As soon as I awoke I felt that the ship was in motion again, after having, I calculated, remained stationary since the previous day—no doubt in some lonely creek, since I had not heard or felt her come to anchor.
A few minutes ago—it must therefore have been six o’clock—I again heard footsteps on the other side of the iron wall of my compartment. Was anybody coming to my cell? Yes, for I heard the creaking of the bolts as they were drawn back, and then the door opened, and the darkness in which I had been plunged since the first hour of my captivity was illumined by the light of a lantern.
Two men, whom I had no time to look at, entered and seized me by the arms. A thick cloth was thrown over my head, which was enveloped in such a manner that I could see absolutely nothing.
What did it all mean? What were they going to do with me? I struggled, but they held me in an iron grasp. I questioned them, but they made no reply. The men spoke to each other in a language that I could not understand, and had never heard before.
They stood upon no ceremony with me. It is true I was only a madhouse warder, and they probably did not consider it necessary to do so; but I question very much whether Simon Hart, the engineer, would have received any more courtesy at their hands.
This time, however, no attempt was made to gag me nor to bind either my arms or legs. I was simply restrained by main force from breaking away from them.
In a moment I was dragged out of the compartment and pushed along a narrow passage. Next, the steps of a metallic stairway resounded under our feet. Then the fresh air blew in my face and I inhaled it with avidity.
Finally they took their hands from off me, and I found myself free. I immediately tore the cloth off my head and gazed about me.
I am on board a schooner which is ripping through the water at a great rate and leaving a long white trail behind her.
I had to clutch at one of the stays for support, dazzled as I was by the light after my forty-eight hours’ imprisonment in complete obscurity.
On the deck a dozen men with rough, weatherbeaten faces come and go—very dissimilar types of men, to whom it would be impossible to attribute any particular nationality. They scarcely take any notice of me.
As to the schooner, I estimate that she registers from two hundred and fifty to three hundred tons. She has a fairly wide beam, her masts are strong and lofty, and her large spread of canvas must carry her along at a spanking rate in a good breeze.
Aft, a grizzly-faced man is at the wheel, and he is keeping her head to the sea that is running pretty high.
I try to find out the name of the vessel, but it is not to be seen anywhere, even on the life-buoys.
I walk up to one of the sailors and inquire:
“What is the name of this ship?”
No answer, and I fancy the man does not understand me.
“Where is the captain?” I continue.
But the sailor pays no more heed to this than he did to the previous question.
I turn on my heel and go forward.
Above the forward hatchway a bell is suspended. Maybe the name of the schooner is engraved upon it. I examine it, but can find no name upon it.
I then return to the stern and address the man at the wheel. He gazes at me sourly, shrugs his shoulders, and bending, grasps the spokes of the wheel solidly, and brings the schooner, which had been headed off by a large wave from port, stem on to sea again.
Seeing that nothing is to be got from that quarter, I turn away and look about to see if I can find Thomas Roch, but I do not perceive him anywhere. Is he not on board? He must be. They could have had no reason for carrying me off alone. No one could have had any idea that I was Simon Hart, the engineer, and even had they known it what interest could they have had in me, and what could they expect of me?
Therefore, as Roch is not on deck, I conclude that he is locked in one of the cabins, and trust he has met with better treatment than his ex-guardian.
But what is this—and how on earth could I have failed to notice it before? How is this schooner moving? Her sails are furled—there is not an inch of canvas set—the wind has fallen, and the few puffs that occasionally come from the east are unfavorable, in view of the fact that we are going in that very direction. And yet the schooner speeds through the sea, her bows down, throwing off clouds of foam, and leaving a long, milky, undulating trail in her wake.
Is she a steam-yacht? No—there is not a smokestack about her. Is she propelled by electricity—by a battery of accumulators, or by piles of great power that work her screw and send her along at this rate?
I can come to no other conclusion. In any case she must be fitted with a screw, and by leaning over the stern I shall be able to see it, and can find out what sets it working afterwards.
The man at the wheel watches me ironically as I approach, but makes no effort to prevent me from looking over.
I gaze long and earnestly, but there is no foaming and seething of
