Lying there motionless, yet wide awake, his senses alert, every slightest sound and movement made clearer the situation. He could feel the laboured efforts of the vessel, the slap of waves against the side, the rush of water astern. Occasionally the echo of a voice reached him from the deck above, and once footsteps were audible almost over his head. The engine strokes were regular, but slow, the vibrations shaking the boat in its sturdy battling against the forces of the sea. The
Seminole rolled heavily, yet there was nothing at all alarming in her actions, and West felt no premonition of illness, or fear as to the sea-worthiness of the little craft. Whoever was handling her was evidently a seaman, quite capable of conquering a storm of this magnitude. No noise came to him from the cabin, yet he had no thought it could be deserted. Hogan would certainly retain a guard there, and probably others--with no duties of seamanship weighing on them--would seek refuge there from the wind-swept deck above. No doubt the fellows had a skipper, as neither Hogan, nor the man Mark, bore any resemblance to a lake sailor. Quite possibly the entire crew were innocent of what was actually transpiring aboard, and equally indifferent, so long as their wages were satisfactory. Yet it was even more probable that they had been selected for this special service because of lack of ordinary scruples; men who would never question so long as the pay was adequate for the danger involved. It seemed to West the wind and sea were slowly decreasing in violence; there was less noise and turmoil. The movement of the vessel began to lull him into forgetfulness, his vigilance relapsed, his mind drifting in thought. He endeavoured to arouse himself, to keep awake, but finally fatigue conquered, and he sank into a deep sleep. He had no knowledge of how long this slumber lasted, or what suddenly awakened him, so startled at the moment that he sat up in the berth, staring into the blackness. Was it a dream, or a reality? Had some one spoken? He could neither see nor hear anything; the boat seemed to be motionless, not even throbbing now to the beat of the engine--the silence was uncanny. It seemed to him his own heart had stopped, so still it was, and he felt a cold perspiration break out on his flesh. Something was wrong, must be wrong. Where were they--at anchor in some harbour? or helplessly adrift on the lake? The sea must have gone down; waves no longer dashed against the side, and there was no shriek of wind overhead; the yacht rocked gently, as though the swell of the sea no longer buffeted her; there was no sound of action on the deck above. Then he heard a voice again, outside, reaching him this time plainly through the open port.
"All set, Mapes," it said sharply. "Come on down. You finished the job?"
"Ay, ay, sir," the answer gruff, but with a tinge of excitement in the tone. "She's fixed all right. Hold hard, now, mate."
West, thoroughly aroused, realizing instantly the importance of this new move, and as quickly suspecting its purpose, leaped to the port-hole, and, endeavoured to gain a glimpse without. The night was still intensely black, the sky overcast and starless, the only glimmer of light the reflecting of foam tipped surges. If land was near it remained invisible, nor could he even be sure of the close proximity of a boat. There seemed to be a smudge there at the left, a black, lumping shadow, shapeless against the background of sea; yet he could not be sure. Even as he gazed at it doubtfully, the dim object disappeared, fading away like a mirage. No sound reached him to cause the vision to seem real--no voice, no creak of oars, no flap of a sail; yet something told him that mysterious shadow was a boat, a boat filled with men, creeping away silently into the night, fleeing from the yacht, and vanishing into the darkness.
My God, what could such action mean? Why were these fellows deserting the
Seminole, leaving him helpless aboard, locked into that stateroom? Was the yacht disabled? sinking? and had they merely forgotten him in their own eagerness to escape? Were they in mid-lake? or close to some point of land? Had every one gone, leaving the vessel totally abandoned, a wreck buffeted by the surges, doomed to go down, unseen, its final fate unknown? Unknown! The word rising to his brain was the answer. There was the crest of the plot. What could be easier, or safer, than this ending? Who would ever know the truth? Who could ever prove anything, even if they suspected? And who was there to suspect?
No one had reason to believe he was aboard the
Seminole; not even McAdams. If it was to their interest to get him permanently out of the way--if Hobart had so decided--what simpler method could be found than the sinking of the yacht? The very crew might be innocent of the purpose, dupes of the conspiracy; they might even be unaware of his presence aboard, and deceived by Hogan into the belief that the vessel had opened a seam, and must sink shortly, would take to the boat without suspecting any one was left behind. They could so testify in all honesty if any question ever arose. The very simplicity of the scheme meant safety; yet the possibility of such cold blooded murder had never before occurred to him. Unknown! without a trace left; only a boat crew landing somewhere on the coast at dawn, and scattering to the four winds. It was a plot infernal.
West stopped, his hands clinched, his heart seeming to stop its pulsing. But if Natalie Coolidge was also prisoner on board, what of her? Wasn't that the very thing most probable? Of course it was; how foolish he had been. These men, recklessly criminal, as they were, would never sacrifice the yacht, and risk their own lives, merely to put him out of the way. He was not important enough for that; he was but an incident. It was an accident which had made him a prisoner. While this was--must be--a carefully arranged plan. The girl then must be the real victim; his own plight arose merely because he chanced to be there, and the villains dare not leave him alive to tell the story.
The certainty of this acted like an electric shock. He had not felt seriously alarmed before as to his own fate. He had only been conscious of a deep anger, a mad determination to make Hogan pay. If the
Seminole was sinking, and beyond doubt this was the intention of those deserters, it was going down slowly, so slowly there would be ample time for escape. He was not asleep, but wide awake, and far from paralyzed by the danger. He was not the sort to give up while there was any hope left. Surely the guard in the cabin would have departed with the others, leaving him free to act. He could smash his way out through that door, and find something on deck to construct a raft from. This was Lake Michigan, not the ocean, and not many hours would pass before he was picked up. Vessels were constantly passing, and daylight would bring rescue.
But now the task became difficult. He must find the girl, and serve her. To his surprise, his heart beat rapidly in contemplation of the task. Surely she must welcome his coming to her assistance now. She would be alone, free to reveal the truth of all this strange mix-up of affairs; perhaps the old trust, the old confidence between them would be renewed. At least in the midst of such peril, alone on the sinking yacht, facing possible death together, he would again discover the real Natalie Coolidge. The hope instantly inspired action. Every minute might mean life or death; the work must be accomplished now, if ever. The
Seminole was evidently deserted, the boat containing the fleeing crew already far enough away to be beyond sound of any noise he might make. He already felt the wallowing of the deck beneath his feet, a dead, dull feeling, evidence enough that the deserted vessel was slowly, but surely going down. The condition could not last long; faster and faster the water would seep into her hold, until suddenly, without warning, perhaps, she must go down like a stone.
All these thoughts flashed across his mind almost in an instant; there was no hesitancy, no waste of time. His eager eyes searched the narrow confines of the stateroom for some possible weapon with which to assail the door. The stout stool alone seemed available. Swinging this over his shoulder, hampered by the narrowness of space, he struck again and again, with all his strength, the upper panel splintering beneath the third crashing blow. He could see nothing, but felt with his fingers along the jagged ends of the shattered wood, and redoubled his efforts, striking wildly, but with effect, until suddenly the lock gave, and the door burst open. He was in the main cabin, which was unlit and deserted. Standing there confused in the grim silence, unable for the instant to determine how to advance in the dark, he could hear the rapid beating of his own heart, and the continuous lap of waves outside. God! how sodden the deck felt under foot; what a sickening swell hurled the craft, and such stillness! If the girl was aboard why did she not cry out? Surely she must have heard that noise, the rain of blows, the crunch of wood.
He stood, crouched, listening intently for something to guide him in the right direction. And yet, even if Natalie had heard, what reason would the girl have to suspect the truth? Likely enough she was sound asleep, completely worn out, and with no knowledge of what had occurred on board. It was only the sound of that voice speaking loudly in the boat alongside which had aroused him. She had no reason to suspect desertion, no occasion to believe any other prisoner than herself was aboard. The noise of crashing wood, even if it awoke her, would have no special meaning to her mind, only perhaps to add to her terror. He must act alone; there was no other way. If he could only have a light of some kind, and not be compelled to grope blindly about in that intense darkness.
He stepped cautiously forward, with hands outstretched, swaying to the sudden roll of the sinking hulk underneath his feet. He struck a piece of furniture, a bench bolted to the deck, and then his groping fingers came in sudden contact with the cabin wall, which he followed, circling to the left. In this manner he succeeded in finally locating the door opening out on to the deck, and had grasped the knob, when a deep moan from the black void behind caused him to become suddenly erect, his heart beating like a trip-hammer. No other sound followed, no repetition, and yet there could be no mistaking what he had heard. It was a groan, a human groan, emanating from a spot but a few feet away. He took a single step in that direction; then hesitated, fearful of some trap; in the silence as he stood there poised, he could faintly distinguish the sound of some one breathing unnaturally.
"Who is there? Who moaned just now?" he asked, struggling to control his voice.
"I did," the answer was a mere husky whisper out of the darkness. "Masters, the watchman; but who are you? I don't know your voice."
"It makes no difference; are you hurt? Where are you? How can I get a light?"
"Yes, sir; I'm about done for I guess; you're over by the door, ain't you? There's a hangin' lantern just up above, if you've got a match with you. Say, that looks good; I didn't hardly know but I was dead, it was so black. But I never saw you before; how did you get aboard here?"
The flame of the match caught the wick, and flared up, throwing a dim illumination over the cabin interior. West drew down the glass, before he ventured to glance in the direction of the voice. A man lay facing him, curled up on the deck, his hair, matted with blood, hanging over eyes that were burning with fever. He made no attempt to rise, apparently was unable to move, and a dark, bloody stain covered the deck. West sprang forward, and lifted the head on his arm.
"You are hurt--badly?" he exclaimed. "What can I do for you?"
"Nuthin', I reckon," still in that same strained whisper. "I'm done for; no doubt of it. That guy got me. You ain't one o' that murderin' gang, are you?"
"No; I was a prisoner on board; I came here to help a girl."
"A girl! Miss Coolidge you mean, sir?"
"Yes, Natalie Coolidge; do you know anything about her? Where she is?"
"Sure, I know; the damn whelps left her here; that was their dirty game, sir. 'Twas because I tried to unlock her door that Hogan slugged me. The boat's goin' down, ain't it? I know'd it was; I heard the skunks talk about what they was goin' to do, an' then I tried to get her out, sir."
"You were the watchman?"
"Yes, sir; down in the lagoon at Jackson Park. These fellows come off to the yacht about midnight, an' they had Miss Coolidge with 'em. That's what fooled me, sir, an' I let 'em get aboard, thinkin' it must be all right. After that I couldn't do nuthin'--there was six to one, an' that 'Red' Hogan had a gun in his mitt. They hustled me down into the cabin. I didn't even know she was a prisoner until they locked her into a stateroom; then I got wise, but it was too late."
"And she is there yet, Masters? What room is it?"
"The last one to the right, sir. Don't you mind about me; I'm done for, but maybe there's a chance for you two."