“Norah ought to turn in,” Jim said, at length. “It’s all very well for us, for we’ll be in some sort of comfort on the German ship. But it makes me sick to think of you two—in an open boat. You ought to get all the sleep you can.”
“Oh, we shall be all right,” his father said. “It’s such calm weather—and we are no great distance from Teneriffe. We can soon get into the track of ships, and the chances are that we shall not have to spend a night in the open.”
“And if we do, it won’t hurt us,” Norah said. “Don’t you bother about us, Jimmy.”
“Well, go to bed, anyhow,” the boy said. “You’re tired as it is. You may as well feel fit when you leave in the morning.” So Norah went off obediently; and soon Wally followed her example, leaving Mr. Linton and his son to pace the deck together for hours—in silence, most of the time. The ship’s bells had been forbidden, and there was nothing to mark the passing of the night. The Perseus cut through the dark water, following her captor, whose grey shape loomed near. Their heavy thoughts went ahead, picturing the parting that must come with the dawn.
CHAPTER XVII.
WHAT THE MORNING BROUGHT.
DARKNESS still hung over the sea when the little company on the Perseus met at breakfast. Most of them were heavy-eyed and pale; but they made a brave effort at cheerfulness and tried to eat—never had a meal seemed so unreal and horrible. It was quickly over, and they trooped on deck.
Dawn was breaking. The German ship, no longer ahead, but a little to the starboard, seemed like a grim watch-dog. No signals had come from her as yet, and the Perseus was still under orders to go at full speed. No one knew where they were heading—their course had been peremptorily changed, and the passengers could form no idea of direction. They were like sheep driven in unfamiliar ways; over them all the sense of utter helplessness.
The grey light, creeping over the sea, showed them watching in groups—with all available wraps on, and rugs in readiness. In a corner Mrs. Field sat, one hand in her husband’s. He was holding their baby, his cheek resting against the soft little face. Major Edwards and his wife walked up and down a lonely deck-space, not speaking.
An officer made a tour of the ship presently, to see that no passengers were absent, and that all possible preparations had been made. He knew nothing, he said; they had kept by the German ship all night. Now they merely awaited the order to take to the boats; the enemy’s boat would, of course, come over to secure the prisoners, and probably to sink the ship by means of explosives placed in her hold, and setting her on fire. “Cheaper than torpedoes,” said the officer, “and less noisy. They’re shocking bad shots, too, on those armed merchantmen; and it would take a heap of shells to sink the old ship, because of her water-tight compartments. Much easier to blow her up from within.”