# "C Q", or, In the Wireless House/Chapter 14

XIV
At close quarters
WITH the first dash of rain Micky had scuttled for the wireless house. Less than three hundred and fifty miles from New York he knew well the dangers of a collision with another liner or a coastwise schooner. Earlier in the afternoon he had been talking to one of the land stations and to several other steamers round about him. Morrissy on the Berlin had said they were going to make quarantine that night,—that the pilot had come aboard and that there was to be a tremendous ball game at the American League grounds between the Giants and Philadelphia for the world’s Championship, betting somewhat in favor of the Athletics. He had also picked up the Saxonia, who had given her location at three o’clock as some two hundred and seventy-five miles off Fire Island. The two boats ​should pass each other some time during the evening.
Now as he threw on his mains his “C Q” caught Cape Cod, the Berlin just entering the narrows, and a dozen or so other ingoing and outgoing liners, including the Saxonia. He passed the time of day and the weather with all of them. In every case the answer was the same,—fog like cheese from Cape Sable to Hatteras,—had been for two days. And before he knew it Micky found that the Pavonia had herself plunged into the bank and had slackened her speed.
Then came the deluge. At first a spatter and skurry on the top of the deck-house, then a prolonged roll as from a hundred snare drums,—and then, the rain really came, sweeping in steady sheets against the windows, lashing the top of the deck-house into a dancing frog pond, rattling and shaking his windows and driving a steady stream of water under the tightly closed door.
“Sufferin’ ducks!” he whistled. “This is some water,—what?”
The wireless house shook with the wind, for it stood alone exposed to the full blast of the ​storm. Small cataracts began to flow down from the window-sills, and a leak appeared in the ceiling and an uninterrupted trickle poured from it upon his dressing-table. Yes, it was a dirty night.
“H-n-n-n-n-n-n!” went the hoarse voice of the fog horn, in a suspiration lasting for several seconds, but which in the fury of the gale sounded dim and distant to Micky. How far could it penetrate on such a night?‍
“MSA de MPA,” he snapped out on his instrument. “Do you get my signals?”
He waited amid the riot of wind and water for the faint response.
“MPA de MSA—Your signals are weak. How are you?”
“MSA de MPA,” he answered. “Doing nicely, thank you. Running now at half speed on account of fog. Can you hear our whistle?”
“MPA de MSA,” replied the Saxonia. “Cannot hear your whistle or anything else. Too much noise. We are running at half speed also.”
At that moment another boat—the Washington, cut in.
​“MPA de DKN. Are you whistling? I can hear whistle to starboard now. Answer.”
But the Pavonia was not uttering a sound.
“DKN de MPA,” rattled Micky. “We are not whistling. Must be some other ship. Can it be Saxonia?”
“MPA de DKN,” answered the operator on the Washington. “Saxonia says not. Cannot find out who it is. Devil of a night.”
“DKN de MPA—Bet your sweet life!” said Micky, and listened with all his ears.
But he was not listening any harder than Captain Ponsonby on the bridge. For four mortal hours that ponderous ass had strained every nerve of his aural organs for the faintest noise of escaping steam—but in vain. He knew the Saxonia was due at about that time, but there was no way to place her in the fog. She might be either one or twenty miles away. She might be—
“H-n-n-n-n-n!”
Without warning there came suddenly a prolonged blast close upon his starboard bow.
The Saxonia!
He sprang to the indicator and with his heart in his throat gave the engineer “Reverse ​full speed.” Instantly came the response and the huge liner keeled far over to the thundering of her screw, and wrestled with the sea amid a white lather of foam, as the Captain grabbed the rope and sent the answering warning of the Pavonia across the darkness into the fog.
“H-n-n-n-n!”
She was right upon them! This time to port! Or was it to starboard? Where was it!
“Stop!” The Captain almost yanked the handle off the indicator.
The Pavonia’s engines ceased to throb. Slowly she drifted sideways to the storm, and bellowing like some prehistoric sea-monster in its death agony, began to rise and fall in the hollow of the waves. Again came the snorting of the funnel, deafening, overwhelming.
Micky in the wireless house heard the roar of steam and realized that the Saxonia and Pavonia were almost in collision.
“Do you hear us?” he jerked out, the sweat beading his forehead. “Reverse—for God’s sake!”
“Yes. Cannot see you. We have reversed,” shot the Saxonia.
​“We have reversed also,” he flashed back. “All safe. Cannot see you. Must be within few yards of each other.”
Thus the Saxonia and Pavonia lay at arm’s length thundering like two helpless giants, their captains expecting momentarily to be hurled, each from his bridge, by a splintering concussion, while the two boys in the wireless offices flashed encouragement to each other.
Lily Trevelyan had been playing bridge with her friends all the evening in the smoking-room, where the glare of the electric lights was tempered by a cloud of cigar smoke almost as thick as the fog outside. Arrayed in her Paquin gown with its extreme cut she had dazed the passengers at dinner and filled the smoking-saloon afterwards. Apparently the only male absent was Ponsonby, and he had duties elsewhere. The men, who had had plenty of opportunity to study her beauty, vowed she had never shown herself off to such advantage.
“This is the last!” she announced, as, a cigarette between her lips, she essayed to deal. “It is getting too hot in here!”
Suddenly the ship shook violently and rolled to starboard with a violence that almost threw ​the party out of their seats. The sound of crashing glass came from all sides, and there was a chorus of oaths and ejaculations in French and English, above which rose the thunder of the funnel directly over their heads. “Collision!” some fool shouted.
There was a rush for the door, which was thrown violently open by the nearest passenger. Lily turned faint, but the Boston bride exhibited a studied unconcern.
“Ashurst!” cried Lily, “go and see what it is!”
Through the door amid the driving rain that entered came also the diapason of the Saxonia, directly beside them.
“Another steamer!” gasped Lily, and pushing her chair away from the table rose unsteadily to her feet, sick with fear.
“H-n-n-n-n!—H-n-n-n-n!” snorted the two steamers.
“G-g-g-od!” stammered Ashurst, leading Lily towards the door in the wake of the other occupants of the saloon, who, hatless and in their evening clothes, were crowded upon the promenade deck staring stupidly into the night.
The noise made by the two boats indicated ​deadly danger, but there was no confusion and no scurrying for life preservers. And then, with equal unexpectedness, the screw began to vibrate again and the Pavonia righted herself and moved forward.
“Look! Look!” shouted half a dozen of the men on deck.
And Lily looked quickly and saw not more than two hundred feet away upon the starboard quarter a row of feeble, misty lights and a great glare that beat upon her eyes and nearly blinded her.
Bellowing and roaring, the Pavonia gathered headway and shot into the storm while the Saxonia dropped astern rapidly and soon was swallowed up by the night.
“And this is the 13th!” sighed the only humorist in the damp and silent crowd that hastily sought the saloon again and ordered hot drinks to prevent taking cold and steady their shaken nerves.
“Cut it out!” snapped a millionaire with a huge solitaire shirt stud. “That 's the nearest you ever came to going to hell!”
Lily Trevelyan, trembling and weak and without her coat, hurried along the deck to her ​room and threw open the door. The drawing-room was empty.
“Fantine!” she called. “Where are you?” There was no answer, and Lily entered her state-room.
Fantine was kneeling by the bed with her beads in her hand, praying, and before her lay a tiny pair of baby’s shoes.
Something touched Lily’s heart,—something of pity and of jealousy combined.
“Poor thing!” she thought, and for a moment was tempted to place her arms around the bowed shoulders. Then she drew back into her parlor.
“What ’s the use!” she murmured, and closed the door.