PHIL awakened the next morning at an early hour. Hurriedly dressing, he went on deck.
His sleep had refreshed him and his mind was less ready to dwell on the dark side of his life on board ship. He believed when he and Lazar had become better acquainted the old grudge would be overshadowed in the intimacy of the life on the ocean.
With muster-roll and station bills neatly copied in his note-books, he was impatient for the bugle to sound the call to “quarters,” when he would meet his division for the first time.
He watched with interest the scene about him. Petty officers and men were busily engaged putting the finishing touches to the clean deck and bright brass work of the vessel. Others were using a clothes-brush carefully on their neatly fitting blue uniforms or giving a parting rub to their broad shoes. The gunners’ mates guarded their huge guns jealously, occasionally rubbing an imaginary spot of rust or dirt.
While the bugle call was being sounded on each of the many decks, he was an interested spectator of the magic effect of the clear notes. Confusion seemed to melt away into the most perfect order as men took their places in ranks abreast the guns they served.
Lazar stood facing his division,—fifty well set up, youthful men. Back of him were the turret guns for which his division formed the crews. Across the deck the marine guard was paraded, the military bearing of the soldier-sailors contrasting with the easy pose of the picturesque sailormen about them.
The executive officer was at his station across the deck from Lazar.
Such is the formation for quarters on board a war-ship of the navy. Each divisional officer musters his men, inspecting carefully, in order that the standard of neatness may be maintained. He then reports the result to the executive officer, receives his orders for drill and returns to his station.
Upon the completion of muster the captain will be informed of the number of absentees and then this report is signaled to the flag-ship.
Upon such a scene Phil gazed for the first time as an officer and thrilled to the impressive ceremony. He stood at “attention” on the right of the division.
Lazar, muster-book in hand, glanced along the double line of men until his eyes rested on his midshipman. The precision in the attitude of his junior caught his eye. His glance wavered and the slightest of sneers appeared on his face. For the fraction of a second he seemed to hesitate, then words that brought the blush of shame and anger to the face of the unsuspecting boy struck harshly upon his ears:
“Mr. Perry, I gave you the credit for knowing that at quarters all officers must wear sword and gloves. Go below, sir, and get yourself in proper uniform.”
Phil stood motionless. He was stunned for the moment, not so much by the words as by the scorn in his voice.
Almost overcome with confusion and embarrassment, he turned away and hastily descended the ladder to the deck below.
Once more in his room he found his sword and gloves where he had placed them but ten minutes before the call to quarters. Then had come a call to the executive officer, and once on deck all save the scene about him was driven from his mind. His own thoughtlessness alone could be blamed, but the sneer in Lazar’s voice rankled.
When he again reached the deck, the men had broken ranks and the sharp pipe of the whistles of the boatswain and his mates filled the air, followed in sonorous tones and in perfect chorus:
“All hands unmoor ship.”
The stout hemp lines and chains securing the battle-ship to the dock were cast off, and like writhing serpents, hauled aboard by the lusty crew. The two great propellers churned the muddy water and the war-ship glided out into the crowded waters of the East River.
Two handy tugs attached themselves to this unwieldy mass of steel and slowly swung her armored bow toward the Brooklyn Bridge, spanning the river like a huge rainbow of metal.
“Let go!” shouted the captain of the war-ship to his tiny helpmates; then to the attentive executive officer by his side—
“Slow speed ahead!”
Quietly, the powerful engines started in motion the sixteen thousand tons of fighting material.
“Half speed ahead,” ordered the captain.
The Brooklyn Bridge swept by overhead. The docks and shipping melted into a confusion of masts and smoke-stacks.
Through the harbor the battle-ship glided like a great giant, then turned and headed through the Narrows for the open sea.
The ship was soon well out on the Atlantic, the haze of the city melted astern. The low lying coast of Long Island was dimly in sight on the port hand.
The two friends spent the remainder of the day in getting their bearings in their new home, and when eight o’clock came were quite willing to seek their bunks.
It was midnight when Phil found himself by Lazar’s side on the high bridge of the battle-ship, as junior officer of the watch.
The wind, which had been light at the start, had increased steadily in violence until now the vessel was plunging heavily into the teeth of a moderate gale. Her powerful engines crowded her steel shod prow with terrific force into the rising seas, flinging tons of spray on to her high forecastle.
Lazar stood with his face close to the canvass weather cloth, for the protection of those on the bridge against the force of the blast, and peered through the inky blackness.
The responsibility for the ship rested upon his shoulders for the next four hours.
Turning toward the younger man, he motioned him nearer.
“Mr. Perry, your duties are to muster the watch on deck,” he shouted in Phil’s ear, in order to be heard in the roar of the wind; “examine both life-boats; see that everything movable about decks is secure. We are going to have a bad night,” he added, glancing at the angry sea. “Your duty is to go in the life-boat if she is called away; but I shall not lower a boat to-night.”
Phil glanced in amazement at the officer of the deck. He could but see the outline of his face in the gloom of his southwester.
“Did I understand you, sir, to say you would not lower a life-boat to-night?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, sir, you did,” snapped Lazar, “in this sea to do so would mean sending seven men to death.”
Phil made his way aft, to where the watch had gathered to keep dry against the heavy seas of spray that periodically were flung over the deck.
O’Neil held the lantern while Phil called off the men’s names. Then he and O’Neil climbed out and examined the life-boats, one on each side, swung securely from their davits, overhanging the angry water. Then Phil went on the quarter-deck and questioned the marine sentry at the patent life-buoy. Every one seemed to be well instructed. All was secure.
“Keep your men from the side,” he cautioned the boatswain’s mate of the watch; “we don’t want any one overboard in a sea like this.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied the sailor, “there ain’t any danger now; maybe when they hoists ashes some of them lubberly firemen may get too near the side. But I’ll warn ’um, sir.”
Returning to his station on the bridge, he sought the friendly shelter of the weather cloth against the increasing fierceness of the wind and stinging spray. The sound of flapping canvas and the sea breaking its fury on the steel bow were the only sounds above the roar of the wind.
Phil counted not the time. All was too new and absorbing. His thoughts had turned to many things when his breathing stopped and his heart sank as a terrifying cry from aft came faintly but clearly to his ears.
“Man overboard.”
He was rooted to the spot. In helpless consternation he looked to his officer for instructions. A human being was adrift in this angry sea, or maybe had been already killed by a swiftly moving propeller blade.
As in a dream he saw Lazar grasp the handles of the telegraphs to the engine room and signal “full speed astern.”
There could be but one interpretation. Lazar would lower a life-boat after all.
Phil ran down the bridge ladder and swung himself nimbly out on the life-boat gallery.
There he found the lee life-boat ready for lowering; six sailors sat quietly at the thwarts, while those of the watch had led out the boat-falls. O’Neil, the coxswain, with his hand on the strong-back, stood ready to leap into the boat. That they were doing more than their duty did not occur to these stout American hearts. A fellow-being was in danger of drowning—that was enough reason for them.
“Shall I lower, sir?” the coxswain shouted to Phil as the latter swung himself over the rail of the superstructure and stood by his side; “he can’t live long in this sea.”
Phil surveyed hastily the strongly built boat, then his gaze traveled down to the angry sea beneath him.
The engines were backing. He saw the heavy surge of the sea astern as the propellers threw a powerful race current forward. Why did not the order come? After the ship had started astern the boat could not be lowered. Far away on the lee quarter the chemical flame of the patent life-buoy showed a dim light against a background of troubled waters.
Under the spell of one of those impulses that seem to take possession so absolutely of the mind in times of emergency, Phil cried:
“Lower away,” and he and O’Neil swung themselves on board the life-boat as she dropped evenly and quickly toward the black sea beneath her.
Phil seized the handle of the steering oar in both hands, motioning O’Neil away. The boat shivered as she struck the lumpy sea.
“Sit here, O’Neil, and hang on to my legs,” shouted Phil at the top of his lungs, through the roaring of the gale, as the boat shot ahead on her life-line, while with the steering oar he swung her stern in toward the white wall of the battle-ship towering above them.
The life-line sheered the boat clear of the menacing ship.
“Let go,” shouted the youth.
“Give way! Bend to it, men,” he cautioned, turning the life-boat’s prow toward the flicker of light appearing periodically on the crest of a wave and quickly disappearing down into its deep trough.
Straight-backed and supple the six oarsmen sent the long, narrow boat over the seas that seemed ready to engulf her.
“Never mind me,” shouted Phil to O’Neil, bracing his legs firmly against the stern boards. “Stand by forward there, we shall be at the life-buoy in a moment.”
O’Neil glanced with grave concern at the midshipman.
“Aye, aye, sir. Keep your weather eye open, sir,” he cautioned. “If you go overboard with them rubber boots on, you’ll go to the bottom like a shot.”
Protesting at the boy’s recklessness, he crawled forward and stood ready to grasp the man if he were clinging to the life-buoy or yet swimming on the surface of the angry water.
“Can you see the buoy, sir?” shouted O’Neil. “It’s broad off the starboard bow.”
“I see it,” shouted back Phil, as he threw the stern to port and bore down on the two flames still burning brightly amid the tempest.
“Stand by to ‘peak your oars.’ Peak!” he shouted to the crew as the boat with a rush was brought around and headed up to the buoy.
“He’s there, boys,” cried O’Neil, joyously, as he leaned far out and grasped a limp, bedraggled figure clinging to the life-buoy. The men dropped the handles of their oars between their feet, raising the blades clear of the passing waves.
“In you come, my hearty,” cried the coxswain, as his arms encircled the half-drowned man, and he lifted him from the hungry sea to safety in the life-boat.
Searchlights were now playing from the battle-ship. One beam of light held steadily on the struggling boat, while the others swept fretfully about as if they sought to pierce the dark water.
As the midshipman struggled manfully at the steering oar, holding the bow of the boat up against the impact of the powerful seas, Lazar’s words seemed to ring in his ears like a knell.
Fear clutched at his heart that he might by his disobedience send these brave men to a watery grave.
As long as the oarsmen could give the boat headway, he felt confident all would go well, but some of the men were exhausted, and the sea was ever increasing.
“Steady, men! Give way together. This is for your lives,” he shouted, as a white wall of water reared itself close aboard out of the blackness to windward.
The boat seemed to fairly crawl over the angry bosom of foam.
“Stand by to peak your oars,” he shouted hoarsely. “Peak!” as the monster wave curled over, ready to engulf them, and struck the bow of the life-boat. She shivered to her keel and half filled with water, then lay dead on the surface of the sea.
Wave after wave swept over the half-submerged boat, almost drowning the exhausted crew. Phil attempted frantically to head the boat up to the battering seas.
Casting a despairing look at his men, whose efforts were becoming ever weaker, he read on their faces a look of hope. Throwing a swift glance over his shoulder, he saw the misty form of the “Connecticut” loom up out of the darkness, scarce a boat’s length away. He heard the whir of her backing propellers; the dull boom of the sea spending its fury against her sides; the rapidly given orders, and the scurry of shod feet on her decks.
A line whistled overhead and fell in the midst of the exhausted crew.
“Take a turn with that line,” Phil shouted.
O’Neil grasped the line and secured it to the bow-thwart of the boat.
Phil braced himself against the jar of the tautening line.
The boat rose and fell on the angry sea, in momentary danger of splitting herself asunder on the sides of the battle-ship. The waves, but half broken by the armored bow, swept over the struggling men.
He felt himself grasped and held strongly by hands from above, and then slowly hauled upward. He saw the whole boat lifted on a giant sea and then swept wildly against the ship’s steel side. A crash of splintered wood. Then all was darkness.
Phil opened his eyes in his own room, with Sydney and Marshall bending over him and a doctor binding up a cut over his temple. Two or three times he attempted to speak, to find out the worst. He knew that the life of every man sacrificed was caused by his impulse. He had given the order to lower the boat directly contrary to the stated instructions of the officer of the deck.
He had not the courage to ask of the fate of his men. He had seen the boat go to pieces with his own eyes, surely some of the crew had been drowned.
He could not stand the suspense a moment longer. He must know all. It would be better than this uncertainty.
“Syd, tell me what happened?” he whispered hoarsely.
“All were saved,” Sydney answered. “We abandoned the boat, of course. You were struck by a splinter as you were being hauled on board. You are the biggest man on this ship to-night, Phil.”
The joyful news made the overwrought boy tremble. He turned his face away to hide his emotion.
Greatly strengthened by the happy tidings, he put on dry clothes and, despite Sydney’s offer to stand the remainder of his watch, made his way to the bridge to report his return to Lazar. It seemed an age since he had responded to that terrifying cry, but the clock told him it had been but scarce a half hour ago.
What would Lazar say? Would not success wipe away the guilt of disobedience? What was the loss of a boat compared to the loss of a human life?
With a cheerful ring in his voice he reported his return to duty.
“I was struck by a piece of the boat, sir,” he offered in excuse for his tardiness. The ship had been on her course for nearly ten minutes.
Lazar turned on him fiercely. His even white teeth gleamed under his black moustache.
“You can thank Providence, Mr. Perry, that you are alive this moment.” His voice rose in anger. “A midshipman who cannot obey orders is a menace to the safety of those under him. That you were not all drowned was due to me, sir. I saved you by putting the ship between your boat and the seas, and hauling you aboard like so much cargo.” Then in a voice cold and passionless: “I have received the captain’s authority, Mr. Perry, to place you under arrest for wilfully disobeying my order. You will go to your room, sir.”
Phil turned away without a word.