If Courtenay could have dropped quietly into the sea through the stout

hull of the Kansas he would have welcomed the certain result in that

bitter moment. But he was the captain, and men would look to him for

salvation. Well, he would do all that was possible, and, at any rate,

die at his post. So, choking back his misery, he organized the work of

rescue. Slings were formed of ropes, and those men in whom any signs

of life were visible were the first to be lifted to the upper deck.

The stoke-hold was quickly emptied of its inanimate occupants; living

and dead alike were carried to the untenanted second-class saloon

forward. Then Courtenay left Walker to solve the puzzle of the

accident and report on its extent, while he climbed back to the bridge,

there to tackle the far more pressing problem of the measures to be

adopted if he would save his ship.

It was typical of the man that his first act was to wipe the grime of

the stoke-hold off his face and hands. Then he drew a chart from the

locker in which he had placed it two hours earlier. Mr. Boyle, who had

been attending to the signals both by siren and rocket, joined him.

Courtenay pointed to a pin-mark in the sheet.

"We were there at six o'clock," he said, and his voice was so steady

that he seemed now to be free from the least touch of anxiety. "The

course was South-40-East, and, against this wind and sea, together with

a strong current to the nor'east, we would make eight knots under easy

steam. Therefore, by eight o'clock, when the furnaces blew out, we

were here."

He jabbed in a pin a little further down the chart. Mr. Boyle, whose

peculiar gifts in the way of speech were accurately described by Dr.

Christobal, grunted agreement.

"Huh," he said.

Courtenay glanced at a chronometer.

"It is now a quarter to nine," he went on, "and I reckon that since the

ship swung round we have been carried at least six knots to the

nor'east."

"Huh," growled Mr. Boyle again, but he bent a trifle nearer the chart.

To his sailor's eyes the situation was quite simple. Unless, by God's

providence, some miracle happened, the Kansas was a doomed ship. The

pin stuck where the Admiralty chart recorded soundings of one hundred

fathoms with a fine sand bed. The longitude was 75-50 west of

Greenwich and latitude 51-35 south. Staring at them from the otherwise

blank space which showed the wide expanse of the Pacific was an ominous

note by the compilers of the chart: "Seamen are cautioned not to make free with these shores, as they are

very imperfectly known, and, from their wild, desolate character, they

cannot be approached with safety."




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