THE crow’s-nest “lookout,” sixty feet above the deck, had seen every detail of the horror, from the moment when the upper sails of the doomed ship had appeared to him above the fog to the time when the last tangle of wreckage was cut away by his watchmates below. When relieved at four bells, he descended with as little strength in his limbs as was compatible with safety in the rigging. At the rail, the boatswain met him.

“Report your relief, Rowland,” he said, “and go into the chart-room!”

On the bridge, as he gave the name of his successor, the first officer seized his hand, pressed it, and repeated the boatswain’s order. In the chart-room, he found the captain of the Titan, pale-faced and intense in manner, seated at a table, and, grouped around him, the whole of the watch on deck except the officers, lookouts, and quartermasters. The cabin watchmen were there, and some of the watch below, among whom were stokers and coal-passers, and also, a few of the idlers—lampmen, yeomen, and butchers, who, sleeping forward, had been awakened by the terrific blow of the great hollow knife within which they lived.

Three carpenters’ mates stood by the door, with sounding-rods in their hands, which they had just shown the captain—dry. Every face, from the captain’s down, wore a look of horror and expectancy. A quartermaster followed Rowland in and said:

“Engineer felt no jar in the engine-room, sir; and there’s no excitement in the stokehold.”

“And you watchmen report no alarm in the cabins. How about the steerage? Is that man back?” asked the captain. Another watchman appeared as he spoke.

“All asleep in the steerage, sir,” he said. Then a quartermaster entered with the same report of the forecastles.