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The Wreck Of The Titan
by
The shapes were swallowed in the blackness astern; the cries were hushed by the clamor of the gale, and the steamship Titan swung back to her course. The first officer had not turned the lever of the engine-room telegraph.
The boatswain bounded up the steps of the bridge for instructions.
“Put men at the hatches and doors. Send every one who comes on deck to the chart-room. Tell the watchman to notice what the passengers have learned, and clear away that wreck forward as soon as possible.” The voice of the officer was hoarse and strained as he gave these directions, and the “aye, aye, sir” of the boatswain was uttered in a gasp.
CHAPTER IV
The crow’s-nest “lookout,” sixty feet above the deck, had seen every detail of the horror, from the moment when the upper sails of the doomed ship had appeared to him above the fog to the time when the last tangle of wreckage was cut away by his watchmates below. When relieved at four bells, he descended with as little strength in his limbs as was compatible with safety in the rigging. At the rail, the boatswain met him.
“Report your relief, Rowland,” he said, “and go into the chart-room!”
On the bridge, as he gave the name of his successor, the first officer seized his hand, pressed it, and repeated the boatswain’s order. In the chart-room, he found the captain of the Titan, pale-faced and intense in manner, seated at a table, and, grouped around him, the whole of the watch on deck except the officers, lookouts, and quartermasters. The cabin watchmen were there, and some of the watch below, among whom were stokers and coal-passers, and also, a few of the idlers–lampmen, yeomen, and butchers, who, sleeping forward, had been awakened by the terrific blow of the great hollow knife within which they lived.
Three carpenters’ mates stood by the door, with sounding-rods in their hands, which they had just shown the captain–dry. Every face, from the captain’s down, wore a look of horror and expectancy. A quartermaster followed Rowland in and said:
“Engineer felt no jar in the engine-room, sir; and there’s no excitement in the stokehold.”
“And you watchmen report no alarm in the cabins. How about the steerage? Is that man back?” asked the captain. Another watchman appeared as he spoke.
“All asleep in the steerage, sir,” he said. Then a quartermaster entered with the same report of the forecastles.
“Very well,” said the captain, rising; “one by one come into my office–watchmen first, then petty officers, then the men. Quartermasters will watch the door–that no man goes out until I have seen him.” He passed into another room, followed by a watchman, who presently emerged and went on deck with a more pleasant expression of face. Another entered and came out; then another, and another, until every man but Rowland had been within the sacred precincts, all to wear the same pleased, or satisfied, look on reappearing. When Rowland entered, the captain, seated at a desk, motioned him to a chair, and asked his name.
“John Rowland,” he answered. The captain wrote it down.
“I understand,” he said, “that you were in the crow’s-nest when this unfortunate collision occurred.”
“Yes, sir; and I reported the ship as soon as I saw her.”
“You are not here to be censured. You are aware, of course, that nothing could be done, either to avert this terrible calamity, or to save life afterward.”
“Nothing at a speed of twenty-five knots an hour in a thick fog, sir.” The captain glanced sharply at Rowland and frowned.
“We will not discuss the speed of the ship, my good man,” he said, “or the rules of the company. You will find, when you are paid at Liverpool, a package addressed to you at the company’s office containing one hundred pounds in banknotes. This, you will receive for your silence in regard to this collision–the reporting of which would embarrass the company and help no one.”