Part 21

Captain Mayo, his teeth set hard, his rigid face dripping with moisture, as he stood in the open window, stopped the engines of his giant charge and jingled for full speed astern in order to halt her. He had no desire to battle for possession of the channel with what he saw ahead.

At that moment Manager Fogg came into the pilothouse, disregarding the “No Admittance” sign by authority of his position. He lighted a cigar and displayed the contented air of a man who has fed fully.

“You have been making a pretty slow drag of it, haven't you, Captain Mayo? I've had time to eat dinner—and I'm quite a feeder at that! And we haven't made the Gate yet!”

“We couldn't do a stroke better and be safe,” said the captain over his shoulder, his eyes on the tow.

“What's the matter now?”

“A tug and three barges in the way.”

“Do you mean to say you're holding up a Vose liner with eight hundred passengers, waiting for a tugboat? Look here, Mayo, we've got to hustle folks to where they want to go, and get them there in time.”

“That tow is coming down with the current and has the right of way, sir. And there's no chance of passing, for she's sweeping the channel.”

“I don't believe there's any law that makes a passenger-boat hold up for scows,” grumbled Fogg. “If there is one, a good man knows how to get around it and keep up his schedule.” He paced the pilot-house at the extreme rear, puffing his cigar.

He grunted when Mayo gave the go-ahead bells and the throb of the engines began.

“Now ram her along, boy. People in these days don't want to waste time on the road. They're even speeding up the automobile hearses.”

Captain Mayo did not reply. He was grateful that the dangers of Hell Gate had been revealed. The mists hung in wisps against North Brother Island when he swung into the channel of the Gate, and he could see, far ahead, the shaft of the lighthouse. It was a stretch where close figuring was needed, and this freak of the mists had given him a fine chance. He jingled for full speed and took a peep to note the bearing of Sunken Meadow spindle.

“Nothe-east, five-eighths east!” he directed the quartermaster at the wheel.

The man repeated the command mechanically and brought her to her course for the Middle Ground passage.

After they had rounded North Brother, Whitestone Point tower was revealed. It really seemed as if the fog were clearing, and even in the channel between Execution Rocks and Sands Point his hopes were rising. But in the wider waters off Race Rock the Montana drove her black snout once more into the white pall, and her whistle began to bray again.

The young captain sighed. “East, a half nothe!”

“East, a half nothe, it is, sir!”

At least, he had conquered East River, the Gate, and the narrows beyond, and had many miles straight ahead to the whistler off Point Judith. He was resolved to be thankful for small favors.

He hoped that with the coming of the night and on account of the prevalence of the fog he would find that shipping of the ordinary sort had stopped moving. However, in a few minutes he heard telltale whistles ahead, and he signaled half speed. A lumbering old lighter with a yawing derrick passed close aboard. An auxiliary fisherman, his exhaust snapping like a machine-gun, and seeming to depend on that noise for warning, was overtaken.

“Can you leave that window for a minute, Captain Mayo?” asked the general manager.

The captain promptly joined Mr. Fogg at the rear of the spacious pilot-house.

“See here, Cap,” remonstrated his superior, “I came down through these waters on the Triton of the Union line the other day, and she made her time. What's the matter with us?”

“I'm obeying the law, sir. And there are new warnings just issued.” He pointed to the placard headed “Safety First” in big, red letters. “The word has been passed that the first captain who is caught with the goods will be made an example of.”

“Is that so?” commented Fogg, studying the end of his cigar. His tone was a bit peculiar. “But the Triton came along.”

“And she nigh rammed the Nequasset in the fog the last trip I made up the coast. It was simply touch and go, Mr. Fogg, and all her fault. We were following the rules to the letter.”

“And that's one way of spoiling the business of a steamboat line,” snapped Fogg. He added, to himself, “But it isn't my way!”

“I'm sorry, but I have been trained to believe that a record for safety is better than all records for speed, sir.”

“I let Jacobs go because he was old-fashioned, Mayo. This is the age of taking chances—taking chances and getting there! Business, politics, railroading, and steam-boating. The people expect it. The right folks do it.”

“You are general manager of this line, Mr. Fogg. Do you order me to make schedule time, no matter what conditions are?”

“You are the captain of this boat. I simply want you to deliver up-to-date goods. As to how you do it, that is not my business. I'm not a sea-captain, and I don't presume to advise as to details.”

Captain Mayo was young, He knew the 'longcoast game. He was ambitious. Opportunity had presented itself. He understood the unreasoning temper of those who sought dividends without bothering much about details. He knew how other passenger captains were making good with the powers who controlled transportation interests. He confessed to himself that he had envied the master of the rushing Triton who had swaggered past as if he owned the sea.

Till then Mayo had been the meek and apologetic passer-by along the ocean lane, expecting to be crowded to one side, dodging when the big fellow bawled for open road.

He remembered with what haste he always manouvered the old Nequasset out of the way of harm when he heard the lordly summons of the passenger liners. Was not that the general method of the freighter skippers? Why should he not expect them to get out of his way, now that he was one of the swaggerers of the sea? Let them do the worrying now, as he had done the worrying and dodging in the past! He stepped back to his window, those reflections whirling in his brain.

“This is no freighter,” he told himself. “Fogg is right. If I don't deliver the goods somebody else will be called on to do it, so what's the use? I'll play the game. Just remember—will you, Mayo—that you've got your heart's wish, and are captain of the Montana. If I lose this job on account of a placard with red letters, I'll kick myself on board a towboat, and stay there the rest of my life.”

He yanked a log-book from the rack and noted the steamer's average speed from the entries. He signaled to the engine-room through the speaking-tube.

“Give her two hundred a minute, chief!” he ordered.

And fifteen seconds later, her engines pulsing rhythmically, the big craft was splitting fog and water at express speed, howling for little fellows to get out from underfoot.

Down in the gleaming depths of her the orchestra was lilting a gay waltz, silver clattered over the white napery of the dining-room, men and women laughed and chattered and flirted; men wrote telegrams, making appointments for the morrow at early hours, and the wireless flashed them forth. They were sent with the certainty on the part of the senders that no man in these days waits for tide or fog. The frothing waters flashed past in the night outside, and they who ventured forth upon the dripping decks glanced at the fan of white spume spreading into the fog, and were glad to return to cozy chairs and the radiance of the saloon.

High up forward, in the pilot-house, were the eyes and the brains of this rushing monster. It was dark there except for the soft, yellow gleam of the binnacle lights. It was silent but for the low voice of a mate who announced his notations.

Occasionally the mates glanced at each other in the gloom when a steamer's whistle sounded ahead. This young captain seemed to be a chap who carried his nerve with him! They were used to the more cautious system of Captain Jacobs.

The master did not reduce speed. He leaned far out, his hand at his ear. The third time an unknown sounded her blast he took a quick glance at the compass.

“Two points shift—so she shows,” he said aloud. “We'll pass her all right.”

The change in the direction of the sound had assured him. A few minutes later the whistle voiced a location safely abeam. But the next whistle they heard sounded dead ahead, and increased in volume of sound only gradually. They were overtaking a vessel headed in the same direction.

Captain Mayo pulled the cord oftener and sounded more prolonged, more imperious hoots. He ordered no change in his course. He was headed for the Point Judith whistler, and did not propose to take chances on fumbling by any detours. The craft ahead at last seemed to recognize the voice of its master. The sound of the whistle showed that it had swung off the course.

The mate mumbled notations.

“All ears out!” ordered the captain. “We ought to make that whistler!” And in the next breath he said: “There she is!” He pointed a wet hand ahead and slightly to port. A queer, booming grunt came to them. “You're all right, old girl,” he declared. “Jacobs wasn't over-praising you.” He reached over the sill and patted the woodwork of his giant pet. He turned to the quartermaster. “East, five-eighths south,” was his direction.

“East, five-eighths south, sir!”

“What's the next we make, captain?” asked the general manager from the gloom at the rear of the pilot-house.

“Sow and Pigs Lightship, entrance of Vineyard Sound, sir.”

“Good work! I'm going to take a turn below. See you again! What can I tell any uneasy gentleman who is afraid he'll miss a business appointment in the morning?”

“Tell him we'll be on time to the dot,” declared the captain, quietly.

Mr. Fogg closed the pilot-house door behind himself and chuckled when he eased his way down the slippery ladder.

Mr. Fogg sauntered through the brilliantly lighted saloon, hands in his pockets, giving forth an impression of a man entirely at ease. Nobody appeared to recognize the new general manager of the Vose line, and he attracted no special attention. But if any one had been sufficiently interested in Mr. Fogg to note him closely it would have been observed that his mouth worked nervously when he stood at the head of the grand stairway and stared about him. His jowls sagged. When he pulled out his handkerchief his hand trembled.

He descended the stairs to the main-deck and peered about in the smoking-quarters, running his eyes over the faces of the men gathered there. All at once he lifted his chin with a little jerk and climbed the stairs again. A big man tossed away a cigar and followed at a respectful distance. He pursued Mr. Fogg through the saloon and down a corridor and went into a stateroom on the general manager's heels.

“By gad, Burkett, I'm getting cold chills!” exploded Mr. Fogg, as soon as the door was closed.

“Don't understand just why.”

“Those people out there—I've just been looking 'em over. It's monkeying with too big a proposition, Burkett. You can't reckon ahead on a thing like this.”

“Sure you can. I've doped it right.”

“Oh, I know you understand what you're talking about, but—”

“Well, I ought to know. I've been pilot for the re-survey party on the shoals for the last two months. I know every inch of the bottom.”

“But the panic. There's bound to be one. The rest of 'em won't understand, Burkett. It's going to be awful on board here. I'll be here myself. I can't stand it.”

“Look here, governor; there won't be any panic. She'll slide into the sand like a baby nestling down into a crib. There isn't a pebble in that sand for miles. Half of this bunch of passengers will be abed and asleep. They won't wake up. The rest will never know anything special except that the engines have stopped. And that ain't anything unusual in a fog. It's a quiet night—not a ripple. Nothing to hurt us. The wireless will bring the revenue cutter out from Wood's Hole, and she'll stand by till morning and take 'em off.”

“The theory is good. It's mostly my own idea, and I'm proud of it, and I was mighty glad to find a man of your experience to back me up with the practical details,” said Fogg, trying to fortify his faith with words but failing. “But now that it's coming down to cases I'm afraid of it.”

“Well, it's up to you, of course, governor. I insist it can be done, and done smooth, and you'll lay off this steamer nice, slick, and easy! That will put a crimp into the Vose line and make them stockholders take notice the next time a fair offer is made.”

“It's the thing to do, and I know it. The conditions are just right, and we've got a green captain to make the goat of. All set! But it's an awful thing to monkey with—eight hundred people, and no knowing how they'll take it! It came over me while I stood there and looked at 'em!”

“Sand is sand, and the whole, round earth is braced up under that sand. She can't sink. She'll simply gouge her way like a plow into a furrow, and there she'll stick, sitting straight, solid as an island—and it will be a devil of a while before they'll be able to dig her out. It's a crimp for the Vose line, I say, governor!” Malevolence glowed in Burkett's little eyes.

“Of course, the money I'm getting for this job looks good to me, governor, but my chance to put a wallop into anything that old Vose and his sons are interested in looks just as good. I wouldn't be in this just for the money end of it. I'm no pirate, but when they kicked me out of the pilot-house and posted me up and down this coast, they put themselves in line to get what's coming to 'em from me.”

“But have you considered every side of it?” pleaded Fogg. “You're the practical man in this proposition. What can happen?”

“If you do exactly what I tell you to do nothing can happen but what's on our program. Just let me stiffen you up by running the thing over once more.”

He pulled a hand-smutched, folded chart from his breast pocket and spread it over his knees. With blunt forefinger he indicated the points to which he made reference in his explanation.

“When he fetches Nobska horn on his port, bearing nor'west by west, he'll shift his course. After about five miles he's due to shift again, swinging six points to nor-rard. You'll hear the mate name the bearing of West Chop steam-whistle. Then you walk right up to the left of the compass and stand there. You may hear a little tongue-clattering for a few seconds. There'll be a little cussing, maybe, but you won't be cussed, of course. You stand right there, calm and cool, never batting an eyelid. And then it will happen, and when it does happen it will be a surprise-party all right.”

“It's wrecking a seven-thousand-ton passenger-steamer in the night!” mourned the general manager.

“It isn't! It's putting her into a safe cradle.”

“But at this speed!”

“That chap in the pilot-house is no fool. He'll get his hint in time to save her from real damage. You needn't worry!”

Fogg opened his traveling-bag and lifted out a strip of metal. He handled it as gingerly as if it were a reptile, and he looked at it with an air as if he feared it would bite him.

“That's the little joker,” said Burkett. “About two points deviation by local attraction will do the business!”

“I'm tempted to throw it overboard and call it all off, Burkett. I have put through a good many deals in my life in the big game, but this looks almost too raw. I can't help it! I feel a hunch as if something was going to miscue.”

“I've got no more to say, governor.”

“My crowd doesn't ask questions of me, but they expect results. If I don't do it, I suppose I'll kick myself in the morning.” He cocked up his ear and listened to the bawling of the liner's great whistle. “But it seems different in the night.”

“You ain't leaving any tracks,” encouraged Burkett. “And this being his first run makes it more plausible. You're here all naturally, yourself. It might seem rather queer if you made another trip. It's his first run on her, I remind you. If he makes a slip-up it won't surprise the wise guys-a mite.”

“It seems to be all set—I've got to admit it. By gad, Burkett, I have always put a thing through when I've started on it! That's why they call in the little Fogg boy. I'd rather apologize to my conscience than to—Well, never mind who he is.” He tucked the strip of metal into his inside coat pocket and buttoned the coat. “Blast it! nothing that's very bad can happen in this calm sea—and that last life-boat drill went off fine. Here goes!” declared Fogg, with desperate emphasis.

“That's the boy!” declared Burkett, encouraged to familiarity by their association in mischief.

The general manager found the night black when he edged his way along the wet deck to the pilot-house. The steamer's lights made blurred patches in the fog. Now she seemed to have the sea to herself; there were no answering whistles.

“I'm back again, Captain Mayo,” he said, as he closed the door against the night. “I hope I won't bother you folks here. I'll stay out from underfoot.” He sat down on a transom at the extreme rear of the house and smoked his cigar with nervous vehemence.

Another quartermaster succeeded the man at the wheel, the mate made his notations of dead reckoning and pricked the chart, the usual routine was proceeded with. Mayo continued at the window, head out-thrust, except when he glanced at chart or compass or noted the dials which marked the screws' revolutions.

Every now and then he put his ear to the submarine-signal receiver. At last he heard the faint, far throb of the Sow and Pigs submarine bell—seven strokes, with the four seconds' interval, then the seven strokes repeated.

A bit later he got, sweet and low as an elfland horn, the lightship's chime whistle. It was dead ahead, which was not exactly to his calculation. The tide set had served stronger than he had reckoned. He ordered the helmsman to ease her off a half-point, in order to make safe offing for the turn into Vineyard Sound.

Well up in the sound the bell of Tarpaulin Cove reassured him, and after a time he heard the unmistakable blast of the great reed horn of Nobska uttering its triple hoot like a giant owl perched somewhere in the mists.

“Nobska,” said the mate. “We are certainly coming on, sir.”

“Nobly,” agreed Captain Mayo, allowing himself a moment of jubilation, even though the dreaded shoals were ahead.

“Are you going to keep this speed across the shoals, Captain Mayo?” asked the general manager, displaying real deference.

“No, sir!” stated the captain with decision, bracing himself to give Mr. Fogg a sharp word or two if that gentleman advanced any more of his “business man's reasons” for speed. “It would not be showing due care.”

“I'm glad to hear you say that,” affirmed Mr. Fogg, heartily. “It may be a little out of place, right now, but I want you to know that I feel that I have picked out just the right man to command this ship. I'm glad of a chance to say this where your mates can hear me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fogg,” returned the young man, gratefully. “This is a soul-racking job, and I'm glad you are here to see what we are up against. I don't feel that we'll be wasting much time in crossing the shoals if we go carefully. We can let her out after we swing east of Monomoy. She's a grand old packet.”

In the gloom Fogg ran his fingers gingerly over the outside of his coat to make sure that the strip of metal was in its place.