"But they're not all time-expired men, eh?"

"Not much. About a third of 'em are lunatics or prisoners under sentence, or bad hats generally."

"Been up to anything fresh then?" said Roden, blowing out a cloud.

"Nothing in particular; but they are always more or less unruly. The last people I want to see on board ship are a lot of soldiers, especially time-expired ones."

"How many of them are there, skipper? Couple of hundred, eh?"

"Less five. If that lunatic, who jumped overboard yesterday morning at bath parade, had gone down it would have made yet another less. We were delayed about twenty minutes or more, and when the boat came up with him the beggar tried all he knew to swim away from it. I was watching him through the gla.s.s, expecting every minute to see him risen by a shark, but no. If he'd been a sane man and a useful member of society, something of the kind would have happened; but being of no earthly good to himself or anybody else, it didn't."

"Quite so. Two hundred, less five, I think you said. Crowded up too, fore and aft, with pa.s.sengers. What would happen if we came to sudden and unexpected smash? In the matter of the boats I mean."

"What sort of croaking vein are you in, Musgrave? Well, in such a case it would be a mortal tight fit, I don't mind telling _you_. We fulfil all the requirements of the Board of Trade in the matter of boat carrying, but if we have a couple of hundred d.a.m.ned soldiers crammed on board at the last moment, what are we to do? Why, just drive ahead and trust to luck; and that's what brings us through far oftener than you landsmen ever dream."

The talk veered round to other topics, and presently one of the quartermasters came in to report that the weather was thickening into a regular fogbank.

"I'll go up on the bridge a bit, Musgrave," said the captain. "It isn't often we get fogs so near the Line. But the weather has been beastly this voyage, as hot and steamy as I've ever known it; and there are a lot of waterspouts about too."

They bade each other good-night, and already as Roden left the cabin, the more measured throb of the propeller told that the vessel had slowed down to half-speed. Then the hoa.r.s.e, rasping screech of the foghorn rent the night as the ship drove slowly through the smother, whose steamy folds blotted out the stars. Again and again the voice of the foghorn was lifted, uttering its hideous, vibrating whoop--causing the sleeping pa.s.sengers below to start up wide awake in confused doubt as to whether the end of the world had come, and a hazy uncertainty as to whether they themselves were just arriving at Waterloo station or at the Judgment Seat. There was one, however, whom the unendurably distracting sound did not awaken; who slept on--heavily, tranquilly, dreamlessly.

Roden, though intending to go below, still remained on deck, held by a kind of fascination, as the ship glided slowly through the silent fleecy smother. Then again the jarring blast of the foghorn rolled out, and-- on Heaven! Was it an echo--louder, more appalling than the sound itself? For, as he gazed, there leaped forth something out of the mist.

In that rapidly flashing moment of time was photographed upon his brain a ma.s.sive hull, the loom of a huge funnel, a towering cut-water--a human figure, wild with horror, upon the extremity of the latter. Then came a shock which flung him, bruised, partly stunned, to the deck.

Keeping his presence of mind amid the awful and appalling crash, he managed to save his head from injury; then, before he could rise, came another shock more jarring, more shivering than the first, and with it the blasting screech of escaping steam. He saw a heavy body, flung from the bridge, fall head downwards. He heard the grinding, crunching sound of that cut-water shearing through strong iron plates; the frantic shrieks and yells now arising beneath, which even the deafening demoniacal blast from the steampipe could not drown. Then, his confused senses whirling round, he saw the great hull--the towering cut-water which had crashed into them right amidships, recede and vanish into the mist. The _Scythian_ floated once more alone upon the fog-enshrouded waters, and it needed no abnormal instinct of prescience to tell that very soon she would float no longer.

And now there followed the most indescribable scene of terror and confusion ever witnessed in the annals of ocean tragedy. The saloon pa.s.sengers, already alarmed and uneasy by the repeated blasts of the foghorn, came pouring up the companion; crowding, crushing past each other in their furious panic. The second-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers, too, from the tore part of the ship, tore aft, crying that the water was already flooding their cabins. Each fed the other's fears; till the decks were alive with what seemed nothing less than a surging crowd of shrieking, fighting maniacs. And then, to complete the chaotic unwieldy horror of the situation, the time-expired men made a rush for the boats, and casting two of them loose before they could be prevented, poured over the side into them with the result of capsizing both.

Not all behaved thus. There were several cool heads among them, but in such a minority as to be utterly powerless to sway that screeching, frantic mob. And when it was discovered that the captain was lying atone dead, having been hurled to the deck by the shock when about to descend from the bridge, and the chief officer so injured as to be unconscious and beyond recovery, why then, all hope of quelling the panic was over. In vain the remaining ship's officers strove to guard the boats with revolvers. The weapons were knocked from their grasp, and themselves trampled under foot or hustled overboard. The stalwart quartermasters were dragged from their footing and the seamen so separated among the dense, impenetrable crowd, that cohesion was impossible; under such circ.u.mstances, even to some of the ship's company a little of the demoralisation communicated itself. In like manner the two officers in charge of the troops were helpless, and the efforts of all were further impeded by the ma.s.ses of screaming, praying, fainting women, dashing themselves about the decks in the frenzy of their panic.

Not many minutes had gone by since the first crash, not many minutes of this shocking scene, and already the beat of the propeller had ceased.

The great gasping hole which was letting out the ship's life was letting in her deadly enemy, the sea. The fires in the engine-room were already out. There was a horrible stillness now as of the fabric settling more and more beneath their feet.

Throughout the indescribable horror of this hideous panic Roden Musgrave kept his head. It was nothing to him that the whole of this shrieking, demoralised horde should perish, provided he could save one life. One life! but where was the owner of that life? Himself jammed against the bulwarks by the swaying frantic crowd, it required his utmost efforts to prevent the breath from being crushed out of him; but while thus occupied, never for a moment did he lose sight of the ruling idea. His eyes scanned the scared faces and wildly rushing forms, but that which he sought was not there. He heard the furious tumult of oaths and curses and beast-like yells, where men, brutalised in the face of death, yielding to the unbridled selfishness and cowardice of their real nature, fought wildly for the boats, trampling down and hurling aside women and children indiscriminately, and, in short, all weaker than themselves. The great crowded pa.s.senger ship had become a floating h.e.l.l of all the evil sides of human nature. All this and more did he hear; and still with a wild despair at his heart, he strained his eyes through the smother, now so thick that they could hardly see the width of the ship. But she for whom he sought was not there.

"Oh, Mr Musgrave, for Christ's sake get us a place in one of the boats!" gasped an imploring voice. He turned, and beheld a lady with whom he had been on fairly friendly terms. Her two little ones, pretty, engaging children, were clinging to her hands.

"Where is Miss Ridsdale?" he asked, stone deaf to her appeal. "Her cabin is next to yours."

"She's in yonder boat. I saw her lowered into it. Quick, quick! Take me there. She is there, I tell you."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite, quite. Oh, lose no time!" wringing her hands piteously.

"Come, then!"

With a deft rapidity that was marvellous under the circ.u.mstances, he forced a way through the swaying crowd, now very much thinned out. The boat she had pointed to was worked by some of the ship's company, who, cool-headed, had left the panic to take care of itself, and were devoting their efforts to rescuing such of the women and children as they could. The boat was lying by, already loaded down to the water's edge.

"Here's another pa.s.senger for you, Smithers," sang out Roden, recognising one of the quartermasters. "Now, Mrs Mainwaring, down you go! I'll hand down the little ones."

But she refused, until the children were first taken off. Then she followed.

"Is Miss Ridsdale there, Smithers?" he cried.

"Very sorry, sir, but we can't take you off. No more room for any males."

"I didn't ask you to take me off. Is Miss Ridsdale with you?" And just then, a rec.u.mbent figure in the after-part of the boat caught his eye in the misty gloom. Yes, that was Mona. He was satisfied.

"Stay, stay!" shrieked Mrs Mainwaring, the lady whom he had just rescued. "Take him with you, if you are men. There is room for one more. All the women are safe in the other boats--I saw them! We were nearly the last. Come, Mr Musgrave!"

The old quartermaster looked doubtful, then yielded.

"Jump, sir, jump! We haven't a moment to lose. That's it. Give way, my lads."

The heavily laden boat laboured ponderously from the side of the big ship. The sound of hoa.r.s.e shouting through the misty smother, the shrieks of hysterical women, the splash of the oars, the raucous, suffocating cry of a drowning wretch, sinking back exhausted here and there, made a weird and appalling situation, such as those now in it would remember their lives long--if their lives were spared them. And, settling down more and more, black, and hardly distinguishable in outline, lay the huge, helpless hull of what a few minutes back was a mighty steamship, and any moment might witness the final plunge.

Already most of the boats were out of sight of each other, almost out of hail, having made all the offing they could from the foundering ship.

But of the great steamer which had crashed into them there was visible no sign, no, nor even audible. Had she left them to perish, or had she herself foundered instantaneously? Surely this awful hubbub was audible for miles. Surely if she were above water, her people could not leave them thus to die. Still--of her no sign.

"Put back, Smithers," said Roden. "Miss Ridsdale is not in the boat."

A storm of murmurs arose.

"She is in some other boat, then. It's too late to put back."

"She is not. She's still on board the ship. Would you leave a woman to drown? Put back."

The storm of discontent redoubled. Here were many women and children.

If the boat got back, she would certainly be drawn down in the vortex of the sinking ship. It was better that one should perish than many.

Besides, how did anybody know that that one was still on board?

Well, one did know, but how he knew was another matter. For, as sure as though he had heard her voice crying to his ears, did Roden Musgrave then know that Mona was still on board the doomed hull, left to die alone.

"Very well. Do as you like!" he answered; "I am going back." And before any could prevent him, he had flung himself into the sea, and was striking out, with long, easy, vigorous strokes, for the ill-fated _Scythian_.

"We'll stand by for you," sang out old Smithers. "But be quick, sir."

Roden seized the rope-ladder by which the boat's load had been lowered, and soon regained the now silent and deserted deck. But, as he did so, a panic shout went up from those in the boat. The hull, now very low down in the water, was seen to lurch, and to heave. The cry went up that the ship was already sinking, and all hands, straining with a will at the oars, thought of nothing for the next few minutes but to poll as far as possible outside that dangerous and fatal vortex.

And, thus abandoned, Roden Musgrave stood upon the deck of the doomed ship--alone.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

ALONE ON A WIDE, WIDE SEA.

There was something inexpressibly weird and spectral in the aspect of the deserted saloon as Roden made his way through it. The few lamps left burning for night purposes flared in the gloom, the rolled-up carpeting, the round-backed table-chairs, the bottles and gla.s.ses in swinging racks, each had a ghastly and eloquent expression of its own, each seemed to show something of dumb protest against being left to its fate by man, whom it had served so faithfully, to sink down and rot among the far and slimy depths of the black night of waters. And upon the dead silence of the deserted ship came, ever and anon, rushings and gurgles, and ghostly cavernous boomings, as the water rose higher and higher within the doomed hull.