With quick strides he made his way toward the fo’castle. The passage was not dark this time, for during the interval that he was on deck a light had been made in the crew’s quarters and it sent a pale, trembling shaft through the bulkhead door.
In the entrance to the fo’castle Cardigan halted, an exclamation on his lips—for he stood face to face with English Charlie.
“How the devil did you get here?” he demanded suspiciously.
The cockney indicated the entrance opposite the bulkhead door, through which opening the bottom of a flight of stairs was visible. “I came down the steps, sir. I just stopped a minute to make a light ’ere.”
“I thought I sent you to find the cabin boy.”
“You did, sir—but Hi ayn’t found ’im yet.”
Cardigan whirled about and at that moment a voice behind him shrieked: “Two bells, mate—two bells...”
The sound brought him around again and the cockney, grinning, pointed to a feathery green body perched on the upper tier of one of the bunks.
Cardigan swore as he made his way alone to the main cabin. Damn him, who was this fellow who had slunk past him on deck?
In the lazarette door he paused to consult his watch. Ten minutes to four. From the timepiece his eyes rose to the compass in the deck-beam overhead. He could distinguish the tiny figures on the white disc.
“Good God!” sprang from his lips. Who was on watch? Wajo—and the fool was headed off the course... toward where the coral traps lav—
He took a step to cross the main cabin and at that very instant—so exact is the time-table of Fate—a sudden titanic shock hurled him flat upon his back. The fall partially stunned him, and as he lay there trying to marshal his scattered faculties the bow of the vessel seemed to leap up, rolling him against the cabin bulkhead. Following that loose objects tumbled down; glass shattered.
After a moment of struggle, Cardigan succeeded in getting to his feet. Finding himself in darkness, he realized that the lamp had been broken.
A splotch of misty light showed him the companionway, and, slipping and stumbling across the slanting floor, he groped his way to the foot of the stairs, where his outstretched hands found the brass rail.
He ascended. On deck charging billows broke in white foam over the gunwale, sweeping angrily against the cabins and masthead.
It seemed a deathless period to Cardigan before he reached the break of the poop; here he gripped the ladder and looked over his shoulder at the wreckage.
The bow was thrust up into the throat of the fog, the stern so deeply sunk that the main-chains dipped, while a list to the port permitted the sea free entrance through a tear in the bulwarks. She had evidently struck with tremendous force; the forward mast was down and the deck, below the fore-poop, in splinters where broken spars had crashed through.
He grasped the situation instantly, realizing the urgency of keeping a cool head. The bows were jammed between the rocks and at any moment the wounded ship might slide back off the reefs—
His teeth snapped shut and he climbed the ladder. As he stood upright on the poop-deck, peering into the mist that masked the remote end of the vessel, a vague shape slid across the timbels at him. Instantly he saw that it was a man and tried to steady himself for the encounter that he knew was unavoidable.
Instead of the jar that he expected, a smashing blow was delivered full in his face, and with mingled surprise and pain he realized that it was an attack rather than a collision. The moment he hit the deck he was up again, sending his fist into a yielding paunch. The figure went down without a cry, doubled in a knot.
For a moment Cardigan stood above his antagonist, waiting for him to rise; then, believing him rendered breathless by the blow, he bent over to ascertain the identity. He had no sooner abandoned his guard than he regretted it, for the knotted form straightened out and sprang at him—but not too swiftly for him to see the swarthy face of ’Poleon Moncrief.
“So you’re the traitor aboard!” bellowed Cardigan. “You killed—”
Once more they came together. This time they clinched; went to the slanting deck, rolling over and over until they struck the rail, where the force of the impact, separated them.
Leaping to his feet, Cardigan stood ready, and when the boatswain rose a well-aimed blow between the eyes sent him reeling against the gunwale. He crumpled up. The first mate bent swiftly and gripped him about the waist; lifted him and hurled him, clawing and kicking, overboard.
As the body of Moncrief was swallowed by the fog Cardigan staggered back against the wheel. His heel encountered an object, and looking down he saw the Polynesian, Wajo, stretched out beside the wheel grating.
He dropped on his knees to examine the body, and at this juncture someone scrambled over the break of the poop, looming tall and sinister in the mist.
“Mr. Cardigan?” The voice belonged to Stearns. “The whole bow’s smashed—clear to the main hatch! Who in the name of—” He stopped as a roll of the vessel sent him sliding across the wet deck.
“Grip yourself, man!” cried Cardigan, rising and moving to his side. “Remember, you’re midshipman on this brig!... Let’s make for the longboat...”
The mate led the way from the poop to the long-boat, where a group of men, smears of dark animation in the fog, were struggling at the davits. English Charlie’s voice rose above the clamor as he sang out orders.
“Did you find the cabin-boy, Charlie?” asked Cardigan, reaching the cockney, who stood with a dripping tarpaulin thrown over his shoulders.
“No, sir—an’ Hi looked from bow to stern!”
Poor beggar, thought Cardigan. His fears were confirmed. The two figures Stearns had seen in the mist loomed as sinister elements in the fate of the cabin-boy; the cry seemed conclusive evidence that evil had befallen him.
He gripped himself and ordered: “Charlie, send two men below to fetch provisions and blankets—and have them step lively!”
As two of the crew disappeared in the fog, headed for the companion, English Charlie drew himself into the life-boat.
“Everything in shape?” queried Cardigan.
“Aye, aye, sir! Oars, mast, canvas and water!”
“Is the rudder shipped properly?... Here come the provisions. In with them, men... Get the lines clear and the boat ready to swing! One of you tail on the falls!... Lower slowly—slowly or you’ll swamp her! Stand by, lads! Now, ease off — ease off!”
Leaning over the slanting rail Cardigan saw the dark shape of the boat plunge downward, saw it strike the sea and ride free of the hull, borne on a white surge. How small, how helpless it looked, down there in the mist, thought Cardigan.
“Are all hands there?” he called, as the last man shot down the line.
“All but the men for’ard, sir,” answered a voice from the misty smudge below. “They didn’t have a chance when she struck...”
Cardigan, preparing to swing down the line, felt a peculiar reluctance to abandon the brig. Suppose, after all, the cabin-boy was somewhere—
A thought sped like steel through his brain. The Malay knife. He was leaving that behind. Queer that one should suddenly remember a fragment of sentiment amid such chaos—
“Lay her nose close in, lads!” he ordered over the rail. “I’m going to have a look below. If I’m not back in four minutes don’t wait...”
He made his way to the companion, climbing down the almost inverted stairs into the main cabin, where the water reached his waist.
Trusting more to his sense of direction than his outstretched hands, he groped his way aft, beneath the decks, to the paint-locker. In the misty ghost-light that spilled through the nearly demolished deck above he found the nail-riven iron door and drew back the bolt.
With a shriek of hinges it swung out — spitting a large object in the waist-deep flood. Cardigan swore aloud as he perceived it to be a human body; bent over; lifted it; cursed again.