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Page 111
The Chief winced. "Isn't that the best thing you could wish me?" he
said.
"Are you happy?"
"'I ha' lived and I ha' worked!'" he quoted sturdily.
Very shortly after that he left her; he made an excuse of being
needed below and swung off, his head high.
VI
They struck the derelict when the mist was thickest, about two that
morning. The Red Un was thrown out of his berth and landed, stark
naked, on the floor. The Purser's boy was on the floor, too, in a
tangle of bedding. There was a sickening silence for a moment,
followed by the sound of opening doors and feet in the passage.
There was very little speech. People ran for the decks. The Purser's
boy ran with them.
The Red Un never thought of the deck. One of the axioms of the
engine room is that of every man to his post in danger. The Red Un's
post was with his Chief. His bare feet scorched on the steel ladders
and the hot floor plates; he had on only his trousers, held up with
a belt.
The trouble was in the forward stokehole. Water was pouring in from
the starboard side--was welling up through the floor plates. The
wound was ghastly, fatal! The smouldering in the bunker had weakened
resistance there and her necrosed ribs had given away. The Red Un,
scurrying through the tunnel, was met by a maddened rush of trimmers
and stokers. He went down under them and came up bruised, bleeding,
battling for place.
"You skunks!" he blubbered. "You crazy cowards! Come back and help!"
A big stoker stopped and caught the boy's arm.
"You come on!" he gasped. "The whole thing'll go in a minute. She'll
go down by the head!"
He tried to catch the boy up in his arms, but the Red Un struck him
on the nose.
"Let me go, you big stiff!" he cried, and kicked himself free.
Not all the men had gone. They were working like fiends. It was up
to the bulkhead now. If it held--if it only held long enough to get
the passengers off!
Not an engineer thought of leaving his place, though they knew,
better even than the deck officers, how mortally the ship was hurt.
They called to their aid every resource of a business that is
nothing but emergencies. Engines plus wit, plus the grace of
God--and the engines were useless. Wits, then, plus Providence. The
pumps made no impression on the roaring flood; they lifted floor
plates to strengthen the bulkheads and worked until it was death to
work longer. Then, fighting for every foot, the little band
retreated to the after stokehole. Lights were out forward. The Chief
was the last to escape. He carried an oil lantern, and squeezed
through the bulkhead door with a wall of water behind him.
The Red Un cried out, but too late. The Chief, blinded by his
lantern, had stumbled into the pit where a floor plate had been
lifted. When he found his leg was broken he cried to them to go on
and leave him, but they got him out somehow and carried him with
them as they fought and retreated--fought and retreated. He was
still the Chief; he lay on the floor propped up against something
and directed the fight. The something he leaned against was the
strained body of the Red Un, who held him up and sniffled shamefaced
tears. She was down by the head already and rolling like a dying
thing. When the water came into the after stokehole they carried the
Chief into the engine room--the lights were going there.
There had been no panic on deck. There were boats enough and the
lights gave every one confidence. It was impossible to see the
lights going and believe the ship doomed. Those who knew felt the
list of the decks and hurried with the lowering of the boats; the
ones who saw only the lights wished to go back to their cabins for
clothing and money.
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