Code

Pritt watched the coast line slip over the horizon. Ahead everything was black and the men were making things secure. Queer people, these sailors, he reflected. He had met many of the old school. They were all the same, respecting codes time had handed down. Yes, and stubborn. Old Wold was stubborn in his determination to prevent the Crayton from landing her cargo. McNulty, though he was none too keen about the job, was determined to see it through now that he had agreed to Pritt’s proposition.

An hour later the storm was upon them. Great seas crashed over the deck; the woodwork creaked and groaned as the vessel labored. McNulty paced a spray-drenched bridge. He was dressed in oilskins and the face peering from beneath the sou’wester was ruddy and glowing with the joy of battle. The blue eyes peered into the darkness and saw many things denied the landsmen. The flesh about the eyes was lined and seamed from many years squinting, for phantom ships leap unexpectedly from the fog; phantom reefs bare their fangs on stormy nights and the sailor’s only guess must be the right guess.

With this man on the bridge a sense of security stole over Pritt. He retired to his bunk, snuggled in the warmth of the blankets and listened to the roar of the storm and the break of the seas against the riveted walls. The pulsations of the engine lulled him to sleep.

It was the change in the engine room rhythm that awakened him. Sensing the unusual, Pritt dressed hastily. The Crayton was wallowing in a troubled sea. Sounds that the engine usually stilled became audible; spray hissed; waves broke and rushed into an inky night. “What’s the trouble, Captain. Coast Guarder?”

The Coast Guard vessels were a nightmare to Pritt. The storm might have driven them within the twelve mile limit.

“Vessel in distress. See her? Dead ahead, sir!” The skipper pointed a stubby finger. Pritt could see nothing, but presently a flare outlined the masts and shrouds of a small schooner. She was barely making headway. “Full speed ahead, Mr. Hansen! We’ll speak her!”

The mate executed the order, first repeating it.

When she was alongside the battered craft McNulty’s voice boomed a “On deck there?”

“Hello!” The answer came from a figure clinging to the schooner’s wheel. The wind carried half the man’s words away. Pritt caught, “--engineer--foot--in--’chinery--crushed--aid?”

“Engineer crushed his foot in the machinery,” McNulty explained. “Needs aid!” He turned to the mate. “Mr. Hansen we’ll take him aboard.”

McNulty did not say they would attempt to take him aboard the Crayton. He said they would take him. It was evident the schooner’s small crew had prepared for this. They carried a limp figure to a contrivance of wood and canvas secured to a midships deckhouse and lashed it. With few words being passed the two crews worked in unison.

Pritt gripped the bridge rail and held his breath as one of the Crayton’s cargo booms swung over the schooner’s deck. The steel block swung dangerously, caught and tore free some light gear on the smaller craft, then came banging against the steamer’s side. With infinite patience they maneuvered the restless craft and bided their time--knowing that in the end it would come.

Deft hands finally caught the block and hooked it into a network of lines as the schooner was on the crest of a wave. The next instant she had dropped beneath the improvised stretcher and the injured man swung into space. The sea leaped up furiously, as if denied its prey, then dropped sullenly away. The Crayton’s hoists whined, then slackened away on the falls as the stretcher came clear of the side. A dozen men rushed forward to stop the swinging burden. It knocked them down and crashed against steel walls of the deck houses. Pritt could feel his own flesh wince as the injured man’s bones snapped from the impact. The falls slacked away suddenly and their burden stopped soddenly in the water surging on the deck. Brief as was the pause it was sufficient for eager hands to snatch the man from the stretcher and carry him into a cabin. Drenched and battered, the men withdrew. The captain and the steward examined the victim.

The skipper’s thick fingers explored his ribs which had taken much of the impact. “Some broken,” he announced. “Arm broken, too! He’s unconscious, but coming ’round. Now for the foot!” The swollen, pulpy mass might have been a foot at one time, but now---- Pritt shuddered. It looked as if it had been fed into a rock crusher.

The skipper scribbled a brief message:

Captain Wold, U.S.C.G. Chinook. Have taken badly injured man from Schooner, Vivian Gill. Leg amputation necessary. Radio position. McNulty, Crayton.

Pritt read the message and licked his lips, suddenly grown dry. “Are you taking him inside the twelve mile limit, Captain?” he inquired.

“Certainly, sir! God was with us in getting him aboard. We could never transfer him again--and be lucky.”

“We might!” Pritt’s voice was hoarse. “If we’re caught inside the twelve mile limit---- God, Captain, and you’re going right into the cove where the Chinook’s anchored. It means--ship and cargo.”

“He can’t be transferred again at sea,” McNulty answered grimly.

“Try it!”

“We can’t trifle with a dying man.”

“If the cutter would meet us he’d get attention that much sooner. Try it----”

“No!”

“I order you to do it, sir!” The words came thickly. Pritt’s face was ashen. A jury might take into consideration the circumstance and free them, but it would never return ship and cargo--it could not. “I order you to at least attempt it, sir!”

“You order?” McNulty’s eyes glittered.

“Yes!”

“You’ve forgotten the law of the sea, sir. I am the only man who gives orders on this ship. I am responsible.”

“When we touch port, sir----”

“Yes, when we do,” McNulty rasped anticipating his words. “My chest is always packed!” he added.

With the storm blowing her shoreward and the engines turning over at full speed the Crayton was breaking her best previous record. McNulty was grim as he crossed the twelve mile limit. In time the grim walls of the coast loomed ahead. Even in the darkness the line of surf stood out sharply and white. Somewhere there was a break. They felt the ground swell now--the lift and fall was different.

“Peril of the sea!” muttered Pritt. “I hope we strike. The Coast Guarder is there to rescue us. I hope we strike!”