The Sword and the Net полностью

The terror inspired by shelling is far greater than that caused by a torpedo. The torpedo, oil-smooth and silent and subterranean, strikes where it cannot be seen, below the waterline. Even the sound and shock of its explosion is dulled by depth. But a shell—albeit only from a six-inch gun—smashes from the outside; smashes down, probably, spreading visible and pressing havoc and often, as in the case of the Vulcania now, leaves an immediate wake of dead and smashed and wounded, dreadful enough upon an ordinary merchantman, or even a fighting ship, but inconceivably terrible upon a craft loaded to the gunwales with a living freight of women and children. . . .

The leading funnel sagged, swayed and came crashing down with an unearthly groaning louder and more terrifying than the explosion itself. The great mass of metal carried away the after-half of the bridge and then, its fall accelerated, tore a gaping breach through two decks and crashed down into what had once been the First-Glass Saloon but was now a dormitory for sixty mothers and their offspring. . . .

The noise was indescribable: in one tremendous instant, complete peace and such silence as the sea affords had been violently transmuted, in shocking gradations which swelled incredibly with each component, into a bedlamite inferno of sound. First, tearing a jagged hole in serenity, had come the sharp, heavy report of the gun . . . then, almost simultaneously, the rending roar of the shell’s explosion—a terrifying sound, which mingled indistinguishably with the shuddering feel of the ship trembling violently like a giant horse shaking itself beneath one. . . .

And then, swelling discordantly into a demoniac, unbelievable chorus, came the other sounds—cracking and crashing of wood . . . creaking and groaning of iron . . . the ourobboros-hiss of escaping steam . . . the thudding, tortured smashing of timber beneath iconoclastic weight . . . the crackling of shivered glass . . . the antlike, futile shouting of men thrusting improbably through the whole enveloping roar. . . .

Then, for one instant, a sudden cessation of the great noises—and, as a dreadful echo to them, the thin, sharp cries of children. . . .

Then the second shell came. The submarine’s gunner was in form: it landed within two feet of the first and, consequently, dropped two decks before it struck and exploded—this time right in the saloon-dormitory. It blasted a downward breach through which its quick successor fell almost plumb—to explode in the engine-room itself. . . .

All the din-demons were loose now; but the demon of steam raised his cry above all the others—and the Vulcania wallowed to a standstill and swung helpless and rose and dropped with the slow heavy swell of the sea while, a bare six hundred land-yards away, the gunner whose eye was in kept up his target practice.

In fifteen minutes the four hundred and fifty-three items of quick human freight aboard the Vulcania had been reduced by the considerable number of eighty-four. And of the remaining three hundred and sixty-nine, many were twitching, reddened lumps of uselessness. . . .

“Lieber Gott!” said Otto beneath his breath—and staggered and fell as a bulkhead bulged out in his path and split suddenly and fell.

A baulk of timber fell upon his back as he tripped over debris. His spine was saved by the thick cork of the lifebelt which he wore—but he was knocked flat and all the breath was driven from his body and his face was smashed into the litter.

His forehead struck painfully as he fell. He writhed and struggled, his emptied lungs seeming to resist his whistling efforts to refill them. . . . His head swam and blood ran stickily from his nostrils. . . .

He could breathe again. But his vision was hazy and his head rang with the infernal chorus of noises. He pulled himself somehow to his feet and staggered on. He was making his way along the main port gangway on B deck. He had to find an unobstructed companion which would allow him to descend. He had to get to his quarters—and the duffel bag and the box which was inside it, for he had to have—he must have—the oilskin packet. After all, there was a chance that some would be saved, and he might be among them. It was his duty to be among them if he could—and if he were, it was also his duty to be able to keep up the character of Nils. . . .

There was an agonizing lull in the fury of sound and movement which had been shaking the ship. Nils, his head swimming, moved faster. He could see the companionway now, ahead of him, where the gangway ended—and he could see that, although debris strewed the space before it, the companion itself was clear.

He staggered as another shell struck the ship, this time further aft: the gunner must have been traversing now, and doing a very thorough job.