The Wreck of the Titan by Morgan Robertson (books that read to you txt) 📕

declined it; he then put it with his papers and returned to the deck, seating himself in a deck chair on the quarter. The watch below had gone down, and those on deck, under Jenkins, who stood no watch, busied themselves in the necessary cleaning up of decks and stowing below of the fenders the boat had worn at the dock.

Forsythe had gone below, and Denman was somewhat glad in his heart to be free of him until he had settled his mind in regard to his attitude toward him.

Manifestly he, a prisoner on parole, could not seek a conflict with him. On the contrary, should Forsythe seek it, by word or deed, he could not meet him without breaking his parole, which would bring him close confinement.

Then, too, that prospective fight and vindication before Miss Florrie and his townsmen seemed of very small importance compared with the exigency at hand—the stealing by jail-breakers of the navy's best destroyer and one of its officers.

His duty was to circumvent those fellows, and return the boat to the government. To accomplish this he must be tactful and diplomatic, deferring action until the time should come when he could safely ask to be released from parole; and with regard to this he was glad that Forsythe, though as evil-eyed as before, and with an additional truculent expression of the face, had thus far shown him no incivility. He was glad, too, because in his heart there were no revengeful thoughts about Forsythe—nothing but thoughts of a duty to himself that had been sadly neglected.

Thus tranquilized, he lit a cigar and looked around the horizon.

A speck to the north caught his eye, and as he watched, it became a spot, then a tangible silhouette—a battle-ship, though of what country he could not determine.

It was heading on a course that would intercept their own, and in a short time, at the speed they were making, the destroyer would be within range of her heavy guns, one shell from which could break the frail craft in two.

Jenkins and his crowd were busy, the man at the wheel was steering by compass and looking ahead, and it was the wireless operator on watch—Casey—who rushed on deck, looked at the battle-ship, and shouted to Jenkins.

"Don't you see that fellow?" he yelled, excitedly. "I heard him before I saw him. He asked: 'What ship is that?'"

Jenkins looked to the north, just in time to see a tongue of red dart from a casemate port; then, as the bark of the gun came down the wind, a spurt of water lifted from the sea about a hundred yards ahead.

"Port your wheel—hard over," yelled Jenkins, running forward. The destroyer swung to the southward, showing her stern to the battle-ship, and increasing her speed as the engine-room staff nursed the oil feed and the turbines. Black smoke—unconsumed carbon that even the blowers could not ignite—belched up from the four short funnels, and partly hid her from the battle-ship's view.

But, obscure though she was, she could not quite hide herself in her smoke nor could her speed carry her faster than the twelve-inch shells that now came plowing through the air. They fell close, to starboard and to port, and a few came perilously near to the stern; but none hit or exploded, and soon they were out of range and the firing ceased, the battle-ship heading to the west.

Jenkins came aft, and looked sternly at Denman, still smoking his cigar.

"Did you see that fellow before we did?" he asked.

"I did," answered Denman, returning his stare.

"Why didn't you sing out? If we're sunk, you drown, too, don't you?"

"You forget, Captain Jenkins, that I accepted my parole on condition that I should neither interfere with you nor assist you."

"But your life—don't you value that?"

"Not under some conditions. If I cannot emerge from this adventure with credit and honor intact, I prefer death. Do you understand?"

Jenkins' face worked visibly, as anger left it and wondering doubt appeared. Then his countenance cleared, and he smiled.

"You're right, sir. I understand now. But you know what we mean to do, don't you? Make the African coast and scatter. You can stand for that, can't you?"

"Not unless I have to. But you will not reach the coast. You will be hunted down and caught before then."

Jenkins' face clouded again. "And what part will you play if that comes?" he asked.

"No part, active or resistant, unless first released from parole. But if I ask for that release, it will be at a time when I am in greater danger than now, I promise you that."

"Very well, sir. Ask for it when you like." And Jenkins went forward.

The course to the southeast was resumed, but in half an hour two other specks on the southern horizon resolved into scout cruisers heading their way, and they turned to the east, still rushing at full speed.

They soon dropped the scouts, however, but were again driven to the north by a second battle-ship that shelled their vicinity for an hour before they got out of range.

It was somewhat discouraging; but, as darkness closed down, they once more headed their course, and all night they charged along at forty knots, with lights extinguished, but with every man's eyes searching the darkened horizon for other lights. They dodged a few, but daylight brought to view three cruisers ahead and to port that showed unmistakable hostility in the shape of screaming shells and solid shot.

Again they charged to the north, and it was mid-day before the cruisers were dropped. They were French, as all knew by their build.

Though there was no one navigating the boat, Denman, in view of future need of it, took upon himself the winding of the chronometers; and the days went on, Casey and Munson reporting messages sent from shore to ship; battle-ships, cruisers, scouts, and destroyers appearing and disappearing, and their craft racing around the Atlantic like a hunted fox.

Jenkins did his best to keep track of the various courses; but, not skilled at "traverse," grew bewildered at last, and frankly intimated that he did not know where they were.

CHAPTER V

One morning there was a council of war amidships to which Denman was not invited until it had adjourned as a council to become a committee of ways and means. Then they came aft in a body, and asked him to navigate.

"No," said Denman, firmly, rising to his feet and facing them. "I will not navigate unless you surrender this craft to me, and work her back to Boston, where you will return to the prison."

"Well, we won't do that," shouted several, angrily.

"Wait, you fellows," said Jenkins, firmly, "and speak respectfully to an officer, while he acts like one. Mr. Denman, your position need not be changed for the worse. You can command this boat and all hands if you will take us to the African coast."

"My position would be changed," answered Denman. "If I command this boat, I take her back to Boston, not to the African coast."

"Very well, sir," said Jenkins, a shade of disappointment on his face. "We cannot force you to join us, or help us; so—well, come forward, you fellows."

"Say, Jenkins!" broke in Forsythe. "You're doing a lot of dictating here, and I've wondered why! Who gave you the right to decide? You admit your incompetency; you can't navigate, can you?"

"No, I cannot," retorted Jenkins, flushing. "Neither can I learn, at my age. Neither can you."

"I can't?" stormed Forsythe, his eyes glaring white as he glanced from Jenkins to Denman and back. "Well, I'll tell you I can. I tell you I haven't forgotten all I learned at school, and that I can pick up navigation without currying favor from this milk-fed thief. You know well"—he advanced and held his fist under Denman's face—"that I won the appointment you robbed me of, and that the uniform you wear belongs to me."

At the first word Denman's heart gave the old, familiar thump and jump into his throat. Then came a quick reaction—a tingling at the hair roots, an opening of the eyes, followed by their closing to narrow slits, and, with the full weight of his body behind, he crashed his fist into Forsythe's face, sending him reeling and whirling to the deck.

He would have followed, to repeat the punishment, but the others stopped him. In an intoxication of ecstasy at the unexpected adjustment of his mental poise, he struck out again and again, and floored three or four of them before Jenkins backed him against the companion.

"He's broken his parole—put him in irons—chuck him overboard," they chorused, and closed around him threateningly, though Forsythe, his hand to his face, remained in the background.

"That's right, sir," said Jenkins, holding Denman at the end of one long arm. "You have violated your agreement with us, and we must consider you a prisoner under confinement."

"All right," panted Denman. "Iron me, if you like, but first form a ring and let me thrash that dog. He thrashed me at school when I was the smaller and weaker. I've promised him a licking. Let me give it to him."

"No, sir, we will not," answered Jenkins. "Things are too serious for fighting. You must hand me that pistol and any arms you may have, and be confined to the wardroom. And you, Forsythe," he said, looking at the victim, "if you can master navigation, get busy and make good. And you other ginks get out of here. Talk it over among yourselves, and if you agree with Forsythe that I'm not in command here, get busy, too, and I'll overrule you."

He released Denman, moved around among them, looking each man steadily in the face, and they straggled forward.

"Now, sir," he said to Denman, "come below."

Denman followed him down the companion and into the wardroom. Knowing the etiquette as well as Jenkins, he led him to his room, opened his desk and all receptacles, and Jenkins secured the revolver.

"Is this all you have, sir?" asked Jenkins.

"Why do you ask that?" answered Denman, hotly. "As a prisoner, why may I not lie to you?"

"Because, Mr. Denman, I think you wouldn't. However, I won't ask; I'll search this room and the whole boat, confiscating every weapon. You will have the run of your stateroom and the wardroom, but will not be allowed on deck. And you will not be annoyed, except perhaps to lend Forsythe any books he may want. He's the only educated man in the crowd."

"Better send him down under escort," responded Denman, "if you want him back."

"Yes, yes, that'll be attended to. I've no part in your private affairs, sir; but you gave him one good one, and that ought to be enough for a while. If you tackle him again, you'll have the whole bunch at you. Better let well enough alone."

Denman sat down in his room, and Jenkins departed. Soon he came back with three others—the steadiest men of the crew—and they made a systematic search for weapons in the wardroom and all staterooms opening from it. Then they locked the doors leading to the captain's quarters and the doors leading forward, and went on deck, leaving Denman a prisoner, free to concoct any antagonistic plans that came to his mind.

But he made none, as yet; he was too well-contented and happy, not so much in being released from a somewhat false position as a prisoner under parole as in the lifting of the burden of the years, the shame, humiliation, chagrin, and anger dating from the school-day thrashing. He smiled as he recalled the picture of Forsythe staggering along the deck. The smile became a grin, then a soft chuckle, ending in joyous laughter; then he applied the masculine leveler of all emotion—he smoked.

The staterooms—robbed of all weapons—were left open, and, as each room contained a deadlight, or circular window, he had a view of the