name so far as Dennis was concerned. It overhung him; in order to go up the ladder in front of him, Dennis would have to do it hand over hand, or not at all!

For a moment he paused. Pains had seized and were racking him. His throat and lungs felt afire. He knew that he could not last much longer, and with a frightful effort he flung himself forward; the knife, his sole means of escape from the diving-suit, he thrust down into the sheath of his belt, trusting that it would remain there.

Gripping the stairs of the ladder, Dennis hauled himself up. He dared spare nothing of energy or effort now; he was staking all upon one effort. If he failed to reach the poop he was gone.

Strangling, gasping spasmodically for the air that burned out his lungs, he came at last to the end of the ladder. He got his head about it; he could see the poop-deck there before him, and he writhed desperately over the edge of the ladder. With all his lightness in the water, he nearly failed at that moment. For one sickening instant he felt himself going backward and down—then, heaving upward convulsively, he somehow made it safely. For a moment he lay weak and helpless.

A spasm of strangulation forced him on. He groped behind him for his knife, found it, and pressed forward. The water was lighter now—he was near the top. How near? Unless the stern were clear of the water, he would be lost. There was blood in his throat; his nose and ears were bleeding. To his terror, he lost his balance and plunged against the rail, nearly going over. He gripped the rail and hauled himself onward.

A frightful madness seized him, a convulsive gasping for relief, and he was near to ripping asunder his diving-suit. His frantic efforts had exhausted what little oxygen remained; he could press up no more good air from his suit. Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, he found that some horrible, deadly, agonizing weight was pressing him down. He could see only the grey dimness around him; red specks were dancing before his eyes; that awful weight was oppressing him, and what caused it, he did not know, unless it were death. He came up against the rounded bulge of the stern-rail. It was the end. He could go no farther.