CONCLUSION
Chapter XIX—The Race Begins
rom the rocks above Saltonstall's cave I could look far out to sea. And there in the offing, not three miles beyond the outer line of reefs, was a schooner, which one glance showed me was the Sabbath Day. Straight for the entrance she came, gliding gently before the light air which dimpled the smooth expanse of ocean in broad bands of blue with intervals of glass between. And there, also, in her former position, was the Sayonara, still at anchor but with her cable hove short, headsails hanging from the bow, but foresail, mainsail, and maintopsails set and undulating gently in the light air.
It would be, as I reckoned, at least two hours before the turn of the tide, and until it started to ebb the yacht must remain a prisoner. Another hour and a half should see the Sabbath Day at anchor in the lagoon. But the breeze showed signs of freshening with the sunset, for the western horizon was a dark band of ultramarine; and should this happen, and happen within the next half-hour, it might yet be possible to board the Sayonara before the turn of the tide came to liberate her from the lagoon.
Breathless and wild-eyed I dashed down to the little grotto where I had left Saltonstall. He was awake and looked up at me with a white, waxy face.
“Well, Jack,” he began, feebly, “this is a sorry go—” Then, noticing my expression, he raised his head a little and asked, sharply: “What's the matter?”
“Von Reibnitz has got Coline aboard the yacht,” I cried. “He has hauled down to the entrance and anchored, but he can't go out for a couple of hours, as he's got a head-wind and head-tide. The Sabbath Day is about three miles off and coming in with a fair breeze.”
Saltonstall struggled up, then sank back with a groan. “What's this?” he cried. “What's this you're saying, Jack?”
In a few words I told him what had happened. He listened with a tinge of color in his bloodless face.
“I'll go down to the beach and get aboard the Sabbath Day the moment she rounds up, if I have to swim,” I told him. “You stop here and I'll send one of the hands to look after you.”
“Stop here, nothing!” he exclaimed. “I'll go down with you. Von Reibnitz won't give her up without a struggle. Give me a hand, Jack.”
“But you're not fit. How am I going to get you down to the beach, all smashed up as you are?”
“We'll manage. Here, give me your hand. I'm not made of spun glass. Your fist, Jack.”
Never have I seen such a triumph of mind over body. I helped him to his feet, and he stood for a moment swaying unsteadily. Once I thought that he was going to faint, but he pulled himself together and pointed to the unopened bottle of Rhine wine. I picked it up, but Saltonstall snatched it from my hand, knocked the neck off against the side of the cave, and drained the contents in several great gulps.
“Ha—” said he, wiping his big mustache on the back of his sleeve. “Come on. Your shoulder, Jack.”
There was no gainsaying him, so off we started. It was killing work over the rough stones, but Saltonstall never whimpered. Twice he went suddenly white and I thought that it was all over, but his marvelous force of will carried him through, and in less than an hour, with me half dragging, half carrying him, we broke out of the jungle upon the beach to see the Sabbath Day running through the passage and the Sayonara just starting to swing with the tide, which was already at slack water where she lay. Bathed in sweat and with aching joints I laid Saltonstall down on the soft sand, where he lay for several moments, speechless.
I hurried to the spring, plunged in, clothes and all, for my head was humming like a top, then, having drunk my fill, carried a bucket of water to Saltonstall, and after he had quenched his thirst sluiced him with the cool, sweet water.
“It's going to be close work, Jack,” he muttered. “God send the scoundrel on the reef. If he gets out I doubt we can follow in the Sabbath Day—and it wouldn't help much if we could. In this light air the yacht can sail two feet to our one.”
“It's freshening steadily,” I answered, without taking my eyes from the two vessels.
Never in my life have I spent such a half-hour of tension. Ripping off my shirt, I fastened it to the end of a sapling and, standing on the water's edge, waved it frantically. This signal was immediately observed aboard the Sabbath Day, for there came an answering wave and a moment later she swung down and headed for her former anchorage. But even as she came we saw the jib going up aboard the Sayonara, while the freshening breeze filled her close-hauled mainsail. Von Reibnitz was not waiting for the tide. He meant to work out at once with the slack water.
But the Sabbath Day was slipping through the water on a broad reach—her best point of sailing; and although Saltonstall and I fairly groaned at what seemed the infuriating slowness of her pace, she had rounded up and let an anchor go before the Sayonara had broken out her own hook. Whistler apparently sensed something wrong, or guessed at it from my frantic signaling, for a boat took the water before her way was lost and came foaming in to the beach under the powerful strokes of the Kanaka crew. As she drew near I saw that the mate himself held the steering-oar, and as the boat grounded he sprang out and stood for a second gaping at Saltonstall, who, with bandaged head and colorless face, was hanging from my shoulder as I dragged him down to the water's edge.
“In the name of a' that's righteous—” Whistler began, but I cut him short so savagely that his bearded jaw dropped.
“Your work, you fool,” I snarled. “Look alive now, and get us off aboard as soon as the Lord will let you.” I swung Saltonstall into the boat and grabbed the gunnel. “Shove off!” I cried.
We ran her out and headed for the schooner, I urging on the crew with voice and gesture, to which Saltonstall lent his own booming bass. Whistler seemed paralyzed and stood in the stern, one hand on the steering-oar and the other clawing at his sandy whisker, while his deep-set eyes twinkled from one to the other of us.
“Ha' mercy,” he sputtered, “and wha's all this aboot, pray tell?”
“Von Reibnitz,” I answered curtly. “He's aboard the yacht and he's trying to bolt off with Miss Satterlie.”
“Ye dinna' tell me. And how ever did he find the place?”
“Through your cursed foolishness, confound you,” I retorted. “Now look here, Whistler, we've got to lay him aboard before he gets out, if we both go on the reef. Otherwise its sayonara<refsayonara—Japanese for “good-by.”</ref to Miss Satterlie. You understand?”
Whistler's head turned owlishly on his shoulders and he stared at the yacht, now starting slowly to forge ahead. “We canna',” he answered sourly. “She's already filled awa', and we at anchor.”
I FLUNG HIM BACK AGAINST THE WHEEL AS IF HE HAD BEEN A CHILD—THEN WITH MY RIGHT I PLANTED BLOW AFTER BLOW IN HIS WRITHING FACE.
“Knock the shackle out and let the anchor go,” growled Saltonstall. “The yacht's got to tack across before she can stand out. Look alive, Mr. Whistler.”
Thus admonished, the mate awoke. A couple of hands were watching us from the Sabbath Day, and to these Whistler roared a few orders so that even as we foamed alongside the jib was going up. We scrambled aboard, and a moment later the end of the parted cable splashed over the bow and the bows of the yacht began to swing slowly off. It was high time, for the Sayonara was now standing well across the mouth of the lagoon, where the next tack would put her on a course to clear the end of the inner reef.
It was on this tack that our single chance of intercepting her lay, as our own position would enable us to make a close reach of it straight for the mouth of the passage, where we should be obliged to make one and possibly two short tacks to get through. The Sabbath Day was slow in irons and, light-drafted as she was, did not carry much way, so that it was her ability to execute this maneuver of which Saltonstall was in some doubt. Failing to get about in time, she was certain to drift down on to the inner reef.
The breeze was freshening steadily, and we quickly gathered way, slipping along so nicely that before the Sayonara went about we had made perhaps a quarter of a mile, for the new breeze off the sea had found the yacht well to leeward of the entrance. Von Reibnitz assuredly had not counted on our expedition in taking up the chase, as otherwise he might have warped up to the entrance on sighting the Sabbath Day. Perhaps, also, he had hoped to be able to get away sooner, or counted too much on the superior speed of the yacht. At any rate, for several minutes I could have shouted with exultation, as it appeared certain that we should strike him before ever he got across our bows. For such, indeed, was our purpose. And indeed this seemed simple enough of execution as long as we had the weather gage and were converging to the same point.
Saltonstall had the wheel, by which he was supporting himself; but as the two vessels drew nearer together he let himself slide to the deck, where he crouched with his hands on the lower spokes and his eyes fastened on the Sayonara. Well across the lagoon she came about, spinning on her heel like a dancer, and with everything hauled flat headed for the entrance. I saw, then, that it was going to be touch and go, for in that light breeze the Sabbath Day was no match for the yacht.
“Think we can make it?” I asked feverishly.
“I doubt it, Jack. If only we could catch a puff I might get my jib-boom through her mainsail and hang on by the topping-lift But see here, Jack: if we do foul, there's to be no bloodshed except in self-defense.”
“I'd like to pot him there at the wheel,” I answered savagely.
“Don't think of such a thing. Suppose she went with him of her own accord? Your fortune wouldn't save you, my boy.” He raised his voice. “Mr. Whistler?”
“Aye, sir?”
“If we foul the yacht, get aboard her with the hands and take charge. No bloodshed, if it can be helped.”
“Mon, Saltonstall—are ye sure y'are in the right?” cried Whistler.
“Leave that to me, sir, and obey orders. Serve out belaying-pins to the men. Look sharp, now!”
The big, muscular Kanakas had already caught the spirit of the chase, and the sight of their faces as they seized the heavy wooden pins was good to see. The two vessels were rapidly drawing to the focal point, and aboard the Sayonara I could see Von Reibnitz himself at the wheel and a knot of sailors gathered in the waist. As none of them appeared to be armed, I judged that Von Reibnitz had no more desire for bloodshed than had we, and this knowledge cheered me greatly; it seemed to me to indicate that he had abducted Coline against her will, no doubt trusting that once he had her to himself it would not take long to dominate her; for the man must have been quite conscious of his peculiar power over the girl.
The yacht herself was but half the size of the Sabbath Day, and Von Reibnitz had signed on no more in his crew than were actually needed to work the vessel; I counted but six men besides Von Reibnitz himself. It was plain enough that if it came to a scuffle this small handful would not last long against Whistler, myself, and our seven powerful Kanakas.
“DO YOU LOVE ME AS MUCH AS THAT, JACK DEAR?”
Of Coline herself there was no sign, and I did not doubt but that she was confined below. Could I have been sure that Von Reibnitz had taken the girl aboard by force, I would not have hesitated an instant to put a bullet through him; but, as Saltonstall said, if it were to turn out that she had yielded to his persuasion it would undoubtedly have gone very hard with me on reaching port, and Saltonstall would certainly have suffered with me. So I gripped a backstay-runner and waited.
Saltonstall was like a man of ice. In the tense silence as the two schooners rushed together he said quietly:
“Stand by to slack the mainsheet, Jack; he may try to duck under our stern and shoot her up the other side. That thing can turn in her own length.”
Closer and closer we drew, and I held my breath, wondering if Von Reibnitz would dare try to cross our bows. The Sabbath Day was on the port tack, making a close reach of it for the entrance, where she would have to go about on nearing the outer reef, while the yacht was close-hauled on the starboard tack and sailing a course which would take her well into the passage before she was obliged to make another leg.
Watching the Sayonara closely, I doubted that Von Reibnitz would dare try to duck under our stern, trusting to the yacht's ability to shoot out from under our lee; and even if he did manage to execute this maneuver he would be obliged to tack much sooner than if he held his present course, giving us a good possibility of catching him before he got about and filled away again. Such an event would mean also the doom of both vessels, for if we fouled in the passage, no power under heaven could keep us both from drifting down on the inner reef.
No, his best chance was to try to cross our bows, and if he managed this he would have turned the trick, leaving us to plod on hopelessly in his wake or to give up the chase entirely, for on no point of sailing, in heavy weather or light, was the Sabbath Day a match for the Sayonara. And it became quickly evident that this was precisely what he meant to attempt.
Closer and closer we drew, and the tension became such that I found myself holding my breath and catching it in great gasps at long intervals, while my heart seemed to have stopped beating and my mouth was dry as a bone. Looking at Saltonstall, I saw his strong yellow teeth fastened in his lower lip as he nursed the wheel inch by inch, and his glowing eyes bulged at the vessel slipping swiftly athwart our course. On she came, well heeled to the freshening breeze. On she came, and suddenly her bowsprit seemed to leap across our bows so close that one could have scaled a biscuit on to her decks.
Utter silence reigned on each vessel, and as the yacht's foremast appeared on our weather bow I let out my breath in a whistling sigh. At a sideways nod and a rumbling “main-sheet” from Saltonstall, the big Kanakas trimmed for their lives, and at the same instant Saltonstall put down his helm a spoke or two. The long jib-boom of the Sabbath Day sprang like a dart at the white expanse of mainsail, touched it just abaft the topping-lift, and for a moment I thought that it was going to slip clear. Then came the rip and rend of tearing canvas; the leech-rope held, and aloft there was a sudden splintering crash. Down came the maintopmast and mainmast head, the latter snapped just below the peak-halliard blocks. The next instant the leech-rope parted and we forged on, not ten feet under the Sayonara's stern.
CHAPTER XX
Whistler Hears the Truth About Himself
Had the Sabbath Day been able to point up with the yacht, we could have tacked ship then and there and caught the Sayonara when she put about in the passage. As it was, seeing that the yacht would barely weather the inner reef, Saltonstall stood on across the mouth of the passage. The Sayonara's mainsail still hung from the throat halliards and continued to draw, but she was now deprived of a good third of the sail's working area, as well as her big maintopsail. In answer to a roar from Von Reibnitz the hands were springing aloft to lash down the peak of the gaff and clear the wreckage. As I watched them, breathlessly, Whistler's voice grated harshly in my ear:
“Yon was a rotten mainmast-head, to fetch awa' fra' a tug on the leech.”
“Thank God it was,” I answered; “but the sail was new and, besides, there's wind aloft and the maintopsail was taking a goodish strain. We stand a chance to catch him, now, boat for boat.”
“Aye,” grunted Whistler, “he wull have to double-reef the mainsail to make it set. Let us pray now for light airs.”
But for the moment our attention was all taken in working the schooner through the passage, for the Sabbath Day was lamentably slow in irons and took her own good time in gathering way. Once or twice it looked as if we were certainly going on the reef, but thanks to Saltonstall's masterly handling we won through without mishap. The Sayonara, crippled as she was, made quick work of the business, thanks to her smaller size and the speed with which she got about and off again without losing way. Also, the steadily freshening breeze was in her favor, and by the time that we had cleared the passage she was half a mile in the lead, with a knot of men working like demons to reef the sail and set up the peak halliards just below the stump of the masthead.
This was quickly done, and the two vessels settled down for a long race to windward, for Von Reibnitz had naturally chosen the point of sailing at which he knew his schooner far excelled the heavy trading-vessel. Had she carried racing-sails—a spinnaker, balloon-jib, and balloon-maintopmast-staysail—he would no doubt have put her off before the wind on weathering the island, in which case she might quickly have left us far astern; but I had never bothered with these “kites” for deep-sea work.
We had made perhaps a mile when suddenly our canvas began to flap, and glancing aft I saw that Saltonstall had fainted. Whistler quickly took the wheel, and I, with the aid of two of the crew, got the skipper below and in his bunk, where presently he revived with the aid of stimulants.
“Are we holding her, Jack?” were his first feeble words.
“I think we are outfooting her a little, Captain,” I answered, “but she's outpointing us. However, if only the breeze drops light we've got him cinched.”
“It's growing dark, Jack,” he groaned. “He may slip away in the night.”
“No danger with this moon,” I answered.
“It's breezing, though,” he muttered.
“I doubt if it will last,” I reassured him. “The glass is high and steady.”
“The deuce was in it, my dear boy,” groaned Saltonstall. “Another foot and I'd have got his topping-lift. That would have done his business.”
“I'm not so sure,” I answered. “He might have walked off with our jib-boom. Now try to rest, old chap. You did wonders. We're not beaten yet by a whole jugful,” and I left him, to go on deck.
The night came quickly, but the great, full moon illumined the dimpling waters with a radiance which was almost that of day. Three hours passed, and at the end of that time we had put the yacht on our port quarter, although she was about a mile to windward. In order to get some idea of how we stood, relatively, Whistler tacked ship, when we passed, as it seemed to me, rather over half a mile under the Sayonara's stern. It plainly looked as if she were doing better than we, but the breeze had shown no signs of freshening and I hoped that toward morning it might die away again, in which case the advantage would be with us, short-canvased as was the yacht.
But this proved a vain desire, for at midnight it freshened again, and in an hour's time was blowing a strong, steady draft which soon stirred up a little chop and seemed to invigorate the silvered specter ahead with new life, as it soon began to draw stealthily away. Whistler, who of course remained on deck, gave me Job's comfort.
“There's little good e'er comes o' the law-breakin',” said he gloomily.
“Especially when you go and jaw about it before you start,” I answered angrily.
“Mon, I didna' jaw aboot it. I was only seekin' legal advice. Is it no' better to learn how ye stand?”
“You didn't learn how you stand. That old shyster pumped your bilges dry, then told Von Reibnitz and Satterlie that you consulted him about the rights of the thing and that he warned you that you were planning a criminal act.”
Whistler's jaw dropped and his frosty little eyes sparkled in the moonlight.
“No!” he gasped. “He didna' say that?”
“He sure did,” I answered. “Why shouldn't he? You thought you were so cursed clever because you got your legal advice for nothing, and now, let me tell you, that cormorant will be the very first to round on you. He encouraged you to go ahead because he knew he could get a good price from somebody for his information, and what's to prove that he told you no blame could be attached to you? His word's as good as yours. Now look at the result. Miss Satterlie is in the power of the worst scoundrel in the Pacific; Saltonstall is all smashed up—may be injured internally for all we know, and will very likely limp for the rest of his life; I've lost the woman I love, and Satterlie will be a crushed and broken man. All because of your damned cold feet and hen-brained idiocy in blabbing to the worst old crook on the slope. Aren't you proud of yourself, Mr. Whistler?”
The mate's pipe dropped from his nerveless fingers, and he sat himself down on the bitts. No doubt his knees felt weak. He was very much shaken, was Mr. Whistler, and no one will deny but that he deserved to be.
“Aweel—” he muttered, “I meant no har-rm.”
“You meant that no harm should come to one David Whistler,” I retorted, “but it may, yet.”
“I dinna' care if it does,” he muttered remorsefully.
“But it may console you,” I continued mercilessly, “to know that it will be nothing as compared to the harm which has come to those who trusted to your loyalty and common sense. Your canny Scotch caution has wrecked three lives, Mr. Whistler; four, maybe, as the skipper will never be the same man after this”
“Mon—ha' ye no compassion?”
“Why should I have? Everything that life holds for me is slipping away from us on that vessel ahead.”
Whistler let out a moan like one of the lost souls in “Faust.” He clambered to his feet and, reaching inside the companionway, took a pair of glasses from the rack. One of the Kanaka quartermasters, a skilled helmsman, was at the wheel. Whistler stepped to the rail and studied the vessel ahead, long and earnestly.
“She's no slippin' awa' the noo, sir,” said he in a low voice.
“What?” I cried, and reached for the binoculars.
Since ten o'clock the Sayonara had had a lead of what we judged to be about three miles, and this lead she had appeared to be lengthening during the last hour. Now, as I stared at her, hungrily, there could be no doubt in my mind that we had lessened the distance between us, and lessened it very perceptibly. There seemed to be no reason for this, as the sea was smooth and the breeze of the same weight. Nevertheless, I was now able to distinguish plainly certain details about the yacht which had, the last time that I examined her, been either invisible or indistinct. Moreover, she filled a larger field in the glass.
“As true as life, we're gaining,” I gasped, rather breathlessly. “I wonder why?”
“Perhaps there is more air stirrin' aloft, and we are gettin' the profit of a maintopsail, which she has not,” Whistler suggested.
This seemed a reasonable explanation, and as if to verify it there came a little later a darker patch to windward, or, to be more accurate, a rougher look to the frosted silver of the sea, and presently a fresher puff struck our faces; in half an hour's time the schooner had taken several more degrees of angular heel, and the spray was flying from her forefoot.
“I misdoot 'twill freshen with the dawn,” said Whistler in a low voice. “The sea is makin', too. Losh, an' just when we were gainin' fine.”
“We're gaining still,” I answered, staring through the glass.
“'Twull not be for long if this wind holds,” said Whistler, who at his best was never what might be called an optimist. “I wud not go so far as to say that it may not blow up a fresh gale at this season, bein' as it is the breakin' up of the monsoon. Gin yon vessel gets a fresh slant, her short rig wud be nae mair than a conveenience.”
He proved to be correct about the wind's freshening, for an hour later found the Sabbath Day snoring through a sea strewn with silvery fleece and the spray dashing over the weather bow. And yet it seemed to me that we were gaining on the yacht, although, as before, she had worked a mile or so to windward on our port beam. But Whistler, cheerful soul that he was, wagged his sandy beard.
“She wull soon be leavin' us, noo,” said he. “This one is poor at windward wor-rk, and gin a bit of sea she slides to leeward like a toboggan.”
It was then about two o'clock of the morning and, utterly exhausted, I stretched out on a spare sail in one of the boats for a little sleep, having scarcely closed my eyes the night before. I must have dropped off immediately and lain like one dead, as it seemed to me that I had scarcely closed my eyes when I was roused by some one shaking my shoulder and looked up to see Whistler's bearded face and, in the sky above, the pale dawn.
“What's the matter?” I asked sleepily, scarcely conscious of my surroundings.
Whistler's voice fell harsh and vibrant on my ears. “Wake up, sir,” said he. “Yon's the Sayonara not a cable's length on the lee bow and all hands aboard her at the pumps.”
CHAPTER XXI
The Cloven Foot
Never did a man take less time in getting out of a boat. I struck the deck on hands and feet, and the next bound took me to the lee rail. The picture that I saw fetched a yell out of me.
The wind was blowing a piping twenty-knot breeze out of a cloudless but hazy sky, pellucid and delicately pink with the first promise of the sun. The deep ultramarine of the sea had not yet absorbed the thin light from above but looked almost black beneath its bursting, snowy surges. The short sling of the swell showed that this boisterous breeze was purely local.
All of this was in the way of a general impression—a mise-en-scène for the drama being enacted on such a tiny portion of that great stage. Close aboard on our lee bow was the Sayonara, and it needed but a glance to show that she was very deep. Also, she plowed ahead with a curious lurch and stagger which told of a semi-waterlogged condition, and her lee roll was dangerously deep.
But while, instinctively, I noted all of this, my eyes were on a cloaked and hooded figure standing on the weather side of the quarter-deck, holding to a backstay-runner. It was Coline, and as she recognized me in the growing light she waved her hand. We were almost within hail of the yacht, and Whistler was edging warily down, his foresheet slacked to keep from passing her. She was no longer close-hauled, but had eased off on a broad reach. The hands were swinging away at the pumps, while Von Reibnitz himself was at the wheel.
“Good Lord!” I cried. “She's foundering!”
“I wudna' go so far as to say that she mightna' go to the bottom before manny hours,” Whistler answered. “Losh, but she maun be a regular punk-basket. Who ever wud believe that a bit jerk on the masthead could open her up like that?”
“It beats me,” I answered. “She's rated A1 at Lloyd's. I re-coppered at Southampton three years ago and she was sound enough then. What are you going to do?”
“I have just sent twa o' the boys to fetch up the skipper. There is too much swash to lay her aboar-rd without danger to both vessels, particular to yon worm-eaten bait-car. Body o' me, from the samples we have had of her soundness in rig and hull I wudna go so far as to say that she might not shut up like a pricked pibroch, were we to rub sides wi' her.”
I stared in great bewilderment at what I had always hitherto considered my stanch and flawless schooner. Though well below her water-line, there was as yet no cause for immediate alarm as to the safety of those aboard, and I had no doubt that Von Reibnitz would presently heave to, as there was no longer any object in trying to escape us. We were flying forestaysail and foresail sheets, as it was, to keep from passing him, and might run alongside whenever it pleased us to do so. As I was studying the situation, a rumbling voice behind me said:
“Well, upon my word! Edge a little closer, Mr. Whistler, and we will give him a hail.” And I turned to see Saltonstall, supported by two of the sailors.
“What do you think of that, Captain?” I asked.
“Upon my word, Jack, I scarcely know what to think—except that God in His mercy has seen fit to answer our prayers. But why a supposedly sound vessel should open up like that for a little tug at her masthead is more than I can understand. A little closer, if you please, Mr. Whistler.”
Whistler was in the act of putting up his helm when Von Reibnitz turned to us with a sweep of his arm.
“Luff!” Saltonstall commanded. “He's going to heave her to.”
The Sabbath Day swung up to meet the wind, and as soon as we were out of his way Von Reibnitz did the same, dropping head-sails and mainsail and close-hauling the foresail, while the Sayonara lay sluggishly rising and falling to the choppy swell.
“Put about and jibe around under her lee, Mr. Whistler,” said Saltonstall. He turned to me. “The scoundrel doesn't dare hold on any longer with all that water in her, Jack. One good roll might put him on his beam-ends.”
He had scarcely spoken when a startling thing occurred aboard the yacht. Von Reibnitz had secured the wheel with a lanyard and was standing by the lee-rail of the quarter-deck, and as we watched we saw him lean suddenly far out over the side and stare down into the sea. The next instant he had leaped to the companionway and disappeared below.
A moment or two later he reappeared, and even at that distance we could see that his face was crimson and apparently convulsed with rage. Straight up to Coline he rushed and, to our indescribable horror, seized the shrinking girl by the shoulder and struck her twice across the face with the back of his hand. Coline's shriek reached us across the hissing water, and the next instant she had sunk to the deck, disappearing from our sight below the high bulwarks.
A strangled roar burst from Saltonstall. Scrambling to his feet, he hobbled to the wheel, snatching it from Whistler's hands.
“Down jib! down forestaysail!” he bellowed. “Get out your fenders on the port side!”
The next instant we jibed and, with canvas volleying and sheet-blocks crashing, swashed up alongside of the Sayonara. Before the two vessels had jarred together I had leaped from our rail down on to her decks and was tearing aft. The sight which met my eyes drove away the last vestige of reason. There on the quarter-deck, his face like that of a fiend. Von Reibnitz had Coline by the arm and was shaking and cuffing her as one would not handle a dog. The blood was streaming from the girl's mouth, and shriek after shriek rang out above the crash and rattle of cordage and the grind of the two schooners as the short sling of the sea flung them together.
As I rushed up. Von Reibnitz loosed his hold of Coline and sprang to meet me. He was a bigger man than I, but if he had weighed a ton I do not think it would have mattered. He aimed a blow at my face, but I jerked my head aside and, although his heavy seal-ring laid my scalp open from brow to crown, it stopped me no more than the tap of a fan. My left hand closed on his throat and I flung him back against the wheel as if he had been a child—then with my right I planted blow after blow in his writhing face.
Von Reibnitz screamed like a panther and struggled to break away, but what with fury and muscles toughened from heavy labor on the island, my strength was for the moment inhuman, and as I battered away at his contorted face the screams gave way to the choking snarls of a beaten dog. He began to slip down, but I held him up with my left while my right arm worked like a piston. I might have killed him, I believe, for his mutilated face was black when an iron grip fell upon my shoulder and I was torn away.
But there was a red mist in front of my eyes through which it was impossible to distinguish friend or foe, and as Von Reibnitz fell I turned and struck with all my remaining strength at the man who had seized me. The blow landed heavily, and I caught a glimpse of Whistler's square figure as it spun about and plunged head foremost into the scuppers.
Panting and choking, I turned to Von Reibnitz again, then paused as I saw that he was lying senseless in a pool of blood. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and looked around. The crew of the yacht were still standing by the pumps, and encircling them were our Kanaka sailors. Whistler had scrambled to his feet and was leaning against the rail, the blood trickling from a cut above his eye. I gave him but a glance and lurched over to where Coline was huddled on the deck. Dropping on my knees beside her, I threw my arm about her shoulders, raising her pallid face to look into it. Her mouth was cut from Von Reibnitz's brutal blows and she was sobbing convulsively.
“Coline!” I cried. “Oh, my dear—are you badly hurt?”
She gasped a few times, then answered: “No—Jack—ah—no—no—” The tears gushed from her eyes and her sobs broke out afresh. “Have—have you killed him, Jack?”
“I hope so,” I growled. “Oh, the beast!”
I drew her head to my shoulder, soothing her as one would soothe a child. We were in this position when Whistler approached, cautiously.
“Losh,” he grunted, “and has the madness passed? Mon, y'are wild as a cateran o' the hills wi' the blood-lust on him. I misdoot ye have killed the mon.”
“So much the better,” I answered.
Whistler turned to the frightened crew of the yacht. “Lay aft here, one o' ye, and sluice your braw skipper wi' a bucket of sea-water,” said he; then turned to me. “Come, sir-r, ye had b^t be gettin' aboard. Y'are bleedin' like a stuck pig.”
But I did not answer, for my head seemed full of ringing bells, and all other sounds came dim and quavering and from an infinite distance. Then a dark veil was drawn across my eyes and I fell forward against Coline.
CHAPTER XXII
Why the Ship Foundered
When consciousness returned I was in my bunk on the Sabbath Day, and from the swash of water alongside I knew that we were under way again. I opened my eyes and saw Coline bending over me. Saltonstall's big frame was wedged in the door way and his lustrous eyes bulged at me anxiously.
“Ha—” said he, “feeling better, Jack?”
“I'm all right,” I answered, weakly, and began to gather my wits with some effort. “What's doing?”
“We are running back to the island, my dear fellow. We must take water and get our stuff.”
“And the Sayonara?”
“Still hove to and pumping—thanks to Miss Coline's wonderful presence of mind and high courage. There's a girl for you, Jack, my dear fellow.”
I looked at Coline. Her face was bruised and her mouth slightly cut in two or three places, but the color had returned and there was a soft glow in her eyes.
“What devil ever possessed him to maltreat you so, Coline?” I asked.
“Start from the beginning, my dear,” admonished Saltonstall. “It's a wonderful story, Jack.”
Coline set down the eau-de-cologne with which she had been bathing my face. Her color deepened.
“Well, then. Jack,” said she, “you had scarcely left the camp to look for Captain Saltonstall when Konrad came ashore. He was awfully cut up about my note, and said that he knew my decision was the result of unfair influence. He begged and pleaded and reminded me of my promise and tried in every way to urge me to go away with him, but I steadily refused.”
“Did you want to go?” I asked.
“No, Jack.”
“God bless you for that,” I muttered.
“Konrad was very gentle, but finally when he found that I was not to be shaken, he said that he hoped I would forgive him for what he was going to do and that he was sure, once we were alone together with no outside pressure, I would come back to my former feeling toward him.
“'Do you mean,' I asked, 'that you would dare to take me away from here by force?'
“He answered that he would dare anything to win me and that there was no other way. I grew angry then, and told him that if he attempted such a thing I would make it mighty disagreeable for him afterward. He replied that he would have to take his chance on that. The end of it was that he picked me up and carried me down to the boat and took me aboard the yacht, where he gave me the owner's stateroom in the stern. I began to see, then, the sort of man he really is, so I locked myself in and had the steward pass down my food through the skylight. In one of the lockers I found a loaded pistol, and I told Konrad that if he tried to force the door I would shoot him.”
“Splendid, Coline!”
“Last evening, when the breeze sprang up and we started out,” Coline continued, “I looked through the port-hole and saw the Sabbath Day bearing down on us”
“Did you know that she had come in?”
“Yes. When you fouled us I thought that I was saved, but a little later I discovered that we had got away and were standing out to sea. Konrad came down and begged me to come on deck, but I refused. I knew from the snatches of talk that came down through the skylight that we were crippled in some way, and that the Sabbath Day was chasing us. Then, about midnight, I noticed that the port-hole on the lee side was just under the surface of the water”
“Hooray!” I burst out, for now I began to understand.
Coline smiled faintly. “You know, Jack,” said she, “there is a little hatch in the owner's room that goes down into the wine-locker. It occurred to me that if I could get the port-hole open the water would pour in and run down this hatch into the hold. The hatch was not locked, so I got it up, then unscrewed the port-hole by putting the muzzle of the pistol through the ring. First, though, I took my bedding and made a sort of dam around the hatch so that the water wouldn't trickle out under the door. But this wasn't necessary, as the pressure was enough to force the water right over the bunk and down into the hatch.”
Saltonstall let out a bass chuckle and rubbed his hands together. “What did I tell you, Jack?” said he.
“You're a wonder of wonders, Coline!” I cried. “And you stayed there all night and watched her filling up?”
She nodded. “I knew that as she began to sink deeper she would sail slower,” said Coline. “They never discovered that she was leaking until early this morning, and then it never occurred to them where the water was coming in. I had screwed down the skylight so that they could not hear the splashing below. About four o'clock I heard Konrad coming below, so I managed to get the port-hole shut while he called through the door that we were sinking and told me to come up on deck. I answered: “All right. I'll dress and come right up.”
Then I opened the port again, and a few minutes later went on deck. Konrad told me that the jar on the masthead when you fouled us had started a butt under the step of the mast, and he cursed the Sabbath Day and all of you aboard in a way that made my blood run cold. I've learned a lot about Konrad. You and Father and Captain Saltonstall were right—” and she gently rubbed the bruises on her face.
“You didn't tell him, even then?” I asked, marveling at her nerve.
“No, because I saw the Sabbath Day coming up astern and we had our boats ready to lower. Konrad was in a still, white rage. Finally he hove to, but by that time we had sunk so deep that even when the yacht was not heeled over the port-hole was half under water. As he was standing by the rail he heard the splashing and looked over the side and saw the water swirling in. He rushed below and shut the port, then came on deck—” Coline's face paled and her breath came faster. “When I saw his face as he came toward me I thought that he was going to kill me. I got off easily, Jack, considering the sort of man he is.”
“That's more than our friend Von Reibnitz can say,” chuckled Saltonstall. “My word, but you did batter him, Jack! Mr. Whistler says that the first thing he'll need to buy on getting ashore is a new set of teeth.”
I glanced at my bandaged hand and could well believe it. “He was lucky to get off with his life,” I answered; “and if my memory serves me right Whistler has a little souvenir, too.”
Saltonstall laughed joyously. “His eye is closed tight,” he answered, “but he bears no ill will. Fact is, he says that he would not go so far as to say that it does not serve him right for his part in the business.”
“Nobody is likely to dispute that,” I answered. “Did Von Reibnitz come around?”
“Yes. We left him cursing everything an inch high and a minute old. I fancy we've seen the last of that gentleman.”
“Tell me one thing,” said I: “How did Whistler happen to come to the island three weeks ahead of time?”
Saltonstall smiled. He appeared to have forgotten his own ills in the joy of the rescue. “Mr. Satterlie cabled to Tahiti instructing the schooner to fetch Miss Coline with all haste. He must have learned that Von Reibnitz had chartered the yacht and have been afraid that he might stumble on the place. Well, well—I'll leave you now and try to get a little rest. Didn't sleep a wink all night.” And the worthy marina slipped an improvised crutch under his shoulder and hobbled off.
When he had gone I looked at Coline, and Coline looked back at me. There was a soft light in her eyes, such as I had seen once or twice on the island, and despite the strain through which she had just passed, her cheeks held a delicate tinge of color which deepened under my gaze. I reached for her hand and carried it to my lips, and Coline let it rest there, while her breath came faster.
I tried to speak, but my voice got no farther than my throat, while the tears brimmed out of my eyes and trickled down on to the pillow. It must be remembered that I had been through an ordeal, both mental and physical, such as comes seldom in the lives of most people. The worst of it all was that terrible night in the cave. I began to tell Coline about it, and when I described how Saltonstall and I had struggled down from the lake and through the bush her own eyes brimmed over.
“I'm a lucky girl to have two such friends, Jack,” she said. “Were you so terribly distressed at losing me?”
“I wanted to die,” I answered.
Coline's bright head drooped lower until it rested on the rim of the bunk. I put my lacerated hand on her hair.
“Do you love me as much as that, Jack dear?” she murmured.
“Can you doubt it, Coline?” I asked, and took her face between my hands and looked deep into her eyes. The next instant her cheek was pillowed on my chest and my arms were around her.
CHAPTER XXIII
The Love Ship
In the words of Hiawatha: “Pleasant was the journey homeward.” There were the same gorgeous sunrises and sunsets, but where their glory had been terrestrial as we plodded south it was now celestial, because we dwelt in paradise. We watched them with fingers entwined, and the vibrant beats of the Lord of Day as he sprang from the sea at birth and achieved his quotidian course, to die in pulsating flames of color, found echo in the throb of our hearts, beating in perfect unison. “Pleasant was the journey homeward.”
The Sabbath Day was a Love Ship, sailing over a Love Sea to the Port of Love. I can say it now, for this was long ago, yet not so long that any of the sweetness has dimmed or faded. The tall schooner marched northward in an aura all her own. Well was she named the Sabbath Day, for the peace which encircled her was God-given and sublime.
Needless to say, I did not fulfil my threats in regard to Mr. Satterlie. He wept like a child when he gave us his blessing, which was not surprising, as mirthful natures are prone to tears. As for Saltonstall, he is now fleet captain, retired, of the Satterlie Lines, with little to do but draw a liberal pension and delight the eye with the radiance of his attire.
Whistler also flourishes like a gnarled but sturdy oak. He married, at the age of fifty, a deep-bosomed, apple-cheeked woman fresh from the heather, and is rearing late in life a brood of stalwart sons on his ranch in the Saskatchewan Territory. I saw him not long ago and he observed reminiscently:
“I wudna' go so far as to say that a man is no' a fule to martyr sir-r. But some of us are aye born fules—and thank God I am ain o' them.”
Our second child, a daughter, is now eighteen, and I love her nearly to death, because, among other virtues, she is the image of her mother. She is a sweet and dutiful girl, though strong-willed at times. The youngsters—and some oldsters too, for that matter—buzz about her like flies about a honey-pot; but so far as Coline and I can ascertain she is still “heart whole and fancy free.” There is, however, one sturdy youth among her many suitors whom I particularly like, and so I think does “Colinette,” as we call her. Yet I must admit that at times she treats him pretty badly, and then he usually pours out his woes to me.
At these times I grow rather thoughtful. When all is said and done there are worse theories than that of the “canary-cage.”
THE END