Part 8 (1/2)

”Can't _you_ see where you're going?--keep off yourself.”

By that time the signal quartermaster was awake and bounding across the bridge. He grabbed the wheel and began to spin it around. The s.h.i.+p's bow turned. Doc saw the big hulk go by him in the dark.

”Good work,” said Doc. ”How'd you spot him so quick?”

”I didn't spot him, sir. I don't see him yet. I went by the sound of his voice.”

”Special little angel perched up aloft to look out for Jack when at sea--” sang Doc. ”I thought that was a nursery rhyme. Now I know it's true. Between you and me, quartermaster, we'll get this s.h.i.+p to port yet.”

They finished that night and the next day without seeing anything or having anything happen. Nothing except the argument about the forward compartment.

Among the sh.e.l.ls which had come aboard the steamer was one which had punched a fine big hole in her bow. The s.h.i.+p's crew had put a plug there which worked all right till the s.h.i.+p took to rolling, which it did this day. The hole was just at the water-line. Before they knew anything about it there was the plug gone and the water up to a man's knees in the forward compartment. Doc said it should be stopped.

The old skipper wanted to know who was going to stop it. His crew? No, sir. He wouldn't ask any of 'em to go down there--besides, they wouldn't go. They were all used up since the battle with the U-boat. It made no difference if the s.h.i.+p sank. He'd had so much trouble that trip anyway that he wasn't too sure he wouldn't just as soon see her sink. He wasn't too sure they wouldn't all be better off in the boats. The U-boat had ordered them into the boats, and, only the destroyer had come along when it did, they would 'a' taken to the boats, and then they'd 'a' been picked up and no more watches or s.h.i.+ps or holes in the for'ard compartment to worry about.

There was nothing left but for Doc to call for volunteers from among the gun crew. They were bluejackets, and their only complaint on the trip had been that the U-boat's guns had outranged their guns. They volunteered in a body--even the three wounded members. Doc took all the sound ones and went down into the forward compartment with a mattress and some scantling he found in the hold. The water was by then about up to the men's waists. It was hard, cold work, but they got it done--the mattress stuffed into the hole and the scantling shoring it up. It still leaked, but not much--a little auxiliary steam in there at intervals did not quite keep her dried out, but it kept her head above water, so that was all right. All that day she was a lone steamer plugging her halting way over a wide sea. Seven knots was her speed, and all hands tickled to be making that because of weak places showing from time to time in her steam department--damages by sh.e.l.l fire which they did not appreciate properly at first.

They were nearing the coast of France. They would have to make a landfall soon, and running without lights, as they were, made things hard, so the old skipper began to talk to Doc. If the doctor didn't mind, he would take full charge of the s.h.i.+p himself. She was a big s.h.i.+p with a three-million-dollar cargo, and if anything happened her, the owners would naturally look to him, the master, for it.

Doc thought it was a pretty cool way to wash out all record of what his little force had done, but he also recognized the old fellow's position.

”It sounds reasonable,” said Doc, ”but I think you ought to give me an idea of what you're going to do.”

”There's been no sun for a sight these two days, but we were here”--he made a new dot over an old one on the chart--”and logging so many knots to-day noon we ought to be”--he made another dot--”about here now.”

”How about the tides?”

”The tides? Oh, yes! Well, I don't know about the tides. You see, I never made a port in France before.”

”You didn't?”

There was a coast chart-book in the rack. Doc took it down and began to read it. He made regular trips down to see how his wounded patient was getting on, but always hurried back to his coast chart-book. Interesting things in chart-books--he used to read them aboard the destroyer.

That night the first mate came up on the bridge. Doc asked him what kind of a light he expected to pick up. The mate told him. Doc thought he was wrong, and said so.

Well, that was the light the old man had said they would make. Where was he now? Asleep, and Lord knows he needed it.

Doc did not wake him up. He had argued enough with him, but he didn't think the old man had allowed for the tides, and if anything happened there would be no more arguments--he would just a.s.sert his rank and take charge of the s.h.i.+p.

Doc went below, gave his worst wounded patient a night potion and saw him to sleep. He also went down to see the chief engineer, who had been wounded three times--once in the head. The Doc talked to him awhile--he was inclined to rave--gave him a half-grain jolt of morphine and saw him to sleep. He told the signal quartermaster that he had better have a nap before he dropped in his tracks.

”But the night-watches, sir?”

”We'll leave the night-watches to the s.h.i.+p's crew and Providence. The watch may sleep on the job, but the Lord won't--at least I hope not.

Anyway, I know I'm doggone tired,” said Doc, and turned in.

Doc could have slept longer--about twenty-four hours longer, he thought, when he found himself awake. It was a sort of grinding under the s.h.i.+p which had wakened him.

By his illuminated wrist-watch he saw that it was three o'clock--three in the afternoon, he hoped. But it wasn't. It was three in the morning.