The liner had failed to clear, and, swinging too late to port, had cut slantingly into the other ship's quarter and tore away the greater part of her stern. Tearing, grinding, ripping, and snapping, the huge shapes ground alongside for a few moments as their headway took them along without reducing speed. Too late the reversing engines, too late the telegraph for all speed astern. The ships had come in contact. The mate had run into another ship that had shown him her red light to starboard. There was no mistake about it. The cry of the seaman on watch had been heard by fifty persons.
"Red light on the starboard bow, sir——"
It rang in the officer's ears. It sounded above the terrible din of smashing steel and beams, and even above the roar of the sirens telling of the death wound that had been given a marine monster of twenty-five thousand tons register.
The awful feeling of responsibility paralyzed the mate. The terror of what he had done numbed him; stunned him so that he stood there upon the bridge like a man asleep. Fifteen hundred human souls were sinking in that ship, which was now drifting off to port in the night with their cries sounding faintly through the blackness, even rising to be heard through the roar of the steam. He thought of it. It was ghastly. Fifteen hundred souls; and he knew how badly he had wounded the ship. He knew the terrific power of the blow he had delivered—shearing off the after part of that vessel and letting in the sea clear to the midship bulkhead. There was no chance for her to float. The wound was too deadly. It was as bad as though he had rammed her with a battleship's ram.
The half-dressed form of the captain rushed to him—his captain.
"What happened?" he whispered hoarsely. He seemed to be afraid to ask the question loudly. "Great Heaven, did you hit her?"
The mate stood gazing at the huge shadow, and his tongue refused to answer the question. Then the voice beside him seemed to gain its power. It roared out:
"Bulkheads, there—close them, quick!" And the automatic device, worked from the pilot house, was pulled savagely.
The captain rushed into the pilot house. The man at the wheel who had left it to throw the lever to close the bulkheads sprang back to his post.
"How'd you do it?" asked the master again, in a low voice full of passion and strained to the utmost. "How'd you strike—don't you know you killed at least five hundred men? You murdering brute—you were asleep." Then he raised his voice again, and bawled down through the tube to MacDougal, the chief engineer.