“Man overboard!”
The trample of feet was broken by the voice of the mate:
“All hands on deck!” Then the voice came down the hatch into the darkness below: “Captain Widmer! Captain Widmer! For God’s sake, come up! We’ve run afoul a derelict!”
But from Amos Widmer there was no reply.
Instead, as the boats were launched by the pale light of the crescent moon, and the Winnemere, listing heavily to port, settled rapidly, the captain of the Helen of Troy appeared by the after port davits, with a woman wrapped in a loose cloak.
And when the boats were in the water Donald Hastings and the woman in the loose cloak sat in the sternsheets of the third to be launched. And the men, as they rowed, heard snatches of the woman’s talk, which was about a child; how some one had cursed it and its father, and how the child was gone now. Sometimes the woman laughed a strange laugh that the men did not like, but they were only sailors, so they rowed on into the night and asked no questions.
By and by they rested on their oars and, looking back, saw an extraordinary sight. Revealed in the faint moonlight, the Winnemere, sinking by the head, set at defiance the natural laws of ships upon the sea. At first it seemed as if her masts were being raked forward, then her stern rose, then, without sound or sign, she went under with all sail set. And from somewhere came a whisper that the derelict with the two upstanding stumps of masts, which went rolling down the wind, was all that was left of the Helen of Troy. All—but victorious.
The first sunrise coming slowly on the track of daylight found the boats, a little group of dark spots in the vast plain of the sea, held together, apparently, by something of that same magnetic power that leads two bits of cork to adhere each to each. When the sun rose again, they were scattered over miles of gray ocean. When the third day broke from a sky banked with clouds, only two boats were to be seen—two boats and a single sail small on the horizon.
The sail grew and took shape. Out of the borderland between sea and sky came a bark flying the flag of England. Presently, as she headed into the wind, the woman, lying in Donald Hastings’ arms, saw dimly the faces lined above the rail, then was lifted on board and carried into the cabin.
“Donald,” she whispered in quiet happiness, “Oh, Donald!” Her voice changed. “But the baby! He was angry about the baby: your baby—our baby.” And she laughed that strange laugh.