“But just the same, we don’t know that they’re in on it,” Drake replied. “Bill Morris don’t like to cut too many in on his crooked work. Seems to me more likely that he’ll try to stampede ’em into the boats after putting up a great show to save the ship. He’ll call on his engineer for steam and announce that they must beach her. The engineer will either pretend to start the engines, or swear that he can’t turn ’em over. That would stampede the crew, if they’re the sort one picks up in these parts. I think we’ve got to risk it, and give ’em an hour and a half, certain. After that it depends on how quickly we can pick her up. Beltramo tells me that she’s fitted with two sea cocks only into her main hold, because her engines are set well aft. So she’s not likely to fill within some hours after they’re opened, and I’ve got it doped out from what I know of Morris’ work that’s the way he’ll put her under, if that’s what he intends to do; but it’s only little things that are queer which makes me think that’s what he’s up to. Big gamble, but——”
“Must be. If not, why he not go on to east’ard?” the pilot asked. “I’m sure of it, captain, sir.”
But Drake was still doubtful when, still in blackness and running at slow speed, the Malabart nosed out into the sea with the pilot himself at the wheel and keeping an eye on both time and compass as he took up the trail. To the commander’s ears it seemed that with the ship so light that her blades were barely under water the thrash of the slow-turning screw must be audible for miles. He saw the wheel slowly revolving under Christophe’s hands and sensed that the pilot was now where he thought they might find the sinking ship.
Captain Eli knew that both Catlin, and the second mate, Giles, and nearly all the crew were forward peering into the dimness ahead, but it seemed impossible to see anything on such a night. It was a matter of luck, and he felt a dawning apprehension that his luck was out. Watching the compass over the pilot’s shoulder he saw that the ship had made one complete circle and was now holding dead ahead. The wheel again whirled, and they began another circle, a mile deeper in that huge bay surrounded by high and forbidding mountains, when there came a soft whistle from forward and a pattering of bare feet. Catlin’s muffled voice came from below:
“Hold her, sir, hold her. I think we’ve sighted the Rhodialim about two points off the port quarter.”
Drake jumped to the engine tube—it having been arranged that a man was to stand by to obviate the use of bells, inasmuch as the sound of an engine bell might carry far in such stillness—and now the Malabart lost way and came to a stop. The boat, which was swinging barely above the water, was lowered, and Drake, Catlin, and two men tumbled in and fell to the oars. They rowed quietly.
“There she is, sir,” Catlin whispered.
Exercising still more caution, they drew down on the dim shape that lay inert and heavy on the water. They came alongside and listened for voices, but caught no sound. They found the boat davits hanging idly over the water, and went up the falls noiselessly, and stood on the deck. Together they ran here and there, making a search for any human being. Not until then were they confident that she had been abandoned. Listening down the main cargo hatch they could hear the swirling and gurgling of water and the soft bumping of empty cases and crates.
“Get back to the ship, Bill, and rush across all the men that can be spared; so that if that gang are standing by waiting for the Rhodialim to sink, we can knock ’em overboard. Tell Christophe to bring the Malabart alongside twenty minutes after you’ve gone. That’ll give you time to be back here ahead of her; so if we have to repel boarders, we’ll have the men to do it. Be as quiet as you can and get a move on.”
Catlin slipped away and over the side like a ghost. After he had gone Drake listened attentively for a few minutes, then went back and again bent over the open hatch. Afterward he tried, by leaning far over the rail, to estimate how deeply the scuttled ship had already sunk. It seemed to him that she couldn’t last very much longer. Taking an electric torch from his pocket, he went below. She was a fairly deep ship, of good draft, and he was pleased to observe that the cabin floors were not yet damp. He decided that if the sea cocks were of the diameter given by Giuseppe, the former engineer, she had at least an hour and a half longer to float. He knew that her fires must have been drawn, because Morris would not run the risk of the sound of a boiler explosion drawing attention to the spot, if there chanced to be any boat within hearing.