The decks grew more and more steep. The liner was settling by the head and to starboard. She was even now twisting, rolling over; and the motion brought down thousands of blocks of ice from the berg. The engines had long since stopped. She still held her head against the ice wall; but it would give her no support. She was slipping away—down to her grave below.
Brownson gazed back over the decks. He watched the crowd impersonally, and it seemed strange to him that so much valuable fabric should go to the bottom so quickly. The paint was so clean and bright, the brass was so shiny. The whole structure was so thoroughly clean, neat, and in proper order. It was absurd. There he was standing upon that bridge where he had stood so often, and here below him were hundreds of dying people—people like rats in a trap.
"Good Heaven—is it real?"
He was sure he was not awake. It must be a dream. Then the terrible knowledge came back upon him like a stroke; a blow that stopped his heart. It was the death of his ship he was watching—the death of his ship and of many of his passengers. Suddenly Brownson saw the boat of the second mate, and that officer standing looking up at him.
The master thought he saw the officer's lips move. He wondered what the man thought, what he would say. He had insulted the officer, made him a clown before the men. He knew the second mate would not spare him. He knew the second mate would testify that he had given warning of ice ten minutes before they struck. He also knew that the man at the wheel had heard him, as had the steward who brought up the coffee, and one or two others who were near.
No, there must be no investigation of his, Brownson's, blame in the matter. The master dared not face that. He looked vacantly at Smith. The officer stood gazing straight at him.
The liner suddenly shifted, leaned to starboard, heeled far over, and her bows slipped from the berg, sinking down clear to her decks, clear down until the seas washed to the foot of her superstructure just below Brownson. Masses of ice fell from her into the sea. The grinding, splashing noise awoke the panic again among the remaining passengers and crew. They strove with maniac fury to get the rafts and other stuff that might float over the side. Two boats drew away full to the gunwales with people. The air below began to make that peculiar whistling sound that tells of pressure—pressure upon the vitals of the ship. She was going down.
Brownson still stood gazing at his second mate.
Smith met the master's eye with a steady look. Then he suddenly forgot himself and raised his hand.
"Oh, you murdering rat, you cowardly scoundrel, you devil!" he roared out.