“What would you make out of it?”
I thought this over. Now that the story was plain in my mind, I could easily interpret that short, strange message. But what would I have made of it, seated on a lounge in sight of swiftly moving engines, with the boom of a tempest roaring overhead and only this faintest of glimmers to light up the darkness in the soul of a man who was ruthlessly carrying me to destruction? I shook my head.
Gorham went on composedly:
“At dawn we still had six miles to drag the Western Pacific. The line still held, because of Owen’s extraordinary seamanship. That was his hold on his crew. I am convinced that no other man afloat could have kept his men at work as Harry did. And what work!
“The gale had piled up a sea that ran irresistibly from horizon to horizon, which lifted the Shearwater up to dizzy heights, flung her savagely to one side, dropped her into vast hollows that resounded like caverns. And as the vessel disintegrated under our feet, we patched her up. I tell you we labored like men possessed to keep that wretched old packet alive, to keep her going—to keep the steady pull on the hawser that meant safety for those hundreds on the liner. Yet no help came. The carpenter reported three feet of water in the hold, seams opening up in the wooden topsides, beams buckling below under the terrific strain.
“The gale died slowly. At noon it was a breeze; then it shifted to a brisk offshore wind and the Western Pacific, as jaunty as ever, signaled she was all right. The wireless reported that within a couple of hours all kinds of assistance would arrive. And before the final cheering message had come our engines suddenly stopped. The Shearwater was sinking, and sinking fast. The pumps were choked; every sea that broached over us poured its tons down into the holds through the shattered decks.
“Harry Owens turned the wheel over to a hand and came out, to see his crew crowding the decks. He gave a brusque order to cast off the hawser and listened quietly to the chief officer and the engineer.
“‘A bad run of sea yet,’ was all he said, and went into his own cabin. I followed him, leaving the officers to get the boats ready for launching. Sheila was still crouched in that great chair, her fingers set into its leather arms. Harry looked at her and remarked very simply, ‘The ship is sinking. We shall have to take to the boats. There is time yet. You’ll find yourself quite comfy on the Western Pacific.
“She rose with a single movement. ‘This ship is going down?’ she cried. Then flared up wildly. ‘The only decent ship you ever had, and you let her sink!’
“Harry met her eyes calmly. ‘Poor Sheila!’ he said in a tuneless voice. Then he lighted a cigar and left for the deck, where the crew were sweating about the boats and life rafts. He went to a little group of passengers and told them briefly that he was sending them off to the liner, now riding easily and rather pompously a mile away to the drag of the hawser we had let go. Then he drew me aside.