The latter had stopped, however, and it was useless to him. A log-book written in French, bore as the last date the tenth of June. The observation for that noon was a degree of longitude near the coast of France.
“The boat has been driven to sea by some severe gale,” he reasoned. “That’s plain enough. But why did the crew leave her so abruptly, and what killed that man in the conning tower?”
These thoughts occupied his mind as he rummaged about the little apartment. He was in search of a chart. Finding none, he descended to the room used as the officers’ mess. Forward of this was the captain’s cabin, and directly aft the stateroom occupied by the other officer, who, on vessels of the Le Destructeur class, does duty both on deck and in the engine-room.
Noticing a heap of débris in the center consisting of clothing, bedding and riffraff of every description, Clif raked it aside.
To his surprise, he saw undeniable traces of fire. The flooring was eaten away or charred, and a hole gaped beneath his feet. Upon part of a wooden hatch was stamped a word which sent a flood of light through the lad. It was:
“Magasin.”
“The magazine!” Clif exclaimed, aloud. “It is where they kept the torpedo charges. And it has been on fire! Gorry! no wonder they fled.”
It was plain enough now. The boat had caught fire while at sea. An attempt had been made to extinguish the flames, but without success.
The dread belief that the flames would reach the powder and gun cotton had sent the crew away in a panic.