The Captain of the Kansas

by Louis Tracy

AUTHOR OF “THE WINGS OF THE MORNING,” “THE PILLAR OF LIGHT,” ETC.

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS — NEW YORK

Copyright, 1906, by

EDWARD J. CLODE

Entered at Stationers’ Hall

Contents

The Captain of the Kansas

CHAPTER I.
ITEMS NOT IN THE MANIFEST

“I think I shall enjoy this trip,” purred Isobel Baring, nestling comfortably among the cushions of her deck chair. A steward was arranging tea for two at a small table. The Kansas, with placid hum of engines, was speeding evenly through an azure sea.

“I agree with that opinion most heartily, though, to be sure, so much depends on the weather,” replied her friend, Elsie Maxwell, rising to pour out the tea. Already the brisk sea-breeze had kissed the Chilean pallor from Elsie’s face, which had regained its English peach-bloom. Isobel Baring’s complexion was tinged with the warmth of a pomegranate. At sea, even in the blue Pacific, she carried with her the suggestion of a tropical garden.

“I never gave a thought to the weather,” purred Isobel again, as she subsided more deeply into the cushions.

“Let us hope such a blissful state of mind may be justified. But you know, dear, we may run into a dreadful gale before we reach the Straits.”

Isobel laughed.

“All the better!” she cried. “People tell me I am a most fascinating invalid. I look like a creamy orchid. And what luck to have a chum so disinterested as you where a lot of nice men are concerned! What have I done to deserve it? Because you are really charming, you know.”

“Does that mean that you have already discovered a lot of nice men on board?”

Elsie handed her friend a cup of tea and a plate of toast.

“Naturally. While you were mooning over the lights and tints of the Andes, I kept an eye, both eyes in fact, on our compulsory acquaintances of the next three weeks. To begin with, there’s the captain.”

“He is good-looking, certainly. Somewhat reserved, I fancied.”

“Reserved!” Isobel showed all her fine teeth in a smile. Incidentally, she took a satisfactory bite out of a square of toast. “I’ll soon shake the reserve out of him. He is mine. You will see him play pet dog long before we meet that terrible gale of yours.”

“Isobel, you promised your father—”

“To look after my health during the voyage. Do you think that I intend only to sleep, eat, and read novels all the way to London? Then, indeed, I should be ill. But there is a French Comte on the ship. He is mine, too.”

“You mean to find safety in numbers?”

“Oh, there are others. Of course, I am sure of my little Count. He twisted his mustache with such an air when I skidded past him in the companionway.”

Elsie bent forward to give the chatterer another cup of tea.

“And you promised to read Molière at least two hours daily!” she sighed good-humoredly. Even the most sensible people, and Elsie was very sensible, begin a long voyage with idiotic programs of work to be done.

“I mean to substitute a live Frenchman for a dead one—that is all. And I am sure Monsieur le Comte Edouard de Poincilit will do our French far more good than ‘Les Fourberies de Scapin.’”

“Am I to be included in the lessons? And you actually know the man’s name already?”

“Read it on his luggage, dear girl. He has such a lot. See if he doesn’t wear three different colored shirts for breakfast, lunch, and tea. And, if you refuse to help, who is to take care of le p’tit Edouard while I give the captain a trot round. Don’t look cross, there’s a darling, though you do remind me, when you open your eyes that way, of a delightful little American schoolma’am I met in Lima. She had drifted that far on her holidays, and I believe she was horrified with me.”

“Perhaps she thought you were really the dreadful person you made yourself out to be. Now, Isobel, that does not matter a bit in Valparaiso, where you are known, but in Paris and London—”

“Where I mean to be equally well known, it is a passport to smart society to be un peu risqué. Steward! Give my compliments to Captain Courtenay, and say that Miss Maxwell and Miss Baring hope he will favor them with his company to tea.”

Elsie’s bright, eager face flushed slightly. She leaned forward, with a certain squaring of the shoulders, being a determined young person in some respects.

“For once, I shall let you off,” she said in a low voice. “So I give you fair warning, Isobel, I must not be included in impromptu invitations of that kind. Next time I shall correct your statement most emphatically.”

“Good gracious! I only meant to be polite. Tut, tut! as dad says when he can’t swear before ladies, I shan’t make the running for you any more.”

Elsie drummed an impatient foot on the deck. There was a little pause. Isobel closed her eyes lazily, but she opened them again when she heard her friend say:

“I am sorry if I seem crotchety, dear. Indeed, it is no pretense on my part. You cannot imagine how that man Ventana persecuted me. The mere suggestion of any one’s paying me compliments and trying to be fascinating is so repellent that I cringe at the thought. And even our sailor-like captain will think it necessary to play the society clown, I suppose, seeing that we are young and passably good-looking.”

Isobel Baring raised her head from the cushions.

“Ventana was a determined wooer, then? What did he do?” she asked.

“He—he pestered me with his attentions. Oh, I should have liked to flog him with a whip!”

“He was always that sort of person—too serious,” and the head dropped again.

The steward returned. He was a half-caste; his English was to the point.

“De captin say he busy, he no come,” was his message.

Elsie’s display of irritation vanished in a merry laugh. Isobel bounced up from the depths of the chair; her dark eyes blazed wrathfully.

“Tell him—” she began.

Then she mastered her annoyance sufficiently to ascertain what it was that Captain Courtenay had actually said, and she received a courteous explanation in Spanish that the commander could not leave the chart-house until the Kansas had rounded the low-lying, red-hued Cape Caraumilla, which still barred the ship’s path to the south—the first stage of the long voyage from Valparaiso to London.

But pertinacity was a marked trait of the Baring family; otherwise, Isobel’s father, a bluff, church-warden type of man, would not have won his way to the chief place in the firm of Baring, Thompson, Miguel & Co., Mining and Export Agents, the leading house in Chile’s principal port. Notwithstanding Elsie’s previous outburst, the steward was sent back to ask if the ladies might visit the bridge later. Meanwhile, would Captain Courtenay like a cup of tea? All things considered, there was only one possible answer; Captain Courtenay would be charmed if they favored him with both the tea and their company.

“I thought so,” cried Isobel, triumphantly. “Come on, Elsie! Let us climb the ladder of conquest. The steward will bring the tea-things. The chart-house is just splendid. It will provide a refuge when the Count becomes too pressing.”

There was a tightening of Elsie’s lips to which Isobel paid no heed. The imminent protest was left unspoken, for Courtenay’s voice came to them:

“Please hold on by the rail. If a foot were to slip on one of those brass treads the remainder of the day would be a compound of tears and sticking-plaster.”

“I think you said ‘reserved,’” whispered Isobel to her companion with a wicked little laugh. To Courtenay, peering through a hatch in the hurricane deck, she cried:

“Is the brass rail more dependable than you, captain?”

“It will serve your present purpose, Miss Baring,” said he, not taking the hint.

Gathering her skirts daintily in her left hand, Isobel tripped up the steep stairs. Elsie followed. Courtenay, who had the manner and semblance of the first lieutenant of a warship, stood outside a haven of plate glass, shining mahogany, and white paint. The woodwork of the deck was scrubbed until it had the color of new bread. An officer paced the bridge; a sailor, within the chart-house, held the small wheel of the steam steering-gear. Somewhat to Isobel’s surprise, neither man seemed to be aware of her presence.

“So this is your den?” she said, throwing her bird-like glance over the bright interior, before she gave the commander a look which was designed to bewitch him instantly. “Surely you don’t sleep here, too?”

“Oh, no. This room is the brain of the ship, Miss Baring. We are always wide-awake here. My quarters are farther aft. I think I can find a chair for you if you care to sit down while I have my tea.”

The captain led the way to a spacious cabin behind the chart-house.

“I hope you don’t mind the chairs being secured to the deck,” he said, taking off his hat. “So far above sea line, you know, everything that is loose comes to grief when the ship rolls.”

“Then what becomes of your photographs?” demanded Isobel, promptly, her quick eyes having discovered the pictures of two ladies in silver frames on a writing-table.

“I take care to put them away. There is always plenty of warning. No ordinary sea can trouble a big hulk like the Kansas.”

“Is that your mother, the dear old lady in the lace cap?”

“Yes, and the other is my sister.”

“Oh, really! Is she married?”

“No. Like me, she is wedded to her profession.”

“Will you think it rude if I ask what that is?”

“She is a hospital nurse; the matron, indeed, of a public institution in the suburbs of London.”

“How wonderful! I do admire hospital nurses so much. They are so clever and self-sacrificing, and they always have a smile on their sweet faces. Only dad wouldn’t hear of such a thing, I should love to be a nurse myself.”

And Isobel sighed, dropped her long eyelashes, and examined the toe of a smart brown shoe with a wistful resignation. Courtenay was politely incredulous, but the arrival of the steward with the replenished tea-tray created a diversion.

“Do let me pour your tea,” cried Isobel. “I make lovely tea, don’t I, Elsie?”

Elsie laughed so cheerfully that Isobel flashed an interrogatory glance at her. Certainly, the notion of Isobel Baring claiming the domestic virtues was amusing. But Elsie answered at once:

“I know few things that you cannot do admirably, dear.”

So Isobel filled a cup, asked if Captain Courtenay took milk and sugar, and said demurely, with a sip of a spoonful:

“Let me see if I can guess your tastes.”

Elsie’s blue eyes assumed a deeper shade. Men might like that kind of thing, but she felt that her face and neck would be poppy red in another moment. Thus far she had not addressed a word to Courtenay, though by his manner he had included her in the conversation. She now resolved to break in on the attack which Isobel was beginning with the adroitness of a skilled campaigner. And she, too, could use her eyes to advantage when she chose.

“What a curious library you have, Captain Courtenay,” she said, looking, not at him, but at a row of books fitting closely into a small case over the writing-table. Instantly the sailor was interested.

“Why ‘curious,’ Miss Maxwell?” he asked.

“First, in their assortment; secondly, in the similarity of their binding. I have never before seen the Bible, Walt Whitman, and Dumas in covers exactly alike.”

“That is easily explained. They are bound to order. My real trouble was to secure editions of equal size—an essential, you see—otherwise they would not pack into their shelf.”

“But what a gathering! Shakespeare, the Pilgrim’s Progress, Montaigne’s Essays, Herbert Spencer, Goethe’s Life, by Lewes, Marcus Aurelius, Martial, Wordsworth, The Egoist, Thoreau, Hazlitt, and Mitford’s Tales of Old Japan! Where have I heard or read of that particular galaxy of stars before?”

“Go on. You are on the right track,” cried Courtenay, setting down the teacup and hastening to Elsie’s side. She was leaning on the table, reading the titles of the books. The motive of her exclamation was merged now in the fine ardor of the book-lover. She had an unconscious trick of placing the forefinger of her right hand on her lips when deeply engaged in thought. Elegant as Isobel Baring might be in her studied poses, Elsie need fear no comparison as she examined the contents of the bookcase with eager attention.

“Why the Vicomte de Bragelonne only, and not the Three Musketeers?” she mused aloud. “And if the Life of Goethe, why not his poems, his essays, Werther?—Ah, I know—‘the crowning offence of Werther.’ A Stevenson library! Each volume he recommends in ‘Books which have influenced men,’ I suppose? What a charming idea! I shall never forgive myself for not having thought of it long ago.”

Courtenay laughed and blushed like any schoolgirl. Elsie’s appreciation had a downright, honest ring in it that went far beyond the platitudes. She accorded him the ready comradeship of a kin soul.

“Many people have been surprised by my collection; you are the first to discover its inspiration,” he said.

“That is not strange. There are so few who read. Reading means discerning, interpreting. I am a worshiper of R. L. S., but I have been shocked to find that for a hundred who can talk glibly of his novels there is hardly one who has communed with him in his essays.”

“We have actually hit upon a topic that should prove inexhaustible. Believe me, Miss Maxwell, that is my pet subject. More than once, needing a listener, I have even lectured my long-suffering terrier, Joey, on the point.”

Isobel laughed softly. The two standing in front of the bookcase started apart, with a sudden consciousness that they were speaking unguardedly, for Isobel’s mirth had mockery in it—“there was a laughing devil in her sneer.”

“By the way, where is Joey?” she asked.

The dog answered her question by appearing, with a stretch and a yawn, from beneath a bunk. He had heard his name in Courtenay’s voice. That sufficed for Joey at any time.

“What a strange animal!” went on Isobel. “I should have thought that he would bark, or peep out at us, at the least, when we came in.”

“Joey had a disturbed night,” said Courtenay. “We passed the evening in the Hotel Colon, and he regards South American hotels as the natural dwelling-place of cats, and other bad characters. Here, he is at home, and he knew that I was present.”

“Otherwise, he would have classified us as suspicious?”

“He is far too discriminating. What do you say, pup?”

Joey looked up at his master. Apparently, he found the conversation trivial; he yawned again, capaciously.

“You darling! You must have slept with one eye open,” said Elsie, stooping to pat him.

“Oh, take care!” cried Isobel. “He may bite you.”

“Not he! When you see that wistful look in a dog’s eyes, have no fear. He wants to speak then. You won’t bite me, will you, dear?” And Elsie sank on one knee, to stroke Joey’s white coat; whereupon Joey tried to lick her face.

“Between the Stevenson Library and the captain’s dog you are installed as a prime favorite on board the Kansas,” commented Isobel. The other girl rose hurriedly. She had caught the touch of malice in the smooth voice.

“Captain Courtenay is too polite to remind us that we are intruders,” she said lightly. “We forget that he is busy. Joey, candidly canine, did not try to hide his feelings.”

Isobel swung her chair round to face the door.

“This is quite the best place in the ship,” she said. “I am very comfortable, thank you. Please don’t send us away, captain.”

Before Courtenay could answer, the officer of the watch looked in.

“Cape Caraumilla bearing sou’west of the Buei Rock, sir,” he announced, and vanished again.

“Don’t hurry,” said Courtenay, taking up his cap. “I must leave you for a few minutes.”

He was gone, with Joey at his heels, and there was a brief silence.

“Really, Isobel, we should go back on deck,” urged Elsie, uneasily. Already she half regretted the impulse which led her to intervene in her friend’s special hobby.

“I like that. I didn’t credit you with such guile, Elsie Maxwell. You snap up my nice captain beneath my very nose, and coolly propose that I should vacate the battlefield. Oh dear, no! I can’t talk literature, but I can flirt, and I have not finished with Arthur yet by a long chalk.”

“Isobel, if you knew how you hurt me—”

Miss Baring crossed her pretty feet, folded her arms, and gave her companion a smiling glance.

“So artful, too. ‘Love me, love my dog,’ eh? You actually took my breath away.”

“It may amaze you to learn that I meant to achieve that much, at any rate,” was Elsie’s quiet retort as she turned to select a volume from the queer miscellany in the bookcase.

“Oh, don’t be cruel. Leave me my Frenchman! Say you won’t wheedle Edouard by quoting the classics of his native tongue! Poor me! Here have I been warming a serpent in my bosom.”

With a moue of make-believe anguish Isobel leaned back in her chair. She was insolently conscious of her superior attractions. Was she not the richest heiress in Valparaiso? Had not her father chartered this ship? And was not Elsie even now flying from an unwelcome suitor? She knew full well that her friend would resent the slightest semblance of love-making on the part of any man on board. Already her astonishment at Elsie’s unlooked-for vivacity was yielding to the humor of meeting such a rival. The Count might serve as a foil, but the real quarry now was the captain. That very night there would be a moon. And the sea was calm as a sheltered lake. Isobel’s lips parted in a delighted smile as she tried to imagine Courtenay deserting her to discuss those celebrities whom Elsie had made the most of. And how she would play off the Count against the captain! They ought to be at daggers drawn long before the Straits of Magellan were reached. Certainly she never expected such sport on board such a humdrum ship as the Kansas.

Suddenly they both heard an excited bark from the dog, and the quick rush of feet along the deck; Courtenay’s voice reached them with a new and startling note in it.

“Stop that!” he shouted.

There was an instant’s pause. Their alert ears caught the sounds of a distant scuffle. Then a pistol shot jarred the peaceful drone of the ship.

“Sheer off, there!” roared Courtenay again. “Next time I shoot to kill!”—

With terror in their eyes, with blanched cheeks, they rushed to the door and peeped out. Courtenay was not to be seen, but the officer of the watch was swinging himself over the canvas shield of the bridge. He disappeared. Joey, barking furiously, trotted into view and ran back again. Creeping forward, they saw the stolid sailor within the chart-house squint at the compass and give the wheel a slight turn. That was reassuring. Yet another timorous pace, and through the curving window they could discern Courtenay, holding a revolver in his right hand, but behind his back.

Even in their alarm they realized that nothing very terrible would happen now. But why had the shot been fired, and what had given that tense ring to Courtenay’s threat?

Venturing a little further, they gained the bridge. On the main deck, a long way beneath, near an open hatch, a half-caste Chilean was lying on his back. He had evidently been wounded. Blood was flowing from his leg; it smeared the white deck. The officer who had climbed down so speedily from the bridge was directing two other men how to lift him. Close by, the chief officer, Mr. Boyle, was stanching a deep cut on his chin with a handkerchief. At the same time he curtly ordered off such deck hands and stewards as came running forward, attracted by the disturbance.

The girls were gazing wide-eyed at this somewhat unnerving scene, when Courtenay approached.

“Better go below,” he said quietly. “I am sorry this trouble should have happened, at the beginning of the voyage, too. I hope it will not upset you. That rascally Chilean tried to knife Mr. Boyle, and those other blackguards were ready to side with him. I had to shoot quick and straight to show them I meant what I said.”

“Is he dead?” asked Isobel, with a contemptuous coolness as to the fate of the mutineer which Courtenay found admirable.

“Not a bit of it. Fired at his legs. Only a flesh wound, I fancy.”

“Poor wretch!” murmured Elsie. “Was there no other way?”

“There is only one way of dealing with that sort of skunk,” was the gruff answer. The pity in her voice implied a condemnation of his act. He resented it. He knew he had done rightly, and she knew that she had given offence by her involuntary sympathy with the suffering Chilean, who, with the passing of the paralyzing shock of the bullet, was howling dolefully now as the sailors carried him towards the forecastle.

The man’s groans tortured her. Her eyes filled with tears. Joey, yelping with frenzy, leaped up to invite her to lift him above the canvas screen so that he might see what was going on. But Elsie could only reach blindly for the rail of the companion-way, and Isobel, after a smiling word of farewell to Courtenay, followed her.

So it came to pass that neither Stevenson nor the moon had power to draw the captain of the Kansas to the promenade deck that night.

CHAPTER II.
WHEREIN THE CAPTAIN KEEPS TO HIS OWN QUARTERS

Doctor Christobal brought some additional details to the dinner-table. He was not the ship’s doctor. The Kansas, built for freight rather than passengers, did not carry a surgeon on her roll; Dr. Christobal’s presence was due to Mr. Baring’s solicitude in his daughter’s behalf. It chanced that the courtly and gray-haired Spanish physician had relinquished his practise in Chile, and was about to pay a long-promised visit to a married daughter in Barcelona. Friendship, not unaided by a good fee, induced him to travel by the Kansas.

He had been called on to attend Mr. Boyle and the wounded Chilean, and he reported now that the chief officer’s injury was trifling, but the Chilean’s wound might incapacitate him during the remainder of the voyage.

“So far as I can gather,” he said, “Mr. Boyle had a narrow escape. These half-breeds have a nice anatomical knowledge of the situation of the lung; they also know the easiest way to reach it with a sharp instrument. Captain Courtenay fired as the knife fell, otherwise our first mate would have attended his own funeral this evening.”

“What was the cause of the affair?” Isobel asked.

“The man is not one of the ship’s crew, I understand. His name is Frascuelo, and it appears that he was engaged to place some bunker coal aboard early this morning. He says that he was drugged, and his clothes stolen; that he came off to the ship at a late hour, and that some one flung him headlong into a hold which, luckily for him, was nearly full of cotton bales. He was stunned by the fall, and were it not for Captain Courtenay’s custom of having all hatches taken off and a thorough examination of the cargo made before the holds are finally battened down for the voyage, Frascuelo might now be in a tight place in more than one sense.”

Dr. Christobal was proud of his idiomatic English. He spoke the language with the careless freedom of a Londoner.

“Frascuelo seems to have passed an eventful day,” said the little French Comte, who had been waiting anxiously for a chance to join in the conversation.

“But why should he want to kill poor Mr. Boyle?” inquired Isobel, after giving the Frenchman an encouraging glance. Incidentally, she smiled at Elsie. “Why puzzle one’s brains over foreign tongues when all the world speaks English?” she telegraphed.

“Mr. Boyle is a peculiar person,” said the doctor dryly. “I happen to have known him during some years. You and I might regard him as a man of few words, but he has acquired a wonderful vocabulary for the benefit of sailor-men. I believe he can swear in every known lingo. His accomplishment in that direction no doubt annoyed Frascuelo, who became frantic when he heard that the ship would not call at any South American port. I imagine, too, that the unfortunate fellow is still suffering from the drug which, he says, was administered to him. Anyhow, you know how the affair terminated.”

“I, for one, think some consideration might have been shown him,” said Elsie.

“There is no time for argument when a Chilean draws a knife, Miss Maxwell.”

“But, if his story is true—”

“There never yet was a stowaway who did not invent a plausible yarn. Nevertheless, I believe, and Mr. Boyle agrees with me, that the man is not lying.”

They felt the ship swing round on a new course, and the rays of the setting sun lit up the saloon table through the open starboard ports.

“Due south now, ladies!” cried Dr. Christobal cheerily. “We have rounded Cape Cardones. We practically follow the seventy-sixth degree until we approach Evangelistas Island. Thus far we are in the open sea. Then we pick our way through the Straits discovered by that daring Portuguese, Fernando de Magallanes, to whose memory I always drink heartily once we are clear of the Cape of the Eleven Thousand Virgins. I never pass through that gloomy defile without marveling at his courage, and thinking that he deserved a better fate than murder at the hands of some painted savage in the Philippines. Peace be to his ashes!”

And the doctor lifted his glass of red wine with a quasi-masonic ritual which lent solemnity to his discourse.

“You are a long way ahead of your toast,” said Isobel.

“Just as Magellan was ahead of his times,” was the rejoinder.

“Yet he was a man of leisurely habit,” put in Elsie, who found Dr. Christobal’s old-world manners full of charm and repose.

“How so?” said he, puzzled, for the worthy Portuguese navigator was notoriously a swashbuckler.

“Otherwise he never could have christened any unhappy promontory by such a long-winded name,” she explained.

“Perhaps he met a contrary wind in that region,” said Christobal, laughing. “Monsieur de Poincilit here, were he in a very bad temper, might exclaim, ‘Mille diables!’ Why should not our excellent Fernando rail against the almost inconceivable fickleness which could be displayed by eleven times as many young ladies?”

“I came out last time on the Orellana, and I don’t even remember passing such a place,” said Isobel. She was a Chilean born and bred, but she always affected European vagueness as to the topography of South America. Dr. Christobal knew this weakness of hers; he also remembered her beautiful half-caste mother, from whom Isobel inherited her flashing eyes, her purple-red lips, and a skin in which the exquisite flush of terra-cotta on her checks merged into the delicate pallor of forehead and neck.

But, being a tactful man, he only answered: “Your English sailors, my dear, who gruffly dubbed the adjacent point ‘Cape Dungeness,’ have shortened Magellan’s mouthful into ‘Cape Virgins.’—Yet, Ursula was a British saint, and her memory ought to be revered, if only because it keeps alive a classic pun.”

A born raconteur, he paused.

“Go right ahead, doctor,” came a voice from the lower end of the table.

“Well, the story runs that Princess Ursula fled from Britain to Rome to escape marriage with a pagan—”

“How odd!” interrupted Isobel, and Elsie alone understood the drift of her comment.

“Not at all odd if she didn’t happen to like him,” said Christobal. “She reached Cologne, and was martyred there by the Huns. Long afterwards a stone was found with the inscription Ursula et Undecimilla Virgines, which was incorrectly translated into ‘Ursula and her Eleven Thousand Virgins.’ Some later critic pointed out that a missing comma after Undecimilla, the name of a handmaid, made all the difference, assuming that two young ladies were a more reasonable and probable number than eleven thousand. But what legend ever cared for a comma, or reached a full stop? If you go to Cologne, the verger of the Church of St. Ursula will show you the bones of the whole party in glass cases, and, equally amazing, the town of Baoza in Spain claims to be the birthplace of the lot. Clearly, Magellan had a man from Baoza on board his ship.”

“All mail steamers ought to provide a lecturer on things in general and interesting places passed in particular,” said Isobel.

Dr. Christobal bowed.

“I am sure that some of the officers of the Orellana could have told you the history of Cape Virgins, but they, not to mention the other young gentlemen in the passenger list, would certainly find you better sport than puzzling your pretty head about the ship’s landmarks.”

“I also came out on the Orellana, but there was no Miss Baring to be seen,” murmured the Frenchman.

“You had a dull trip, I take it?” said the doctor, quietly.

“I was very ill,” was the response; but, after a stare of surprise, he joined in the resultant laugh quite good-naturedly.

“It is a standing joke that my countrymen are poor sailors,” he protested, “and that is strange, don’t you think, seeing that France has the second largest navy in the world?”

“Console yourself, monsieur,” said Christobal. “Three great sea-captains, Nelson, Cook, and, it is said, Columbus himself, always paid tribute to Neptune. And, if I am not mistaken,” he added, glancing through the port windows, “we shall all have our stamina tested before twenty-four hours have passed.”

Heads were turned and necks craned to see what had induced this unexpected prophecy. Behind the distant coast-line the inner giants of the Andes threw heavenward their rugged outlines, with many a peak and glacier glinting in vivid colors against a sky so clear and blue that they seemed strangely near.

“Yes, this wonderful atmosphere of ours is enchanting,” said the doctor, when assailed by a chorus of doubts. “But it carries its deceptive smiles too far. The very beauty of the Cordillera is a sign of storm. I am sorry to be a croaker; yet we are running into a gale.”

“I shall ask the captain,” pouted Isobel, rising.

The Count twisted his mustache. He knew that both ladies were in the forbidden territory of the bridge when the fracas occurred.

“You, perhaps, are a good sailor?” said he, addressing Elsie.

“I am afraid to boast,” she answered. “I have been in what was called a Number Eight gale, whatever that may mean, and weathered it splendidly, but I am older now.”

“It cannot have been long ago, seeing that you recall it so exactly.”

“It was six years ago, and I was seventeen then,” said Elsie, her eyes wandering to the purple and gold of the far-off mountains.

“But you are English. You are therefore at home on the rolling deep,” murmured Monsieur de Poincilit, confidentially. She did not endeavor to interpret his expressive glance, though he seemed to convey more than he said.

“Not so much at home at sea as you are in my language,” she replied, and she turned to Dr. Christobal, whom she had already known slightly in Valparaiso.

“Are you coming on deck?” she inquired. “I am sure you are a mine of information on Chile, and I want to extract some of the ore while the land is still visible. It is already assuming the semblance of a dream.”

“You are not saying a last farewell to Valparaiso, I hope?” said her elderly companion, as they quitted the salon.

“I think so. I have no ties there, save those of sentiment. I shall not return, unless, if a doubtful fortune permits, I am able some day to revisit two graves which are dear to me.”

There was a little catch in her voice, and the doctor was far too sympathetic to endeavor forthwith to divert her sad thoughts.

“I knew your father,” he said gently. “He was a most admirable man, but quite unsuited to the environment of a new country, where the dollar is god, and an unstable deity at that. He was swindled outrageously by men who stand high in the community to-day. But you, Miss Maxwell, with your knowledge of Spanish and your other acquirements, should do better here than in Europe, provided, that is, you mean to earn your own living.”

“I am proud to hear you speak well of my father,” she said. “And I am well aware that he was badly treated in business. I fear, too, that his advocacy of the rights of the Indians brought him into disfavor. Of all his possessions the only remnant left to me is a barren mountain, with a slice of fertile valley, in the Quillota district. It yields me the magnificent revenue of two hundred dollars per annum.”

“How in the world did he come to own land there?”

“It was a gift from the Naquilla tribe. He defeated an attempt made to oust them by a big land company. The company has since asked me to sell the property, and offered me a fair price, too, as the cultivable land is a very small strip, but it would be almost like betraying the cause for which he fought, would it not?”

“Yes, indeed,” agreed the doctor, though his heart and not his head dictated the reply. “May I ask you to tell me your plans for the future?” he went on.

“Well, when Mr. Baring heard I was going to England, he was good enough to promise me employment in his London agency as Spanish correspondent. That will fill in two days a week. The rest I can devote to art. I paint a little, and draw with sufficient promise to warrant study, I am told. Anyhow, I am weary of teaching; I prefer to be a pupil.”

“I cannot imagine what the young men of Valparaiso were thinking of to allow a girl like you to slip off in this fashion,” said Christobal with a smile.

“Most of them hold firmly to the belief that a wife’s wedding-dress should be made of gilt-edged scrip.”

“Poor material—very poor material out of which to construct wedded happiness. And as to my young friend, Isobel? She joins her aunt in London, I hear?”

“That is the present arrangement. She means to have a good time, especially in Paris. I should like to live in Paris myself. Dear old smoke-laden London does not appeal so thoroughly to the artist. Yet, I am content—yes, quite content.”

“Then you have gained the best thing in the world,” cried the doctor, throwing out his arms expansively.

The two became good friends as the voyage progressed. Christobal was exceedingly well informed, and delighted in a thoughtful listener like Elsie. Isobel, tiring at times of the Count, would join in their conversation, and display a spasmodic interest in the topics they discussed. There were only six other passengers, a Baptist missionary and his wife, three mining engineers, and an English globe-trotter, a singular being who appeared to have roamed the entire earth, but whose experiences were summed up in two words—every place he had seen was either “Fair” or “Rotten.”

Even Isobel failed to draw him further, and she said one day, in a temper, after a spirited attempt to extract some of his stored impressions: “The man reminds me of one of those dummy books you see occasionally, bound in calf and labeled ‘Gazetteer of the World.’ When you try to open a volume you find that it is made of wood.”

So they nicknamed him “Mr. Wood,” and Elsie once inadvertently addressed him by the name.

“What do you think of the weather, Mr. Wood?” she asked him at breakfast.

He chanced to notice that she was speaking to him.

“Rotten,” he said.

Perhaps he wondered why Miss Maxwell flushed and the others laughed. But, in actual fact, he was not far wrong in his curious choice of an adjective that morning. Dr. Christobal’s dismal foreboding had been justified on the second day out. Leaden clouds, a sullen sea, and occasional puffs of a stinging breeze from the southwest, offered a sorry exchange for the sunny skies of Chile.

Though the Kansas was not a fast ship, she could have made the entrance to the Straits on the evening of the fourth day were not Captain Courtenay wishful to navigate the most dangerous part of the narrows by daylight. His intent, therefore, was to pick up the Evangelistas light about midnight, and then crack ahead at fourteen knots, so as to be off Felix Point on Desolation Island by dawn.

This was not only a prudent and seamanlike course but it would conduce to the comfort of the passengers. The ship was now running into a stiff gale. Each hour the sea became heavier, and even the eight thousand tons of the Kansas felt the impact of the giant rollers on her starboard bow. Dinner, therefore, promised to be a meal of much discomfort, cheered only by the knowledge that as soon as the vessel reached the lee of Desolation Island the giant waves of the Pacific would lose their power, and all on board would enjoy a quiet night’s rest.

There were no absentees at the table. Dr. Christobal strove to enliven the others with the promise of peace ere many hours had passed.

“Pay no heed to those fellows!” he cried, as the ship quivered under the blow of a heavy sea, and they heard the thud of many tons of water breaking over the bows and fore hatch, while the defeated monster washed the tightly screwed ports with a venomous swish. “They cannot harm us now. Let us rather thank kindly Providence which provided Magellan’s water-way; think what it would mean were we compelled to weather the Cape.”

“I am beginning to catch on to the reasonableness of that toast of yours, doctor,” said one of the mining engineers, a young American. “I happen to be a tee-totaler, but I don’t mind opening a bottle of the best for the general welfare when we shove our nose past the Cape of the large number of young and unprotected females.”

Christobal raised his hand.

“All in good time,” he said. “Never halloo for the prairie until you are clear of the forest. If the wind remains in its present quarter, we are fortunate. Should it happen to veer round to the eastward, and you see the rocks of Tierra del Fuego lashed by the choppy sea that can run even through a land-locked channel, you will be ready to open two bottles as a thanks-offering. Is this your first trip round by the south?”

“Yes, I crossed by way of Panama. Guess a mule-track over the Sierras is a heap better than the Pacific in a gale. Jee-whizz!”

A spiteful sea sprang at the Kansas and shook her from stem to stern. The ship groaned and creaked as though she were in pain; she staggered an instant, and then swung irresistibly forward with a fierce plunge that made the plates dance and cutlery rattle in the fiddles.

“I suppose we must endure five hours of this,” said Elsie, bravely.

“I don’t like it. Why does not Captain Courtenay, or even Mr. Boyle, put in an appearance? I have hardly seen either of them since the day I came aboard.”

Isobel was petulant, and perhaps a little frightened. She had not yet reached that stage of confidence familiar to all who cross the open seas. The first period of a gale is terrifying. Later there comes an indifference born of supreme trust in the ship. The steady onward thrust of the engines—the unwavering path across the raging vortex of tumbling gray waters—the orderly way in which the members of the crew follow their duties—these are quietly persistent factors in the gradual soothing of the nerves. Many a timid passenger, after lying awake through a night of terror, has gone to sleep when the watch began to swab the deck overhead. Not even a Spartan sailor would begin to wash woodwork if the ship were sinking.

“All ladies like to see an officer in the saloon during a storm,” commented Christobal. “I plead guilty to a weakness in that direction myself, though I know he is much better employed on the bridge.”

“The captain cannot be on the bridge always,” said Isobel.

“He is seldom far from it in bad weather, if he is faithful to his trust. And I fancy we would all admit that Captain Courtenay—”

A curious shock, sharper and altogether more penetrating than the Thor’s hammer blow of a huge wave, sounded loud and menacing in their ears. The ship trembled violently, and then became strangely still. The least experienced traveler on board knew that the engines had stopped. They felt a long lurch to port when the next sea climbed over the bows; at once the Kansas righted herself and rode on even keel, while the stress and turmoil of her fight against wind and wave passed away into a sustained silence.

The half-caste stewards glanced at each other and drew together in whispering groups, but the chief steward, an Englishman, who had turned to leave the saloon, changed his mind and uttered a low growl of command which sent his subordinates’ attention, if not their thoughts, back to their work. In the strained hush, the running along the deck of men in heavy sea-boots was painfully audible. Water could be heard pouring through the scuppers. Steam was rushing forth somewhere with vehement bluster. These sounds only accentuated the extraordinary truce in the fight of ship against sea. The Kansas was stricken dumb, if not dead.

“Something has gone wrong,” said Elsie in a low voice.

Doctor Christobal nodded carelessly.

“A burst steam-pipe, probably. Such things will happen at times. We are hove to for the moment.”

He traded on the ignorance of his hearers. The chief steward heard his explanation and looked at him fixedly. Christobal caught the glance.

“I suppose we shall lose an hour or so now?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. It will be all right by the time you have finished dinner.”

The meal drew to its close without much further talk. The American engineer was the first to rise, but the chief steward whispered in his ear; he returned to the table.

“Say,” he said calmly, “we can’t quit yet. The companion-hatch is closed. We must remain here a bit.”

“Do you mean that we are battened down?” demanded Isobel, shrilly, and her face lost some of its beauty in an ashen pallor.

“Something of the sort, Miss Baring. Anyway, we can’t go on deck.”

“But—I insist on being told what is the matter.”

The American knew little of ships, but he knew a great deal about mines, and, in a mine, if an accident happens, the man in charge cannot desert his post to give information to those who are anxious for it. So he replied laconically:

“Guess the captain will tell us all about it after a while, Miss Baring.”

“Que diable! I feel like the rat in the trap,” said Count Edouard, suppressed excitement rendering his English less fluent.

At another time the phrase would have sent a ripple of amusement through that cheery company. Now, no one smiled. They knew too well what he meant to pay heed to the mere form of his words. No matter how large or sumptuously equipped the trap, the point of view of the rat was new to them.

CHAPTER III.
WHEREIN THE CAPTAIN REAPPEARS

The fierce hissing of the continuous escape of steam excited alarm in those not accustomed to machinery. Men and women share the unreasoning panic of animals when an unknown force reveals its pent-up fury. They forget that safety-valves are provided, that diminished pressure means less risk; the knowledge that restraint, not freedom, is dangerous comes ever in the guise of a new discovery.

The mining engineers, of course, did not share this delusion.

“There must be something serious the matter, or they would not be wasting power like that,” murmured the American to one of his fellow-professionals.

“A smash-up in the engine-room. Nada es mas seguro,”[^[1]] was the answer.

[1] Nothing is more certain.

“Wonder if any one is hurt?”

The Spaniard bent a little nearer. “What can you expect?” he whispered sympathetically.

In the unnatural peacefulness of the ship’s progress, disturbed only by the roar of the superheated vapor, they all heard the opening of a door at the head of the saloon stairway. The third officer appeared—his wet oilskins gleaming and dripping.

“Dr. Christobal, the captain wishes to speak to you,” he said.

Christobal rose and crossed the saloon.

“As you are here, won’t you tell the ladies there is nothing to be afraid of in the mere stopping of the engines?” he suggested.

“Oh, the ship is right enough,” was the hasty response. “There has been an accident in the stokehold. That is all.”

“Want any help?” demanded the American.

“Well—I’ll ask the captain.”

Evidently anxious to avoid further questioning, he ran up the companion. Christobal followed, the door was closed and bolted again.

“I hate the word ‘accident.’ It covers so many horrid possibilities,” said Isobel.

“I am afraid some poor fellows have been injured, and that is why Captain Courtenay sent for Dr. Christobal,” said Elsie.

“Oh, of course, I meant that. I was not thinking of the mere delay, though it is annoying that a breakdown should occur here.”

“It would be equally bad anywhere else,” put in the missionary’s wife, timidly.

“By no means,” was the sharp response. “If we were in the Straits, for instance, we could signal to San Isidro or Sandy Point; and there would be other vessels passing. Here, we are in the worst possible place.”

Miss Baring’s acquaintance with the chief features of the South American coast-line had seemingly improved. To all appearance, she alone among the passengers, now that Christobal was gone, realized vaguely the perilous plight of the Kansas. The fact was that even a girl of her apparently frivolous disposition could not avoid the influences of environment.

In a maritime community like that of Valparaiso there was every reason to know and dread the rock-bound coast which fringed the southern path towards civilization. Strange, half-forgotten stories of the terrors which await a disabled ship caught in a southwesterly gale on the Pacific side of Tierra del Fuego rose dimly in her mind. And the advancing darkness did not tend towards cheerfulness. In her new track, the Kansas had turned her back on the murky light which penetrated the storm-clouds towards the west. Unhinged by the external gloom and the prevalent uncertainty, and finding that no one cared to dispute with her, Isobel felt that a scream or two would be a relief. For once, pride was helpful—it saved her from hysteria.

The curious sense of waiting, they knew not for what, which dulled the thoughts and stilled the tongues of the small company at the table, soon communicated itself to the stewards. The men stood in little knots, exchanging few words, and those mostly meaningless; but the chief steward, whose trained ear caught the regular beat of the donkey-engine, woke them up with a series of sharp orders.

“Switch on the lights,” he said loudly. “Clear the table and hurry up with the coffee. Get a move on those fellows, Gomez. Have you never before been in a ship when the screw stopped?”

The Gomez thus appealed to was the Englishman’s second-in-command; he acted as interpreter when anything out of the common was required. He muttered a few words in the Hispano-Indian patois which his hearers best understood, and the scene in the saloon changed with wondrous suddenness. The glow of the electric lamps banished the gathering shadows. The luxurious comfort of the apartment soon dispelled the notion of danger. Coffee was brought. The smoking saloon was inaccessible, owing to the closing of the gangway, but the chief steward suggested that the gentlemen might smoke if the ladies were agreeable. Under such circumstances the ladies always are agreeable, and the instant result was a distinct rise in the social barometer.

The noise of the steam exhaust ceased as abruptly as it began. The ship was riding easily in spite of the heavy sea. Drifting with wind and wave is a simple thing for a big vessel. There is no struggle, no tearing asunder of resisting forces. Thus might a boat caught in the pitiless current of Niagara glide towards the brink of the cataract with cunning smoothness.

And then, while the occupants of the saloon were endeavoring to persuade each other that all was well, the loud wail of the siren thrilled them with increased foreboding. It was not the warning note of a fog, nor the sharp course-signal for the guidance of a passing ship, but a sustained trumpeting, which announced to any steamer hidden in the darkening waste of waters that the Kansas was not under control. It was a wild, sinister appeal for help, the voice of the disabled vessel proclaiming her need; and the answer seemed to come in a fiercer shriek of the gale, while the added fury of the blast brought a curling sea over the poop. The Kansas staggered and shook herself clear. The wave smashed its way onward; several iron stanchions snapped with reports like pistol-shots, and there was an intolerable rending of woodwork. But, whatever the damage, the powerful hull rose triumphantly from the clutch of its assailant. Shattered streams of water poured off the decks like so many cascades. Loud above the splash of these miniature cataracts vibrated the tense boom of the fog-horn.

It was a nerve-racking moment. It demanded the leadership of a strong man, and there are few gatherings in Anglo-Saxondom which cannot produce a Caesar when required.

“Say,” shouted the American, his clear voice dominating the turmoil, “that gave us a shower-bath. If we could just stand outside and see ourselves, we should look like an illuminated fountain.”

That was the right note—belief in the ship, contempt of the darkness and the gale. The crisis passed.

“There really cannot be a heavy sea,” said Elsie, cheerfully inaccurate. “Otherwise we should be pitching or rolling, perhaps both, whereas we are actually far more steady than when dinner commenced.”

“I find these lulls in the storm most trying,” complained Isobel. “They remind me of some wild animal hunting its prey, creeping up with silent stealth, and then springing.”

“I have never before heard a fog-horn sounded so continuously,” said the missionary’s wife, a Mrs. Somerville. “Don’t you think they are whistling for assistance?”

“Assistance! What sort of assistance can anybody give us here? Unless the ship rights herself very soon we don’t know what may happen.”

Isobel seemed to have a premonition of evil, and she paid no heed to the effect her words might have on the others. Although the saloon was warm—almost uncomfortably hot owing to the closing of the main air-passages—she shivered.

Mr. Somerville drew a book from his pocket. “If that be so,” he said gently, “may I suggest that we seek aid from One who is all-powerful? We are few, and of different religions, but in this hour we can surely worship at a common altar.”

“Right!” said the taciturn Englishman, varying his adjective for once. The missionary offered up a short but heartfelt prayer, and, finding that he carried his congregation with him, read the opening verse of Hymn No. 370, “For those at Sea.”

The stewards, most of whom understood a few words of English, readily grasped the fact that the padri was asking for help in a situation which they well knew to be desperate. They drew near reverently, and even joined in the simple lines:

O hear us when we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea.

During the brief silence which followed the singing of the hymn it did, indeed, seem to their strained senses that the fierce violence of the gale had somewhat abated. It was not so, in reality. A steady fall in the barometer foretold even worse weather to come. Courtenay, assured now that the main engines were absolutely useless, thought it advisable to get steering way on the ship by rigging the foresail, double-reefed and trapped. The result was quickly perceptible. The Kansas might not be pooped again, but she would travel more rapidly into the unknown.

Yet this only afforded another instance of the way men reason when they seek to explain cause from effect. The hoisting of that strip of stout canvas was one of the time-factors in the story of an eventful night, for it was with gray-faced despair that the captain gave the requisite order when the second engineer reported that his senior was dead, the crown of two furnaces destroyed, and the engines clogged, if not irretrievably damaged, by fallen debris. None realized better than the young commander what a disastrous fate awaited his ship in the gloom of the flying scud ahead. There was a faint chance of encountering another steamship which would respond to his signals. Then he would risk all by laying the Kansas broadside on in the effort to take a tow-rope aboard. Meanwhile, it was best to bring her under some sort of control, the steam steering-gear, driven by the uninjured donkey-engine, being yet available.

In the saloon, Elsie had shielded her face in her hands, to hide the tears which the entreaty of the hymn had brought to her eyes. Some one whispered to her:

“Won’t you sing something, Miss Maxwell?”

It was the American. He judged that the sweet voice which unconsciously led the singing of the hymn must be skilled in other music.

She looked up at him, her eyes shining.

“Sing! Do you think it possible?” she asked.

“Yes. You can do a brave thing, I guess, and that would be brave.”

“I will try,” she said, and she walked to the piano which was screwed athwart the deck in front of the polished mahogany sheath of the steel mainmast. It was in her mind to play some lively excerpts from the light operas then in vogue, but the secret influences of the hour were stronger than her studied intent, and, when her fingers touched the keys, they wandered, almost without volition, into the subtle harmonies of Gounod’s “Ave Maria.” She played the air first; then, gaining confidence, she sang the words, using a Spanish version which had caught her fancy. It was good to see the flashing eyes and impassioned gestures of the Chilean stewards when they found that she was singing in their own language. These men, owing to their acquaintance with the sea and knowledge of the coast, were now in a state of panic; they would have burst the bonds of discipline on the least pretext. So, as it chanced, the voice of the English señorita reached them as the message of an angel, and the spell she cast over them did not lose its potency during some hours of dangerous toil. Here, again, was found one of the comparatively trivial incidents which contributed materially to the working out of a strange drama, because anything in the nature of a mutinous orgy breaking out in the first part of that soul-destroying night must have instantly converted the ship into a blood-bespattered Inferno.

Excited applause rewarded the song. Fired by example, the dapper French Count approached the piano and asked Elsie if she could play Beranger’s “Roi d’Yvetot.” She repressed a smile at his choice, but the chance that presented itself of initiating a concert on the spur of the moment was too good to be lost, so M. de Poincilit, in a nice light tenor, told how

Il était un roi d’Yvetot
Peu connu dans l’histoire,
Se levant tard, se couchant tôt,
Dormant fort bien sans gloire.

The Frenchman took the merry monarch seriously, but the lilting melody pleased everybody except “Mr. Wood.” The “Oh, Oh’s” and “Ah, Ah’s” of the chorus apparently stirred him to speech. He strolled from a corner of the saloon to the side of Gray, the American engineer, and said, with a contemptuous nod towards the singer:

“What rot!”

“Not a bit of it. He’s all right. Won’t you give us a song next?”

If Gray showed the face of a sphinx, so did “Mr. Wood,” whose real name was Tollemache. He bent a little nearer.

“Seen the rockets?” he asked.

“No. Are we signaling?”

“Every minute. Have counted fifteen.”

“You don’t say. Things are in a pretty bad shape, then?”

“Rotten.”

“Well, like Brer Rabbit, we must lie low and say nothing.”

This opinion was incontrovertible. Moreover, Tollemache was not one who needed urging to keep his mouth shut. Indeed, this was by far the longest conversation he had indulged in since he came aboard; nor was he finished with it.

“Ship will strike soon,” he said.

Gray turned on him sharply. “Oh, nonsense!” he exclaimed. “What has put that absurd notion into your head?”

“Know this coast.”

“But we are far out at sea.”

“Fifty miles from danger line, two hours ago. Thirty now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Certain.”

“Do you mean to tell me that in three hours, or less, the ship may be a wreck?”

“Will be,” said Tollemache. “Have a cigar,” and he passed a well-filled case to his companion.

The American was beginning to take the silent one’s measure. He bit off the end of a cigar and lit it.

“What’s at the back of your head?” he asked coolly. The other looked towards the Chileans.

“Those chaps are rotters,” he said.

“You think they will cut up rough? What can they do? We must all sink or swim together.”

“Yes; but there are the women, you know. They must be looked after. You can count on me. Tell the chief steward—and the padri.”

Gray felt that here was a man after his own heart, the native-born American having a rough-and-ready way of classifying nationalities when the last test of manhood is applied by a shipwreck, or a fire.

“Got a gun?” he inquired.

“Cabin. Goin’ for it first opportunity.”

“Same here. But the captain will give us some sort of warning?”

“Perhaps not. Die quick, die happy.”

Then Gray smiled, and he could not help saying: “Tell you what, cousin, if you shoot as straight as you talk, these stewards will come to heel, no matter what happens.”

“Fair shot,” admitted Tollemache, and he stalked off to his stateroom, while the Count was vociferating, for the last time:

Quel bon p’tit roi c’était la!
La, la!

Between Elsie and de Poincilit the chorus made quite a respectable din. Few noticed that the saloon main companion had been opened again, until the sharp bark of a dog joining in the hand-clapping turned every eye towards the stairway. Captain Courtenay was descending. In front ran Joey, who, of course, imagined that the plaudits of the audience demanded recognition. Courtenay had removed his oilskins before leaving the bridge. His dark blue uniform was flecked with white foam, and a sou’wester was tied under his chin, otherwise his appearance gave little sign of the wild tumult without. Joey, on the other hand, was a very wet dog, and inclined to be snappy. When, in obedience to a stern command, he ceased barking, he shook himself violently, and sent a shower of spray over the carpet. Then he cocked an eye at the chief steward, who represented bones and such-like dainties.

Courtenay, removing his glistening head-gear, advanced a couple of paces into the saloon. He seemed to avoid looking at any individual, but took in all present in a comprehensive glance. Elsie, who had exchanged very few words with him since the first afternoon she came on board, thought he looked worn and haggard, but his speech soon revealed good cause for any lack of sprightliness.

“I regret to have to inform you,” he said, with the measured deliberation of a man who has made up his mind exactly what to say, “that the ship has been disabled by some accident, the cause of which is unknown at present. The unfortunate result is that she is in a position of some peril.”

There was a sudden stir among the Chilean stewards, whose wits were sharpened sufficiently to render the captain’s statement quite clear to them. Isobel uttered a little sob of terror, and Mrs. Somerville gasped audibly, “Oh, my poor children!” Elsie, her lips parted, sat forward on the piano-stool. Her senses seemed to have become intensified all at once. She could see everything, hear everything. Some of the Chileans and Spaniards crossed themselves; others swore. Count Edouard breathed hard and muttered “Grand Dieu!” She wondered why the captain and Mr. Tollemache, who had returned from his stateroom, and was standing in the half light of a doorway, should simultaneously drop their right hands into a coat pocket. Mr. Tollemache, too, gave a queer little nod to the American, who had moved near to Isobel and placed a hand on her shoulder. Elsie was quite sure that Gray whispered: “For goodness’ sake, don’t cause a scene!” And, indeed, he did ask Isobel and Mrs. Somerville, with some curtness, to restrain themselves.

Courtenay, with one cold glance, chilled into silence the muttered prayers and curses of the Chileans.

“It may be necessary, about daybreak, to endeavor to beach the ship,” he continued. “I wish you all, therefore, to guard against possible exposure by wearing warm clothes, especially furs and overcoats. Money and jewelry should be secured, but no baggage of any sort, not even the smallest handbag, can be carried, as all other personal belongings must be left on board. Passengers will gather here, and remain here until I send one of the officers for them. The companion doors will not be closed again, but the decks are quite impassable. You hear for yourselves that they are momentarily swept by heavy seas.”

He turned to the chief steward.

“Your men, Mr. Malcolm,” he said, “will begin at once, under your directions, to draw stores for each boat. There need be no hurry or excitement. We are, as yet, many miles distant from the nearest known land. If the wind changes, or one of several possible things happens, the Kansas will suffer no damage whatever. I wish all hands to be prepared, however, for the chance, the remote chance, I trust, of the ship’s being driven ashore, and I beg each one of you to remember that discipline and strict obedience to orders are not only more necessary now than ever, but also that they will be strictly enforced.”

The concluding sentence was uttered very slowly and clearly. It was evident he meant the ship’s company to understand him. Before any of his hearers attempted to question him, he jammed the sou’wester on his head and ran up the stairs. The dog followed, somewhat ruefully, the cozy saloon being far more to his liking than the wind-swept, spray-lashed chart-house. Mr. Malcolm promptly stirred his myrmidons with a command to fall in by boats’ crews, and Gomez won his chief’s approval by quietly translating the captain’s orders. Beyond Mrs. Somerville’s subdued sobbing there was little outward manifestation that another crisis in the history of the Kansas and her human freight had come and gone.

“The skipper did turn up, you see,” said the American, when Tollemache came to him. The silent man screwed his lips together as if he would put a padlock on them.

“From your knowledge of the coast, do you think he will be able to beach the ship?” went on Gray, some humorous imp prompting him, even in that tense moment, to draw the expected answer from his new friend and ally.

“Yes, in pieces,” said Tollemache, and the reply was neither humorous nor expected.

CHAPTER IV.
ELSIE GOES ON DECK

As a little yeast leavens much flour so does the presence of a few stout-hearted men give strength and courage to a multitude. Although the rumor soon went the rounds that the giant wave which pooped the ship had carried away two of her six boats, there were no visible signs of flurry in the measures taken to equip the remaining boats for use. The men had confidence in their officers; every one worked smoothly and well.

All told, there were eighty persons on board when the Kansas left Valparaiso. Of these, seventeen, including the officers, were of European birth or lineage. The remaining sixty-three were men of mixed nationalities, ranging from Spanish-speaking Chileans to negroes. There were eight under-stewards, a cook and his assistants, and nearly fifty sailors and firemen. Unfortunately, the explosion in the stokehold had killed the chief engineer and one of his juniors, while six stokers were dead and several injured.

It was discovered that, before he died, the chief had shut off steam, and thus prevented the accident from assuming far more serious proportions. The second engineer, a Newcastle man named Walker, who rushed to the engine-room at the first indication of a mishap, found his chief lying in collapse on the lever platform. Walker promptly opened certain levers which allowed the steam to escape freely; then he carried his comrade out of the spume to the deck. It was too late. Partial suffocation had placed too great a strain on a diseased heart; by the time Dr. Christobal was summoned, a brave man was dead.

Courtenay, who had left instructions that he was to be called when the Evangelistas light was sighted, was sound asleep. In the elevated quarters assigned to the captain, the noise of the explosion differed little from the thunderous blows of the sea. But the stopping of the engines awoke him instantly. He felt the ship lurch away from her course, and saw the quick swerve of the compass indicator over his head. As he ran down the gangway leading from the bridge he heard the officer of the watch say:

“Something given way in the engine-room, sir.”

Several minutes elapsed before he, or Walker, aided by willing volunteers, could penetrate the depths of the stoke-hold. The place was a charnel-house, a stifling pit, filled with the charred contents of the furnaces, which gave off the most noisome fumes owing to the rapid condensation of steam and water escaping from the damaged pipes. But the gale raging without served one good purpose in driving plenty of air down the ventilating cowls. Gradually, the choking atmosphere cleared. Courtenay was the first to reach the lowermost rung of the iron ladder, whence he looked with the eyes of despair on a scene of death and ruin.

The electric light was uninjured. It revealed the bodies of several men, either dead or insensible, lying amidst the scattered coal. Shovels, stoking-rods, and pieces of iron plate had been hurled about in wild confusion. The door of one furnace was blown clean out of its bolts; furnace bars and fire-bricks strewed the iron deck, while, each time the ship rolled, the heavy clank of loose metal somewhere in the engine-room proved that the damage was not confined solely to the stoke-hold.

If Courtenay could have dropped quietly into the sea through the stout hull of the Kansas he would have welcomed the certain result in that bitter moment. But he was the captain, and men would look to him for salvation. Well, he would do all that was possible, and, at any rate, die at his post. So, choking back his misery, he organized the work of rescue. Slings were formed of ropes, and those men in whom any signs of life were visible were the first to be lifted to the upper deck. The stoke-hold was quickly emptied of its inanimate occupants; living and dead alike were carried to the untenanted second-class saloon forward. Then Courtenay left Walker to solve the puzzle of the accident and report on its extent, while he climbed back to the bridge, there to tackle the far more pressing problem of the measures to be adopted if he would save his ship.

It was typical of the man that his first act was to wipe the grime of the stoke-hold off his face and hands. Then he drew a chart from the locker in which he had placed it two hours earlier. Mr. Boyle, who had been attending to the signals both by siren and rocket, joined him. Courtenay pointed to a pin-mark in the sheet.

“We were there at six o’clock,” he said, and his voice was so steady that he seemed now to be free from the least touch of anxiety. “The course was South-40-East, and, against this wind and sea, together with a strong current to the nor’east, we would make eight knots under easy steam. Therefore, by eight o’clock, when the furnaces blew out, we were here.”

He jabbed in a pin a little further down the chart. Mr. Boyle, whose peculiar gifts in the way of speech were accurately described by Dr. Christobal, grunted agreement.

“Huh,” he said.

Courtenay glanced at a chronometer.

“It is now a quarter to nine,” he went on, “and I reckon that since the ship swung round we have been carried at least six knots to the nor’east.”

“Huh,” growled Mr. Boyle again, but he bent a trifle nearer the chart. To his sailor’s eyes the situation was quite simple. Unless, by God’s providence, some miracle happened, the Kansas was a doomed ship. The pin stuck where the Admiralty chart recorded soundings of one hundred fathoms with a fine sand bed. The longitude was 75-50 west of Greenwich and latitude 51-35 south. Staring at them from the otherwise blank space which showed the wide expanse of the Pacific was an ominous note by the compilers of the chart:

“Seamen are cautioned not to make free with these shores, as they are very imperfectly known, and, from their wild, desolate character, they cannot be approached with safety.”

Right in the track of the drifting ship lay a vaguely outlined trio of dread import: “Breakers; Islet (conical); Duncan Rock.” Behind this sinister barrier stood the more definite White Horse Island, while, running due north and south a few miles away to the eastward, was a wavering dotted line which professed to mark the coast of Hanover Island. Lending a fearful significance to the unknown character of the region, a printed comment followed the dotted line: “This coast is laid down from distant observations on board the Beagle.” So the sea face of Hanover Island had not been visited by civilized man for nearly sixty years! There, not three hours’ steaming distance from the regular track of Chilean commerce, was a place so guarded by reefs on one hand, and impenetrable, ice-capped mountains on the other, that a proper survey was deemed impracticable even by officers of the British Navy, a service which has charted nearly every rock and shoal and tiny islet on the face of the waters.

Neither man spoke while their practised scrutiny took in these details. The roaring chaos of the gale told what fate awaited them. The elemental forces had donned the black cap of the judge and sentenced them to speedy destruction.

Mr. Boyle pursed his lips; he looked sideways at Courtenay.

“Huh,” he said. “What’s to be done?”

“I propose,” answered the captain, coolly, “to endeavor—”

It was then that the giant wave leaped madly over the poop, as though the sea were resolved to swallow its prey without further warning. The second officer, outside on the bridge, had to cling to a stanchion for his life. Courtenay and Boyle saw two boats wrenched from their davits and carried overboard, while a bulkhead forward was smashed into matchwood. The half-caste quarter-master at the wheel muttered “Madonna!” and tried to remember a prayer.

“I propose,” continued Courtenay, raising his voice so that the other might hear, “to give the ship steering-way by hoisting the foresail. Will you see to it? Then I intend to warn the passengers, and make such preparations as are possible before we strike.”

“Huh,” agreed Mr. Boyle. He took the short cut over the rails. In a few seconds the captain heard a flow of ornate Spanish, and he knew that Mr. Boyle was getting the scared Chileans to work.

Then Courtenay went to his own cabin, in which, in the haste of his exit, he had imprisoned Joey. The dog received him with delight, for Joey knew a real gale from a sham one, as well as any man before the mast. Courtenay patted his head, opened a drawer in the writing-table, and drew forth two photographs, which he kissed. He replaced them, locked the drawer, and went out, letting the dog come with him. That was his farewell to his mother and sister; it was the first and last sign of sentiment he exhibited during that night of great endurance.

When he returned from the saloon, he found the chief officer examining the chart.

“Do you think we have any chance of making Concepcion Strait?” he asked, pointing to the doubtfully marked channel which separates Hanover and Duke of York Islands.

“If we set the mains’le we might bear up a bit.”

“Try it.”

“Huh,” said Mr. Boyle, and he was off again into the spindrift.

Be it understood that the sails carried by a big vessel like the Kansas are of little practical value save under certain conditions of wind and sea, when they are rigged to steady her, and thus give help to helm and propeller. Still, they might serve now to carry the ship a point or two towards the north, and this was the sole avenue of escape which remained. Here, again, was one of those trivial circumstances which are so potent in the shaping of events. Had either of the sails blown out, or had the mainsail been set at the same time as the foresail, the course followed during the next few hours must have been deviated from to some extent, and the alteration of a cable’s length in direction could not fail to exercise the most momentous result on the fortunes of the Kansas. But ships are singularly akin to men in respect to the apparent vagaries of fate. A moment’s hesitation, a mere pace to right or left, may mean all the difference between success and failure, safety and danger.

Leaving the chart on the table, where it was secured by drawing-pins, Courtenay went back to his cabin to obtain a pair of sea-boots. Seeing Joey sitting on his tail and shivering, unable to indulge in a comfortable lick because the taste of salt water was hateful, he hunted for a padded mackintosh coat which he had procured for the dog’s protection in cold latitudes. He ransacked two lockers before he found it. Several articles were tumbled in a heap on the floor in his haste, and he did not trouble to pack them away again. He buckled Joey into the garment, fastened his own oilskins, and rejoined the second officer on the bridge. A glance showed him the dark wall of the mainsail rising abaft the after funnel. The quarter-master at the wheel, having recovered his wits, was keeping the ship’s nose up to the wind by a steady pressure to port. The gale was as fierce as ever. The second officer shouted in Courtenay’s ear:

“I am afraid, sir, the wind has shifted a point.”

Courtenay looked at the compass. The ship was bearing exactly northeast. He had hoped that the sails would enable her to shape due north, at least; unquestionably some spiteful fiend was urging her headlong to ruin. Had the wind but veered as much to the south, he might have chanced the run through Concepcion Strait, or even weathered Duke of York Island. He nodded to his junior, whose presence on the bridge was a mere matter of form, owing to the powerless condition of the ship and the impenetrable wrack of foam and mist that barred vision ahead, and strode off on a tour of inspection. As wind and sea were now beating more directly on the port side, there was some degree of shelter along the covered-in deck to starboard. He found that two boats had been cleared of their hamper and lowered on the davits until they could be swung in on the promenade deck. The men were thus able to provision them more easily than in their exposed berths on the spar deck. He watched the workers for a few minutes, showed them how to stow and lash some biscuit tins more securely, and continued his survey, meaning to look in on Walker and the doctor.

He had to pass the cabins set apart for the two girls. The ports were lighted, and through one window he could see some one peering out at him. Owing to the thickness of the glass and its blurred condition, he could not tell whether the occupant was Elsie or Isobel, or Isobel’s maid, but, whoever it was, a hand seemed to signal to him to open the door.

He unfastened the bolts, and held a half door slightly ajar. Joey, ever eager to be out of the pelting storm, hopped inside, and Courtenay heard Elsie exclaim:

“Good gracious, Joey! Where is your life-belt?”

“Do you want anything?” asked Courtenay, through the chink.

Elsie smiled at him. She was wrapped in a heavy ulster, and had a Tam o’ Shanter tied firmly on her head by a stout veil.

“Mr. Malcolm thought we had better bring life-belts from our cabins. I came for mine, and I looked out and saw you. I wanted to ask you what had become of Dr. Christobal. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Not in the least. I am just going to him. Would you care to come?”

“Oh, I shall be most pleased.”

“He is attending the injured men, you know. And there are—others there, who are beyond his help.”

“Perhaps I may be of some assistance.”

“Come, then. When I open the door, step out quickly and hold tight to that rail. And don’t move until I tell you.”

His manner was curt enough to please the superioress of a nunnery. Elsie was awed instantly by the glimpse she obtained of the flying scud within the narrow area of the saloon lights, but she obeyed directions, and presently found herself clinging desperately to the brass hand-rail which ran, breast high, along the outer wall of her cabin. She saw Courtenay kneel to fasten a bolt, and she wondered how a man encumbered with heavy boots could be so active. Then she felt an arm grip her tightly round the waist, and she heard a voice, which sounded as if it had traveled down a long corridor, shouting in her ear:

“Lean well back and trust to me. Let go!”

She had no idea that wind could blow like that, especially when the ship was going in the same direction. It shrieked and whistled and tore at the canvas side-awnings with a vehemence that threatened to rip them from their stays. Courtenay held her glued to his left side, and there was something reassuring in his vice-like grasp. She had a dim notion that he need not squeeze her quite so earnestly, until she passed a gangway which led to the port side, between the deck cabins and the music-room. Then she changed her opinion; were it not for the strong arm which held her she would have been blown into the sea.

To reach the forward saloon they had to pass the boats near which Courtenay had halted. The sailors saw them. During the first lull one of the men said:

“The señor captain is escorting one of the English señoritas from the saloon.”

“Where is he taking her to?” asked another.

“Who knows?”

“It will be all the same wherever she is. If the ship goes, we go.”

“Who can tell? These English are stupid. They always try to save women first. Once, when I was on the—”

A few words in Spanish reached them from Mr. Boyle, and they went on with their work. But such muttered confidences are eloquent of mischief when the pinch comes.

At the forward end of the promenade deck, just beneath the bridge, Elsie received another reminder of the force of the wind, which was rendered almost intolerable by the lashing of the spray.

“I—can’t—go on,” she gasped. Courtenay felt, rather than heard, that she was speaking to him. Without further ado, he picked her up in his arms, and deposited her, all flushed and breathless, in the shelter of the fore saloon hatch. If she were so anxious to see her friend the doctor, he was determined she should not be disappointed.

“No time for explanations,” he said, while she tremblingly clutched at a rail which gave support down the companion-way. “Dr. Christobal is below. But—I fear you will find a shocking scene. Perhaps you had better let me take you back.”

“No, no, not on my account. I think I am past feeling any sentiment. I would far rather do something, be of some use, however slight.”

A pungent smell of iodoform came to them up the hatchway. Joey, who had followed bravely in their wake, and was now a few steps down the stairs, crept back, awed.

“At least, let me ask Dr. Christobal if you may come. You will be quite safe here if you grip the rail. Even if a sea breaks over the hatch it cannot touch you. May I leave you? And do you mind holding Joey?”

Elsie detected a return to his earlier manner, and she was grateful to him for it. She did not like him so well when he was stern and curt.

“Yes,” she said. “That is only reasonable; but please tell him I shall not be in the way, I know that there are wounded men to be attended, and dead men down there, too. I shall not scream or faint, believe me.”

“I am sure of that. Not one woman in a thousand could have played and sung to cheer others, as you did after the accident happened.”

It might have been the reaction from her exciting passage along the deck, but Elsie experienced a sudden warm glow in her face. Somehow, it was delightful to hear those words from such a man in the hour of his supremest trial. For she realized what it meant to him, even though his life were saved, if the Kansas became a wreck.

She stooped, ostensibly to grasp the dog’s collar.

“Before you leave me,” she said, “let me tell you how sorry I am for you.”

He ran down the stairs, and entered the small saloon, which had been hastily converted into a hospital. Perhaps it would be better described as a mortuary, for it held more dead than living. Christobal, aided by two sailors, was wrapping lint round a fireman’s seared arm. Happily, there was an abundance of cotton sheets available, and the men tore them into strips. But the comparatively small supply of cotton wool carried in the ship’s stores, and in the doctor’s private medicine chest had long since given out.

“Miss Maxwell is here. She asked me to bring her to you in case she might be able to render you some assistance,” explained Courtenay.

Christobal drew himself upright, with the slowness of an elderly man whose joints are stiffening.

“Miss Maxwell here?” he repeated, obviously surprised, if not displeased. He waved a hand towards the men laid on mattresses on the deck. Most were quite motionless; others writhed in agony. “She cannot come—it is impossible.”

“It is her wish.”

“Quite impossible. Where is she?”

“Standing in the companion.”

Courtenay saw that the girl could do no good now in that chamber of death; the mere memory of it would be an abiding horror. He wanted Christobal himself to send her away, but the doctor had taken off his coat and bared his arms. His appearance was grimly business-like.

“Will you tell her how much I am obliged to her for her kind thought. But you see—it cannot be permitted. Please say that I hope to join her in the saloon in a quarter of an hour. My work is nearly ended. I am sure you will make her understand that this is not a place for a woman.”

Again he swept the row of silent bodies with a comprehensive hand. Yet the trivial thought intruded itself on the sailor that this elegant old Spaniard delegated the task of explanation to him solely because he did not wish to appear before Miss Maxwell in a somewhat disheveled state. He dismissed the notion at once.

“How many?” he asked, glancing at the quiet forms which bore no bandages.

“Eleven, now. By the way, just one word. What chance have we?” Christobal put the concluding sentence in French.

Courtenay answered in the same language: “A very poor one. But I shall come to the saloon and warn you. That will be only fair, don’t you think?”

“Most certainly. Well—I may as well finish here.” And the doctor signed to his helpers to lift the next sufferer on to the table.

Courtenay returned to the stairway. At the top stood Elsie, looking eagerly for his reappearance. A sense of unutterable anguish shook him for a second as he saw the sweet face, instinct with life and beauty, gazing down at him. How monstrous it was to think of such a fair woman being battered out of recognition against the rocks. He bit his lip savagely, and it is to be feared the words he swallowed were not those of supplication. But his eyes were calm and his voice well under control when he said:

“Dr. Christobal is captain below there, Miss Maxwell, and he absolutely vetoes your presence. He was exceedingly distressed at being compelled to send you such a message. However, he will soon explain matters to you in person, as he is coming aft almost at once.”

Elsie was disappointed. She dreaded the return to the saloon, with its queerly assorted company. When she quitted them, they were in a state of indescribable distress. Gray and the Englishman were helping the chief steward to adjust life-belts; but Isobel was in a frenzy of despair, her maid had fainted, de Poincilit and the Spaniards were muttering alternate appeals to the saints and oaths of utter abandonment, and Mrs. Somerville was almost unconscious, while her husband knelt by her side and wrung his hands in abject misery. Anything was better than to go back to that woful assembly, yet she choked down a protest and said quietly:

“I am ready. I am afraid I have been a bother to you, Captain Courtenay.”

“Say, rather, you have given me hope. I think Heaven has work for you to do in the world. Let me go out first. Never mind Joey. He can struggle along behind. Steady now. Head down and lean well against the wind.”

Elsie found, to her amazement, that there was less sense of danger in facing the wind than in being driven along before it. Moreover, she had greater confidence during this second transit over the exposed portion of the deck. She felt Courtenay dragging her on irresistibly until they gained the lee of the smoking-room. He let her rest there, beneath the ladder leading to the bridge. Then a strange revulsion of feeling came to him. He experienced an overwhelming desire not to be parted from her; he had a sickening fear that he might never see her again; so he shouted, very close to her cheek:

“Would you like to sit in my cabin a little while, if I bring Miss Baring?”

She thought that would be splendid. Courtenay, if any one, would succeed in calming Isobel. In order to make herself heard she, in turn, had to put her lips quite near to Courtenay’s face.

“Yes,” she cried, “I shall be only too pleased. But be patient with her; she is very frightened.”

There is no accounting for the workings of a man’s mind. Courtenay, at no time a lady’s man, most certainly had other matters to attend to just then. Yet here he was thinking only of a woman’s comfort. His dismal forebodings were banished by a rush of absurd delight at the thought that he would have an opportunity of speaking to her occasionally. What a brave girl she was! What a wife for a sailor! In truth, these were mad notions that jostled in his brain when his life and her’s were not worth an hour’s purchase. He drew her to the foot of the ladder.

“Run ahead, Joey!” he cried. The dog, a weird little figure leaning forward at a ridiculous angle against the tearing wind, obeyed instantly. “Now, you,” he said to Elsie, “but wait until I pass you at the top.”

Though her skirts were troublesome, she managed the ascent. Then she was taken off her feet again, and hardly knew where she was until she found herself in the haven of Courtenay’s cabin. Joey was glad to be there, too. He shook himself noisily in his heavy coat.

“You won’t mind if I fasten the door on you?” and the captain so far forgot his anxiety as to smile.

“No, indeed,” and she smiled in response.

“Very well. I shall bring Miss Baring in about five minutes. You won’t stir till we come?”

“What? Face that gale without you?” She almost laughed at the idea. He bolted the door, and he ran into the chart-house to tap the barometer. It moved appreciably. It was rising! Ah, if only the wind moderated, he could save the Kansas yet! He glanced at the compass. Still the same course. Not a fraction of a point gained to the north. That was bad. The ship was already within the danger zone. Pray Heaven for a falling wind, or even a change to the southward! Still, it was in an altogether more cheerful mood that he regained the promenade deck and made his way towards the saloon.

He was in the very act of entering the doorway when a shudder ran through the ship, and she lifted slightly. Clinging to a rail, he waited, rigid as a statue. A second time the great steel hull shook, but much more violently. Then the Kansas ran her nose into a shoal, swung round broadside to the sea, lifted again, struck heavily, and listed to port.

Courtenay was on the starboard side. He heard a yell of dismay from the men attending to the boats. Screams came from the saloon. The sea leaped triumphantly over the rails and nearly smothered him with its dense spray. So this was the end? It had come all too soon. And what a place for the ship to be cast away! Twenty miles from the nearest land, in the midst of a sea where no boat could live. God help them all!

CHAPTER V.
THE KANSAS SUSTAINS A CHECK—

Once, in early days, when Courtenay was a middy on a destroyer, his ship ran ashore on the Manacles. After a bump or two, and a noise like the snapping of trees during a hurricane, the little vessel broke her back, and the after part, with the engines, fell away into deep water. Courtenay happened to be on the bridge; the forward half held intact, so he and the other survivors clambered ashore at low water.

He waited now for the rending of plates, the tearing asunder of stanch steel ribs and cross-beams, which should sound the knell of the ship’s last moments. But the Kansas seemed to be in no hurry to fall in pieces. She strained and groaned, and shook violently when a wave pounded her; otherwise, she lay there like a beaten thing, oddly resembling the living but almost unconscious men stretched on the mattresses in the forward saloon.

Courtenay did not experience the least fear of death. Emotion of any sort was already dead in him. He found himself wondering if an unexpectedly strong current, setting to the southeast, had not upset his reckoning—if there were any broken limbs among the occupants of the saloon—if Elsie had been injured by being thrown down into his cabin. He looked at his watch; it was past eleven. In four hours there would be dawn. Dawn! In as many minutes he might see the day that is everlasting. . . . Ah! Perhaps not even four minutes! The Kansas, with a shiver, lifted to the embrace of a heavy sea, lurched to port, and settled herself more comfortably. The deck assumed an easier angle. Now it was possible to walk. There were no rocks here, at any rate. Courtenay at once jumped to the conclusion that the powerful current whose existence he suspected had cut out for itself a deep-water channel towards the land, and the ship had struck on the silt of its back-wash. Anyhow, the Kansas was still living. The lights were all burning steadily. He could detect the rhythmic throb of the donkey-engine. He felt it like the faint beat of a pulse. In her new position the ship presented less of a solid wall to the onslaught of the sea. The tumultuous waves began to race past without breaking so fiercely. Had she started her plates? Were the holds and engine-room full of water? If so, Walker and his helpers were already drowning beneath his feet. And, when next she moved, the vessel might slip away into the depths!

These and kindred thoughts, thoughts without sequence and almost without number, flew through his mind with incredible speed. They were lucid and reasoned, their pros and cons equally dealt with—he could have answered any question on each point were it propounded by a board of examiners—and all this took place within a few seconds, between the impact of one big wave and another.

A man rushed by, or tried to do so. Courtenay recognized him as a leading stoker who had temporary charge of the donkey-boiler and seized him wrathfully, his eyes ablaze.

“Go back!” he roared.

“Señor! The ship is lost!”

“Go back, and await my orders.”

He could have strangled the fugitive in his sudden rage. The fireman endeavored to gasp his readiness to obey. Courtenay relaxed his grip, and, for a time, at least one member of the crew stuck to his post, fearing the mad captain more than death.

A mob of stewards and kitchen hands came in a torrent up the saloon stairs. Courtenay met them, a terrifying figure, and thrust a revolver in their faces.

“Back!” he shouted, “or some of you will die here.”

Even in their frenzy they believed him. The foremost slunk away, and fought in a new terror with those who would urge them on. Gray, bleeding from a cut across the forehead, knocked down a man who brutally tore Isobel out of his path. Tollemache, a revolver in each hand, set his back against the corner of the saloon at the foot of the stairs.

“I’m with you, captain,” he yelled.

Courtenay saw that he had conquered them—for the instant. He raised his hand.

“Behave like men,” he cried. “You can do no good by crowding the deck. I am going to the bridge to see if it is possible to lower the boats. Each boat’s crew will be mustered in turn, passengers and men alike. If you are cowards now you will throw away what chance there is of saving your lives.”

His voice rang out like a trumpet. His attitude cowed while it reassured them. Men turned from one to another to ask what the señor captain was saying. They understood much, but they wanted to make sure of each word. Was there any hope? Now that the gates of death were opening, he was a god in their eyes—a god who promised life in return for obedience.

A revolver barked twice somewhere on deck. A bullet smashed one of the windows of the music-room and lodged in a panel behind Courtenay. They all heard the reports, but the captain promptly turned the incident to advantage.

“You see we mean to maintain order,” he said. “Mr. Malcolm, take care that every one has a lifebelt.”

A sort of cheer came from the men. Who could fail to believe in a leader so cool and resourceful? He ran out into the darkness to discover the cause of the shooting. A number of sailors and firemen were striving to launch a boat. There was a struggle going on. He could not distinguish friend from foe in the mêlée, but he threw himself into it fearlessly.

“You fools!” he shouted. “You may die soon enough without killing each other. Make way there! Ah! would you?” He caught the gleam of an uplifted knife, and struck savagely at the face of the man who would have used it. The butt of the revolver caught the sailor on the temple. He went down like a stone. Courtenay stumbled over another prostrate body. It was Mr. Boyle, striving to rise. Their eyes met in the gloom. Courtenay stooped and swung the other clear of the fight, for the second and third officers were using their fists, and Walker, even in the hurry of his ascent from the stoke-hold, had not let go of a spanner. The yells and curses, the trampling of dim forms swaying in the fight, the roaring of the gale, and the incessant crash of heavy spray made up a ghastly pandemonium. It was an orgy of terror, of wild abandon, of hopeless striving on the edge of the pit—a stupid madness at the best, as the ship’s life-boats on the port side were on the spar deck; in their panic the men were endeavoring to lower a dingy. Yet Courtenay saw that discipline was regaining its influence. He thought to inspire confidence and stop useless savagery by a sharp command.

“All hands follow me to starboard!”

The struggle ceased instantly. The captain’s order seemed to imply some new scheme. Men who, a moment ago, would have killed any one who sought to restrain them from clearing the boat’s falls, now raced pell-mell after their officers. No heed was paid to those who lay on the deck, wounded or insensible. Herein alone did these Chilean sailors differ from wolves, and wolves have the excuse of fierce hunger when they devour their disabled fellows.

Still carrying Boyle, Courtenay led the confused horde through a gangway to the higher side of the deck.

“Swing those boats back to the spar deck!” he said. “Get falls and tackle ready to lift them to port. Don’t lose your heads, men. You will all be clear of the ship in ten minutes if you do as you are told.”

Two officers and a quarter-master sprang forward. In an incredibly short space of time the crew were working with redoubled frenzy, but under control, and with a common object. For an instant, Courtenay was free to attend to his chief officer. He bore him to the lighted saloon companion. Boyle was deathly pale under the tan of his skin. The captain saw that his own left hand, where it clasped the other round the waist, was covered with blood.

“Below there!” he cried. “Bring two men here, Mr. Malcolm.”

When the chief steward came he gave directions that Mr. Boyle should be taken to the saloon and Dr. Christobal summoned.

“Send some one you can trust to return,” he continued. “Go then to the lee of the promenade deck. You will find others there.”

He did not stop to ask himself if solicitude for the unfortunates wounded in the fight were of any avail. His mind was clear, the habit of command strong in him. Not until the sea claimed him would he cease to rule. The clank of pulleys, the cries of the sailors heaving at the ropes, told him that the crew were at work. At last he was free to go to the bridge.

He found the quarter-master in the chart-house, on his knees. When the ship struck, the officer of the watch had been thrown headlong to port. Recovering his feet before a tumbling sea could fling him overboard, he hauled himself out of danger just in time to take part in the fray on deck. He came back now, hurrying to join the captain. Courtenay, standing in the shelter of the chart-house, was peering through the flying scud to leeward. The sea was darker there than it had been for hours. Around the ship the surface was milk-like with foam, but beyond the area of the shoal there seemed to be a remote chance for a boat to live.

“We’re on a sort of breakwater, sir,” said the second officer.

“Seems like it. Is the ship hard and fast?”

“I am afraid so.”

“I think the weather is moderating. Go and see how the barometer stands.”

“Steady improvement, sir,” came the report.

“Any water coming in?”

“Mr. Walker said he thought not.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Try to get the first life-boat lowered. Let her carry as many extra hands as possible. We have lost two boats. But do not send any women in her. If all is well, let them go in the next one. Take charge of that yourself.”

“Would you mind tying this handkerchief tightly just here, sir?”

The second officer held out his left forearm.

“Were you knifed, too?” asked Courtenay.

“It is not much, but I am losing a good deal of blood.”

“The brutes—the unreasoning brutes!” muttered the captain. As he knotted the linen into a rough tourniquet the other asked:

“Shall I report to you when the first boat gets away, sir?”

“No need. I shall see what happens. When she is clear I shall bring the ladies to you.”

Pride of race helped these men to talk as collectedly as if the ship were laid alongside a Thames wharf. They knew not the instant the Kansas might lift again and turn turtle, yet they did not dream of deviating a hair’s breadth from their duties. The second officer went aft to carry out the captain’s instructions. Courtenay followed a little way, passing to leeward of the chart-house, until he reached his own quarters. There was no door on that side, but light streamed through a couple of large port-holes across which the curtains had not been drawn. He looked in. Elsie was leaning against the table to balance herself on the sloping deck. She held Joey in her arms. She seemed to be talking to the dog, who answered in his own way, by trying to lick her face. The glass was so blurred that Courtenay could not see that she was crying.

“Better wait,” he muttered, and turned his gaze seaward again. Yes, there could be no doubt that the almost unbroken swell within half a cable’s length of the ship promised a possibility of escape. There was no telling what dangers lay beyond. To his reckoning, the nearest land was twenty miles distant, but the shoal water might extend all the way, and, with a falling wind, waves once disintegrated would not regain any considerable size. It was a throw of the dice for life, but it must be taken. He indulged in a momentary thought as to his own course. Would he leave the ship in the last boat? Yes, if every wounded man on board were taken off first; and how could he entertain even a shred of hope that his cowardly crew would preserve such discipline to the end as to permit of that being done?

The answer to his mute question came sooner than he expected. He had been standing there alone about five minutes, intently watching the set of the sea, so as to determine the best time for lowering a boat, when, amid the sustained shriek of the wind and the lashing of the spray, he heard sounds which told him that the forward port life-boat was being swung outward on the davits. The hurricane deck was a mass of confused figures. The two boats to starboard, a life-boat and the jolly-boat, had been carried across the deck in readiness to take the places of the port life-boats. A landsman might think that medley reigned supreme; but it was not so. Sailor-like work was proceeding with the utmost speed and system, when an accident happened. For some reason never ascertained, though it was believed that the men in the leading boat were too anxious to clear the falls and failed to take the proper precautions, the heavy craft pitched stern foremost into the sea. She sank like a stone, and with her went a number of Chileans; their despairing yells, coming up from the churning froth, seemed to be a signal for the demoniac passions latent in the crew to burst forth again, this time in a consuming blaze that would not be stayed. Each man fought blindly for himself, heedless now of all restrictions. The knowledge of this latest disaster spread with amazing rapidity. Up from the saloon came a rush of stewards and others. Overborne in the panic-stricken flight, Gray, Tollemache, Christobal, the French Count and the head steward, not knowing what new catastrophe threatened, brought Mr. Somerville and the almost inanimate women with them, leaving to their fate those who, like Boyle, were unable to move. Some of the mob rushed up the bridge companion; others made for the after ladders used only by sailors; others, again, swung themselves to the spar deck by the rails and awning standards. Even before Courtenay could reach the scene, both the second and third officers were stabbed, this time mortally. He saw one of the infuriated mutineers heave the third officer’s body overboard—a final quittance for some injury previously received.

He emptied his revolver into the tumbling mass of men, but he was swept aside by the fresh gang from the saloon, and perhaps owed his escape from instant death by falling on the slippery deck. He was up again, shouting, entreating, striking right and left, but he felt bitterly that his efforts now were of no avail, and he bethought him that there was only one resource left. These frenzied wretches would destroy themselves and all others—so, if he would save even a few of the lives entrusted to his care, at least one of the boats must be protected. The struggle was fiercest for the possession of the two life-boats. By a determined effort the jolly-boat might be secured.

So he ran to obtain help from the few he could trust, from the tiny company of white men he had left in the saloon; he met them, a forlorn procession, coming up to the bridge. The all-powerful instinct of self-preservation, aided, no doubt, by the stinging, drenching showers of spray, had gone far towards reanimating Isobel and her maid, while Mrs. Somerville, a woman advanced in years, was able to walk, though benumbed with the sudden cold. Courtenay unlocked the door of his cabin. Elsie, her face pale and tear-stained, but outwardly composed, was yet standing near the table, and the dog sprang from her arms the moment his master appeared.

“Thank God!” she said, all of a flutter now that the solitary waiting for a death which came not was ended. “I feared I should never see you again. Is the ship lost?”

The wild soughing of the wind rendered her words indistinct. And the captain had no time for explanations.

“In here!” he shouted to Gray, who had helped Isobel to enter the chart-room, the first refuge available on this exposed deck.

“Sharp with it!” he thundered, when Isobel was unwilling to face the storm again. The men took their cue from his imperative tone. Gray clasped Isobel in his arms and lifted her bodily through the doorway. The others followed his example. Soon the three women were with Elsie in the cabin. Isobel, by sheer reaction from her previous hysteria, was sullen now, and heedless of all considerations save her own misery. When she set eyes on Elsie she snapped out:

“You here!”

“Yes. Captain Courtenay brought me to his cabin after our return from the fore saloon.”

“Oh, did he? And he left me with those devils beneath!”

They both heard Courtenay’s hurried order:

“Leave the ladies here until we can come for them. Follow me at once.”

The door slammed behind the men. Even the missionary was fired to action by Courtenay’s manner. Elsie helped Mrs. Somerville to a chair. Then she turned to Isobel, and said gently:

“It is a slight thing to discuss when any moment may be our last, but the captain placed me here while he went to bring you. He had gone only a few seconds when the ship struck.”

The crest of a wave combed over the upper works and pounded the solid beams and planks of the cabin until they creaked. The ship lifted somewhat as the sea enveloped her.

“Oh, this is awful!” shrieked Isobel. “If I must die, let me die quickly. I shall go mad.”

“Calm yourself, dear. There must be an end of our sufferings soon. Perhaps we may escape even yet.”

“Yes, I know. If any one is saved it will be you. You left me down there to take my chance among those fiends. You have been here hours, with your precious captain, no doubt. Were he looking after his ship this might not have happened. . . . Why did I ever come on this wretched vessel? And with you, who ran away from Ventana! I should have been warned by it. When he could work me no other evil he sent you. . . . Oh, you have taken a fine vengeance, Pedro Ventana! May you be denied mercy as I am denied it now! . . . Go away! If you touch me I shall strike you. I hate you! I tell you I am losing my senses. Do you wish me to tear your face with my nails?”

Elsie, who would have soothed her distraught friend with a loving hand, drew back in real fear that she was confronted by a maniac. The utter outrageousness of this new infliction brought tears to her eyes. Yet she choked back her grief for the sake of the others.

“Isobel, darling, please try to control yourself,” she pleaded. “Don’t say such cruel things to me. You cannot mean them. I would do anything to serve you. I am more sorry for you than for myself. I have little to bind me to this life, whereas you have everything. Indeed, indeed, I have not been away from you many minutes.”

Another heavy sea pitched on board. The Kansas trembled and listed suddenly. Isobel screamed shrilly, and burst into a storm of dry-eyed sobs. Her mood changed instantly into one of abject submission. She sprang towards Elsie with hands outstretched.

“Oh, save me, save me!” she wailed. “God knows I am not fit to die!”

There are some noble natures which find strength in the need to comfort the weakness of others. Elsie drew the distracted girl close to her, and placed an arm round her neck.

“It is not for us to say when we shall die,” she murmured. “Let us try to be resigned. We must bear our misfortunes with Christian faith and hope. Somehow, I feel that I have endured so much to-night that death looks less terrible now. Perhaps that is because it is so near. To me, the specter seems to be receding.”

“Did the captain tell you we had any chance of escape, señorita?” asked the Spanish maid.

“What hope did Captain Courtenay hold out?” demanded Mrs. Somerville, who had listened to Isobel’s raving with small comprehension.

Elsie left unuttered the protest on her lips. They all thought she possessed Courtenay’s confidence in the same extraordinary degree. Well, she would try to impart consolation in that way. It was ridiculous, but it would serve.

“Of course we are in a desperate situation,” she said, “but while the ship holds together there is always a chance of rescue, and you can see quite clearly that she is far from breaking up yet.”

“Rescue! Did he speak of rescue?” cried Isobel. “That is impossible, unless we take to the boats. And the cry in the saloon was that two boats were lost long ago and a third just now. That is why we were brought on deck. Were they launching a boat?”

“I don’t know,” said Elsie. “I was here quite alone, except for Joey.”

“Ah, it was true then. He was acting secretly, and the men broke loose as soon as they heard of it.”

Elsie found this recurring suspicion of Courtenay’s motives harder to bear than the preceding paroxysm of unreasoning rage. She had heard the shooting, bellowing, and tramping on deck, and she knew that some terrible scene was being enacted there, while the mere fact that the captain himself placed the female passengers in his cabin proved that he was doing his best for all.

“I do not believe for one instant that Captain Courtenay was acting otherwise than as a brave and honorable gentleman,” she said; and then the fantastic folly of such a dispute at such a moment overcame her. She drew apart from Isobel, leaned against the wall of the cabin, and wept unrestrainedly.

Her companions in misfortune did not realize how greatly her calm self-reliance had comforted them until they witnessed this unlooked-for collapse. The Spanish maid slipped to her knees, Mrs. Somerville began to rock in her chair in a new agony, and Isobel, to whom a turbulent spirit denied the relief of tears when they were most needed, buried her face in a curtain which draped one of the windows.

It was thus that Courtenay found them, when he appeared at the door after a lapse of time which none of them could measure.

“Now, Miss Maxwell, you first,” he said with an air of authority which betokened some new move of utmost importance.

“First—for what?” she managed to ask.

“You are going off in a boat. It is your best chance. Please be quick.”

“No, Miss Baring goes before me. Then the others, I shall come last.”

“Have it as you will. I addressed you because you were nearest the door. Come along, Miss Baring.”

He waited for no further words. He grasped Isobel’s arm and led her out into the darkness. It seemed to be a very long time before he returned.

“Now, Mrs. Somerville,” he said, but that unhappy lady was so unnerved that he had to carry her.

“Can you manage to bring the maid?” he asked over his shoulder to Elsie. This trust in her drove away the weakness which had conquered her under Isobel’s taunts. She stooped over the maid, but the girl wrestled and fought with her in frantic dread of the passage along the deck and of facing that howling sea in a small boat.

Elsie herself was almost worn out when Courtenay came back. He took in the situation at a glance. He picked up the shrieking maid in his strong arms.

“You won’t mind waiting for me,” he said to Elsie.

“Don’t attempt to come alone. You are too exhausted.”

It was a fine thing to do, but she smiled at him to show that she could still repay his confidence.

“I shall wait,” she said simply.

So she was left there, all alone again, without even the dog to bear her company.

CHAPTER VI.
—BUT GOES ON AGAIN INTO THE UNKNOWN

This final waiting for the chance of succor seemed to be the hardest trial of all. The door had been hooked back to keep it wide open, so wind and sea invaded the trim privacy of the cabin. Spray leaped over the ship in such dense sheets that a considerable quantity of water quickly lodged on the port side where Courtenay’s bunk was fixed. There was no means of escape for it in that quarter, and the angle at which the Kansas lay would permit a depth of at least two feet to accumulate ere the water began to flow out through the door to the starboard.

At the great crises of existence the stream of thought is apt to form strange eddies. Courtenay, when the ship struck, and it was possible that each second might register his last conscious impression, found himself coolly reviewing various explanations of the existence of an uncharted shoal in a locality situate many miles from the known danger zone. Elsie, strung half-consciously to the highest tension by the affrighting probability of being set adrift in a small boat at the mercy of the sea roaring without—a sea which pounded the steel hull of the Kansas with such force that the great ship seemed to flinch from each blow like a creature in pain—Elsie, then, faced by such an intolerable prospect, was a prey to real anxiety because the wearing apparel scattered by Courtenay on the floor was becoming soaked in brine.

She actually stooped to rescue a coat which was not yet saturated beyond redemption. As she lifted the garment, a packet of letters, tied with a tape, fell from its folds. She placed the coat on the writing-table, and endeavored to stuff the letters into a pigeon-hole. They were too bulky, so she laid them on the coat. In doing this she could not avoid seeing the words, “Your loving sister, Madge,” written on the outer fold of the last letter in the bundle.

And that brought a memory of her previous visit to the captain’s stateroom; the contrast between the careless chatter of that glorious summer afternoon and the appalling midnight of this fourth day of the voyage was something quite immeasurable; it was marked by a void as that which separates life and death. She was incapable of reasoned reflection. A series of mental pictures, a startling jumble of ideas—trivial as the wish to save the clothes from a wetting, tremendous as the near prospect of eternity—danced through her brain with bewildering clearness. She felt that if she were fated to live to a ripe old age she would never forget a single detail of the furniture and decorations of the room. She would hear forever the dolorous howling of the gale, the thumping of the waves against the quivering plates, the rapid, methodic thud of the donkey-engine, which, long since deserted by its cowardly attendant, was faithfully doing its work and flooding the ship with electric light.

She could scarcely believe that it was she, Elsie Maxwell, who stood there on the tremulous island of the ship amidst a stormy ocean the like of which she had never seen before. She seemed to possess an entity apart from herself, to be a passive witness of events as in a dream; presently, she would awake and find that she was back in her pleasant room at the Morrisons’ hacienda, or tucked up in her own comfortable cabin. Yet here was proof positive that the terror which environed her was real. Bound up with the thunder of the gale were the words, “Your loving sister, Madge”—evidently the sister Captain Courtenay had spoken of—“matron of a hospital in the suburbs of London,” he said. Would he ever see her again? Or his mother? Had he thought of them at all during this night of woe? Beneath his iron mask did tears lurk, and dull agony, and palsied fear—surely a man could suffer like a woman, even though he endured most nobly?

And then, not thinking in the least what she was doing, she scrutinized the closely tied packet. She wondered idly why he treasured so many missives. Each and every one, oddly enough, was written on differently sized and variously colored note-paper. And it could be seen at a glance that they were from as many different people. The outside letter was the most clearly visible. Miss Courtenay wrote a well-formed, flowing hand. If handwriting were a clue to character, she was a candid, generous, open-minded woman.

But what was this? Elsie suddenly threw down the letters. She had read a sentence at the top of the page twice before she actually grasped its purport. When its significance dawned on her, she flushed violently. For this was what she read:

“I am glad of it, too, because under no other circumstances would I wish to greet and embrace the woman destined to be your wife.”

The knowledge that she had involuntarily intruded on Captain Courtenay’s private affairs brought her back with a certain slight shock to a sense of actualities. The storm, the horrible danger she was in, emerged from shadow-land. Why had he not come for her? Surely there must have been some further mishap! Heavens! Was she alone on the ship, alone with the dead men and the dying vessel? Her head swam with a strange faintness, and she placed a hand to her eyes. She felt that she must leave the cabin at once, and strive to make her way unaided along the deck. Yes, whatever happened, she would go now. It was too dreadful to wait there any longer in ignorance as to her fate.

Then Joey sprang in through the doorway, and, with that splendid disregard for sentiment displayed by a fox-terrier who has just come out of a first-rate fight, shook his harness until it rattled.

But he eyed the inrush of the sea with much disfavor, so he leaped up on the table beside Elsie, and looked at her as though he would ask why she had permitted this sacrilege.

Though the dog was apparently unscathed and in the best of condition, his head and forepaws were blood-stained. His advent dispelled the mist which was gathering in the girl’s brain. She feared a tragedy, yet Joey assuredly would not be so cheerful, so daintily desirous to avoid the splashing water in the cabin, if his master were injured. She was doubtful now whether to go on deck or not. The mere presence of the dog was a guarantee that Courtenay had not quitted the ship. Indeed, Elsie colored again, and more deeply, at the disloyalty of her ungoverned fear. Joey’s master would be the last man to desert a woman, no matter what the excuse. She strove to listen for any significant noises without, but wind and sea rendered the effort useless to untrained ears, and there was no shooting or frenzied yells to rise above the storm.

“Oh, Joey,” she said, “I wish you could speak!”

The sound of her own voice startled her. In a fashion, it gave her a measure of time. It seemed so long since she had heard a spoken word. The captain could certainly have gone round the whole ship since he left her. What could have detained him? She was yielding to nervousness again, and was on the point of venturing out, at least as far as the deck-house ran, to see if she could distinguish what was taking place on the after part of the vessel, when Dr. Christobal entered.

“I suppose you thought you were forgotten,” he cried with a pleasant smile, for Christobal would have a smile for a woman even on his death-bed. “There, now! Don’t try to explain your feelings. You have had a very trying time, and I want you to oblige me by drinking this.”

“This” was a glass of champagne, which he hurriedly poured out of a small bottle he was carrying into a glass which he produced from a pocket. The trivial action, no less than Dr. Christobal’s manner, suggested that they were engaged in some fantastic picnic. The outer horrors were not for them, apparently. They were as secure as sight-seers in the Cave of the Winds, awe-smitten tourists who cling to a rail while mighty Niagara thunders harmlessly overhead.

The mere sight of the wine caused Elsie to realize that her lips and palate were on fire with salt. At one moment she had not the slightest cognizance of her suffering; at the next, she felt that speech was impossible until she drank. Never before had she known what thirst was. A somewhat inferior vintage suddenly assumed a bouquet which surpassed the finest cru ever dreamt of by Marne valley vigneron.

“Ah, that is better,” said the doctor. “Now, if you don’t mind, we shall have the door closed.”

With peace suddenly restored to the room, and her faculties helped more than she suspected, Elsie began to wonder what had happened.

“Where are the others?” she asked; “and why are you taking things so coolly? Captain Courtenay said—”

“Captain Courtenay said exactly what he meant. But circumstances proved too strong for him. We shall not be able to leave the ship just yet.”

“Can’t they lower any of the boats?”

“Most decidedly. Two boats have been gone some time. I imagined you knew that. Did not the captain tell you?”

At another time Elsie would have laughed at the prevalent delusion that she enjoyed Courtenay’s confidence so thoroughly. But she felt that her companion’s glib tone was artificial. Something had occurred which he was keeping from her. She believed that he had gone to the saloon to procure the wine so that she might have what men called Dutch courage when bad news came.

“I have not exchanged a dozen words with the captain since you refused my help in the fore cabin,” she said. “He had other matters to attend to than explaining the progress of events to me. Why cannot you trust me? I shall not scream, nor faint, nor hinder you in your work; I ask you again— Where are the others?”

“You mean Miss Baring and Mrs. Somerville?”

“Yes.”

“If they are living, they are far enough away by this time. When their boat was lowered it was cast off prematurely—”

“Purposely?”

“Well—yes. Courtenay had just placed Miss Baring’s maid on board when some of the crew let go the ropes. What could we do? We were forced to depend on them.”

“Is there no other boat?”

Christobal threw out his hands in his characteristic gesture. He was so emphatic that he spilled some of the wine.

“You take it bravely,” he said. “I may as well give you the whole story. The first boat lowered was lost, through the men’s own bungling, the captain says. Then there was a desperate fight for the three remaining craft. Most of the officers were killed. Courtenay got a few of us together when Isobel and Mrs. Somerville joined you here, and we held off such of the madmen as tried to seize the jolly-boat. They managed to lower two life-boats, but, between murder and panic, not half of the crew escaped in that way. Four men, who were left behind, promised obedience, and Malcolm, the steward, was placed in charge, with Mr. Gray as second in command. One of the engineers, acting on the captain’s orders, brought a can of oil from the engine-room and threw it over the side in handfuls. The result was magical. We lowered the boat easily, placed Monsieur de Poincilit on board, because he was worse than the women, and then Courtenay, as you know, brought Isobel, the minister’s wife—who refused to go without her husband—and the maid. There was room for you and another, so, at the captain’s request, Tollemache and I tossed for the vacancy. Meanwhile, Courtenay had turned to go for you, when we heard a shout from Gray; two of the Chileans had cast off the ropes which kept the boat alongside. Gray, who was fending her from the ship with the boat-hook, jabbed one fellow in the face with it; but he was too late. The boat raced off into the darkness. And here we are!”

That Christobal left several things unsaid Elsie knew quite well. He plumed himself on the reserve he had acquired from his English mother, though in all matters pertaining to nationality he was a true hidalgo. Indeed, there was a touch of vanity in the way he examined the sparkle of the champagne he now poured into Elsie’s empty glass. He scrutinized the wine with the air of a connoisseur. He was looking for the gas to rise in three or four well-defined spirals. And he nodded doubtfully, before drinking it, as one might say:

“The right brand, but of what year?”

Then it dawned on the girl that both her elderly friend and she herself were accepting an extraordinary situation with remarkable nonchalance.

“How many of us remain on the ship?” she asked.

“Very few—on the effective list. The captain, an engineer whose name I do not know, Mr. Tollemache, and ourselves make up the total.”

“Where is Mr. Boyle?”

“Ah, poor Boyle! I fear he is done for. He is very badly wounded. I bandaged him as well as I could, but the call on deck was imperative.”

“Is he in the saloon? Should we not go to him?”

“I have only just left him. The hemorrhage has stopped, and I gave him some brandy. Believe me, we can do nothing more for him. I told Courtenay it was quite useless to place him on board the boat. You may be sure he was not forgotten.”

“I did not imagine that any one would be forgotten,” said Elsie, and, for some reason, the light in her eyes caused Christobal to go on rapidly:

“We have a whole crowd of injured men on board, Miss Maxwell. At present we can render them no aid. I thought it wisest to obey orders. The captain told me to bring you some wine and remain with you here. It will not be for long.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The ship appears to be lodged hard and fast on a reef or sandspit. I am told the tide is rising. If that is so, our only hope is in the raft which our three allies are now constructing. With a falling tide we might have a breathing-space at low water. As it is, well—”

Christobal, with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other, nevertheless waved them. Elsie, whose nervous system at this juncture was proof against any but the last pang of imminent death, could almost have laughed at the queer figure he cut, brandishing his arms and standing awkwardly on the inclined deck. She bent her head to hide the smile on her lips; she noticed that Joey was panting, the use of his teeth on various wet legs during the tussle for the jolly-boat having caused him to swallow more salt-water than he cared for. Elsie’s sympathies were aroused. While assuaging her own thirst she had neglected the dog. She took a carafe of water from its wooden stand near the table, and poured some of the contents into a tumbler. Joey’s thanks were ecstatic. He yelped with delight at the mere thought of a drink.

While the dog was lapping a second supply, the Kansas shifted again with a disconcerting suddenness. The water in the cabin swirled across the floor as the ship was restored to an even keel. The movement dislodged the packet of letters. It fell, and Elsie rescued it a second time. Christobal watched her with undisguised admiration.

“Really,” he said, “I find you wonderful.”

“Why?” Certainly she might be pardoned for seeking an explanation of any compliment just then.

“Why? Por Dios! Excuse me, but that slipped out sideways. Just imagine any woman being able to attend to a dog and pick up a bundle of letters at the very instant the ship appeared to be slipping off into deep water!”

“Is not that the best thing that can happen?”

“My dear young lady, we should sink instantly.”

“How do you know?”

“Well—er—I don’t exactly know, but I assume that the hull was broken long since.”

“I don’t see why you should take that for granted. These very movements seem to me to argue buoyancy. Somehow, I feel far safer here than if I were—”

She was interrupted by the opening of the door, and the consequent roar of the gale. It was Walker, the engineer, a lank, swarthy man, with long black mustaches which drooped forlornly down the sides of his mouth. He shouted, with the inimitable accent of Tyneside:

“Yo’ wanted, Docto’ Chwistobal. The captain thinks Mr. Boyle is bettaw.”

“May I come, too?” asked Elsie.

“No, missie. You bide he-aw.”

“Please tell me before you go—is the ship full of water?”

“She’s dwy as a bone,” said Walker. A sea splashed over him and sent a shower into the cabin. “A vewy wet bone,” he added, with a broad grin, for the Northumbrian had a ready wit though he had such a solemn jowl, and he could not pronounce an “r” to save his life.

“Between you and the captain, I am beginning to be infected by belief,” said Christobal to Elsie. “Let me recommend you to close the door behind us.”

And she was left with the dog for company once more. A chronometer showed that the hour was past midnight. She knew sufficient of the sea to understand that the clock was probably accurate, as the course had practically followed the same meridian since the Kansas quitted Valparaiso. So the ship and those left on board had entered on another day! How little she had thought that to be possible when the awful knowledge first came to her that the Kansas was ashore! How long ago was that? Then she remembered that when Courtenay placed her in his cabin with the promise to bring Isobel to her, she had noticed the time—eleven o’clock. Was it conceivable that only one hour had elapsed since she and her four-footed friend were flung all of a heap into a corner by the impact of the vessel against the sand-bank? One hour! Surely there was some mistake; she puzzled over the problem, recounting each event since the conclusion of dinner, and finally convinced herself that her recollection was not at fault. An hour—one of eternity’s hours! A verse of the 90th Psalm came to her mind:

“For a thousand years in Thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night.”

The words had a new and solemn meaning to her. Yesterday was her thousand years—this was her watch in the night—and it would pass as a tale that is told. Involuntarily she turned to the bookcase behind her, and took the Bible from the little library of books which she had laughingly described as “a curious assortment.” It was her intent to find the psalm containing that awe-inspiring verse, and read the whole of it, but, in turning over the leaves, she came upon a scrap of paper with notes on it. The handwriting was scholarly and legible. She thought that Captain Courtenay would probably write just such a hand. Though her cheeks tingled a little at the memory of the words in his sister’s letter, there was no harm in reading a memorandum evidently intended to mark a passage in the book. The items were sufficiently striking:—“Meribah—a place of strife; Selah—a repetition, or sort of musical da capo.”

This stirred her to seek an explanation. She searched the two pages which opened at the marker, and, in the seventh verse of the 81st Psalm, she found the key:

“Thou calledst in trouble, and I delivered thee; I answered thee in the secret place of thunder; I proved thee at the waters of Meribah. Selah.”

The phrases were strangely appropriate to her present environment. They were almost prophetic, and there was even a sinister sound in the concluding instruction to the “chief musician upon Gittith” in this psalm of Asaph. That was the terrible feature of her vigil. There was no knowing when or how it would end. She closed the book in a state more closely approximating to hysterical fright than she had been at any previous time during that most trying night. The truth was, though she could not realize it, that her senses were far too alert, her brain too preoccupied, to permit of such an ordered task as reading. In her mind’s eye, she saw the boats, with their cowering occupants, plunging and tossing in that frenzied sea. By contrast, she was far better off on the ship. Yet, were it not for the action of some cowardly Chilean, she must have gone with Isobel and the others. It was torturing to think that her fancied security was really more perilous than the more apparent plight of the storm-tossed boats. No wonder she could not read, though the words were inspired!

And Joey was becoming restless. He danced backwards and forwards on the table where he had taken refuge from the invading flood. Indeed, the dog knew, long before Elsie, that the Kansas was afloat again. At last she noticed that the water in the cabin was gurgling to and fro, and, in the same instant, she felt the regular swing of the moving ship. She was speculating on the outcome of this new condition of affairs when the door opened and Walker thrust his lantern-jawed face within. He grinned cheerfully.

“I’ve come to fetch you to yo’ cabin, miss,” he announced. “The ship’s under weigh, an’, as yo’ pwobably winging wet, the captain says you ought to change yo’ clo’es.”

Joey followed her out, but deserted her instantly. She saw the reason, when Walker helped her to reach the bridge companion. Courtenay was in the chart-house, at the wheel. He gave her a friendly nod as she passed. Somehow, Elsie felt safe now that the ship was in the captain’s hands again.

CHAPTER VII.
UNTIL THE DAWN

Walker was about to take her to the saloon, whence an inner staircase communicated with the principal staterooms, but she knew that the door leading to the promenade deck had been left unlocked, so she signaled him to lead her the speediest way. Speak she could not. Although there was a perceptible improvement in the weather, Elsie found the wind even harder to combat than when she traversed the deck with Courtenay. This apparent contradiction arose from the fact that during their early dealing with the boats the sailors had cut away the greater part of the canvas shield rigged to protect passengers from adventurous seas.

Nevertheless, all flustered and breathless as she was, she held Walker back when he would have left her in the shelter of her cabin.

“Do spare me one moment,” she pleaded. “When I have put on dry clothing, what am I to do? Where am I to go? I will do anything rather than remain alone.”

Walker jammed himself in the doorway to break the violence of the unceasing deluge of spray.

“Well, missie,” he said, “I’m examining the engines, Mistaw Tollemache is fi-wing up the donkey-boiler, an’ Doctaw Chwistobal is with Mistaw Boyle. You know whe-aw the captain is, so I weckon yo’ best place is the saloon.”

“Dr. Christobal said you were making a raft?”

“That’s wight. But when the ship got off, we tackled othaw jobs. She is ow-ah best waft.”

“And—do you think—we have any chance.”

“Nevah say ‘die,’ missie. Owt can happen at sea.”

She made a guess at the meaning of “owt.”

“May I not look after some of the injured men?”

“That you can’t,” was Walker’s prompt assurance. “You’d bettaw stick to the saloon. I’ll tell the captain yo’ the-aw.”

“Tell him? Are you returning to the bridge?”

“Telephone!” shouted Walker, as an unusually heavy sea caused him to slam the door unceremoniously. He bolted it, too. Not if he could help it would his charge come out on that storm-swept deck unattended.

The electric light glowed brightly in Elsie’s cabin, exactly as she had left it an hour ago. This was one of the anomalous conditions of the disaster. It lent a queer sense of Midsummer madness to the night’s doings. In a few days it would be Christmas, the Christmas of sunshine and flowers known only to that lesser portion of the habitable earth south of the line. In Valparaiso the weather was stifling, yet here, not so very far away, it was bitterly cold. And the ship was driving headlong to destruction, though electric bells and switches were at command in a luxuriously furnished apartment, while the engineer had just spoken of the telephone as a means of conversing with the captain. Away down in her feminine heart the girl wondered why Courtenay himself had not come to her. Why had he sent Christobal first and Walker subsequently? Oh, of course he had more urgent matters to attend to, though, in the helpless condition of the ship, it was difficult to appreciate their precise degrees of importance.

Anyhow, he had sent word that she was to change her clothes, and he must be obeyed, as Dr. Christobal said. Then she discovered, as a quite new and physically disagreeable fact, that her skirts were soaked up to her knees, while her blouse was almost in the same condition owing to the quantity of spray which had run down inside her thick ulster.

It was an absurd thing to be afraid of after all she had endured, but Elsie cried a little when she realized that she had been literally wet to the skin without knowing it. In truth, she had a momentary dread of a fainting fit, and it was not until she untied the veil which held her Tam o’ Shanter in its place that she learnt how the knot had come near to suffocating her.

The prompt relief thus afforded brought an equally absurd desire to laugh. She yielded to that somewhat, but busied herself in procuring fresh clothing and boots. The outcome of the pleasant feeling of warmth and comfort was such as the girl herself would not have guessed in a week. The mere grateful touch of the dry garments induced an extraordinary drowsiness. She felt that she must lie down—just for a minute. She stretched herself on the bed, closed her eyes, and was straightway sound asleep. At the captain’s suggestion, Christobal had given her a strong dose of bromide in the wine!

It was better so. If the ship were dashed to pieces against the rocks which unquestionably lay ahead, Elsie would be whirled to the life eternal before she quite knew what was happening. If, on the other hand, some miracle of the sea enabled the men to construct a seaworthy raft in time, or the rising tide permitted the Kansas to escape, in so far as to run ashore again in a comparatively sheltered position, she would be none the worse for an hour’s sleep. And now that the ship was afloat, there were things to be done which only men could do. The saloon, the decks, the forecabin, were places of the dead. Fearing lest Elsie might pass, Christobal, before attending to Boyle, had thrown table-cloths over the bodies of men slain in the saloon, for Gray and Tollemache had sternly but vainly striven to repress the second revolt. Tollemache and Walker had dragged out of the smothering spray near the port davits three men who seemed to be merely stunned. These, with the chief officer, and perhaps four survivers of the explosion, made up the list of living but non-effective members of the ship’s company. There was one other, Gulielmo Frascuelo, who was bawling for dear life in his bunk in the forecastle, but in that dark hour no one chanced to remember him, and it needed more than a human voice to pit itself against the hurricane which roared over the vessel. The unhappy wretch knew that something out of the ordinary had taken place, and he was scared half out of his wits by the continued absence of the crew. Luckily for himself, he did not appreciate the real predicament of the ship, or he would have raved himself into madness.

Walker, in his brief catalogue of occupations, had suppressed one. To make sure, Christobal closed a water-tight bulkhead door which cut off the principal staterooms from the saloon. Then he and his two helpers carried out a painful but necessary task. It was his duty to certify whether or not life was extinct. There were very few exceptions. The three men lifted the bodies and threw them overboard. When they reached the corpses of the second officer and a Spanish engineer who had been knifed in the defense of the jolly-boat—his comrade had scrambled into one of the life-boats—Tollemache took possession of such money, documents, and valuables as were in their pockets, intending to draw up an inventory when an opportunity presented itself.

Though they knew not the moment when a sickening crash would herald the final dissolution of the ship, they proceeded with their work methodically. In half an hour they had reached the end. All the injured men—seven nondescript sailors and firemen—were carried to the saloon and placed under Christobal’s care. Walker dived below to the engine-room, where he had already disconnected the rods broken or bent by the fracture of a guard ring, which, in its turn, was injured by the blowing out of a junk-ring, a stout ring of forged steel secured to one of the pistons. He could do nothing more on deck. Whether he was destined to live fifty seconds or as many years he was ill content to hear his beloved engines knocking themselves to pieces with each roll of the ship.

Tollemache, who undertook the firing of the donkey-boiler, which was situated on the main deck aft of the saloon—for the Kansas was built chiefly to accommodate cargo—during his wanderings round the world had picked up sufficient knowledge of steam-power to shovel fuel into the furnace and regulate the water-level by the feed valve and pump. The small engine, more reliable and quite as powerful as a hundred men, was in perfect order. It abounded in valves and taps, but Walker’s parting instructions were explicit:

“Keep yo’ eye on the glass, an’ pitch in a shovel of coal evewy ten minutes: she’ll do the west.”

So the new hand, satisfied that the gage was correct and the furnace lively, lit his pipe, sat down, and began to jot in a note-book the contents of his coat-pockets. The Spaniard’s letters he could not read, though he gathered that one of them was from a wife in Vallodolid, who would travel overland early in January to meet her husband. But the Englishman’s correspondence was terribly explicit. A “heart-broken mother” wrote from Liverpool that “Jack” had been shot during one of the many cold-weather campaigns on the Indian frontier. “I have no news, simply a telegram from the War Office. But of what avail to know how my darling died. My tears are blinding me. You and I alone are left, and you are thousands of miles away. May the Lord be merciful to me, a widow, and bring you home to comfort me.” Yet the knife which killed him must have gone very near that letter.

Tollemache tried to grip his pipe in his teeth. He failed. It fell on the iron floor.

“Oh, this is rotten!” he growled. “Why couldn’t he have been spared? No one would have missed me. I don’t suppose Jennie would care tuppence.”

The Kansas rolled heavily. He waited a few seconds for the expected shock, but she swung back to an even keel. Then he stooped to pick up his pipe, and his mouth hardened.

“‘Spared!’ by gad!” he said. “What rot!” That roll of the ship was caused by an experimental twist of the wheel. Courtenay, peering into the darkness through the open window of the chart-house, saw that the weather was clearing. He had evolved a theory, and, for want of a better, he was determined to pursue it to a finish. The Kansas was being swiftly carried along in a strong and deep tidal current. Happily, the wind followed the set of the sea, else there would be no chance of success for his daring plan. His expedient was the desperate one of keeping the vessel in the line of the current, and, if day broke before he reached the coast, he would steer for any opening which presented itself in the fringe of reefs which must assuredly guard the mainland.

With his hands grasping the taut and, in one sense, irresponsive mechanism of a steering-wheel governed by steam, a sailor can “feel” the movement of his ship, a seaworthy vessel being a living thing, obedient as a docile horse to the least touch of the rein. But, in the unlikely event of fortune favoring Courtenay to the extent of giving him an opportunity to see the coming danger, it was essential that the ship should have a certain radius of action apart from the direction and force of the ocean stream. The two sails were helpful, and it was to assure himself of their efficiency that he put the helm to starboard. The Kansas obeyed with an answering roll to port, showing clearly that she was traveling a little faster than the inrushing tide would take her unaided. He brought her head back to nor’east again, and glanced over his shoulder at the ship’s chronometer. It was a quarter to one. Two hours must pass before he would discern the first faint streaks of light. At any rate, if he were spared to greet the dawn, it would be right ahead, and, as a few seconds might then be of utmost value, that was a small point in his favor. Yet, two hours! Could he dare to hope for so long a respite? How could the ship escape the unnumbered fangs which a storm-torn land thrust far out into the Pacific for its own protection?

He was quite sheltered from the wind and spray in the chart-house, and, all at once, he became aware of a burning thirst. There was water in a decanter close at hand, so he indulged in a long drink. That was wonderfully vivifying. Then his mind turned longingly to tobacco. For the first time in his life he broke the strict rule of the service in which he had been trained—and smoked a cigar while on duty.

Now and again he spoke cheerily to the dog. It would be:

“Well, Joey, here we are; still got a bark in us!” . . . Or, “You and I must have our names on the Admiralty chart, Joey:—‘Channel surveyed by Captain Courtenay and pup; details uncertain.’ How does that sound, old chap?” And again, “I suppose your friend, Miss Maxwell, is asleep by this time. If she calls you ‘Joey,’ do you call her ‘Elsie’? I rather fancy Elsie as a name. What do you think?”

To all of which the dog, who had found a dry corner, would respond with a smile and a tail-wag. What? Joey couldn’t smile! Make a friend of a fox-terrier and learn what a genuine, whole-hearted, delighted-to-see-you grin he will favor you with: he can smile as unmistakably as he can yawn.

If deeper emotions peeped up in Courtenay’s soul, he crushed them resolutely. Men of the sea do not cultivate heroics. They leave sentiment to those imaginative people who evolve eery visions of a storm in the smug comfort of suburban villas. When the Kansas lay on the shoal Courtenay was certain that the ship was lost, or he would never have dispatched some of his passengers and crew in the only boat available. He acted to the best of his judgment then; he was acting similarly now in abandoning the last resource of a raft in order to keep the vessel on her present course. But, then or now, he paid no heed whatever to the obvious fact that he and the second engineer, and at least one of the male passengers, must be the last to quit the ship. That was the code of all true sailor-men—the women first, then the male passengers and crew followed by the officers, beginning at the junior in rank. There could be room for no hesitancy or dispute—it was just a sailor-like way of doing one’s duty, in the simple faith that the recording angel would enter up the log.

The long wait in the darkness would have broken many a man’s nerve, but Courtenay was not cast in a mold to be either bent or broken by fear. When his cigar was not in his mouth he whistled, he hummed snatches of songs, and delivered short lectures to Joey on the absurdity of things in general, and the special ridiculousness of such a mighty combination of circumstances centering on one poor ship as had fore-gathered to crush the Kansas. Ever since he was aroused from sleep by the stopping of the screw, his mind had dwelt on the unprecedented nature of the break-down. Even before he discovered its cause he was wondering what evil chance bad contrived to cripple the engine at such a moment—in the worst possible place on the map.

“Joey!” he said suddenly, his thoughts reverting to a chance remark made to him in Valparaiso by Isobel’s father, “what did Mr. Baring mean by saying there was a difficulty about the insurance?”

Joey gave it up, but he cocked his ears and looked towards the door. Christobal entered.

“Boyle will recover,” he said, when he had wiped the spray off his face. “He had a narrow escape; the knife just grazed the spinal cord. The shock to the dorsal nerves induced temporary paralysis, and that rather misled me. He is much better now. Under ordinary conditions he would be able to get about in a few days. As it is, he will probably live as long as any of us.”

Christobal waved a hand towards the external void. He was not sailor enough to realize the change in the weather.

“That is good news,” said Courtenay.

“I thought you would like to know. How are things up here?”

“Better. The barometer has risen an inch in less than two hours. Possibly, nearness to the land has some effect, but wind and sea are subsiding.”

“You surprise me; yet that is nothing. I have had several surprises to-night. What is the position? Of course, we must hit the South American continent sooner or later; can you fix an approximate time?”

“We are making about six knots, I fancy. If we are lucky, and avoid any stray rocks, we should see daylight before we reach the coast. That is our sole hope. The ship is in a powerful tidal current, and it is high-water at 5.30 A.M. At a rough estimate, Hanover Island is twenty knots distant. Now you know all. The outcome is mere guesswork.”

“Why did the furnaces blow up?”

“I was cross-examining Joey on that point when you came in. He reserved his opinion. My own view is that, by accident or design, some explosive substance found its way into the coal.”

“Shem, Ham and Japheth! Explosive substance! Do you mean dynamite, or gunpowder, or that sort of thing?”

“Something of the kind. That is only a supposition, but when I whispered it to Walker he agreed.”

“Walker! Is he the man who speaks so queerly?”

“If ever you go to Newcastle, don’t put it that way. I told him to take Miss Maxwell to her cabin. Did he do so?”

“Yes. I have not seen her since, so I assume that the bromide, plus the wine, was effective. Well, I must return to my patients. Can I get you anything? I am store-keeper, you know.”

“No, thanks.”

“Nothing to eat, or drink?”

“Nothing. I shall be ready for a square meal when I am able to come below—not before.”

Christobal smiled. Though he was a brave man, he thought such persistent optimism was out of place. Nevertheless, he could emulate Courtenay’s coolness.

“Let me know when you are ready. I am an excellent cook,” he said.

Then the captain of the Kansas resumed his smoking and humming, with occasional glances at the clock, and the compass, and the barometer. At two o’clock he felt the ship slipping from under the wheel. The compass showed that she was heading a couple of points eastward. He helped her, and telephoned instantly to Walker:

“Go forward and try if you can make out anything. Report to me here.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” came the reply, and anon Walker appeared.

“It’s main thick ahead, sir, but I think we-aw passin’ an island to port,” said he.

“I thought so. You had better remain here, Walker. We have not long to wait now for the dawn, and four eyes are better than two.”

Walker imagined that the skipper was ready for a chat.

“Things are in a dweadful mess below, sir. I can’t make head or tail of the smash.”

“Well, that must wait. Don’t talk. Keep a sharp lookout.”

The engineer could not guess that the captain’s pulse was beating a trifle more rapidly with a certain elation. They were undoubtedly passing White Horse Island. It revealed its presence by deflecting the tremendous sea-river which ferried the Kansas onward at such a rate. In fifteen or twenty minutes Courtenay expected to find indications of a more northerly set of the tide, and he watched the compass intently for the first sign of this return to the former course. If the ship crossed the current one way or the other she would certainly be driven ashore on some outlying spur of the island or detached sunken reef. Hence, he must actually guess his way, with something of the acquired sense of the blind, because the slight chance of ultimate escape for the ship and her occupants rested wholly on the assumption that some ocean by-way was leading her to a deep-water inlet, where it might be possible to drop the anchor.

In eighteen minutes, or thereabouts, the needle moved slightly. Courtenay once more assisted the ship with the helm. She steadied herself, and the compass pointed due northeast again.

Walker, though an engineer, knew enough of navigation to recognize the apparent impossibility of the captain’s being able to steer with any real knowledge of his surroundings. The wheel-twisting, therefore, savored of magic; but his orders were to look ahead, and he obeyed.

Soon he thought he could discern an irregular pink crescent, with the concave side downwards, somewhere in the blackness beyond the bows. He rubbed his eyes, and said nothing, believing that the unaccustomed strain of gazing into the dark had affected his sight. But the pink crescent brightened and deepened, and speedily it was joined by two others, equally irregular and somewhat lower. Then he could bear the suspense no longer.

“Captain, d’ye see yon?” he asked, in a voice tremulous with awe.

“Yes. That is the sun just catching the summits of snow-topped hills. It not only foretells the dawn, but is a sign of fine weather. There are no clouds over the land, or we should not see the peaks.”

Walker began to have a respect for the captain which he had hitherto extended only to the superintending engineer, an eminent personage who never goes to sea, but inspects the ship when in port, and draws a fat salary and various commissions.

Ere long a silver gray light began to dispel the gloom. The two silent watchers first saw it overhead, and the vast dome of day swiftly widened over the vexed sea. The aftermath of the storm spread a low, dense cloak of vapor all round. The wind had fallen so greatly that they could hear the song of the rigging. Soon they could distinguish the outlines of the heavy rollers near at hand, and Courtenay believed that the ship, in her passage, encountered in the water several narrow bands of a bright red color. If this were so, he knew that the phenomenon was caused by the prawn-like Crustacea which sailors call “Whale-food,” a sure sign of deep water close to land, and, further, an indication that the current was still flowing strongly, while the force of the sea must have been broken many miles to westward.

Suddenly he turned to Walker.

“Do you think you could shin up to the masthead?” he asked.

“I used to be able to climb a bit, sir.”

“Well, try the foremast. Up there I am fairly certain you can see over this bank of mist. Don’t get into trouble. Come back if you feel you can’t manage it. If you succeed, take the best observations possible and report.”

Courtenay was becoming anxious now. If he dared let go the wheel he would have climbed the mast himself. Walker set about his mission in a business-like manner. He threw off his thick coat and boots, and went forward. Half-way up the mast there was a rope ladder for the use of the sailors when adjusting pulleys.

The rest of the journey was not difficult for an athletic man, and Walker was quickly an indistinct figure in the fog. He gained the truck all right, and instantly yelled something. Courtenay fancied he said:

“My God! We-ah on the wocks!”

Whatever it was, Walker did not wait, but slid downward with such speed that it was fortunate the rigging barred his progress.

And then, even while Courtenay was shouting for some explanation, a great black wall rose out of the deep on the port bow. It was a pinnacle rock, high as the ship’s masts, but only a few feet wide at sea level, and the Kansas sped past this ugly monitor as though it were a buoy in a well-marked channel.

Courtenay heard the sea breaking against it. The ship could not have been more than sixty feet distant, a little more than her own beam, and he fully expected that she would grind against some outlier in the next instant. But the Kansas had a charmed life. She ran on unscathed, and seemed to be traveling in smoother water after this escape.

Walker’s dark skin was the color of parchment when he reached the chart-house.

“Captain,” he said, weakly, “I’ll do owt wi’ engines, but I’m no good at this game. That thing fairly banged me. Did ye see it?”

“Did you see land?” demanded Courtenay, imperatively. His spirits rose with each of these thrills. He felt that it was ordained that his ship should live.

“Yes, sir. The-aw’s hills, and big ones, a long way ahead, but I’m no’ goin’ up that mast again. It would be suicide. I’m done. I’ll nev-ah fo-get yon stone ghost, no, not if I live to be ninety.”

Then Joey, sniffing the morning, uncurled himself, stretched, yawned loudly, and thought of breakfast, for he had passed a rather disturbed night, the second in one week. To cope with such excitement, a dog needed sustenance.

CHAPTER VIII.
IN A WILD HAVEN

Fortune has her cycles, whether for good or ill. The Kansas, having run the gauntlet of many dangers, seemed to have earned an approving smile from the fickle goddess. A slight but perceptible veering of the wind, combined with the increasing power of the sun’s rays, swept the ocean clear of its storm-wraiths. Soon after passing the pillar rock, Courtenay thought he could make out the unwavering outline of mountainous land amid the gray mists. A few minutes later the waves racing alongside changed their leaden hue to a steely glitter which told him the fog was dispersing. The nearer blue of the ocean carpet spread an ever-widening circle until it merged into a vivid green. Then, with startling suddenness, the curtain was drawn aside on a panorama at once magnificent and amazing.

Almost without warning, the ship was found to be entering the estuary of a narrow fiord. Gaunt headlands, carved on Titanic scale out of the solid rock, guarded the entrance, and already shut out the more distant coast-line. Behind these first massive walls, everywhere unscalable, and rising in separate promontories to altitudes of, perhaps, four hundred feet, an inner fortification of precipitous mountains flung their glacier-clad peaks heavenward to immense heights,—heights which, in that region, soared far above the snow-line. The sun was reflected with dazzling brilliancy from their icy summits, and wonderful lights sparkled in rainbow tints on their slopes. Delicate pink deepened to rose crimson; pale greens softened into the beryl blue of stupendous glaciers, vast frozen cataracts which flowed down deep and broad clefts almost to the water’s edge.

Above these color-bands, the dead-white mantle of everlasting snow spread its folds, with here and there a black ridge of granite thrusting wind-cleared fangs high above the far-flung shroud. But, if the crests of peak upon peak were thus clothed in white, their bases wore a garment of different texture. Save on the seaward terraces of stark rock, with their tide-marked base of weed-covered boulders, the densest vegetation known to mankind imposed everywhere a first barrier to human progress far more unconquerable than the awesome regions beyond. Pine forests of extraordinary density crammed each available yard of space, until the tree-growth yielded perforce to hardier Alpine moss and lichens. This lower belt of deepest green ranged from five hundred to one thousand feet in height, as conditions were adverse or favorable; waterfalls abounded; each tiny glen held its foaming rivulet, rushing madly down the steep, or leaping in fine cascades from one rocky escarpment to another. Courtenay, after an astounded glance at the magnitude and solemn grandeur of the spectacle, had eyes for naught save the conformation of the channel. The change in the wind was caused, he found, by the northerly headland thrusting its giant mass a mile, or more, westward of its twin; but he quickly discovered, from the conformation of the land, that the latter was really the protecting cape of the inner water-way. He reasoned, therefore, that the deep-water channel flowed close to the northern shore until it was flung off by the relentless rocks to seek the easier inlet behind the opposite point.

He did not know yet whether the ship was entering some unknown straits or the mouth of a narrow land-locked bay. If the latter, the presence of the distant glaciers and the nearer torrents warned him of a possible bar, on which the Kansas might be lost within sight of safe anchorage. Not inspired guesswork now, but the skill of the pilot, was needed; this crossing the bar in broad daylight was as great a trial of nerve in its way as the earlier onward rush in the dark.

Wind and sea had abated so sensibly that the Pacific rollers raced on unbroken, and it was no longer a super-human task to make one’s voice heard along the deck.

So the captain aroused Walker with a sharp order:

“Go and see if the donkey-boiler has a good head of steam. We may have to drop the stream anchor quick, and both bowers as well. If Tollemache is doing his work properly, go forward, and keep a sharp lookout for broken water. Clear off the tarpaulins, and be ready to lower away the instant I sing out.”

Walker, who had been gazing spellbound at the majestic haven opening up before the ship, hurried on his errand. He found Tollemache seated on an upturned bucket, in which the taciturn one had just washed his face and hands.

“Have you seen it?” demanded Walker, gleefully, while his practised eyes took in the state of the gages and he overran a number of oil taps with nimble fingers.

“Seen what?” asked Tollemache, without removing his pipe.

“The land, my bonnie lad. We-ah wunnin’ wight in now.”

“We’ve been doing that for hours.”

“Yes, but this is diff’went. The’aw’s a fine wiv-ah ahead. Have ye ev-ah seen the Tyne? Well, just shove Sooth Sheels an’ Tynemouth a few hundwed feet high-ah, an’ you’ve got it. Now, don’t twy to talk, or you might cwack yo’ face.”

With this Parthian shaft of humor he vanished towards the forecastle, whence the ubiquitous donkey-boiler, through one of its long arms, would shoot forth the stockless anchors at the touch of a lever. Tollemache, who had already glimpsed the coast, strolled out on deck and bent well over the side in order to look more directly ahead. He could see one half only of the view, but that sufficed.

“A respite!” he growled to himself. “Penal servitude instead of sudden death.”

And, indeed, this was the true aspect of things, as Courtenay discovered when he had successfully brought the ship past three ugly reefs and dropped anchor in the backwater of a small sheltered bay. He speedily abandoned the half-formed hope that the Kansas might have run into an ocean water-way which communicated with Smyth Channel. The rampart of snow-clad hills had no break, while a hasty scrutiny of the chart showed him that the eastern coast of Hanover Island had been thoroughly surveyed. Yet it was not in human nature that he should not experience a rush of joy at the thought that, by his own efforts, he had saved his ship and some, at least, of the lives entrusted to his care. He was alone when the music of the chains in the hawse-pipes sounded in his ears. The Kansas had plenty of room to swing, but he thought it best to moor her. Believing implicitly now that he would yet bring his vessel into the Thames, he allowed her to be carried round by the fast-flowing tide until her nose pointed seaward, and she lay in the comparatively still water inshore. Then he dropped the second anchor and stepped forth from the chart-house. His long vigil was ended. Some of the cloud of care lifted from his face, and he called cheerily to Joey.

“Come along, pup,” he said. “Let us sample Dr. Christobal’s cookery. You have shared my watch; now you shall share my breakfast. We have both earned it.”

It was in his mind to knock loudly on Elsie’s door and awaken her; therefore he was dimly conscious of a feeling of disappointment when he saw her, in company with Christobal, leaning over the rail of the promenade deck, and evidently discussing the weird beauty of the scene spread before her wondering eyes.

The ship was now so sheltered by the shoulder of the southern cape that the keen breeze yet rushing in from the sea passed hundreds of feet above her masts. There was nothing more than a tidal swell on the surface of the water, in which the heavy-laden vessel rested as in a dock. In the new and extraordinary quietude the light thud of the donkey-engine sounded with a strange distinctness, and Elsie and her companion heard Courtenay’s approaching footsteps almost as soon as he gained the deck.

Instantly she ran towards him, with hands out-stretched.

“Let me be the first to congratulate you,” she cried, her cheeks mantling with a rush of color and her lips quivering with excitement. “How wonderful of you to bring the ship through all those awful reefs and things! No; you must not say you have done nothing marvelous. Dr. Christobal has told me everything. Next to Providence, Captain Courtenay, we owe our lives to you.”

Courtenay felt it would hurt her were he to smile at her earnestness. But he did say:

“Surely it is not so very remarkable that I should do my best to safeguard the ship and such of her passengers and crew as survive last night’s ordeal.”

“I know that quite well. Even I would have striven to help when my life was at stake. But the really wonderful thing is that you should have guessed an unknown track in the dark; that you should actually be able to guide a helpless ship through waters so full of dangers that it would be folly to venture in their midst in broad daylight and with full steam-power.”

Then Courtenay took off his sou’wester, and bowed.

“I had no idea I had such expert critics on board. Is it you, Christobal, who has followed the ship’s course so closely?”

“Not I, my dear fellow. Miss Maxwell is only saying what I feel, indeed, but could not have expressed as admirably. Our silent friend, Tollemache, is the man who observes. I was so amazed when I came on deck half an hour ago that I sought him out, and he told me something of the night’s later happenings. So I took the liberty of arousing Miss Maxwell from a very sound sleep, but we thought it best not to disturb you by appearing on the bridge until you had done everything you had planned.”

“I shall never understand how I came to fall asleep,” said Elsie. “I remember feeling very tired; I sat down for a moment, and that ended it. The next thing I heard was a rapping on my door, and Dr. Christobal’s voice bidding me hurry if I would see the entrance to the harbor.”

The two men exchanged glances. Courtenay laughed, so pleasantly that it was good to hear.

“Yet there was I up aloft, maneuvering the ship in the firm faith that Dr. Christobal was busy in the cook’s galley,” said he.

“Ah, we have news for you,” cried Elsie. “One of the poor fellows who was knocked on the head during that terrible fight for the boats was the master cook himself. He is better now, and breakfast can be ready in five minutes. I’ll go and tell him.”

She ran off, and Joey scampered by her side, for he knew quite well where the kitchen lay.

“Bromide is useful at times,” murmured Christobal, watching Elsie until she had disappeared. Then he turned to Courtenay.

“I suppose you have seen nothing of the boats?”

“No sign whatever. And I could hardly have missed them if they were here. They may have escaped, but I doubt it. The sea ran very high for a time, and the Kansas scraped past so many reefs that it was almost impossible for each of the three boats to have done the same.”

“Even if one or more of them reached land, there is small likelihood that they would turn up in this particular bay?”

“That is true, especially if they used their sails. The Chileans who got away in the life-boats would know sufficient of the coast to endeavor to make a northerly course, while my parting instructions to Malcolm were to keep to the north all the time.”

“I wish now that poor Isobel Baring and the others had not left us,” said Christobal sadly.

Courtenay was about to say something, but checked himself. He was not blind to the aspect of affairs which Tollemache had summarized so pithily. It might yet be that those who remained had more to endure. Then Elsie summoned them to breakfast, which was served on deck, as the saloon had been temporarily converted into a hospital.

Before sitting down, Courtenay paid a brief visit to Mr. Boyle. Christobal told him not to allow the wounded man to talk too much, complete rest for a few hours being essential. But Boyle’s pallid face lit up so brightly when the captain stood by his side that it was hard not to indulge him to some extent.

“Huh,” he said, his gruff voice strong as ever. “Christobal was not humbugging me when he assured me you were all right. Where are we?”

“In a small bay on the east of Hanover Island. I have not taken any observations yet, and there is no hurry, old chap. You’ll be out and about long before we move again.”

“Huh. D’ye think so? I know the beggar who knifed me. I’ll take it out of him when I see him.”

“You are better off than he, Boyle. Unless he is here with you, I guess he is rolling on the floor of the Pacific by this time.”

Boyle tried to turn and survey his fellow-sufferers; there was the fire of battle in his eye. Courtenay restrained him with a laugh.

“A nice thing I am doing,” he cried, “permitting you to talk, and getting you excited. I believe you would punch the scoundrel now if he were in the next berth. You must lie quiet, old man; doctor’s orders; he says you’re on the royal road if you keep on the easy list for a day or so.”

Boyle smiled, and closed his eyes.

“I heard the anchors go, and then I knew that all was well. You’re the luckiest skipper afloat. Huh, the bloomin’ Kansas was lost not once but twenty times.”

“Are you in pain, Boyle?” asked Courtenay, placing a gentle hand on his friend’s forehead.

“Not much. More stiff than sore. It was a knock-out blow of its kind. I can just recall you hauling me out of the scrimmage, and—”

“It will be your turn to do as much for me next time. Try to go to sleep; we’ll have you on deck tomorrow.”

Courtenay noticed that there were only four other sufferers in the saloon: Three were firemen injured by the explosion. He had a pleasant word for each of them. The fourth was a sailor, either asleep or unconscious, and Courtenay thought he recognized a severe bruise on the man’s left temple where the butt of his revolver had struck hard.

When he returned on deck he learned that two other members of the crew, in addition to the cook, were able to work. Walker had set one to clear up the stokehold; his companion, a fireman, had relieved Mr. Tollemache. Indeed, the latter had gone to his cabin, and was the last to arrive at the feast, finally putting in an appearance in a new suit and spotless linen.

Christobal protested loudly.

“I thought this was to be a workers’ meal,” he said. “Tollemache has stolen a march on us. He is quite a Bond-street lounger in appearance.”

“Dirty job, stoking,” said Tollemache.

“I seem to have been the only lazy person on board during the night,” cried Elsie.

“Do you know what time it is?” asked Courtenay.

“No; about ten o’clock, I fancy.”

“It is not yet half-past four.”

The blue eyes opened wide. “Are you in earnest?” she demanded.

He showed her his watch. Then she perceived that the sun had not yet risen high enough to illumine the wooded crest of the opposite cliff. The snow-clad hills, the blue glaciers, the wonderful clearness of atmosphere, led her to believe that the day was much more advanced. Land and sea shone in a strange crystal light. None could tell whence it came. It seemed to her, in that solemn hour, to be the reflection of heaven itself. By quick transition, her thoughts flew back to the previous night. Scarce four hours had elapsed since she had waited in the captain’s cabin, amidst the drenching spray and tearing wind, while he took Isobel, and Mrs. Somerville, and the shrieking maid to the boat. The corners of her mouth drooped and tears trembled on her eyelashes. She sought furtively for a handkerchief. Knowing exactly what troubled her, Courtenay turned to Christobal.

“This island ought to be inhabited,” he said. “Can you tell me what sort of Indians one finds in this locality?”

Christobal frowned perplexedly. During many previous voyages to Europe he had invariably traveled on the mail steamers of smaller draft which use the sheltered sea canal formed by the Smyth, Sarmiento, and Messier channels, the protected water-way running for hundreds of miles to the north from the western end of the Straits of Tierra del Fuego, and, in some of its aspects, reminding sailors of the Clyde and the Caledonian Canal.

“I fear I do not know much about them,” he said. “Behind those hills there one sees a few Canoe Indians; I have heard that they are somewhat lower in the social scale than the aborigines of Australia.”

“Are they?” said Courtenay. He looked Christobal straight in the eyes, and the doctor returned his gaze as steadily.

“That is their repute. They live mostly on shellfish. They do not congregate in communities. A few families keep together, and move constantly from place to place. They have a quaint belief that if they remain on a camping-ground more than a night or two the devil will stick his head out of the ground and bite them. Obviously, the real devil that plagues them is the continuous wandering demanded by their search for food.”

Christobal would have aired such a scrap of interesting knowledge at the foot of the scaffold, and expected the executioner to listen attentively.

“They are called the Alaculof. They use bows and arrows, with heads chipped out of stone or bottle-glass,” put in Tollemache.

“Oh, you have been in these parts before?” cried Courtenay, regarding his compatriot with some interest, while the Spaniard surveyed his rival doubtfully.

“Yes—was on the Emu—wrecked in Cockburn Channel.”

Now, the story of the Emu is one of those fierce tragedies which the sea first puts on the stage of life with dire skill, and then proceeds to destroy the slightest vestige of their brief existence. But such things leave abiding memories in men’s souls, and Courtenay had heard how twenty-seven survivors, out of a muster-roll of thirty who escaped from the wreck, had been shot down by Indians ambushed in the forest. Elsie, whose tears were dispelled by the doctor’s amusing summary of the Canoe Indians’ theological views, was listening to the conversation, so the captain did not carry it further, contenting himself with the remark:

“That will be useful, if we are compelled to go ashore. You will have some acquaintance with the ways of our hosts.”

Tollemache, having nothing to say, was not given to the use of unnecessary words. Elsie was conscious of a certain constraint in their talk.

“Please don’t mind me,” she said quietly. “I know all about the loss of the Emu. If we fall into the hands of the Alaculof tribe, we shall be not only killed but eaten.”

She was pouring out a second cup of tea for Walker when she made this remarkable statement. Her eyes were intent on exact quantities of tea, milk, and sugar, and she passed the cup to the engineer with a smile. Each of the men admired her coolness, but Tollemache, who had been quietly scrutinizing the nearer hills, gave painful emphasis to this gruesome topic by exclaiming:

“There they are now: smoke signals.”

Sure enough, thin columns of smoke were rising from several points on the land. It could not be doubted that these were caused by human agency. They were not visible when the party sat down to breakfast. The appearance of the ship was their obvious explanation, but not a canoe or a solitary figure could be seen, though Courtenay and others, at various times during the day, searched every part of the neighboring shore with field glasses and powerful telescopes.

After an all too brief burst of sunshine, the Land of Storms again justified its name. Giant clouds came rolling in from seaward. The mountains were lost in mist; the glaciers became sullen, rock-strewn masses of white-brown ice; the fresh greenery of the forests faded into somber belts of blackness. Though it was high summer in this desolate region, heavy showers of hail and sleet alternated with drenching rain. At low-water, though the Kansas floated securely in a depth of twenty fathoms, a yellow current sweeping past her starboard quarter showed how accurately Courtenay had read the tokens of the inlet. Many a swollen torrent, and, perhaps, one or two fair-sized streams at the head of the bay, contributed this flood of fresh water.

And, with the evening tide, there were not wanting indications that the gale without had developed a new fury. A solitary albatross, driven landward by stress of weather, rode in vast circles above the ship. There was no wealth of bird life in that place of gloom. Though fitted to rear untold millions of gulls and other sea birds, this secluded nook was almost deserted; generations of men had devoured all the eggs they could lay hands on.

To Elsie and the doctor were entrusted the daylight watch on deck and the care of the sick. For the latter there was not much to be done. The cook undertook to feed them, and Frascuelo, the wounded stevedore who had been discovered in a state of collapse, soon revived, and was practically able to look after himself. The others, under Walker’s directions, were hard at work in the engine-room and stoke-hold, for there alone lay the chance of ultimate escape.

The two sentinels conversed but little. The outer war of the elements was disturbing, and Christobal, though unfailingly optimistic in his speech, was nevertheless a prey to dark forebodings. Once, they were startled by the fall of an avalanche, which thundered down a mountain side on the farther shore, and tore a great gap in the belt of trees until it crashed into the water. It sent a four-foot wave across the bay, and the Kansas rocked so violently that the men toiling below raced up on deck to ascertain the cause of the disturbance.

This was the only exciting incident of a day that seemed to be unending. Elsie, worn out by the strain of the preceding twenty-four hours, and, notwithstanding her brief sleep in the morning, thoroughly exhausted for want of rest, was persuaded to retire early to her cabin. She lay down almost fully dressed. Somehow, it was impossible to think of a state of unpreparedness for any emergency.

She was soon sound asleep. She awoke with a start, with all her nerves a-quiver. Joey was tearing along the deck, barking furiously. She heard two men run past her door with ominous haste. Then, after a heart-breaking pause, there was some shooting. Some one, she thought it was Courtenay, roared down the saloon companion:

“On deck, all hands, to repel boarders!”

With a confused rush, men mounted the stairs and raced forward. She knew that nearly all of those not on watch were sleeping with the injured men in the saloon, and now she understood the reason. The ship was being attacked by Indians, and not altogether unexpectedly. The savages had stolen alongside in their canoes under the cloak of night. Perhaps they were already on board in overwhelming numbers. Poor girl, she murmured a prayer while she hurriedly drew on her boots and ulster.

There seemed to be no end to the evils which assailed the Kansas, and she dreaded this new terror more than the mad fury of the seas. But, if the men were fighting for their lives and her’s, she must help, too. That was clear. She had a weapon, a loaded revolver, which she had picked up from beneath a boat’s tarpaulin lying on the spar deck. She opened her door and peered out. She could not see any one, and the rattle of a hail-storm overhead effectually dulled any other noise. But several shots fired again in the fore part of the ship were audible above the din of the pelting hail. So she ran that way, with the fine courage of one who fears yet goes on, and her eyes pierced the shadows with a tense despair in them. For what could so few men do against the unseen watchers who sent up the thirty-four smoke columns she had counted?

Ah, trust a woman to read the unspoken thought! Courtenay and Christobal and Tollemache need not have striven to couch their warnings in ambiguous words. Elsie could have told them all that was left unsaid at breakfast. The ship had fought her own enemies; now the human beings she had saved must defend themselves from a foe against whom the ship was helpless.

CHAPTER IX.
A PROFESSOR OF WITCHCRAFT

Quickly as Elsie had reached the deck, the warlike sounds which disturbed her rest had ceased. Save for the footsteps of men whom she could not see, the prevalent noises were caused only by wind and sleet. While she was hurrying forward as rapidly as the darkness permitted, the lights were switched on with a suddenness that made her gasp. The dog began to bark again, but it was easy to distinguish his sharp yelps of excitement and defiance from the earlier notes of alarmed suspicion. In fact, Joey himself was the first to discover the stealthy approach of the Indians. Courtenay and Tollemache, who took the middle watch, from midnight to 4 A.M., had failed to note the presence of several canoes on the ink-black surface of the bay until the dog warned them by growling, and ruffling the bristles on his back. The night was pitch dark; the rising moon was not only hidden by the hills of the island, but frequent storms of rain and hail rendered it impossible while they raged to see or hear beyond the distance of a few feet. In all probability, as the canoes bore down from windward, Joey had scented them. He also gave the highly important information as to the quarter from which attack might be expected. Three men, at least, had gained the deck, but the prompt use of a revolver had caused them to retreat as silently and speedily as they had appeared. That was all. There was no actual fight. The phantoms vanished as silently as they came. The only external lights on the ship were the masthead and sidelights, hoisted by Courtenay to reveal the steamer’s whereabouts in case one of the boats chanced to be driven into the bay during the dark hours. There was an electric lamp turned on in the donkey-engine room, and another in the main saloon, but means were taken to exclude them from showing without; if the Indians meant to be actively hostile, lights on board would be more helpful to the assailants than to the assailed.

When the captain and Tollemache followed Joey’s lead, they discerned three demoniac figures, vaguely outlined by the ruddy glare of the port light, in the very act of climbing the rails. They fired instantly, and the naked forms vanished; both men thought they heard the splashing caused by the leaping or falling of the Indians into the sea. By the same subdued radiance Courtenay made out the top of a pole or mast sticking up close to the ship’s side. He leaned over, fired a couple of shots downwards at random, seized the pole, and lashed it to a stanchion with a loose rope end, a remnant of one of the awnings. A small craft, even an Indian canoe, would be most useful, and its capture might tend to scare the attackers.

Telling Tollemache to mount guard, he raced back to the saloon hatch and summoned assistance. The others searched the ship in small detachments, but the Indians were gone; it was manifest that none beyond those driven off at the first onset had secured a footing on deck. Then, taking the risk of being shot at, Courtenay ordered the lights to be turned on, and the first person he saw clearly was Elsie. He was almost genuinely angry with her.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

She was learning not to fear his brusque ways. He was no carpet knight, and men who carry their lives in their hands do not pick and choose their words.

“I thought you were in danger, so I came to help,” she said calmly.

“You must go back to your cabin at once.”

“Why? Of what avail is the safety of my cabin if you are killed?”

A woman’s logic is apt to be irritating when one expects a flight of arrows, or, it may be, a gunshot, out of the blackness a few feet away.

“For goodness’ sake, stand here, then,” he cried, seizing her arm, and compelling her to shelter behind the heavy molding which carried the bridge.

She did not object to his roughness. In the midst of actual peril, impressions are apt to be cameo-cut in their preciseness, and she liked him all the more because he treated her quite roughly. Of course, the mere presence of a woman at such a time was a hindrance. But she was determined not to return to her stateroom, and, indeed, her obstinacy was reasonable enough, seeing the condition of affairs on board the Kansas.

The captain quitted her for a moment in order to dispatch a Chilean sailor for a lantern and a long cord. He wished to investigate the captured canoe.

Christobal, who had made the round of the promenade deck, came up.

“Oh, were you here, too?” he asked, on seeing the girl.

“I am here, if that is what you mean,” she cried. “I heard Joey barking, and the shots that followed. Naturally, I wished to find out what had happened.”

“Sorry. I imagined you were sleepless, like myself, and had joined Courtenay during his watch. That explanation must have sufficed. In any case, we have other things to trouble us at present.”

Elsie had never before heard the Spaniard speaking so offhandedly. She gave small heed to his petulance; aroused from sound slumber by the alarm of an Indian attack—thrilled by the horror of the thought that she might fall into the clutches of the callous man-apes which infest the islands of southwest America—she was in no mood to disentangle subtleties of speech.

“Do you think they have left us?” she murmured, shrinking nearer to the iron shield which Courtenay seemed to think would protect her.

“Personally, I have seen no reason whatever for such a hubbub,” was the flippant answer.

It was evident that Dr. Christobal was annoyed. Notwithstanding his conventional polish, he was not a man to conceal his feelings when deeply stirred. Yet Elsie failed to catch his intent, other than that he was adopting his usual nonchalant tone.

“But something must have caused Captain Courtenay and Mr. Tollemache to fire their revolvers so frequently. And, if they were mistaken, the dog would not have shared their error. Besides, one of the canoes did not get away. See! Its mast is fastened there.”

“Ah! I had forgotten Tollemache. He was selected to join the captain’s watch, of course.”

“Yes, I was present when the watches were formed. Have you seen Mr. Tollemache? Is he safe?”

“He is among those making the round of the ship. I hope you will forgive me.”

“Forgive you! What have you done that calls for forgiveness?”

“There are errors of speech which equal those of conduct, Miss Maxwell.”

“Oh, what nonsense—at one in the morning—when we are threatened by savages!”

Christobal was relieved that she took this view of his abrupt utterances. He thought the incident was ended. He was mistaken; Elsie was able to recall each word subsequently. At the moment she was recording impressions with uncomprehending accuracy, but her mind was quite incapable of analyzing them; that would come later.

The lantern was brought. Courtenay stood on the lowermost rail, and carefully paid out a rope to which the light was slung. He was far too brave a man to take undue risks. He was ready to shoot instantly if need be, and, by his instructions, Tollemache and Walker kept watch as best they could in case other canoes were lying close to the ship.

Any doubt in this regard was dispelled in a singular manner. The flickering rays of the lantern had barely revealed the primitive craft lying alongside when a voice came from the depths, crying in broken Spanish:

“Don’t shoot, señors—spare me, for the love of heaven! I am a white man from Argentina.”

Christobal and Elsie alone understood the exact significance of the words. Courtenay, of course, knew what language was being spoken, and it was easy to guess the nature of the appeal. But the lantern showed that the canoe was empty. In the center lay the Fuegian fire, its embers covered with a small hide. The pole, fastened to a cross-piece in the thwarts, was not a mast, but had evidently been shipped in order to give speedy access to the deck by climbing.

Then Courtenay caught sight of two hands clinging to the stern of the canoe. He swung the lantern in that direction, and an extraordinary, and even an affrighting, object became visible. A caricature of a human head was raised slightly above the level of the water. It was crowned by a shock of coarse, black, knotted hair, tied back from the brows by a fillet of white feathers. An intensely black face, crossed by two bars of red and white pigment, reaching from ear to ear, and covering eyelids, nose, and lips, was upturned to the watchers from the deck. The colors were vivid enough, notwithstanding the sheets of rain which blew in gusts against the ship’s side, dimming the dull light of a storm-proof lamp, to convey a most uncanny effect; nor did Courtenay remove either his eyes or the revolver while he said to Christobal:

“Ask him who he is, and what he wants.”

The answer was intelligible enough.

“I am a miner from Argentina. I have been among these Indians five years. When their attack failed, I thought there was a chance of escape. For pity’s sake, señor, help me instantly, or I shall die from the cold.”

“Have the Indians gone?” asked Christobal.

“Yes. They thought to surprise you. When they come again it will be by daylight, as they are afraid of the dark. But be quick, I implore you. My hands are numb.”

There was no resisting the man’s appeal. A rope ladder was lowered, and a Chilean sailor went down in obedience to the captain’s order, though he disliked the job, and crossed himself before descending. He passed a rope under the fugitive’s armpits, and, with aid from the deck, hoisted him aboard. The unfortunate miner gave proof of his wretched state by promptly collapsing in a faint, with a sigh of “Madre de Dios!”

His only garments were a species of waistcoat and rough trousers of untanned guanaco hide. The white skin of his breast and legs, though darkened by exposure, showed that he had told the truth as to his descent, notwithstanding the amazing daubs on his face. His hair, stiffened with black grease, stood out all around his head, and the same oily composition had been used to blacken his forehead, neck, and hands.

Some brandy and hot water, combined with the warmth of the saloon, soon revived him. He ate a quantity of bread with the eagerness of a man suffering from starvation; but he could not endure the heated atmosphere, although the temperature was barely sufficient to guard the injured occupants from the outer cold. When offered an overcoat, he refused it at first, saying:

“I do not need so much clothing. It will make me ill. I only felt cold in the water because it is mostly melted ice.”

He was so grateful to his rescuers, however, that he took the garment to oblige them when he saw they were incredulous. Christobal brought him to the chart-house, where most of the others were assembled, and there questioned him.

It was a most astonishing story which Francisco Suarez, gold-miner and prospector, laid before an exceedingly attentive audience. As the man spoke, so did he recover the freer usage of a civilized tongue. At first his words had a hoarse, guttural sound, but Dr. Christobal’s questions seemed to awaken dormant memories, and every one noticed, not least those who had small knowledge of Spanish, that he had practically recovered command of the language at the end of half an hour.

And this was what he told them. He, with three partners and a few Indians from the Pampas, had set out on a gold-prospecting expedition on the head waters of the Gallegos River. They were disappointed in their search until they crossed the Cordillera, and sighted the gloomy shores of Last Hope Inlet, leading into Smyth Channel. They there found alluvial sand and gold-bearing quartz, yielding but poor results. Unfortunately, some natives assured them that the metal they sought abounded in Hanover Island. They obtained canoes, voyaged down the long inlet, crossed the straits, and struck inland towards the unknown mountains beyond the swamps of Ellen Bay.

After enduring all the hardships entailed by life in such a wild country, they blundered into a gully where a brief analysis of the detritus gave a result per ton which was not to be measured by ounces but by pounds.

“Virgin! What a place that was!” exclaimed Suarez, his dark eyes sparkling even yet with the recollection of it. “In one day we secured more gold than we could carry. We threw away food to make room for it, and then threw away gold to secure the food again. We called it the Golden Valley. When weary of digging, we would spin coins to see who drew corner lots in the town we had mapped out on a level piece of land.”

White men and Indians alike caught the fever. They accumulated a useless hoard, having no means of transport other than their own backs, and then, all precautions being relaxed, the nomad Indians, whom they despised, rushed the camp when they were sleeping. They were nearly all killed by stones shot from slings. Suarez was only stunned, and he and a Spaniard, with two Indians, were reserved for future slaughter.

“The others were eaten,” he said, “and their bones were used for making fires. I saw my friend, Giacomo, felled like a bullock, and the Indians as well. By chance, I was the last. I had no hope of escape. I was too downcast even to make a fight of it, when, at the eleventh hour, the mad idea seized me that I might please and astonish my captors by performing a few sleight-of-hand tricks. I began by throwing stones in the air, pretending to swallow them and causing them to disappear otherwise, but finding them again in the heel of my boot or hidden beneath any object which happened to be near. When the Indians saw what I was doing, they gathered in a circle. I ate some fire, and took a small toad out of a woman’s ear. Dios! How they gaped. They had never seen the like. All the tribe was summoned to watch me.”

Then the poor fellow began to cry.

“Holy Mother! Think of me playing the fool before those brutes! I became their medicine man. I fought and killed my only rival, and, since then, I have doctored a few of the chief men among them, so they took me into the tribe, and always managed to procure me such food as I could eat. They gave me roots and dried meat when they themselves were living on putrid blubber, or worse, because they kill all the old women as soon as famine threatens. The women are devoured long before the dogs; dogs catch otters, but old women cannot. In winter, when a long storm renders it impossible to obtain shell-fish, any woman who is feeble will steal off and hide in the mountains. But the men track her and bring her back. They hold her over the smoke of a fire until she is choked. Ah! God in heaven! I have seen such sights during those five years!”

Elsie, of course, understood all of this. When Christobal put it into literal English, Courtenay looked at her. She smiled at his unspoken thought.

“I am already aware of most of what he is telling us,” she said. “It is very dreadful that such people should exist, but one does not fall in a faint merely because they cumber the earth. Perhaps you will not send me away next time, if they try to board the ship again. I can use a revolver quite well enough to count as one for the defense.”

“You are henceforth enrolled as maid-at-arms, Miss Maxwell,” said the captain, lightly. He was by no means surprised at the coolness she displayed in the face of the new terror. She had given so many proofs of her natural courage that it must be equal to even so affrighting a test as the near presence of the Alaculof Indians. But he broke in on the Spaniard’s recital with a question of direct interest.

“Ask him, Christobal, why he said those devils would come again by daylight.”

“Because they have guns, and can use them,” was the appalling answer given by Suarez. “They secured the rifles belonging to my party, and one of them, who had often seen ship’s officers shooting wild geese, understood the method of loading and aiming. They will not waste the cartridges on game, but keep them for tribal warfare, and they think a gun cannot shoot in the dark. To-night they only attempted a surprise, and made off the moment they were discovered. To-morrow, or next day, they will swarm round the ship in hundreds, and fire at us with rifles, bows, and slings. They do most harm with the slings and arrows, as they hold the gun away from the shoulder, but they can cast a heavy pebble from a sling quite as far and almost as straight as a revolver can shoot.”

“How do they know the ship will not sail at once?” demanded Courtenay.

Suarez laughed hysterically, with the mirth which is akin to tears, when the query was explained to him. He looked bizarre enough under ordinary conditions, but laughter converted him into a fair semblance of one of those blood-curdling demons which a Japanese artist loves to depict. Evidently, he depended on make-up to supplement his powers as a conjurer.

“It is as much as a canoe can manage in fine weather to reach the island out there, which they call Seal Island,” he cried, pointing towards the locality of White Horse Island. “Even the Indians were astonished to see so big a ship anchored here safely. They have watched plenty of wrecks outside, and hardly anything comes ashore. At any rate, they are quite sure you cannot go back.”

It would be idle to deny that the Spaniard’s words sent a chill of apprehension down the spine of some of those present; but the captain said quietly:

“Where a ship is concerned, if she can enter on the flood she can go out on the ebb. How came you to escape to-night?”

Tears stood again in Suarez’s eyes as he replied:

“When I heard their plan, I imagined they would be driven off, provided a watch were kept. I resolved to risk all in the attempt to reach the company of civilized men once more. I do not care what the outcome may be. If I can help you to overcome them I am ready to do so; if not, I will die by your side. To-night I followed in a canoe unseen. When I heard the shooting, I leaped overboard and swam to the ship. It was lucky for me some one seized the canoe which I found there. The men in her had to swim to other canoes, and two were wounded, I heard them say; this caused some confusion, and I had something to grasp when I reached the ship; otherwise I must have been drowned, as the water was very cold.”

“Yet you refused an overcoat a little while ago,” interjected Christobal.

“Ah, yes. For many years I have lived altogether in Indian fashion. My skin is hard. Wind or rain cannot harm me. But melted ice mixed with salt water drives even the seals out to sea.”

“Can you speak the Alaculof language?”

“Is that what you call them? Their own name for the tribe is ‘The Feathered People,’ because all their chief men and heads of families wear these things,” and he touched his head-dress. “Yes, I know nearly all their words. They don’t use a great many. One word may have several meanings, according to the pitch of the voice.”

“They captured you on the Smyth Channel side of the island. Have they deserted it? Why are they on this side now?” asked Courtenay.

“I believe they brought me here at first because they wished to keep me on account of my magic, and they knew I would endeavor to escape to a passing ship. We came over the mountains by a terrible road. I have been told that landslips and avalanches have closed the pass ever since. I do not know whether that is true or not, but if I had tried to get away in that direction they would have caught me in a few hours. No man can elude them. They can see twice as far as any European, and they are wonderful trackers.”

Suddenly his voice failed him. Though the words came fluently, his long-disused vocal chords were unequal to the strain of measured speech. He asked hoarsely for some hot water. When Courtenay next came across him in the saloon he was asleep, and changed so greatly by the removal of pigments from his face that it was difficult to regard him as the same being.

His story was unquestionably true. Tollemache, who had fought an offshoot tribe of these same Indians, Christobal, who vouched for the Argentine accent, and Elsie, who seemed to have read such rare books of travel as dealt with that little known part of the world, bore out the reasonableness of his statements. The only individual on board who regarded him with suspicion was Joey, and even Joey was satisfied when Suarez had washed himself.

It was daylight again, a dawn of dense mist, without wind or hail, ere any member of the ship’s company thought of sleep. Then Elsie went to her cabin and dreamed of a river of molten gold, down which she was compelled to sail in a cockle-shell boat, while fantastic monsters swam round, and eyed her suspiciously.

When, at last, she awoke after a few hours of less exciting slumber, she came out on deck to find the sun shining on a fairy-land of green and blue and diamond white, with gaunt gray rocks and groves of copper beeches to frame the picture. There was no pillar of smoke on the lower hills to bear silent testimony to the presence of the Indians; but the canoe lying alongside told her that the previous night’s events were no part of her dreams, and a man whom she did not recognize—a man with closely cropped gray hair and a deeply lined, weather-tanned face, from which a pair of sunken, flashing eyes looked kindly at her—said in Spanish:

“Good morning, señorita. I hope I did not startle you when I came aboard. And I said things I should not have said in the presence of a lady. But believe me, señorita, I was drunk with delight.”

CHAPTER X.
“MISSING AT LLOYD’S”

Elsie had slept long and soundly: she found herself in a new world of sunshine and calm. When she looked over the side to examine the crudely fashioned canoe, she was astonished by the limpid purity of the water. She could see white pebbles and vegetation at a vast depth. It seemed to be impossible that a few hours should have worked such a change, but Suarez assured her that the streams which tumbled down the precipitous gorges of the hills ran clear quickly after rain, owing to the sifting of the surface drainage by the phenomenal tree-growth.

“Wherever timber can lodge on the hillsides,” he told her, “fallen trunks lie in layers of fifteen or twenty feet. They rot there, and young saplings push their way through to the light and air, while creepers bind them in an impenetrable mass; in many places small trees and shrubs of dense foliage take root amidst the decaying stumps beneath, so that even the Indians cannot pass from one point to another, but are compelled to climb the rocky watercourses or follow the slopes of glaciers. When you see what appears to be a smooth green space above the lower brown-colored belt of copper beech, that is not a moss-covered stretch of open land, but the closely packed tops of young trees, where a new tract has been bared by an avalanche.”

She was in no mood this morning to assimilate the marvels of Hanover Island. Her brain had been cleared, restored to the normal, by refreshing sleep. With a more active perception of the curious difficulties which beset the Kansas came a feeling akin to despair. The brightness of nature served rather to convert the ship into a prison. Storm and stress, whether of the elements or of the less candid foes who lurked unseen on the neighboring shores, made the Kansas a veritable fortress, a steel refuge seemingly impregnable. But the knowledge of the vessel’s helplessness, and of the equally desperate hazard which beset her inmates, was rendered only more poignant by the smiling aspect of land and sea.

Elsie was not a philosopher. She was just a healthy, clean-minded Englishwoman, imbued with a love of art for art’s sake, a girl whose wholesome, courageous temperament probably unfitted her to achieve distinction in the artistic career which she had mapped out for herself. So the super-Alpine glories surrounding that inland sea, and the prismatic hues flashing from many a glacier and rainbow of cataract mist, left her unmoved, solely because the rough-hewn Indian craft bobbing by the side of the great ship called to mind the extraordinary conditions under which she and all on board existed.

But she was hungry, and that was a saving sign. She guessed that many of the men, after mounting watch until broad daylight, were asleep. Others were at work below, as was testified by a subdued sound of hammering, with the sharp clink of metal against metal. Walker was tinkering at the engines. With him, in all likelihood, were the captain and Tollemache. She and Suarez were the drones of the ship, and Suarez, poor fellow, had earned an idle hour if only on account of the scrubbing he had given himself to wash away the tokens of five years of slavery.

Before going in search of the cook, she walked a few steps towards the bridge. At the top of the companion she saw Joey, sitting disconsolately on his tail, a sure indication that Courtenay was occupied in depths approachable only by steep iron ladders whither the dog could not follow.

She whistled softly to her little friend, knowing that Christobal, and perhaps Mr. Boyle, would be on the bridge, keeping the lookout, and she was not inclined for talk at the moment. The doctor would have understood at once that the girl was below par, owing to the strain of the preceding days, and the lethargic rest which exhaustion had imposed on her. Yet, there are times when science does not satisfy. . . .

But Joey, who recked naught of philosophy, and to whom the alarms and excursions of fights on deck came as a touch of mother earth to the sole of Antaeos—Joey, then, sprang down the stairs, barking joyously, and leaped into her outstretched arms.

He honored no other person on board, except his master, with such extravagant friendship, and, as the girl carried him aft to the cook’s galley, she asked herself why the dog had taken such a liking to her.

She blushed a little as she thought:

“It may be that I resemble the lady whom Captain Courtenay is going to marry. I wonder why he did not show us her photograph that day when Isobel and I visited his cabin and looked at the pictures of his mother and sister. I should like to see her, but how can I manage it? I simply dare not tell him I read that scrap of a letter, even by chance.”

The dog, apparently, found her an excellent substitute; he licked her ear contentedly. That tickled her, and she laughed.

“I fear you are a fickle lover, Joey,” she said aloud. “But you will simply be compelled to remain constant to me while we are in this horrid place, and that may be for the remainder of our lives, dear.”

Joey tried to lick her again to show that he didn’t care. What could any reasonable dog want more than fine weather, enough to eat, and the prospect of an occasional scrimmage?

When Elsie did ultimately climb to the chart-house, the fit of despondency had fled. Boyle was there, having been carried up in a deck chair early in the day. He was alone.

“Huh!” he growled pleasantly. “You’re lookin’ as bright as a new pin, Miss Maxwell. Now, if I had been among the pirates, I’d have taken you with me.”

“Do you mean to say that you are actually paying me compliments?” said she.

“Am I? Huh; didn’t mean to. I’m an old married man. But pirates, especially Spanish ones, are supposed to be very handy with knives and other fellows’ girls.”

“You see they did not consider me a prize.”

“The rascals! Good job you missed that boat. Christobal has been tellin’ me all about it. They’ve gone under.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Can’t see any chance for them, Miss Maxwell.”

“But we are almost as badly situated here?”

“Huh, not a bit of it. Lucky chap, Courtenay. He couldn’t lose a ship if he tried. She’d follow him ’cross country like that pup. Look at me: lost three, all brand new from the builders. One foundered, one burnt, an’ one stuck on the Goodwins. I’m careful, steady as any man can be, but no owner would trust me with a ship now, unless she was a back number, an’ over-insured. Even then my luck would follow me. I’d bring that sort of crazy old tub through the Northwest passage. So I’m first mate, an’ first mate I’ll remain till my ticket gives out.”

A good deal of this was Greek to Elsie. But she knew that Boyle was a man of curt speech, unless deck hands required the stimulus of a tongue lashing. Such a string of connected sentences was a rare occurrence. It argued that the “chief” was not unwilling to indulge in reminiscence.

“Why do you consider Captain Courtenay so fortunate?” she asked, flushing somewhat at the guile which lay behind the question.

“Huh,” snorted Boyle, amazed that even a slip of a girl should need informing on so obvious a fact. “Don’t you call it luck to be given command of a ship like the Kansas at his age? An’ to get five hundred pounds an’ a gold chronometer because the skipper of the Florida was too full to hold on to the bridge? You mark my words. He’ll be made commodore of the fleet after he pulls the Kansas out of this mess.”

“What happened to the Florida?”

“Haven’t you heard that yarn? Bless my soul, she was our crack ship. She broke her shaft in a gale, an’ the skipper was washed overboard—you always tell lies about deaders, you know—so A. C. just waded in an’ saved the whole outfit, passengers an’ all.”

“But he has had reverses, too. He was in the Royal Navy, I have been told, and he had to give it up because his people—”

“More luck. The Royal Navy! Huh, all gold braid, an’ buy your own vittals. There’s no money in that game.”

“Money is not everything in the world. A man’s career may be more to him than the mere monetary aspect of it.”

“If ever you meet my missus, you’ll hear the other side of the question, Miss Maxwell. S’posin’ Courtenay was in the Navy, an’ had a wife an’ family to keep. Could he do it on his pay? Not he. As it is, he’s sure to marry a girl with a pile, and wind up a managing owner.”

“Perhaps he is engaged to some such young lady already?”

“Haven’t heard so. You may be sure there’s one waitin’ for him somewhere. I know. There’s no dodgin’ luck, good or bad. I thought it was goin’ to be that friend of yours, but she’s off the register, poor lass. There! I didn’t mean that. I’m an idiot, for sure. You see, I don’t talk much as a rule, Miss Maxwell, or I should know better than to chin-wag like a blazin’—huh, like a babblin’ fool.”

Elsie turned her face aside when he mentioned Isobel. It seemed to her sensitive soul an almost unfair thing that she should be gossiping about trivialities when the girl who had commenced this unlucky voyage in such high spirits was lying beneath that grim sea behind the smiling headland. Yet she knew that Boyle meant no harm by his chatter. He was weak from his wound, and perhaps a trifle light-headed as the result of being brought from the stuffy saloon to the airy and sunlit chart-room. So she crushed a sorrow that was unavailing, and strove to put the sailor at his ease again.

“I do not find any harm in your remark,” she said resolutely. “Were it possible, I should have been very pleased to see Miss Baring married to a man of strong character like Captain Courtenay. By the way, who is keeping watch on deck?”

“The doctor was here with me until a few minutes ago. Then the skipper telephoned him. I guess there is some one on the lookout, but you might just cast an eye shorewards. I’m not supposed to move yet.”

He wriggled uneasily in his chair, for the spirit was willing; but Elsie made him lie quiet; she rearranged his pillow, and stepped on to the bridge. By walking from port to starboard, and traversing the short length of the spar deck, she could command a view of the bay and of most parts of the ship. She heard the dog scuttling down the companion; on reaching the after-rail, she saw the captain engaged in earnest, low-toned conversation with Tollemache and Walker. They were standing on the main deck near the engine-room door, and examining something which resembled a lump of coal; she saw the engineer take three similar lumps from a pocket.

Christobal appeared, carrying a bucket of water, into which the lumps were placed by Walker, who handled them very gingerly. After a slight delay, he began to crumble one in his fingers, still keeping it in the water, until finally he drew forth what Elsie recognized at once as a stick of dynamite. Though it was blackened by contact with the coal, she was certain of its real nature. She had visited a great many mines, and the officials always scared the ladies of the party by telling them what would happen if the explosives’ shed were to blow up. She had even seen dynamite placed in the sun to dry, as it is very susceptible to moisture, and she wondered, naturally enough, why such a dangerous agent should be hidden in, or disguised as, a piece of coal.

She thought that the men should be made aware of her presence, so she leaned over and said:

“May I ask what you four are plotting?”

They looked at her in surprise. They were so engrossed in their discovery that they had eyes for nothing else. Walker straightway plunged the sausage-shaped gray stick into the water again.

“What are you doing with that dynamite?” she demanded. “Do you intend to visit the Valley of the Golden Sands? If so, please take me. I am very poor.”

It was Courtenay who answered.

“Are you alone?” he asked.

“Mr. Boyle is in the chart-house.”

“I know; but is any one else up there?”

“No.”

“Then we shall join you at once.”

Notwithstanding the serious demeanor of the men, Elsie was far from guessing what had happened. But she was soon enlightened.

“In which bunker was the coal placed which we shipped at Valparaiso?” Courtenay asked Boyle.

“In the forrard cross bunker,” was the instant answer.

“And that was the first coal used in the furnaces?”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain’s tone was official, exceedingly so, and the chief officer took the cue from his superior in rank.

“Did we get up steam with it?”

“There might have been a hundred-weight or two lying loose in the stoke-hold, but, for all practical purposes, we have used nothing but the Valparaiso bunker since we left port.”

“The rest of our coal was shipped at Coronel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You hear? It is exactly as I have told you,” said Courtenay, glancing at the others. “I must explain to you, Mr. Boyle, that I wished you to state the facts in front of witnesses before I gave you my reasons for cross-examining you on the matter. Mr. Walker and I have been certain, all along, that the furnaces were blown up wilfully. Now our suspicions are proved. This morning, after a careful scrutiny, we came across a number of lumps of coal cleverly constructed out of small pieces glued together. In the center of each lump was a stick of dynamite, protected by an asbestos wrapper. It was undoubtedly the intent of some miscreant that a number of these lumps should be fed into the furnaces. This actually occurred, as we know, but, by the mercy of Providence, the ship did not experience the full power of the explosion, or she must have sunk like a stone.”

“Huh,” grunted Boyle. “Who holds the insurance?”

“The shippers of the cargo, of course—Messrs. Baring, Thompson & Miguel.”

“Worth a quarter of a million sterling, ain’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Huh, it’s a lot of money.”

There was a momentary silence. Elsie’s eyes grew larger, and she became rather pale. As was her habit when puzzled, she placed a finger on her lips. Christobal noted her action. Indeed, he missed few of her characteristic habits or expressions. He laughed quietly.

“I think you are quite right, Miss Maxwell,” he said. “This is one of the many instances in which silence is golden.”

Taken by surprise, she blushed and dropped her hand. But Courtenay said promptly:

“There are some instances in which silence may be misinterpreted. Let me state at once that the shippers of the valuable cargo on board the Kansas will suffer a serious financial reverse if the ship is lost. Two thousand tons of copper may be worth a considerable fixed sum, but the lack of the metal on the London market at the end of January will have far-reaching consequences in a fight against the bull clique in Paris, and that is why Mr. Baring made this heavy shipment.”

“Those consequences could be foreseen and discounted,” put in Tollemache, dryly.

“Exactly. But by whom? By the man who sent his only daughter as a passenger on this vessel?”

Every one scouted that notion. But Tollemache, though disavowing any thought of Mr. Baring as a party to the scheme, stuck to his guns.

“Somebody will make a pile when the Kansas is reported missing,” he said.

“The insurance money would not be paid for a long time,” Courtenay explained.

“No, but the copper market will respond instantly.”

“Then the process has commenced already. The Kansas should have been reported yesterday from Sandy Point. The news that she has not arrived will soon reach the nearest cable station. There will be terrific excitement at Lloyd’s when that becomes known.”

“It is distinctly odd that Suarez should turn up last night, and tell us how gold slipped through his fingers five years ago. Let us hope the parallel will hold good for the gentleman who so amiably endeavored to send the Kansas to the bottom of the Pacific,” said Christobal.

“It is rather a rotten trick,” broke in Tollemache, “just a bit of Spanish roguery— Well, I’m sorry, Christobal, but I can’t regard you as quite a Spaniard, you see.”

“Nevertheless, I am one,” and the doctor stiffened visibly.

“What Tollemache means is that he would expect you to take the English and straightforward view of a piece of rascality, doctor.” Then Courtenay paused in his turn. “By the way,” he continued, with the frowning dubiety of one whose thoughts outstrip his words, “does any one here know a man named Ventana?”

“It is a name common enough in Chile,” said Christobal.

“If you mean Señor Pedro Ventana, who is associated with Mr. Baring in mining matters, I am acquainted with him,” said Elsie. The men seemed to have forgotten her presence. They were wrapped up in the remarkable discovery which Courtenay himself had made by diligent search among the coal ready for use in the furnaces when the explosion took place.

For no reason in particular, save the unexpectedness of it, Elsie’s statement was received with surprise. They all looked at her, and some of them wondered, perhaps, why her smiling eyes had lost their mirth. Yet there was nothing unreasonable in the mere fact that a certain Chilean named Ventana, who had business relations with Mr. Baring, should make the acquaintance of Isobel Baring’s friend. As quickly as it had arisen, the feeling of strangeness passed.

Courtenay even laughed. Elsie as the Jonah of the ship was a quaint conceit.

“I mentioned Ventana because I was told he took some part of the insurance on his own account,” he explained. “But he was a member of Baring’s copper syndicate, and, indeed, was spoken of as a mining engineer of high repute. Believe me, I was not jumping to conclusions on that account.”

“I know him to be a very bad man,” said Elsie, slowly. Her face was white and her eyes downcast. It was evident that the sudden introduction of Ventana’s personality was distressing to her, but Courtenay, preoccupied with the dastardly attempt made to sink his ship, did not observe this feature of a peculiar discussion.

“Bad! In what sense, Miss Maxwell?” he asked unguardedly.

“In the most loathsome sense. He is evil-minded, vicious, altogether detestable. If Mr. Baring knew his character as I know it, Ventana would not be allowed to enter his office.”

“Pedro Ventana?” interrupted Christobal. “Is he a half-caste, a tall, brown-skinned man, who affects an American drawl when he speaks English—a man prominent in Santiago society and in mining circles generally?”

“Yes,” said Elsie.

“That is odd, exceedingly so. I once heard a rumor—but perhaps it is unfair to mention it in this connection. Yet it cannot hurt any one if I state that Isobel Baring and he were—well—how shall I put it?—at any rate, there was a lively summer-hotel sort of attachment between them.”

“Isobel has never told me that,” said Elsie, nerving herself for a personal disclosure which was obviously disagreeable. “I own a small ranch near Quillota, and, as there was a chance of copper being located there, Mr. Baring advised me to employ Ventana as an expert prospector. Indeed, Mr. Baring himself sent Ventana to examine the property and report on it. He came to see me. He told me there were no minerals of value on my land, but I could never free myself from him afterwards. Indeed, I am running away from him now.”

She uttered the concluding words with a genuine indignation which forthwith evaporated in its unconscious humor. Everybody laughed, even the girl herself, and Boyle grunted:

“Huh, shows the beggar’s good taste, anyhow.”

Courtenay, perhaps, thought that if he encountered Ventana again he would take the opportunity to reason with him in the approved manner of the high seas. And, as there was no need to prolong a topic which caused Elsie any sort of embarrassment, he hastened to say:

“I have brought names into the discussion largely to show what a doubtful field is opened once we begin to suspect without real cause. The only witness of any value we have on board is Frascuelo, and his evidence merely goes to prove a secret design to interfere with, or control, the trimming of the bunker. That particular hatch must be sealed, and the specimens we have secured put away under lock and key. I feel assured that the remainder of our coal is above suspicion. We can carry the inquiry no further while we remain here. Now, Mr. Walker, you have something of a more cheering nature to communicate, I think.”

The engineer grinned genially.

“I don’t wish to bind myself to a day or so, Miss Maxwell and gentlemen,” he said, “but I’ve had a good look at the damage, an’ I feel pwitty shu-aw I’ll get up steam in one boil-aw within ten days or a fawt-night. It’ll be a makeshift job at the best, because I have so few spa-aw fittin’s, an’ no chance of makin’ a castin’, but I’ll bet a ye’aw’s scwew the Kansas gets a move on her undaw her own steam soon aftaw New Ye-aw’s Day.”

New Year’s Day! What a lump in the throat the words brought. In three days it would be Christmas, in seven more the New Year! Though, from the beginning of the voyage, they were prepared to pass both festivals at sea, there was all the difference in the world between a steady progress towards home and friends and the present plight of the Kansas. Death, too, had thrown its shadow over them. Some there were to whom the passing of the years would mean no more in this world. Others, the great majority of the ship’s company, were probably hidden by the same eternal silence; the last sight they had of them was a dim vision of boats rushing into a chaos of angry seas and sheeted spray.

But Courtenay would have none of these mournful memories. He had solved the mystery of the ship’s breakdown, and an expert mechanical engineer had just pledged his reputation to restore wings to the Kansas—somewhat clipped wings, it is true, but sufficient, given fair weather and reasonable good fortune, to bring her to a civilized settlement in the Straits. Why, then, should they yield to gloom?

“Isn’t that glorious news?” he cried. “Now, Christobal, that motor trip in June through the Pyrenees looks feasible once more. And you, Miss Maxwell, though you have never quailed for an instant, can hope to be in England in the spring. As for you, Tollemache, surely you will say that our prospects are ‘fair,’ at the least.”

“I would say more than that if it were not for these poisonous Indians,” replied Tollemache. “Here they come now, a whole canoe load of ’em. I have never seen such rotters.”

And, indeed, Francisco Suarez, detailed to keep watch and ward over the ship until noon, ran up the companion and cried excitedly:

“Four head men have just put off from Otter Creek. They have missed me, I expect. They will want me to go back. I beseech you, señor captain, not to give me up to them, but rather to send a bullet through my miserable heart.”

“Tell him to calm himself,” said Courtenay, coolly, when Christobal had translated this flow of guttural Spanish. “He has no cause to fear them now; let him nerve himself, and show a bold front. A palaver is the best thing that can happen. We must display all the arms we possess. Bid any of your invalids who can stand upright show themselves, Christobal. We must lift you outside, Boyle. Bring your camera, Miss Maxwell. If we could give these fellows a good picture of themselves it would scare them to death.”

The captain of the Kansas was not to be repressed that day. He refused to look at the dark side of things. He even found cause for congratulation in the threatened visit of cannibals whom Suarez feared so greatly that he preferred death to the chance of returning to them, although they had spared his life.

And Courtenay infected them all with his splendid optimism. It was with curiosity rather than dread that they watched the rapid approach of the canoe and its almost naked occupants.

CHAPTER XI.
CONFIDENCES

Courtenay was mistaken in thinking that the savages sought a parley. The canoe was paddled by two women; they changed its course with a dexterous twist of the blades when within a cable’s length of the ship, and then circled slowly round her. The four men jabbered in astonishingly loud voices. Suarez, who gathered the purport of their talk, explained that they were discussing the best method of attack.

“The three younger men belong to the tribe which I lived with,” he said. “The old man sitting between the women is a stranger. I think he must have come from the north of the island with some of his friends, attracted by the smoke signals.”

“From the north? Is there a road?” asked Courtenay, when he learnt what Suarez was saying.

“He would arrive in a canoe,” was the answer. “The Indians venture out to sea in very bad weather. He probably passed the ship late last night, and, now I come to think of it, the canoe which you captured is not familiar to me, whereas I know by sight every craft owned by the Feathered People.”

“How many do they possess?”

“Twenty-three.”

These statements were disconcerting. Not only was it possible for the natives to surround the Kansas with a whole swarm of men, but the mere number of their boats would render it exceedingly difficult to repel a combined assault. And nothing could be more truculent than the demeanor of the semi-nude warriors. They pointed at each person they saw on the decks, and made a tremendous row when they passed the canoe fastened alongside. Despite their keen sight, they evidently did not recognize Suarez, who now wore a cap and a suit of clothes taken from the locker of one of the missing stewards, while his appearance was so altered otherwise that even the people on board found it difficult to regard him as the monstrous-looking wizard whom they had dragged out of the water some twelve hours earlier.

The impudence of the Indians exasperated Courtenay. The sheer size of the Kansas should have awed them, he thought.

“I wish they had left their women behind,” he muttered. “If the men were alone, an ounce or two of buck-shot would soon teach them to keep their distance.”

“Perhaps they are aware of the danger of boarding a ship which stands so high above the sea as the Kansas,” said Christobal. “Why not fire a couple of rounds of blank cartridge at them?”

“Worst thing you can do,” said Tollemache.

“But why?”

“They would be sure, then, you could not hurt them. If you shoot, shoot straight, with the heaviest shot you possess.”

At that moment the rowers permitted the canoe to swing round with the tide. One of the men stood up, and Elsie, who seized the chance of snap-shotting the party, ran to the upper deck, so she did not overhear Courtenay’s smothered ejaculation. He was scrutinizing the savages through his glasses, and he had distinctly seen the ship’s name painted on a small water-cask on which the Indian had been sitting. Tollemache made the same dramatic discovery.

“Out of one of the ship’s life-boats, I suppose?” he said in a low tone to the captain.

“Yes. Did you see the number?”

“Number 3, I think.”

“I agree with you. That was the first life-boat which got away.”

Christobal, startled out of his wonted sang-froid, whispered in his turn:

“Do you mean to say that one of the boats has fallen into the hands of these fiends?”

“I am afraid so,” replied Courtenay. “Of course, that particular keg may have drifted ashore. In any case, it tells the fate of one section of the mutineers. Either the boat is swamped, or the crew are now on the island, and we know what that signifies.”

“Is there no chance of bribing these people into friendliness, or, at least, into a temporary truce?”

“It is hard to decide. Tollemache and Suarez are best able to form an opinion. What do you say, Tollemache?”

“Not a bit of use; they are insatiable. The more you give the more they want. The only way to deal with those rotters is to stir them up with a Gatling or a twelve-pounder.”

Suarez, when appealed to, shook his head.

“Last winter,” he said, “the man sitting aft, he with the single albatross feather sticking in his hair, seized his own son, aged six, and dashed his brains out on the rocks because the little fellow dropped a basket of sea-eggs he was carrying. The woman nearest to him is his wife, and she raised no protest. You might as well try to fondle a hungry puma. I am the only man they have ever spared, and they spared me solely because they thought I gave them power over their enemies. If you had a cannon, you might drive them off. As it is, we shall be compelled to fight for our lives; they are brave enough in their own way.”

The experience of the miner from Argentina was not to be gainsaid. The predicament of the giant Kansas—inert, immovable, lying in that peaceful bay at the mercy of a horde of painted savages—was one of the strange facts almost beyond credence which men encounter at times in the byways of life. It reminded Courtenay of a visit he paid to the crocodile tank at Karachi when he was a midshipman on the Boadicea. He noticed that some of the huge saurians, eighteen feet in length and covered with scale armor off which a bullet would glance, were squirming uneasily, and the Hindu attendant told him that they had been bitten by mosquitoes!

He laughed quietly, but his mirth had a curious ring in it which boded ill for certain unknown members of the Alaculof tribe when the threatened tussle came to close quarters. Elsie heard him. Leaning over the rails of the spar deck, she asked cheerfully:

“What is the joke, Captain Courtenay? And why don’t the Indians come nearer? Are they timid? They don’t look it.”

He glanced up at her. If aught were needed to complete the contrast between civilization and savagery it was given by the comparison which the girl offered to the women in the canoe. The hot sun and the absence of wind had changed the temperature from winter to summer. After breakfast, Elsie had donned a muslin dress, and a broad-brimmed straw hat. Exposure to the weather had bronzed her skin to a delightful tint. Her nut-brown hair framed a sweetly pretty face, and her clear blue eyes and red lips, slightly parted, smiled bewitchingly at the men beneath. The camera in her hands added a holiday aspect to her appearance, an aspect which was unutterably disquieting in its relation to the muttered forebodings she had broken in on.

But Courtenay’s voice gave no hint of the tumult in his breast, though some malign spirit seemed to whisper the agonizing question: “Will you permit her to fall into the hands of the ghouls waiting without?”

“I find the get-up of our visitors distinctly humorous,” he said, “and I hope they are a bit scared of us. We would prefer their room to their company.”

“I thought that Señor Suarez would hail them, as he can speak their language. Perhaps he does not wish them to know he is on board?”

Now, Elsie had heard the man’s impassioned appeal when the Indians were first sighted, so Courtenay felt that she, too, was acting.

“You look nice and cool up there,” he answered, “and your words do not belie your looks.”

“Please, what does that mean exactly?”

“Need I tell you? You treat our troubles airily.”

“Shall one ‘wear a rough garment to deceive’?” she quoted with a laugh. “Don’t you remember the next verse? You ought to retort: ‘I am no prophet, I am an husbandman!’ But that would not be quite right, for you are a sailor.”

She blushed a little at the chance turn of the phrase. Neither the girl nor her hearers recalled the succeeding verses, wherein the destruction of Jerusalem is foretold: “And I will bring the third part through the fire, and will refine them as silver is refined, and will try them as gold is tried.”

Indeed, a new direction was given to Elsie’s thoughts by the somewhat scowling aspect of Christobal’s face. He was looking at Courtenay in a manner which betokened a certain displeasure. The Spaniard’s cultivated cynicism was subjugated by a more powerful sentiment. It seemed to Elsie that he envied Courtenay his youth and high spirits, for, in very truth, the mere exchange of those harmless pleasantries had tuned the younger man’s soul to the transcendental pitch of the knight errant. In his heart he was vowing to rescue this fair lady from the dangers which beset her, though he said jokingly with his lips: