passengers surged back and fell apart while the shrieks of women and
children soared above the intolerable din—-
And then there was a booming roar, a thundering crash, and the riddled
Amaranth dropped loose from her hold and drifted helplessly away!
Instantly the fire-doors of the Boreas were thrown open and the men began
dashing buckets of water into the furnaces–for it would have been death
and destruction to stop the engines with such a head of steam on.
As soon as possible the Boreas dropped down to the floating wreck and
took off the dead, the wounded and the unhurt–at least all that could be
got at, for the whole forward half of the boat was a shapeless ruin, with
the great chimneys lying crossed on top of it, and underneath were a
dozen victims imprisoned alive and wailing for help. While men with axes
worked with might and main to free these poor fellows, the Boreas’s boats
went about, picking up stragglers from the river.
And now a new horror presented itself. The wreck took fire from the
dismantled furnaces! Never did men work with a heartier will than did
those stalwart braves with the axes. But it was of no use. The fire ate
its way steadily, despising the bucket brigade that fought it. It
scorched the clothes, it singed the hair of the axemen–it drove them
back, foot by foot-inch by inch–they wavered, struck a final blow in the
teeth of the enemy, and surrendered. And as they fell back they heard
prisoned voices saying:
“Don’t leave us! Don’t desert us! Don’t, don’t do it!”
And one poor fellow said:
“I am Henry Worley, striker of the Amaranth! My mother lives in St.
Louis. Tell her a lie for a poor devil’s sake, please. Say I was killed
in an instant and never knew what hurt me–though God knows I’ve neither
scratch nor bruise this moment! It’s hard to burn up in a coop like this
with the whole wide world so near. Good-bye boys–we’ve all got to come
to it at last, anyway!”
The Boreas stood away out of danger, and the ruined steamer went drifting
down the stream an island of wreathing and climbing flame that vomited
clouds of smoke from time to time, and glared more fiercely and sent its
luminous tongues higher and higher after each emission. A shriek at
intervals told of a captive that had met his doom. The wreck lodged upon
a sandbar, and when the Boreas turned the next point on her upward
journey it was still burning with scarcely abated fury.
When the boys came down into the main saloon of the Boreas, they saw a
pitiful sight and heard a world of pitiful sounds. Eleven poor creatures
lay dead and forty more lay moaning, or pleading or screaming, while a
score of Good Samaritans moved among them doing what they could to
relieve their sufferings; bathing their chinless faces and bodies with
linseed oil and lime water and covering the places with bulging masses of
raw cotton that gave to every face and form a dreadful and unhuman
aspect.
A little wee French midshipman of fourteen lay fearfully injured, but
never uttered a sound till a physician of Memphis was about to dress his
hurts. Then he said:
“Can I get well? You need not be afraid to tell me.”
“No–I–I am afraid you can not.”
“Then do not waste your time with me–help those that can get well.”
“But—-”
“Help those that can get well! It is, not for me to be a girl. I carry
the blood of eleven generations of soldiers in my veins!”
The physician–himself a man who had seen service in the navy in his
time–touched his hat to this little hero, and passed on.
The head engineer of the Amaranth, a grand specimen of physical manhood,
struggled to his feet a ghastly spectacle and strode toward his brother,
the second engineer, who was unhurt. He said:
“You were on watch. You were boss. You would not listen to me when I
begged you to reduce your steam. Take that!–take it to my wife and tell
her it comes from me by the hand of my murderer! Take it–and take my