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."