Neville sneered. “If you’d ever been in certain parts of New York City, you wouldn’t say that, Morgan.”
“You might be right,” Frank said with a shrug. “All I’m saying is that you look at things different than folks who grew up out West do. We’re used to relying on ourselves. And if you’re going to Alaska to hunt for gold, that’d be a good thing for you to learn, too, amigo.”
That seemed to mollify Neville a little. He said, “I suppose you’re right. I didn’t mean any offense, Morgan.” He changed the subject by asking, “How pretty are those girls you’re taking to the Klondike?”
The other would-be prospectors crowded around to hear Frank’s answer.
“They’re nice-looking young ladies,” he said. “And they’re ladies, don’t forget that. They’re all engaged to be married.”
“To men they’ve never met,” Peter Conway pointed out. “It might as well be us.”
“But it’s not. Like I told you, Pete, they’re spoken for, and that’s the way it is.”
One of the other men suggested in a plaintive voice, “Maybe they wouldn’t mind dancin’ with us, or just talkin’ to us a little?”
“I can ask them,” Frank said. “But it’s up to them.”
Or more likely, it was up to Fiona, he thought. She was in charge of this expedition. He would go along with whatever she said and enforce her wishes…within reason, of course.
He polished off the stew and had a cup of coffee with the cheechakos as well. Then he told them good night and started back toward the door that led belowdecks.
He went around one of the low, square structures that housed a hatch opening into the cargo hold. As he strode past the corner of it, he suddenly heard the scuff of shoe leather on the deck behind him. Instinct made him pivot sharply toward the sound, but whoever was behind him struck with deadly swiftness. Something hard crashed against Frank’s head with stunning impact. The blow drove him to his knees.
He struggled to get up, but his attacker grabbed him from behind, looping an arm around his neck and tightening it like an iron bar. Frank’s breath was cut off. His head was already spinning from the hard clout on his skull, and now a red haze began to settle over his vision, brought on by the lack of air. He realized that he was about to pass out.
And as the man behind him began to rush him toward the rail, Frank knew that if he lost consciousness now, he was dead. His attacker intended to shove him over the rail into the icy waters of the Pacific.
Chapter 10
Frank managed to thrust a booted foot behind him, between the legs of the man who had hold of him. Their ankles tangled up, and with a startled curse, the man tripped and fell forward, taking Frank with him. They crashed to the deck about five feet short of the railing.
Frank still couldn’t see or think very straight, but again his instincts served him well. He lashed out with a foot. The kick connected with his assailant and drove the man away from him. Frank got his hands on the deck and pushed himself up.
This area of the ship was fairly dark. A light burned on the bridge, but the glow from it barely reached this far. Frank’s attacker was only a shadowy shape as he got to his feet and rushed again. Frank recognized that move, though. Brewster had tried it on him the day before. Frank knew it was a feint.
He went the other way, the way he knew Brewster was going to dodge at the last second, and threw a punch. Brewster ran right into Frank’s fist. The blow knocked him back, but Brewster managed to stay on his feet. He bore in, swinging wild punches. Frank was able to block most of them, but a few thudded against his body. Brewster forced him back a step, then another and another, until Frank reached the railing. He felt it pressing into his back.
Brewster suddenly changed tactics. His hands shot out and locked around Frank’s throat. With a grunt of effort, he heaved up, and Frank felt his feet come off the deck. In another second, Brewster was going to force him over the railing.
In desperation, Frank lifted his knee into the officer’s groin. Brewster groaned in pain but didn’t loosen his grip. That made him hesitate, though, and in that moment, someone else loomed up out of the shadows and yelled, “Hey! Let him go!”
Frank recognized Pete Conway’s voice. The brawny young cheechako grabbed Brewster’s shoulder and jerked him away from Frank, turning him so that he could drive a fist into Brewster’s face. The terrific blow sent Brewster spinning away across the deck.
Frank slumped as Brewster let go of him. He caught hold of the railing and pushed himself upward. Brewster recovered and charged at Conway, slugging ferociously. The young cheechako was big and strong, but he wasn’t an experienced brawler the way Brewster was. Brewster landed several punches that drove Conway to the deck, half stunned. Then Brewster lifted a brutal kick into Conway’s belly that sent the young man rolling.
Someone must have seen the struggle and reported it, because Frank heard running footsteps coming closer, and then Captain Hoffman shouted, “Brewster! Belay that! Stop it, you damned fool!”
Brewster ignored the command. He charged Frank again, and even in the dim light, Frank could see how contorted with hate the officer’s face was. He wasn’t going to stop. He was trying to barrel into Frank, drive him back against the railing, and either snap his spine or force him overboard.
Frank dived to the deck, going low into Brewster’s legs. Brewster let out a startled yell as his momentum carried him on and he pitched forward. Frank rolled and came up on hands and knees, looking around for his opponent.
The man was nowhere to be seen.
A shock went through Frank as he realized what had happened. Brewster had fallen forward, out of control, and went right over the railing. Frank hadn’t heard the splash, but he knew that Brewster must have gone into the water.
Captain Hoffman confirmed that by bellowing, “Man overboard! Man overboard!” as he rushed to the rail. He turned toward the bridge, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “All engines stop! All stop!”
The Montclair slowed as whoever was on duty on the bridge relayed the command to the engine room, but the ship didn’t come to a stop. The sails were still raised and full of air.
“Strike the sails! Strike the sails!” Hoffman leaned over the rail and searched the black water. “Brewster! Can you hear me? Brewster!”
Frank and Conway climbed to their feet and stumbled over to join the captain. Frank peered over the railing, but couldn’t see anything out there except darkness. He listened, but heard nothing except the slapping of the waves.
Sailors came running with life preservers tied to thick ropes. They threw them out into the area in which Brewster had disappeared. The ship finally shuddered to a dead stop in the water as the sails were lowered. With the engines stopped, there was an eerie quiet on board, broken by the shouts of the crew as they called out to Brewster.
No response came back from the sea.
Some of the officers brought bull’s-eye lanterns to the rail and swept the beams from them over the waves. The searching and shouting went on for a good half hour before Captain Hoffman sighed and turned away from the rail, wearily shaking his head. He motioned for the other men to step back as well.
“It’s been too long,” he said. “Brewster was a good swimmer, but no man could stay afloat for this long in water that cold. He might have been knocked out when he struck the surface. He must have gone down quickly.”
Frank said, “I didn’t mean for him to go overboard.”
Hoffman shook his head again. “I know that. He wouldn’t have if he had obeyed my order and stopped fighting. His stubborn pride just wouldn’t allow him to admit defeat, either this time or the time he clashed with you before, Morgan.” Hoffman looked at Frank and added, “You may not believe this, but that quality was one of the things that made him an exceptional sailor. He never quit.”