Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (308 page)

And
even
in
that
moment,
with
but
a
sand
or
two
to
run
in
his glass,
indomitable,
insatiable,
dreaming
dream
on
dream,
he
could not
die
until
he
knew
more.
He
had
two
questions
to
ask,
and
a master-question;
and
but
a
moment
remained.
Sharply
his
voice
rang out.

"Ho,
there!
.
.
.
This
ancient
ship,
the
Mary
of
the
Tower,
cannot
steam
thirty
and
a
quarter
knots,
but
yet
she
can
sail
the waters.
What
more
does
your
ship?
Can
she
soar
above
them,
as
the fowls
of
the
air
soar?"

"Lord,
he
thinks
we're
an
aeroplane.'
.
.
.
No,
she
can't.
.
.
."

"And
can
you
dive,
even
as
the
fishes
of
the
deep?"

"No. . . . Those
are
submarines
...
we
aren't
a
submarine.
.
.
."

But
Abel
Keeling
waited
for
no
more.
He
gave
an
exulting
chuckle.

"Oho,
oho—thirty
knots,
and
but
on
the
face
of
the
waters—no more
than
that?
Oho!
.
.
.
Now
my
ship,
the
ship
I
see
as
a
mother sees
full-grown
the
child
she
has
but
conceived—my
ship
I
say—oho! —my
ship
.
.
.
Below
there—trip
that
gun!"

The
cry
came
suddenly
and
alertly,
as
a
muffled
sound
came
from below
and
an
ominous
tremor
shook
the
galleon.

"By
Jove,
her
guns
are
breaking
loose
below—that's
her
finish
--
"

"Trip
that
gun,
and
double-breech
the
others!"
Abel
Keeling's voice
rang
out,
as
if
there
had
been
any
to
obey
him.
He
had
braced himself
within
the
belfry
frame;
and
then
in
the
middle
of
the
next order
his
voice
suddenly
failed
him.
His
ship-shape,
that
for
the moment
he
had
forgotten,
rode
once
more
before
his
eyes.
This was
the
end,
and
his
master-question,
apprehension
for
the
answer to
which
was
now
torturing
his
face
and
well-nigh
bursting
his
heart, was
still
unasked.

"Ho—he
that
spoke
with
me—the
master,"
he
cried
in
a
voice that
ran
high,
"is
he
there?"

"Yes,
yes.'"
came
the
other
voice
across
the
water,
sick
with
suspense.
"Oh, be quick!"

There
was
a
moment
in
which
hoarse
cries
from
many
voices,
a heavy
thud
and
rumble
on
wood,
and
a
crash
of
timbers
and
a gurgle
and
a
splash
were
indescribably
mingled;
the
gun
under
which Abel
Keeling
had
lain
had
snapped
her
rotten
breechings
and
plunged down
the
deck,
carrying
Bligh's
unconscious
form
with
it.
The
deck came
up
vertical,
and
for
one
instant
longer
Abel
Keeling
clung
to the
belfry.

"I
cannot
see
your
face,"
he
screamed,
"but
meseems
your
voice is
a
voice
I
know.
What
is
your
name?"

In
a
torn
sob
the
answer
came
across
the
water:

"Keeling-Abel
Keeling.
...
Oh,
my
God.'"