The Wreck of the Titan, Morgan Robertson [best ebook reader ubuntu .TXT] 📗
- Author: Morgan Robertson
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Her crew was not on board, however. Newly scraped and painted in the dry dock, she had been hauled out, stored, and fueled by a navy-yard gang, and now lay at the dock, ready for sea—ready for her draft of men in the morning, and with no one on board for the night but the executive officer, who, with something on his mind, had elected to remain, while the captain and other commissioned officers went ashore for the night.
Four years at the Naval Academy, a two years' sea cruise, and a year of actual service had made many changes in Denman. He was now twenty-five, an ensign, but, because of his position as executive, bearing the complimentary title of lieutenant.
He was a little taller and much straighter and squarer of shoulder than when he had gone to the academy. He had grown a trim mustache, and the sun and winds of many seas had tanned his face to the color of his eyes; which were of a clear brown, and only in repose did they now show the old-time preponderance of white beneath the brown.
In action these eyes looked out through two slits formed by nearly parallel eyelids, and with the tightly closed lips and high arching eyebrows—sure sign of the highest and best form of physical and moral courage—they gave his face a sort of "take care" look, which most men heeded.
Some women would have thought him handsome, some would not; it all depended upon the impression they made on him, and the consequent look in his eyes.
At Annapolis he had done well; he was the most popular man of his class, had won honors from his studies and fist fights from his fellows, while at sea he had shown a reckless disregard for his life, in such matters as bursting flues, men overboard, and other casualties of seafaring, that brought him many type-written letters from Washington, a few numbers of advancement, and the respect and admiration of all that knew or had heard of him.
His courage, like Mrs. Cæsar's morals, was above suspicion. Yet there was one man in the world who was firmly convinced that Lieutenant Denman had a yellow streak in him, and that man was Denman himself.
He had never been home since his departure for Annapolis. He had promised a small girl that if he came back there would be another fight, in which, as he mentally vowed, he would redeem himself. In this he had been sincere, but as the months at the academy went on, with the unsettled fight still in the future, his keen resentment died away, leaving in its place a sense of humiliation and chagrin.
He still meant to go back, however, and would have done so when vacation came; but a classmate invited him to his home, and there he went, glad of the reprieve from an embarrassing, and, as it seemed to him now, an undignified conflict with a civilian. But the surrender brought its sting, and his self-respect lessened.
At the next vacation he surrendered again, and the sting began eating into his soul. He thought of the overdue redemption he had promised himself at all times and upon all occasions, but oftenest just before going to sleep, when the mental picture of Jack Forsythe swaggering around the corner, while he lay conquered and helpless on the ground, would accompany him through his dreams, and be with him when he wakened in the morning.
It became an obsession, and very soon the sudden thought of his coming fight with Forsythe brought the uplift of the heart and the slight choking sensation that betokened nothing but fear.
He would not admit it at first, but finally was compelled to. Honest with himself as he was with others, he finally yielded in the mental struggle, and accepted the dictum of his mind. He was afraid to fight Jack Forsythe, with no reference to, or regard for, his standing as an officer and a gentleman.
But now, it seemed, all this was to leave him. A month before, he had thought strongly of his child friend Florrie, and, with nothing to do one afternoon, he had written her a letter—a jolly, rollicking letter, filled with masculine colloquialisms and friendly endearments, such as he had bestowed upon her at home; and it was the dignity of her reply—received that day—with the contents of the letter, which was the "something on his mind" that kept him aboard.
His cheeks burned as he realized that she was now about twenty years old, a young lady, and that his letter to her had been sadly conceived and much out of place. But the news in the letter, which began with "Dear Sir," and ended with "Sincerely yours," affected him most. It read:
"I presume you know that your enemy, Jack Forsythe, took his disappointment so keenly that he never amounted to much at home, and about two years ago enlisted in the navy. This relieves you, as father tells me, from the necessity of thrashing him—as you declared you would. Officers and enlisted men cannot fight, he said, as the officer has the advantage, and can always order the man to jail. I thank you very much for remembering me after all these years—in fact, I shall never forget your kindness."
His cheeks and ears had burned all day, and when his fellow officers had gone, and he was alone, he reread the letter.
"Sarcasm and contempt between every line," he muttered. "She expected me—the whole town expected me—to come back and lick that fellow. Well"—his eyelids became rigidly parallel—"I'll do it. When I find him, I'll get shore leave for both of us, take him home, and square the account."
This resolution did him good; the heat left his cheek, and the sudden jump of the heart did not come with the occasional thought of the task. Gradually the project took form; he would learn what ship Forsythe was in, get transferred to her, and when in port arrange the shore leave. He could not fight him in the navy, but as man to man, in civilian's clothing in the town park, he would fight him and thrash him before the populace.
It was late when he had finished the planning. He lighted a last cigar, and sauntered around the deck until the cigar was consumed. Then he went to his room and turned in, thinking of the caustic words of Miss Florrie, forgiving her the while, and wondering how she looked—grown up.
They were pleasant thoughts to go to sleep on, but sleep did not come. It was an intensely hot, muggy night, and the mosquitoes were thick. He tried another room, then another, and at last, driven out of the wardroom by the pests, he took refuge in the steward's pantry, and spreading his blanket on the floor, went to sleep on it.
CHAPTER IIHe slept soundly, and as he slept the wind blew up from the east, driving the mosquitoes to cover and bringing with it a damp, impenetrable fog that sank down over the navy yard and hid sentry from sentry, compelling them to count their steps as they paced.
They were scattered through the yard, at various important points, one at the gangway of each ship at the docks, others at corners and entrances to the different walks that traversed the green lawn, and others under the walls of the huge naval prison.
One of these, whose walk extended from corner to corner, heard something, and paused often to listen intently, his eyes peering around into the fog. But the sound was not repeated while he listened—only as his footfalls sounded soggily on the damp path were they punctuated by this still, small sound, that he could not localize or remember.
If asked, he might have likened it to the rustling of paper, or the sound of a cat's claws digging into a carpet.
But at last it ceased, and he went back and forth many times without hearing it; then, when about half-way from corner to corner, a heavy body came down from above, landing on his head and shoulders and bearing him to earth, while his rifle was knocked from his hand and big fingers clutched his throat.
He struggled and endeavored to call out. But the grip on his throat was too strong, and finally he quieted, his last flicker of consciousness cognizing other dropping bodies and the muttered and whispered words of men.
So much for this sentry.
"I know the way," whispered the garroter, and a few gathered around him. "We'll make a bee line for the dock and avoid 'em. Then, if we can't find a boat, we'll swim for it. It's the only way."
"Right," whispered another; "fall in here, behind Jenkins—all of you."
The whispered word was passed along, and in single file the dark-brown bodies, each marked on knee and elbow with a white number, followed the leader, Jenkins. He led them across the green, around corners where sentries were not, and down to the dock where lay the destroyer.
Here was a sentry, pacing up and down; but so still was their approach that he did not see them until they were right upon him.
"Who goes—" he started, but the challenge was caught in his throat. He, too, was choked until consciousness almost left him; then the stricture was relaxed while they questioned him.
"Got a boat around here?" hissed Jenkins in his ear. "Whisper—don't speak."
"No," gasped the sentry, unable to speak louder had he dared.
"How many men are aboard the destroyer?" was asked.
"None now. Crew joins in the morning."
"Nobody on board, you say? Lie quiet. If you raise a row, I'll drop you overboard. Come here, you fellows."
They closed about him, thirteen in all, and listened to his project. He was a pilot of the bay. How many machinists were there in the party? Four claimed the rating.
"Right enough," said Jenkins. "We'll run her out. She's oil fuel, as I understand. You can fire up in ten minutes, can't you? Good. Come on. Wait, though."
Jenkins, with his grip of steel, was equal to the task of tearing a strip from his brown prison jacket, and with this he securely gagged the poor sentry. Another strip from another jacket bound his hands behind him, and still another secured him to a mooring cleat, face upward. This done, they silently filed aboard, and spread about through the interior. The sentry had spoken truly, they agreed, when they mustered together. There was no one on board, and the machinists reported plenty of oil fuel.
Soon the fires were lighted, and the indicator began to move, as the boilers made steam. They did not wait for full pressure. Jenkins had spread out a chart in the pilot-house, and when the engines could turn over he gave the word. Lines were taken in except a spring to back on; then this was cast off, and the long, slim hull moved almost silently away from the dock.
Jenkins steered by the light of a match held over the compass until there was steam enough to turn the dynamos, then the electrics were turned on in the pilot-house, engine room, and side-light boxes—by which time the dock was out of sight in the fog, and they dared speak in articulate words. Their language was profane but joyous, and their congratulations hearty and sincere.
A table knife is an innocent and innocuous weapon, but two table knives are not, for one can be used against the other so skillfully as to form a fairly good hack saw, with which prison bars may be sawed. The sawing of steel bars was the sound that the sentry had heard mingling with his footfalls.
Jenkins, at the wheel, called to the crowd. "Take the wheel, one of you," he ordered. "I've just rounded the corner. Keep her sou'east, half south
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