XIX.
DEATH SHIPS OF THE SEA.
A thick fog rose from the sea, as we stole away in the darkness withthe torpedo boat. We had no distinguishing lights and every sound wasmuffled. Even the funnels were protected against the tell-tale sparksof soft coal. The spume of the sea fell over our forward deck inflecks, and the waves splashed at our bow. The harbor lights of Panamashone in a glow of sickly yellow.
An officer stood by the hooded binnacle, watching our course by thefaint glow of a tiny lamp. The bulldog engines, which I was working,were speeding us at 17 knots an hour and we were headed for Mollendo.We had no armament. That was sent to the Peruvian government by othermeans and our only defense against the Chilean cruiser was a cleanpair of heels.
Suddenly, the eye of a search-light opened, and sent a long gleam ofyellow into the fog. It swung around and rested for a moment on thecolumn of smoke trailing from our funnels and changed its color from ablack to a fiery red. It rested there a moment, then closed and allwas darkness. The tumult was deafening. The hissing rush ofprojectiles, as they struck the water and exploded by impact, orshrieked in ricochet overhead.
The brave officer at the binnacle fell to the deck, his mangled body aquivering mass. One funnel was struck midway and cut in twain asthough by a sharpened blade. Fire darted up from the half funnel, andshowed the cruiser's gunners the correctness of their aim. It lit ourdeck with its glare and showed the bodies of two others on the forwarddeck bathed in blood. Another officer coolly took his place at thebinnacle and directed a change in the course of the boat.
The spurting jets of fire from our broken funnel gleamed in the fog,like a beacon light to those on board the gaunt black monster of theseas, in pursuit of his prey. A hunted thing on the black waves, wecrowded on every ounce of steam throughout the watches of the night.
With the morning came the blaze of the tropic sun. It drove the fogoff the sea and showed us the hull of the cruiser, looming up out ofthe purple mist. Steadily, we held our course, with steam up to thedanger line. By noon we had gained a little, and again, with theapproach of night, the fog began to rise and soon enveloped us in itsgrey cloak. But that beacon light from our funnel shone hateful as itsspurting jets flashed signals to the enemy in pursuit.
Another night passed, and, when the fog lifted again, there was thevampire even nearer than before.
The nervous strain was telling on our crew. The day before we jokedand laughed--we would outrun him yet in the night. We would have; butfor the glare from that funnel. We might have stolen into some coveand let him pass us in the dark, but for that. He did not waste shotanymore, we were going his way. He could afford to wait. The third daythe crew was worn and silent. They had the look of desperation intheir faces, as they threw furtive glances back at the spectre, theShip of Death--The Black Coffin--we called him now.
At high noon, we met an American warship. His crew crowded to hisdecks and gave cheer after cheer in sympathy for our desperate plight.The big greyhound of the sea was chasing the rabbit he had bitten andmaimed, and the sympathy was with the weak. By night the nervousstrain had become almost a frenzy. Then to add to our peril, the coalin the bunkers was running low. Something must happen in our favorsoon. Our signal still flashed from the half funnel--our signal ofdistress--and by midnight we called it our funeral candle. The sky wasclear now and the stars were shining. We could see lights flash nowand then through the haze of the sea. When morning came there he wasbig, black, hideous--still in our wake.
Coal for eight more hours only. Surely something would happen; helpmust come, out of the sea, out of the sky, out of somewhere, only itmust come. The sea was smooth; not a ship could be seen on thehorizon. All on board were in restless anxiety. Only coal for threemore hours.
We were now off Ecuador. The officer in command called the crew.
"We shall have to surrender the boat," he said.
The assistant engineer, two stokers and myself, all of us British,shouted "Never! We are not here to lay in a Chilean prison and perhapsbe shot! We beach the boat!" Our emphasis was our drawn revolvers.
Without a word, the officer headed the boat for the shore. We gatheredup a few edibles and when we grounded the boat, swam to the beach. Theofficer lingered for some time after all were ashore, then hurriedover her sides and made his escape. The Chilean cruiser launched herboat, eight sailors to each side of rowlocks, an ensign and a party ofmarines. They rowed rapidly to the torpedo boat and half of themclimbed on board, when her sides parted and a terrific flame shotupward, bearing the bodies of a dozen men. The officer had lit thefuse that did the work.
Ten days afterwards the two stokers, assistant engineer and myself,footsore and ragged, went on board the British mail steamer atGuayaquil and presented ourselves to the gruff old captain.
"Get below in the stoke-hole and black up," he said, "the Chileangovernment offers five thousand dollars reward for each of you. If weare searched you are stokers."
Meanwhile, on board another ship far to the north were aching hearts.Hattie's aged mother fell ill when two days out from Panama and thenext day she passed away. Rules required that the body be buried atsea. It was a solemn group that assembled at the ship's gangway, whileall that was mortal of the aged mother rested on a plank, one end ofwhich was held by a sailor. Slowly the chaplain read the beautifulservice. The ship was stopped. Not a sound was heard and the midnightmoon was hidden by clouds. "Therefore we commit this body to thedeep," was pronounced. The plank was raised and the body was swallowedup in the cavernous depths of the ocean.
Hattie leaned upon the arm of Mr. Robinson, who tenderly escorted herto the cabin when the rites were over. To her the world was gloomy anddesolate, her sister but recently buried in far away Arequipa and themother now in the sea. With a fortitude beyond her years the Christiangirl bore bravely her deep sorrows, trusting in Him "who doeth allthings well." When the ship reached the open roadstead of PortHarford, and she again landed on the shores of her native California,she went to her former home--a vine-clad cottage in San Louis Obispo.
It was here I found her some weeks after I assumed the role of stokeron the British mail steamer. Mr. Robinson had gone to his former homein Missouri, but Hattie was protected by relatives. We talked of ourcoming marriage. It was not possible at that time. I had lost so muchmoney by exchange from the paper currency of Peru to the gold ofCalifornia, that I needed time to replenish my almost depleted purse.We decided that we would wait one year, meanwhile I would go toArizona and run an engine on the railroad east of Tuscon.
It made my heart glad to be in a country once more where my ownlanguage was spoken and among people whose customs were like unto thatof my native land. There was no prejudice toward me on account of myforeign birth, such as I had often encountered in Peru. The hand offellowship was extended in this broad free land of the United States,where the greatness of men is measured almost by merit alone.
What surprised me at first was the absence of soldiers until I came tounderstand the peace-loving disposition of the people, and learnedthat in the hour of the country's need, all men became her defenders.
It was one of those balmy afternoons, so characteristic of southernCalifornia, when Hattie and I were seated in a park overlooking thebeautiful Los Ossis valley. Our plans were made for the future, and Iwas to leave that night for Arizona. It was the tender parting of manand woman whose lives had been seared by the hot irons of adversity,and each felt that the other was the one and all upon this planet.
* * * * *
Here Buchan's narrative was broken short. He was writing the lastchapter on a pair of ladies' dainty cuffs, when he stopped andlistened. He arose to his feet. "Do you know," he said, "I thought amoment ago I heard something--her voice."