The Wings of the Morning | Page 9

the utter
wantonness of destruction, and everything--masts, funnels, boats, hull,
with every living soul on board--was at once engulfed in a maelstrom
of rushing water and far-flung spray.
CHAPTER II
THE SURVIVORS
When the Sirdar parted amidships, the floor of the saloon heaved up in
the center with a mighty crash of rending woodwork and iron. Men and

women, too stupefied to sob out a prayer, were pitched headlong into
chaos. Iris, torn from the terrified grasp of her maid, fell through a
corridor, and would have gone down with the ship had not a sailor,
clinging to a companion ladder, caught her as she whirled along the
steep slope of the deck.
He did not know what had happened. With the instinct of
self-preservation he seized the nearest support when the vessel struck.
It was the mere impulse of ready helpfulness that caused him to stretch
out his left arm and clasp the girl's waist as she fluttered past. By idle
chance they were on the port side, and the ship, after pausing for one
awful second, fell over to starboard.
The man was not prepared for this second gyration. Even as the
stairway canted he lost his balance; they were both thrown violently
through the open hatchway, and swept off into the boiling surf. Under
such conditions thought itself was impossible. A series of impressions,
a number of fantastic pictures, were received by the benumbed faculties,
and afterwards painfully sorted out by the memory. Fear, anguish,
amazement--none of these could exist. All he knew was that the lifeless
form of a woman--for Iris had happily fainted--must be held until death
itself wrenched her from him. Then there came the headlong plunge
into the swirling sea, followed by an indefinite period of gasping
oblivion. Something that felt like a moving rock rose up beneath his
feet. He was driven clear out of the water and seemed to recognize a
familiar object rising rigid and bright close at hand. It was the binnacle
pillar, screwed to a portion of the deck which came away from the
charthouse and was rent from the upper framework by contact with the
reef.
He seized this unlooked-for support with his disengaged hand. For one
fleet instant he had a confused vision of the destruction of the ship.
Both the fore and aft portions were burst asunder by the force of
compressed air. Wreckage and human forms were tossing about
foolishly. The sea pounded upon the opposing rocks with the noise of
ten thousand mighty steam-hammers.
A uniformed figure--he thought it was the captain--stretched out an

unavailing arm to clasp the queer raft which supported the sailor and
the girl. But a jealous wave rose under the platform with devilish
energy and turned it completely over, hurling the man with his
inanimate burthen into the depths. He rose, fighting madly for his life.
Now surely he was doomed! But again, as if human existence depended
on naught more serious than the spinning of a coin, his knees rested on
the same few staunch timbers, now the ceiling of the music-room, and
he was given a brief respite. His greatest difficulty was to get his breath,
so dense was the spray through which he was driven. Even in that
terrible moment he kept his senses. The girl, utterly unconscious,
showed by the convulsive heaving of her breast that she was choking.
With a wild effort he swung her head round to shield her from the
flying scud with his own form.
The tiny air-space thus provided gave her some relief, and in that
instant the sailor seemed to recognize her. He was not remotely capable
of a definite idea. Just as he vaguely realized the identity of the woman
in his arms the unsteady support on which he rested toppled over.
Again he renewed the unequal contest. A strong resolute man and a
typhoon sea wrestled for supremacy.
This time his feet plunged against something gratefully solid. He was
dashed forward, still battling with the raging turmoil of water, and a
second time he felt the same firm yet smooth surface. His dormant
faculties awoke. It was sand. With frenzied desperation, buoyed now by
the inspiring hope of safety, he fought his way onwards like a maniac.
Often he fell, three times did the backwash try to drag him to the
swirling death behind, but he staggered blindly on, on, until even the
tearing gale ceased to be laden with the suffocating foam, and his
faltering feet sank in deep soft white sand.
[Illustration: WITH FRENZIED DESPERATION, BUOYED NOW
BY THE INSPIRING HOPE OF SAFETY, HE FOUGHT HIS WAY
ONWARD LIKE A MANIAC.]
Then he fell, not to rise again. With a last weak flicker of exhausted
strength he drew the girl closely to him, and the two