Kitabı oku: «Tom Fairfield at Sea: or, The Wreck of the Silver Star», sayfa 3
CHAPTER VI
SEEN IN THE GLASS
Instantly there was a commotion all through the Silver Star. The captain’s alarming words had frightened the sailors as well as the passengers. As for Tom, he stood in fascinated wonder on the bridge, watching the approaching waterspout.
And that it was approaching, and rapidly too, could not be doubted. It was sweeping onward with a whirling motion, straight for the ship, and there was a low, moaning and humming sound to the wind that had created it, which did not add to the pleasure of the spectacle.
“Is there any danger?” asked Tom.
“There is if it hits us,” was the captain’s grim answer. “But I’m not going to let that happen, if I can help it. I’ll go ahead full speed and try to get out of the way. It’s only in a sailing ship, where it’s hard to change the course against a perverse wind, that there is really any great danger, though I have heard of steamers being hit.”
“Oh, Captain Steerit!” cried a woman passenger from the deck below. “Will we be wrecked?”
“Not if I can help it,” was his answer. “There is comparatively no danger. I’ll pass the spout to one side.”
“Then I’m going to try for a picture!” exclaimed Tom. “Will it last long enough for me to get my camera?” he asked, pausing on his way down.
“It will if you hurry,” answered the commander. “And I may be able to give you a chance to get a rare view.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m going to try to break that spout with a cannon shot. I’ve read of such things being done, but I never tried it. I’ve got a gun on board, for saluting some of the owners at the islands where I trade, and I’ll have my gunner try a shot at it.”
“Great!” cried Tom. “If I can get a view of the spout, as the cannon ball hits it, that will be a rare one.”
He hurried below for his camera, while the captain gave his order about the cannon, and the crew ran the gun out on the bow.
When Tom came up from his stateroom he saw that the spout was much nearer. But the course of the Silver Star had been so changed that she was in comparatively no danger of being struck, unless the waterspout suddenly shifted.
“All ready now with that gun!” cried the captain.
“All ready! Aye, aye, sir!” came the answer.
Tom was taking several views of the waterspout as it was whirling along, and some of the other passengers, grown bolder as they saw that there was no danger, were doing the same.
“Ready to snap her, Tom?” asked the commander.
“Yes, sir,” answered our hero.
“Then here she goes! Fire!”
There was a puff of white smoke, a dull flame, and a report that seemed to jar the whole ship. Tom had a glimpse of something black bounding over the waves. It was the round shot from the old-fashioned cannon, and had no great speed, as cannon balls go.
“Get ready, Tom!” called the captain.
Tom focused his camera on the whirling waterspout, and waited the right moment to push the shutter lever.
It came.
Surely aimed had been the cannon, for the ball cut right through the center of the twin-joined funnel-shaped masses of water. The one that had risen from the sea slumped down into the waves again, carrying with it the mass of water that had been drawn from the heavily charged cloud, and Tom got a wonderful picture of the destruction of the spout.
“There, I guess that won’t trouble us any more, even if it had been headed directly for us!” called the captain, while he signalled for full speed ahead, since he had slowed down the vessel to enable Tom to take the snapshot.
“It was great!” exclaimed our hero, as he went up on the bridge to thank his friend the commander. “Do waterspouts do much damage?”
“They do when they’re big enough, and when they hit a small vessel. Even a big steamer might suffer from having thousands of tons of water dropped on her decks at once. I don’t want to encounter a waterspout. They are quite rare I believe. At least I’ve seen very few, and the farther off they are the better I like ’em. Did you get a good picture?”
“I hope so. But I can’t develop it here.”
“Oh, yes you can. I used to be quite an amateur photographer myself, and I had a dark room fitted up on board. I guess there are all the chemicals and other things you need, including the ruby light. Go ahead and develop your film, and see what sort of a view you have.”
“That’s great!” exclaimed Tom. “If they’re any good I’ll make some for you.”
“All right. I’ll be glad to have ’em.”
Tom went below, noting as he did so that the sea was still foaming and agitated where the waterspout had subsided into the waves. The passengers were crowded about the gun that had been fired, congratulating the gunner, and talking about the waterspout and its sudden destruction.
To get to the dark room, fitted up in a small stateroom, Tom had to go past the room of the “mysterious” passenger.
“Queer he wouldn’t even come up on deck to see the waterspout,” mused our hero. “He must have some strange object in remaining below. Well, I’m not going to think anything more about him.”
As Tom got in front of the stateroom he noticed that the door was partly opened, and, almost instinctively, and with no intention of prying, he looked in as he passed.
What he saw startled him. There was an electric light aglow in the apartment, for the clouds had made the day gloomy, and Tom caught the reflection in a looking glass on the wall. And what he saw in the glass was the face of a man with a beard and moustache. It was a face that Tom knew well, but it was not the face of the passenger who had so hurriedly boarded the ship, and who had kept to his berth ever since.
“A beard and moustache!” gasped Tom. “I wonder if they’re false? And yet they might have grown naturally. But no, they couldn’t have, in this short time. They’re false. And I know who that man is now! I didn’t know him smooth shaven, but I do with his beard.”
He had a good glimpse, by means of the mirror, of the face of the mysterious man. The passenger appeared to be contemplating his countenance in the glass.
“He here!” gasped Tom, as he hurried on to the dark room. “That man on board! I must tell Captain Steerit!”
CHAPTER VII
THE STORM
Filled with his new idea, and alarmed at the possible menace to himself, Tom turned, and was about to retrace his steps up on deck to speak to the captain. Then he paused.
“Hold on a minute, Tom Fairfield,” he told himself. “And don’t do anything in a hurry. You came off on this voyage in a rush, and maybe that was a good thing. But just wait a minute now, and see if this is the best step to take.”
He turned again, and once more walked past the stateroom of the suspected man. The door was closed this time, and Tom was rather glad of it, for he did not want to meet the passenger, now that he knew who he was.
“I’ll just wait a bit about telling the captain,” reflected Tom. “When I tell him the story he’s bound to take some action, seeing that Mr. Trendell is sailing under false colors. And that’s bound to make a row. It won’t be pleasant for me, either, seeing that I’ve got to stay on this ship with him for some time yet. And a ship isn’t like dry land – you can’t get away from a person when you want to.
“No, it’s better for me as it is, I think. As long as he stays shut up in his stateroom he won’t bother me, though he knows that I’m on board. That’s why he acted so queer, and why he’s been in retirement. Now he’s planning some new move.
“Yes, I’ll just lay low for a while, and see what happens. There’s time enough I guess. I’ll go develop this picture.”
Tom found the dark room well fitted up, and he was soon at work, taking the films from his camera, and putting them in the developing bath. As soon as the yellow coating began to dissolve he saw, coming out of the shadows, as it were, the dim image of the waterspout, and the shattering of it by the cannon ball.
“Say! That’s a crackerjack snapshot!” he exclaimed. “As soon as it’s dry enough I’m going to print some views and show ’em. I don’t believe anyone on board has any better pictures than these.”
In his enthusiasm over his views he forgot, for the time being, the matter that was troubling him. He found that he had a number of excellent negatives of the waterspout, showing it approaching, its destruction, and the raging sea after it had subsided into the waves.
“Good! That’s great!” exclaimed Mr. Blake, one of the passengers to whom Tom showed his views a few hours later. “I hope mine come out as fine as yours. How did you print them so quickly?”
Tom explained how he had dried his negatives by dipping them in alcohol, and pinning them in front of an electric fan, so that he could make prints a comparatively short time after developing. He even used the dark room for some of the other passengers, making some prints from their films, but none of them were as good as those of our hero.
“You ought to make a set for the captain,” suggested Mr. Blake. “I believe he’d like them to hang in his cabin, as a souvenir of the occasion.”
“I will,” declared Tom, and this brought up anew in his mind the question as to whether or not he ought to inform the commander of the secret he had unexpectedly stumbled upon.
“I guess I’ll take a chance, and tell him,” mused the lad. “I’ve thought it all over, and I’ll feel better if I tell. If I don’t, and anything happens, I’d feel as if I was to blame. I’ll tell Captain Steerit.”
But an unexpected obstacle developed. First, when Tom went to look for the captain the latter was working out some reckonings, and could not be disturbed. And then, a little later, it was time for supper, and a concert was to be given afterward, the captain having arranged for it among the musical members of his passengers. He was really too busy for Tom to see him in private.
“Oh, well, morning will do,” decided our hero, little knowing what was to happen between night and dawn.
The concert was a great success, though it was strictly amateur. There were songs and instrumental numbers, for the Silver Star carried a piano. Some one discovered that Tom was a school lad, who had been a member of the glee club at Elmwood Hall, and nothing would do but that he must sing some songs. He did not want to, but was finally prevailed upon to do so, and he had a better voice than he himself suspected.
“Great! Fine!” complimented Mr. Blake. “If there were more of us here we could charge admission and make a fund for the sailors. Now, Mrs. Ford, another of your piano solos.”
Thus the evening went on in gaiety until even the gayest were ready for their staterooms.
“Maybe I’ll get a chance to speak to the captain now,” thought Tom, wishing to get the unpleasant matter off his mind before he went to bed, if possible. But Captain Steerit was still busy, and when he did have a moment’s leisure, after the main cabin had been put to rights following the concert, he was summoned to the bridge by an unexpected call.
“I wonder if anything can be wrong?” asked Mr. Blake of Tom.
“Wrong? How? What do you mean?”
“Well, I mean that the wind has been rising rapidly in the last hour, and the barometer is falling. I heard one of the crew say so.”
“That means a storm,” suggested Tom.
“I guess so. Notice how we’re pitching and rolling.”
“That’s right,” agreed our hero, for, now that his attention was not occupied with the music and songs he could observe that the ship was heeling over at a sharper angle. And, too, she seemed to be climbing up some mountain of water, only to slip down into the hollow on the other side of it.
“It is a little rough,” spoke Tom, “but I don’t believe it will amount to much. Let’s go up and look around.”
The motion on deck was more pronounced than it had been below, and the two had some little difficulty in keeping their feet as they got outside. They felt the strong wind in their faces, a wind that seemed to be momentarily increasing in violence.
“Better get below!” shouted Captain Steerit to Tom and Mr. Blake, from the bridge. “We’re in for a spell of bad weather I fancy.”
“Any danger?” yelled Mr. Blake, above the roar of the wind, which was humming through the mast and funnel stays. “My wife is very nervous.”
“No danger,” answered the commander, and then he disappeared into the charthouse that opened off the bridge.
The vessel pitched and tossed, but Tom had been in worse blows than this, and he saw nothing to be alarmed about. The sky was overcast with clouds, for no stars were visible, and the wind was strong, but aside from these indications there did not seem to be anything to be alarmed about.
“Well, I’ll have to wait until morning, all right,” mused Tom, as he took a turn about the deck before going in. Mr. Blake left him with a good-night.
“I’ll go tell my wife there’s nothing to be alarmed about,” he said, “but she’s that nervous that it’ll be just like her to sit up dressed all night.”
“Oh, I guess the Silver Star can weather this little blow,” said Tom.
Remaining on deck for about half an hour longer Tom was beginning to feel sleepy enough to turn in. The wind had not increased. If anything it had gone down, though the lad could see, over the rail, that the waves were running high. They did not break, however, being more like huge oily swells that heaved up in the darkness, showing dimly the reflection of the ship’s lights.
“Some power to those waves,” reflected our hero. “A lot of power there when it’s needed, but the trouble is it can’t be controlled. Well, I hope we don’t run into a worse blow by morning.”
A little saddened as he looked off across the black waste, and reflected that somewhere on that heaving ocean his father and mother might be helplessly drifting, Tom went below.
As he did so he cast a look at the bridge. He saw Captain Steerit standing there with the first mate, their figures being brought out in relief against the glow of light from the charthouse. The two seemed to be in earnest conversation, and Tom, who was unaccountably nervous, could not but wonder if there was any danger in their situation.
As he passed the room of the mysterious passenger Tom saw that the door was closed, though a light showing over the transom indicated that the occupant was still up.
It must have been past midnight when Tom was suddenly awakened by being pitched sharply against the side of his berth.
“Hello! What’s up?” he cried.
There was no answer, but he felt himself tossed in the opposite direction, while some loose objects in his room rolled about the floor.
“Something’s going on!” said Tom aloud, as he reached out and turned the electric switch, flooding his room with light.
As he did so he became aware that the vessel was rolling and pitching at what, even to his accustomed senses, was an alarming degree. Tom sprang out of bed, and brought up with a bang on the opposite side of his little apartment, giving himself quite a severe knock.
“Ouch!” he exclaimed, rubbing his elbows. He forgot to hold on to something, and felt himself sliding back toward his berth, but he had sense enough to put out his hands and save himself from another collision.
“Some motion here!” thought Tom.
At the same time he became aware of a rushing of feet on the deck above him, while hoarse commands were cried out, coming but faintly to his ears.
Without waiting to dress, Tom cautiously opened his porthole a trifle. In an instant, even through the small crack, he was drenched with a spray of salty water.
“Say! It must be a blow!” he cried, screwing the porthole glass back into place. “It’s a storm all right! I’m going to get dressed, and go on deck. No telling what might happen.”
Steadying himself with one hand, he sorted out his clothes with the other. He could hear the passengers in the stateroom adjoining his moving about, and he thought he detected a woman crying.
CHAPTER VIII
A BLOW IN THE DARK
“Trouble somewhere,” reflected Tom, as he hastily dressed as best he could in that small stateroom, which seemed uncertain on its own part as to what was the floor or ceiling. Sometimes one of the walls would serve as the floor, and again as the ceiling.
“Trouble,” repeated Tom, “or else some one is frightened. The storm must have developed in a hurry. I’m going to see what’s up. I don’t like being below when there’s any danger.”
Finishing with his dressing, Tom hurried along the passageway leading to the upper deck. He had to steady himself as he went along, or he would have received more hard knocks.
Coming opposite the room where the “mysterious” man was quartered, Tom noted that the door was ajar a trifle. It went shut with a slam as our hero passed, but whether the occupant had been the cause, or the swaying of the ship, Tom could not determine.
“No chance to talk with Captain Steerit now,” Tom reflected. “But I guess it will keep until after the blow.”
On deck our hero was at once made aware of the fury of the storm, and its increasing violence. He had a glimpse of great billows, foam-capped, racing along at the side of the Silver Star, as if to keep pace with her, mocking her efforts to speed away from them. He heard the wind fairly howling through the wire stays, as if giant fingers were playing a wild tune on some immense harp. And he felt, too, the violent pitching and tossing of the craft, as he had not in his cabin below. In fact so great was the motion that he had difficulty in keeping his feet.
“Some blow – this,” gasped Tom, the words being almost snatched out of his mouth by the wind.
He saw sailors making their way here and there, fastening in place such gear as might tear away when the storm became worse. And that this was likely was becoming every moment more evident.
Tom managed to make his way forward, clinging to some safety ropes that had been rigged. He was near the bow, and could see towering billows curling toward the ship, when a voice hailed him.
“Get back! Go on back, Tom!” someone shouted.
He looked up toward the bridge, to see Captain Steerit standing there, clad in oilskins, for the spray was flying from the crests of the mountain-like ridges of water.
“Is there any danger?” Tom shouted back.
“There always is – in a storm,” was the grim response. “Get back. No telling when a comber may come aboard, and it will carry you off like a chip. You can’t hold on. Get back, Tom!”
Our hero decided that it was good advice to follow, and, even as he turned he felt the ship stagger as though some giant had dealt her a blow. There was a shower of spray and a rush of water that drenched Tom, and nearly carried him off his feet.
“Well I’m wet through,” he reflected. “I’d better get back to bed, or else put on dry clothes. I should have put on oilskins before coming up.”
As he went down a companionway he saw Mr. Blake coming up, with his wife clinging to him. She had been crying, and was even now sobbing.
“Don’t go up,” Tom advised them.
“Oh, is it as bad as that? Are we sinking?” gasped Mrs. Blake.
“Oh, there’s no particular danger,” said Tom, as calmly as he could, “only you’ll get all wet. I’m drenched. Captain Steerit warned me back, just as a big wave came aboard.”
“Oh, Will, I’m so frightened!” wailed Mrs. Blake. “I know we’ll go to the bottom!”
“Nonsense!” answered her husband. “I told you we’d better stay below.”
“It’s more comfortable, at any rate,” said Tom, and he helped Mr. Blake assist his wife to their stateroom.
Tom lost no time in putting on dry garments, and over them he put a suit of oilskins, that would keep out the wet. Thus equipped he started for the deck again.
“Now that I’m up I may as well stay and see the storm out,” Tom reflected. “If it grows worse I don’t want to be below, anyhow. I’ll have more chance in the open.”
For a moment his heart misgave him, as he thought of the storm through which the ship on which his father and mother were sailing had gone.
“I do hope the Silver Star isn’t wrecked,” mused Tom. “That would upset all my plans. But pshaw! It won’t happen.”
He passed one of the sailors whom he knew.
“What do you think of it?” asked Tom.
The man paused for a moment before replying. Then, looking to see that no one overheard him, the man answered:
“We’ve got orders to put fresh water in the lifeboats, and to see that all’s clear for getting away in a hurry.”
“As bad as that?” asked Tom, in some surprise. “Why I fancied the ship wouldn’t make much of this storm.”
“It isn’t so much the storm,” went on the sailor, “though that’s bad enough, and it’s getting worse. But she’s opened some of her seams, and we’re taking in water.”
“Have they started the pumps?” asked Tom in some alarm.
“Sure, but one of them is out of commission, and the others have all they can do. Take my advice and get ready for any emergency.”
“Jove! As bad as that!” exclaimed Tom with a gasp. “Surely the passengers ought to be told.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” the sailor advised him. “The captain will tell them soon enough. And if they know too soon it may start a panic.”
“That’s so,” agreed our hero.
He turned to go back to his stateroom, and, as he did so, he became aware that the door to the apartment of the man he suspected had been open a crack. It was quickly closed as our hero came opposite it, as if the occupant had been listening to what the sailor had said.
“I wonder if I hadn’t better give Mr. Blake, and some of the others, a little warning,” reflected Tom. “No, I guess I won’t. The women might get all excited. Captain Steerit will surely take no chances. But now what had I better do? I’m going to take my money with me, anyhow, if we have to leave the ship.”
Tom had provided himself with a money belt before coming on his trip, and he now strapped this about his waist with the pockets filled. He also took a few personal belongings that would not take up much room, nor be heavy. He had on warm but light clothing, and light shoes.
“If worst comes to worst, and I have to swim for it, I can do it this way,” he reflected. “It won’t be cold, that’s one good thing, and there aren’t any icebergs in this part of the Pacific. Still I hope nothing happens.”
Once more he made his way up on deck. He saw none of the other passengers there, and, taking his place in a sheltered spot, he watched the storm.
It was certainly growing worse. Every now and then big seas came crashing over the bow, sending a shower of spray up to the bridge where Captain Steerit kept unceasing watch. The Silver Star was pitching and tossing more than ever. Now she would poke her nose toward some big, dark billow, and it seemed as if she must bury herself beneath it. But she would rise to it, and ride on the crest, being poised there for a moment with her bow and propeller clear of water.
At such times the engines raced, the screw having no resistance, and the whole vessel quivered from stem to stern. Then the staunch craft would slide down the inclined plane of water into the valley below, only to repeat the process at the next huge wave.
Then, when some big comber came aboard, the ship would stagger under the blow, until it seemed as if she must be crushed. But ever she would emerge from the battle with the sea, to stagger on once more.
It was magnificent, but terrifying, and Tom, who had never been in such a storm, was not a little frightened. But when he looked toward the bridge, and saw the commander there in his glistening oilskins, as calm and undisturbed as though he was but guiding his vessel on a summer day, our hero felt reassured.
“The ship’s in good hands,” thought Tom. “We’ll pull through yet, barring accidents, and even with a leak, and one pump useless.”
Yes – “barring accidents.” That is the one thing on which sailors cannot count.
All had been done that human ingenuity could suggest. Everything movable on deck had been made fast, and the engines were going at top power to force the ship through the storm. Tom could see dark figures clustered about the lifeboats, and he knew the sailors stood ready to lower them in case of necessity.
“But I think I’d rather take my chance on the Silver Star than in a small boat in such a sea,” reflected Tom, not without a shudder, as he looked at the heaving billows.
He could not tell whether it was raining or not, as the spray was like a fall of the drops from the clouds. There was no thunder or lightning – just a hard, steady blow.
On staggered the steamer. Tom braced himself in a corner by a deckhouse, and held on. He could look over the rail at the hissing seas that ran alongside.
Suddenly there came a hoarse cry from the lookout in the bows.
“Port! Port your wheel!” he screamed. “We’ll be upon it in a second. Port!”
“Port it is!” came the quick voice of Captain Steerit.
A moment later there came a staggering blow in the dark – a blow that seemed to halt the Silver Star in her career – a blow that made the craft shiver from stem to stern!
