Futility, Or the Wreck of the Titan — 16- Chapter Sixteen

CHAPTER XVI

On the morning of the next day, a one-armed dock lounger found an old fish-hook and some pieces of string which he knotted together; then he dug some bait and caught a fish.

Being hungry and without fire, he traded with a coaster's cook for a meal, and before night caught two more, one of which he traded, the other, sold.

He slept under the docks--paying no rent--fished, traded, and sold for a month, then paid for a second-hand suit of clothes and the services of a barber.

His changed appearance induced a boss stevedore to hire him tallying cargo, which was more lucrative than fishing, and furnished, in time, a hat, pair of shoes, and an overcoat.

He then rented a room and slept in a bed.

Before long he found employment addressing envelopes for a mailing firm, at which his fine and rapid penmanship secured him steady work;

and in a few months he asked his employers to indorse his application for a Civil Service examination.

The favor was granted, the examination easily passed, and he addressed envelopes while he waited.

Meanwhile he bought new and better clothing and seemed to have no difficulty in impressing those whom he met with the fact that he was a gentleman.

Two years from the time of his examination he was appointed to a lucrative position under the Government, and as he seated himself at the desk in his office, could have been heard to remark: "Now John Rowland, your future is your own.

You have merely suffered in the past from a mistaken estimate of the importance of women and whisky."

But he was wrong, for in six months he received a letter which, in part, read as follows: "Do not think me indifferent or ungrateful.

I have watched from a distance while you made your wonderful fight for your old standards.

You have won, and I am glad and I congratulate you.

But Myra will not let me rest.

She asks for you continually and cries at times.

I

can bear it no longer.

Will you not come and see Myra?"

And the man went to see--Myra.

THE PIRATES

PROLOGUE

Two young men met in front of the post-office of a small country town.

They were of about the same age--eighteen--each was well dressed, comely, and apparently of good family; and each had an expression of face that would commend him to strangers, save that one of them, the larger of the two, had what is called a "bad eye"--that is, an eye showing just a little too much white above the iris.

In the other's eye white predominated below the iris.

The former is usually the index of violent though restrained temper; the latter of an intuitive, psychic disposition, with very little self-control.

The difference in character so indicated may lead one person to the Presidency, another to the gallows.

And--though no such results are promised--with similar divergence of path, of pain and pleasure, of punishment and reward, is this story concerned.

The two boys were schoolmates and friends, with never a quarrel since they had known each other; they had graduated together from the high school, but neither had been valedictorian.

They later had sought the competitive examination given by the congressman of the district for an appointment to the Naval Academy, and had won out over all, but so close together that the congressman had decreed another test.

They had taken it, and since then had waited for the letter that named the winner; hence the daily visits to the post-office, ending in this one, when the larger boy, about to go up the steps, met the smaller coming down with an opened letter, and smiling.

"I've got it, Jack," said the smaller boy, joyously.

"Here it is.

I win, but, of course, you're the alternate.

Read it."

He handed the letter to Jack, but it was declined.

"What's the use?"

was the somewhat sulky response.

"I've lost, sure enough.

All I've got to do is to forget it."

"Then let me read it to you," said the winner, eagerly.

"I want you to feel glad about it--same as I would if you had passed first.

Listen: "'MR. WILLIAM DENMAN.

"'DEAR SIR: I am glad to inform you that you have successfully passed the second examination for an appointment to the Naval Academy, winning by three points in history over the other contestant, Mr. John Forsythe, who, of course, is the alternate in case you do not pass the entrance examination at Annapolis.

"'Be ready at any time for instructions from the Secretary of the Navy to report at Annapolis.

Sincerely yours, JACOB BLAND.'

" "What do I care for that?"

said Forsythe.

"I suppose I've got a letter in there, too.

Let's see."

While Denman waited, Forsythe entered the post-office, and soon emerged, reading a letter.

"Same thing," he said.

"I failed by three points in my special study.

How is it, Bill?"

he demanded, fiercely, as his disappointment grew upon him.

"I've beaten not only you, but the whole class from the primary up, in history, ancient, modern, and local, until now.

There's something crooked here."

His voice sank to a mutter.

"Crooked, Jack!

What are you talking about?"

replied Denman, hotly.

"Oh, I don't know, Bill.

Never mind.

Come on, if you're going home."

They walked side by side in the direction of their homes--near together and on the outskirts of the town--each busy with his thoughts.

Denman, though proud and joyous over the prize he had won, was yet hurt by the speech and manner of Forsythe, and hurt still further by the darkening cloud on his face as they walked on.

Forsythe's thoughts were best indicated by his suddenly turning toward Denman and blurting out: "Yes, I say; there's something crooked in this.

I can beat you in history any day in the week, but your dad and old Bland are close friends.

I see it now."

Denman turned white as he answered: "Do you want me to report your opinion to my father and Mr. Bland?"

"Oh, you would, would you?

And take from me the alternate, too!

Well, you're a cur, Bill Denman.

Go ahead and report."

They were now on a block bounded by vacant lots, and no one was within sight.

Denman stopped, threw off his coat, and said: "No, I'll not report your opinion, but--you square yourself, Jack Forsythe, and I'll show you the kind of cur I am."

Forsythe turned, saw the anger in Denman's eyes, and promptly shed his coat.

It was a short fight, of one round only.

Each fought courageously, and with such fistic skill as schoolboys acquire, and each was equal to the other in strength; but one possessed about an inch longer reach than the other, which decided the battle.

Denman, with nose bleeding and both eyes closing, went down at last, and could not arise, nor even see the necessity of rising.

But soon his brain cleared, and he staggered to his feet, his head throbbing viciously and his face and clothing smeared with blood from his nose, to see between puffed eyelids the erect figure of Forsythe swaggering around a distant corner.

He stanched the blood with his handkerchief, but as there was not a brook, a ditch, or a puddle in the neighborhood, he could only go home as he was, trusting that he would meet no one.

"Licked!"

he muttered.

"For the first time in my life, too!

What'll the old gentleman and mother say?"

What the father and mother might say, or what they did say, has no part in this story; but what another person said may have a place and value, and will be given here.

This person was the only one he met before reaching home--a very small person, about thirteen years old, with big gray eyes and long dark ringlets, who ran across the street to look at him.

"Why, Billie Denman!"

she cried, shocked and anxious.

"What has happened to you?

Run over?"

"No, Florrie," he answered, painfully.

"I've been licked.

I had a fight."

"But don't you know it's wrong to fight, Billie?"

"Maybe," answered Denman, trying to get more blood from his face to the already saturated handkerchief.

"But we all do wrong--sometimes."

The child planted herself directly before him, and looked chidingly into his discolored and disfigured face.

"Billie Denman," she said, shaking a small finger at him, "of course I'm sorry, but, if you have been fighting when you know it is wrong, why--why, it served you right."

Had he not been aching in every joint, his nose, his lips, and his eyes, this unjust speech might have amused him.

As it was he answered testily: "Florence Fleming, you're only a kid yet, though the best one I know;

and if I should tell you the name I was called and which brought on the fight, you would not understand.

But you'll grow up some day, and then you will understand.

Now, remember this fight, and when some woman, or possibly some man, calls you a--a cat, you'll feel like fighting, too."

"But I wouldn't mind," she answered, firm in her position.

"Papa called me a kitten to-day, and I didn't get mad."

"Well, Florrie," he said, wearily, "I won't try to explain.

I'm going away before long, and perhaps I won't come back again.

But if I do, there'll be another fight."

"Going away, Billie!"

she cried in alarm.

"Where to?"

"To Annapolis.

I may stay, or I may come back.

I don't know."

"And you are going away, and you don't know that you'll come back!

Oh, Billie, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry you got licked, too.

Who did it?

I hate him.

Who licked you, Billie?"

"Never mind, Florrie.

He'll tell the news, and you'll soon know who he is."

He walked on, but the child headed him and faced him.

There were tears in the gray eyes.

"And you're going away, Billie!"

she exclaimed again.

"When are you going?"

"I don't know," he answered.

"Whenever I am sent for.

If I don't see you again, good-by, Florrie girl."

He stooped to kiss her, but straightened up, remembering the condition of his face.

"But I will see you again," she declared.

"I will, I will.

I'll come to your house.

And, Billie--I'm sorry I scolded you, really I am."

He smiled ruefully.

"Never mind that, Florrie; you always scolded me, you know, and I'm used to it."

"But only when you did wrong, Billie," she answered, gravely, "and somehow I feel that this time you have not done wrong.

But I won't scold the next time you _really_ do wrong.

I promise."

"Oh, yes, you will, little girl.

It's the privilege and prerogative of your sex."

He patted her on the head and went on, leaving her staring, open-eyed and tearful.

She was the child of a neighbor; he had mended her dolls, soothed her griefs, and protected her since infancy, but she was only as a small sister to him.

While waiting for orders to Annapolis, he saw her many times, but she did not change to him.

She changed, however; she had learned the name of his assailant, and through her expressed hatred for him, and through her sympathy for Billie as the disfigurements left his face, she passed the border between childhood and womanhood.

When orders came, he stopped at her home, kissed her good-by, and went to Annapolis, leaving her sad-eyed and with quivering lips.

And he did not come back.

CHAPTER I

She was the largest, fastest, and latest thing in seagoing destroyers, and though the specifications called for but thirty-six knots' speed, she had made thirty-eight on her trial trip, and later, under careful nursing by her engineers, she had increased this to forty knots an hour--five knots faster than any craft afloat--and, with a clean bottom, this speed could be depended upon at any time it was needed.

She derived this speed from six water-tube boilers, feeding at a pressure of three hundred pounds live steam to five turbine engines working three screws, one high-pressure turbine on the center shaft, and four low-pressure on the wing shafts.

Besides these she possessed two "astern" turbines and two cruising turbines--all four on the wing shafts.

She made steam with oil fuel, there being no coal on board except for heating and cooking, and could carry a hundred and thirty tons of it, which gave her a cruising radius of about two thousand miles; also, with "peace tanks" filled, she could steam three thousand miles without replenishing.

This would carry her across the Atlantic at thirteen knots' speed, but if she was in a hurry, using all turbines, she would exhaust her oil in two days.

When in a hurry, she was a spectacle to remember.

Built on conventional lines, she showed at a mile's distance nothing but a high bow and four short funnels over a mighty bow wave that hid the rest of her long, dark-hued hull, and a black, horizontal cloud of smoke that stretched astern half a mile before the wind could catch and rend it.

She carried four twenty-one-inch torpedo tubes and a battery of six twelve-pounder, rapid-fire guns; also, she carried two large searchlights and a wireless equipment of seventy miles reach, the aërials of which stretched from the truck of her short signal mast aft to a short pole at the taffrail.

Packed with machinery, she was a "hot box," even when at rest, and when in action a veritable bake oven.

She had hygienic air space below decks for about a dozen men, and this number could handle her; but she carried berths and accommodations for sixty.

Her crew was not on board, however.

Newly scraped and painted in the dry dock, she had been hauled out, stored, and fueled by a navy-yard gang, and now lay at the dock, ready for sea--ready for her draft of men in the morning, and with no one on board for the night but the executive officer, who, with something on his mind, had elected to remain, while the captain and other commissioned officers went ashore for the night.

Four years at the Naval Academy, a two years' sea cruise, and a year of actual service had made many changes in Denman.

He was now twenty-five, an ensign, but, because of his position as executive, bearing the complimentary title of lieutenant.

He was a little taller and much straighter and squarer of shoulder than when he had gone to the academy.

He had grown a trim mustache, and the sun and winds of many seas had tanned his face to the color of his eyes;

which were of a clear brown, and only in repose did they now show the old-time preponderance of white beneath the brown.

In action these eyes looked out through two slits formed by nearly parallel eyelids, and with the tightly closed lips and high arching eyebrows--sure sign of the highest and best form of physical and moral courage--they gave his face a sort of "take care" look, which most men heeded.

Some women would have thought him handsome, some would not; it all depended upon the impression they made on him, and the consequent look in his eyes.

At Annapolis he had done well; he was the most popular man of his class, had won honors from his studies and fist fights from his fellows, while at sea he had shown a reckless disregard for his life, in such matters as bursting flues, men overboard, and other casualties of seafaring, that brought him many type-written letters from Washington, a few numbers of advancement, and the respect and admiration of all that knew or had heard of him.

His courage, like Mrs. Cæsar's morals, was above suspicion.

Yet there was one man in the world who was firmly convinced that Lieutenant Denman had a yellow streak in him, and that man was Denman himself.

He had never been home since his departure for Annapolis.

He had promised a small girl that if he came back there would be another fight, in which, as he mentally vowed, he would redeem himself.

In this he had been sincere, but as the months at the academy went on, with the unsettled fight still in the future, his keen resentment died away, leaving in its place a sense of humiliation and chagrin.

He still meant to go back, however, and would have done so when vacation came; but a classmate invited him to his home, and there he went, glad of the reprieve from an embarrassing, and, as it seemed to him now, an undignified conflict with a civilian.

But the surrender brought its sting, and his self-respect lessened.

At the next vacation he surrendered again, and the sting began eating into his soul.

He thought of the overdue redemption he had promised himself at all times and upon all occasions, but oftenest just before going to sleep, when the mental picture of Jack Forsythe swaggering around the corner, while _he_ lay conquered and helpless on the ground, would accompany him through his dreams, and be with him when he wakened in the morning.

It became an obsession, and very soon the sudden thought of his coming fight with Forsythe brought the uplift of the heart and the slight choking sensation that betokened nothing but fear.

He would not admit it at first, but finally was compelled to.

Honest with himself as he was with others, he finally yielded in the mental struggle, and accepted the dictum of his mind.

He was afraid to fight Jack Forsythe, with no reference to, or regard for, his standing as an officer and a gentleman.

But now, it seemed, all this was to leave him.

A month before, he had thought strongly of his child friend Florrie, and, with nothing to do one afternoon, he had written her a letter--a jolly, rollicking letter, filled with masculine colloquialisms and friendly endearments, such as he had bestowed upon her at home; and it was the dignity of her reply--received that day--with the contents of the letter, which was the "something on his mind" that kept him aboard.

His cheeks burned as he realized that she was now about twenty years old, a young lady, and that his letter to her had been sadly conceived and much out of place.

But the news in the letter, which began with "Dear Sir," and ended with "Sincerely yours," affected him most.

It read: "I presume you know that your enemy, Jack Forsythe, took his disappointment so keenly that he never amounted to much at home, and about two years ago enlisted in the navy.

This relieves you, as father tells me, from the necessity of thrashing him--as you declared you would.

Officers and enlisted men cannot fight, he said, as the officer has the advantage, and can always order the man to jail.

I thank you very much for remembering me after all these years--in fact, I shall never forget your kindness."

His cheeks and ears had burned all day, and when his fellow officers had gone, and he was alone, he reread the letter.

"Sarcasm and contempt between every line," he muttered.

"She expected me--the whole town expected me--to come back and lick that fellow.

Well"--his eyelids became rigidly parallel--"I'll do it.

When I find him, I'll get shore leave for both of us, take him home, and square the account."

This resolution did him good; the heat left his cheek, and the sudden jump of the heart did not come with the occasional thought of the task.

Gradually the project took form; he would learn what ship Forsythe was in, get transferred to her, and when in port arrange the shore leave.

He could not fight him in the navy, but as man to man, in civilian's clothing in the town park, he would fight him and thrash him before the populace.

It was late when he had finished the planning.

He lighted a last cigar, and sauntered around the deck until the cigar was consumed.

Then he went to his room and turned in, thinking of the caustic words of Miss Florrie, forgiving her the while, and wondering how she looked--grown up.

They were pleasant thoughts to go to sleep on, but sleep did not come.

It was an intensely hot, muggy night, and the mosquitoes were thick.

He tried another room, then another, and at last, driven out of the wardroom by the pests, he took refuge in the steward's pantry, and spreading his blanket on the floor, went to sleep on it.

CHAPTER II

He slept soundly, and as he slept the wind blew up from the east, driving the mosquitoes to cover and bringing with it a damp, impenetrable fog that sank down over the navy yard and hid sentry from sentry, compelling them to count their steps as they paced.

They were scattered through the yard, at various important points, one at the gangway of each ship at the docks, others at corners and entrances to the different walks that traversed the green lawn, and others under the walls of the huge naval prison.

One of these, whose walk extended from corner to corner, heard something, and paused often to listen intently, his eyes peering around into the fog.

But the sound was not repeated while he listened--only as his footfalls sounded soggily on the damp path were they punctuated by this still, small sound, that he could not localize or remember.

If asked, he might have likened it to the rustling of paper, or the sound of a cat's claws digging into a carpet.

But at last it ceased, and he went back and forth many times without hearing it; then, when about half-way from corner to corner, a heavy body came down from above, landing on his head and shoulders and bearing him to earth, while his rifle was knocked from his hand and big fingers clutched his throat.

He struggled and endeavored to call out.

But the grip on his throat was too strong, and finally he quieted, his last flicker of consciousness cognizing other dropping bodies and the muttered and whispered words of men.

So much for this sentry.

"I know the way," whispered the garroter, and a few gathered around him.

"We'll make a bee line for the dock and avoid 'em.

Then, if we can't find a boat, we'll swim for it.

It's the only way."

"Right," whispered another; "fall in here, behind Jenkins--all of you."

The whispered word was passed along, and in single file the dark-brown bodies, each marked on knee and elbow with a white number, followed the leader, Jenkins.

He led them across the green, around corners where sentries were not, and down to the dock where lay the destroyer.

Here was a sentry, pacing up and down; but so still was their approach that he did not see them until they were right upon him.

"Who goes--" he started, but the challenge was caught in his throat.

He, too, was choked until consciousness almost left him; then the stricture was relaxed while they questioned him.

"Got a boat around here?"

hissed Jenkins in his ear.

"Whisper--don't speak."

"No," gasped the sentry, unable to speak louder had he dared.

"How many men are aboard the destroyer?"

was asked.

"None now.

Crew joins in the morning."

"Nobody on board, you say?

Lie quiet.

If you raise a row, I'll drop you overboard.

Come here, you fellows."

They closed about him, thirteen in all, and listened to his project.

He was a pilot of the bay.

How many machinists were there in the party?

Four claimed the rating.

"Right enough," said Jenkins.

"We'll run her out.

She's oil fuel, as I understand.

You can fire up in ten minutes, can't you?

Good.

Come on.

Wait, though."

Jenkins, with his grip of steel, was equal to the task of tearing a strip from his brown prison jacket, and with this he securely gagged the poor sentry.

Another strip from another jacket bound his hands behind him, and still another secured him to a mooring cleat, face upward.

This done, they silently filed aboard, and spread about through the interior.

The sentry had spoken truly, they agreed, when they mustered together.

There was no one on board, and the machinists reported plenty of oil fuel.

Soon the fires were lighted, and the indicator began to move, as the boilers made steam.

They did not wait for full pressure.

Jenkins had spread out a chart in the pilot-house, and when the engines could turn over he gave the word.

Lines were taken in except a spring to back on;

then this was cast off, and the long, slim hull moved almost silently away from the dock.

Jenkins steered by the light of a match held over the compass until there was steam enough to turn the dynamos, then the electrics were turned on in the pilot-house, engine room, and side-light boxes--by which time the dock was out of sight in the fog, and they dared speak in articulate words.

Their language was profane but joyous, and their congratulations hearty and sincere.

A table knife is an innocent and innocuous weapon, but two table knives are not, for one can be used against the other so skillfully as to form a fairly good hack saw, with which prison bars may be sawed.

The sawing of steel bars was the sound that the sentry had heard mingling with his footfalls.

Jenkins, at the wheel, called to the crowd.

"Take the wheel, one of you," he ordered.

"I've just rounded the corner.

Keep her sou'east, half south for a mile.

I'll be here, then.

I want to rig the log over the stern."

The man answered, and Jenkins departed with the boat's patent log.

Down in the engine and boiler rooms were the four machinists--engineers, they would be called in merchant steamers--and under their efforts the engines turned faster, while a growing bow wave spread from each side of the sharp stem.

The fog was still thick, so thick that the fan-shaped beams from the side lights could not pierce it as far as the bow, and the forward funnel was barely visible--a magnified black stump.

Jenkins was back among them soon, remarking that she was making twenty knots already.

Then he slowed down, ordered the lead hove, each side, and ringing full speed, quietly took the wheel, changing the course again to east, quarter north, and ordering a man aloft to keep a lookout in the thinner fog for lights ahead.

In a few minutes the man reported--a fixed white light four points off the starboard bow, and a little later a fixed white-and-red flashlight two points off the port bow.

"Good," grunted Jenkins.

"I know just where I am.

Come down from aloft," he called, "and watch out for buoys.

I'm going out the South and Hypocrite Channels."

Then a dull boom rang out from astern, followed by another and another, and Jenkins laughed.

"They've found that sentry," he said, "and have telephoned Fort Independence; but it's no good.

They've only got salute guns.

We passed that fort twenty minutes ago."

"Any others?"

they asked.

"Fort Warren, down on the Narrows.

That's why I'm going out through the Hypocrite.

Keep your eyes peeled for buoys, you ginks, and keep those leads going."

Calm and imperturbable, a huge, square-faced giant of a man, Jenkins naturally assumed the leadership of this band of jail-breakers.

The light from the binnacle illuminated a countenance of rugged yet symmetrical features, stamped with prison pallor, but also stamped with a stronger imprint of refinement.

A man palpably out of place, no doubt.

A square peg in a round hole; a man with every natural attribute of a master of men.

Some act of rage or passion, perhaps, some non-adjustment to an unjust environment, had sent him to the naval prison, to escape and become a pirate; for that was the legal status of all.

Soon the wind shifted and the fog cleared to seaward, but still held its impenetrable wall between them and the town.

Then they turned on both searchlights, and saw buoys ahead, to starboard and port.

Jenkins boasted a little.

"I've run these channels for years," he said, "and I know them as I know the old backyard at home.

Hello, what's up?"

A man had run to the pilot-house door in great excitement.