The Young Wireless Operator—Afloat / Or, How Roy Mercer Won His Spurs in the Merchant Marine

by Lewis E. Theiss

“The captain will see his brother this voyage,” thought Roy. “It will be a happy trip for him.”

He tried to reach the Empress, but call as he would, he could get no response. He talked with a number of shore stations, but there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary to report. The sea was not very rough and the chances of getting nicely through the Straits seemed good. Yet Roy could not help feeling apprehensive and depressed. He knew the Gulf was in a tumult off Havana. Could he have seen the barometer and the sober face of Captain Lansford, who had now taken command, he would have known there was good cause to feel apprehensive.

Just when the storm struck the Lycoming, Roy never knew. Hour after hour he stuck to the wireless house, now listening in, now calling, calling for ships he knew ought to be within call, but which he could not reach. So intent was Roy upon his work that he did not hear the rising wind or notice the increasing violence of the waves, until suddenly the Lycoming staggered and heeled far over. The sudden lurch almost threw Roy out of his chair.

He pulled off his receivers and was instantly aware that the wind was shrieking about the wireless house with terrific force. The windows rattled, the door creaked under its pressure, and the entire superstructure of the ship seemed to shiver. He could hear the groaning of masts and derricks, of life-boats and rafts lashed to the deck, of a hundred objects here and there. He thanked providence the mate had had things made fast. The roll of the rain on the roof was like thunder. When Roy rose to his feet he found he could not stand without holding to something. At once he knew he had never been in such a storm as this. But it was not until he opened the door of the wireless house that he understood how violent the storm really was. The instant he turned the latch the door flew inward, striking him with great force. The wind rushed in with a deafening shriek and almost flung him on the floor. The rain beat in in torrents. The roar of the elements was beyond description. It was a deafening welter of sound. Like demons howling in agony the winds roared and shrieked. The rain beat a terrific monotone on deck and roof. The crests of the waves broke before the wind with a hissing roar like the thunder of a thousand Niagaras. The rigging rattled. Woodwork everywhere creaked and groaned. Stays and guy lines beat a very devil’s tattoo under the awful blasts. All about him, papers, despatches, records, clothes, were whirling like dust before a swirling wind. With all his might Roy strove to shut the door. He was not able to do it. Then an awful lurch of the ship flung the door violently shut and threw Roy against the opposite wall. His chair flew across the room with a crash. The remainder of the furniture was fastened to the floor.

Roy picked himself up, righted his chair, and attempted to collect the articles scattered by the wind. Now he realized how the sea had risen. Down, down, down, the ship seemed to go. It lifted as suddenly, sending Roy staggering against the wall. Now it lurched this way, now that. Never had he supposed a great ship could be pitched about as the Lycoming now was. Far to one side it tilted. As suddenly it shot far to the other side. Then it pitched forward. Now it seemed as though it was trying to stand on its stern. Suddenly it dipped sidewise, falling, falling, until Roy cried out in very fear. He was sure the ship was turning over. Nor was his the only heart that stood still with terror. White-faced the man in the pilot-house clung to his wheel.

“Great God!” he muttered. “A sixty-degree roll,” and waited breathless, like Roy, for the ship to right itself.

Down in the stewards’ quarters the negroes were gathered together with blanched faces, some praying, some moaning. Amid all this welter of wind and wave, Captain Lansford stood on the bridge, holding to the rail like grim death, the rain falling on his oilskins in torrents, the blasts tearing at his garments, as he peered through the blinding spray and listened to the tumult of the tempest, unmoved, immovable, a man of iron with a heart of steel, grappling with a tempest.

It was the thought of the captain that brought courage back to Roy. As the Lycoming hung for what seemed an age at that terrifying angle, Roy lost his grip on himself. For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt physical terror. An awful fear gripped his soul. His heart actually stopped beating. The blood rushed from his cheeks till they were like chalk. He seemed paralyzed. He could not even cry out. He was completely unmanned. Death was so near at hand and the thought of it came so suddenly that it overpowered him. Then Roy thought of the captain. He knew he was out on the bridge. He knew he was facing the awful wind, the driving rain, the blinding spray, the danger of being washed overboard, and that there he would stand, hour after hour defying death and the elements to bring the Lycoming safe to port.

“Thank God for Captain Lansford!” cried Roy. “He’ll win through. He’ll bring us safe to port. He’s never failed yet. He won’t fail now. Thank God, Captain Lansford is in command.”