An Eventful River Trip
"What a one-eyed crib!" exclaimed Anstey, as the West Barbican slowly approached the low-lying coast in the neighbourhood of Bulonga.
Mostyn nodded in concurrence.
The outlook was dreary in the extreme. All there was to be seen was a squalid collection of galvanized-iron huts rising above a low, sandy spit; a few gaunt palms; a line of surf—not milk-white, but coffee-coloured—and a background of sun-dried hills.
The whole coast seemed to have been scorched up by the sun. Brown and drab colours predominated. The foliage was of a sombre drab-green narrowly approaching a dull copper colour. Even the sea in the vicinity of the harbour had lost its usual clearness and appeared to be charged with a muddy sediment.
"Any sign of the pilot, Mr. Anstey?" inquired Captain Bullock.
The "S International", the signal for a pilot, had been flying from the topmast-head for the last hour, as the West Barbican cautiously closed with the inhospitable-looking coast, but there were no signs of activity ashore.
In ordinary circumstances it was customary for the ship to wireless her agents, asking them to make arrangements for a pilot; but, since there were no agents at Bulonga, nor even a wireless station, that procedure was put out of court. There remained only the old-time flag signal to summon a pilot from shore.
"No sign yet, sir," replied the officer of the watch. He had been scanning the shore through a telescope until his eyes smarted. The glare form those "tin" huts seemed to be reflected through the lenses of the telescope to his optic nerve. He was literally seeing red.
"All asleep, I suppose," commented the Old Man. "It beats me why we've been ordered to this rotten hole. Try 'em with the siren, Mr. Anstey."
The echoes of the powerful whistle had hardly died away when a hoist of bunting rose slowly in the humid air. Until a faint zephyr caught the flags it was impossible for the West Barbican to understand the import of the signal.
"FWE," sang out Anstey. "That reports that there's not enough water on the bar, sir."
"Not enough fiddlesticks!" snapped the Old Man. "It's within half an hour of high water. We'll lose the flood if they don't get busy. Besides, how the blazes do they know our draught? For two pins I'd take her in myself."
No doubt the skipper, with the aid of chart, compass, and lead-line, could have navigated the ship across the bar with complete success. He had worked his way into uncharted harbours before to-day. But should the vessel ground he would be in a very difficult position with the Board of Trade. Even if he were successful in getting the ship safely alongside the quay there might be trouble with the Portuguese officials for not complying with the port regulations.
"That chap who wrote something about those serving who only stand and wait didn't know much about the tides," fumed the Old Man. "Here's the blessed tide serving, but it won't stand and it won't wait, and time's precious."
Nevertheless the skipper had to wait, impatiently and irritably, until such times as the easy-going officials sent out a pilot.
It was more than an hour later before a white motor-boat with an awning fore and aft was seen approaching the ship.
As the boat drew nearer its ugliness became apparent. The paint was dirty, and in places rubbed away to the bare planking. The awning had seen better days, and had been roughly patched in a dozen places. A couple of coir fenders trailed drunkenly over the side, while the painter was dragging through the water. The motor was wheezing like a worn-out animal and emitting smoke from numerous leaky joints, while the clutch, slipping badly, was rasping like a rusty file.
A Zanzibari native was "tending" the engine, and a half-caste Portuguese was at the wheel. In the stern-sheets was a short and very stout man puffing at an enormous cigar. He wore a dirty white uniform with a lavish display of tarnished gilt braid, while set at an angle on his bushy hair was a peaked cap with the Mozambique arms.
"Goo' mornin', Senhor Capitano!" he exclaimed, when the boat ranged awkwardly alongside. "Me pilot. Get you in in shake o' brace—no—brace o' shake."
Still puffing his cigar the Portuguese pilot came over the side and waddled on to the bridge.
"Vat you draw?" he inquired.
The Old Man gave him the ship's draught.
"Ver' mooch," rejoined the pilot, shrugging his shoulders. "Tide go. Why you no call me before?"
But get her in he did, although the propeller was throwing up muddy sand and the keel plates were slithering over the bottom.
Half an hour later the West Barbican was berthed alongside the quay—a dilapidated structure partly stone and partly timber, with rusty bollards that, judging by their appearance, had not made the acquaintance of mooring-ropes for months. Clearly the maritime activities of Bulonga were largely dormant.
Presently—there was no hurry, everything at Bulonga being done on the "do it to-morrow" principle—the Customs officers came on board.
They were bilious-looking rascals, whose broad hints for "palm-oil" were as plain as the fellaheen demanding baksheesh. To them the task of searching for dutiable goods was of secondary importance.
From one of them, who spoke English passably, Captain Bullock elicited the information that there was no British agent in the place; neither was there telegraphic, telephonic, nor railway communication with anywhere. Once a week a small steamer brought up outside the bar for the purpose of collecting and delivering mails and parcels. When the weather was rough, or the bar impassable, the inhabitants of Bulonga had to wait another week, perhaps two, for news of the outside world.
"We'll have to hand over the steelwork to some one, Preston," observed the Old Man. "We can't dump it on the quay and leave it to rot. Nip ashore and see if there's a fairly reliable storekeeper who will freeze on to the stuff till it's wanted. We'll need a covered store at least a hundred and twenty feet in length."
The Acting Chief returned on board with the information that there was a suitable place, and only one. The owner, a timber exporter and importer, had gone home, and no one knew when he was likely to return. He lived at a place called Duelha, about seven or eight miles up the river that empties itself into the shallow Bulonga Harbour, and he was in the habit of journeying to and fro by means of a motor-boat.
"We'll have to rout him out," decided Captain Bullock. "I'll send my motor-boat. Meanwhile we'll engage natives and start getting the stuff out of the hold. The question is: who am I going to send away with the boat? You'll be on duty on deck, Preston, and Anstey will be tallying in the hold. I've got it. I'll get young Mostyn to go."
He went to the end of the bridge and looked down. On the promenade-deck were Peter and Olive watching the dreary harbour.
Miss Baird had taken her great disappointment remarkably well. On the principle that there is no time like the present, she refused to dwell upon the prospects of returning home. She would have to, she supposed, in due course; meanwhile she was on board the West Barbican without any immediate chance of returning even as far as Durban. And the longer the voyage the better, she decided.
"This doesn't look promising for our sail, Miss Baird," said Peter. "The tide's ebbing like a millrace. Look at those trunks of trees coming down. They'd give a small boat a nasty biff if they fouled her."
"And no wind," added the girl. "Mr. Preston was telling me that in the harbours on this coast it blows from the land from sunset till about ten o'clock, and from the sea from a little after sunrise till ten in the morning. Between times it's usually a flat calm."
The harbour viewed from within looked far more uninviting than it did from the offing. The ebb was in full swing—a turgid, evil-smelling rush of coffee-coloured water. Already the mud-banks fringing the mangrove-covered islands were uncovering and throwing out a noxious mist under the powerful rays of the tropical sun, which was now almost immediately overhead.
Mostyn found himself comparing Bulonga Harbour most unfavourably with the lovely lagoons and coral reefs of the Pacific islands.
"It may be better later on in the afternoon," he remarked. "Say an hour before high water. If——"
He broke off abruptly, for Captain Bullock was descending the bridge-ladder.
"Hello, young lady!" exclaimed the skipper. "What do you say to a run in my launch? I'm sending her up-stream in a few minutes. You'll be snug enough under the double canopy over the stern-sheets."
"It ought to be rather exciting, Captain Bullock," replied Olive, glancing at the surging ebb. "It would be very nice to see what it's like."
"Right-o!" rejoined the skipper. "Mr. Mostyn, will you take charge of the boat? You seem the best man for the job, considering that it's your father's steelwork we are dealing with. Take this letter to a Senhor José Aguilla, who hangs out at a place called Duelha. I'll show you it on a chart. Get him to come down as soon as possible. If he's like the rest of these gentry that will be mañana. In any case, bring back a written reply to this letter."
"Very good, sir."
"Carry on, then. Pass the word for the serang to have the motor-boat hoisted out and the awnings and side-curtains spread. Miss Baird, can you be ready in a quarter of an hour?"
Mostyn hurried away to carry out his instructions.
"Good sort, the Old Man," he soliloquized. "And at one time I thought I'd hate him like poison. It just shows a fellow that it's not wise to judge by first impressions."
Promptly the serang and half a dozen lascars came upon the scene and began to cast off the lashings that secured the motor-boat to No. 2 hatch. The little craft was Captain Bullock's private property. She was about twenty-five feet in length, carvel-built of teak, and had a 12-horse-power paraffin engine installed under the fore-deck. 'Midships was a well, fitted with a wheel and motor controls, while the spacious cockpit aft was provided with a folding hood, as well as double awnings spread between tall brass stanchions.
In less than ten minutes the boat had been swung out by means of a derrick, and was straining at her painter alongside the accommodation ladder.
With Senhor Aguilla's letter in the breast-pocket of his drill tunic and his automatic in his hip-pocket, Mostyn waited at the head of the ladder until Olive appeared, wearing a light, linen skirt and coat and a topee with a gold-edged pugaree.
It was "stand easy". Notwithstanding the tremendous heat the officers were spending their leisure in a manner followed by Britons all the world over. They were playing cricket, with the netted promenade-deck as the field, and stumps precariously supported by a small wooden base. Yet the thrill of deck-cricket paled into insignificance when Olive Baird appeared. One and all the players flocked to the side to watch her departure in the Old Man's motor-boat.
From the top of the accommodation ladder Peter signed to the native engineer, and by the time Olive stepped agilely into the stern-sheets, without taking advantage of Mostyn's proffered hand, the motor was purring gently.
"Let go aft—let go for'ard!" ordered Peter. "Touch ahead."
By a gentle movement of the wheel Mostyn got the boat clear of the ship's side without the risk of hitting the propeller. He knew from experience that the effect of helm is to swing a boat's stern round and not her bows. Then, with a sign to the native engineer to "let her all out", Peter steadied the boat on her course.
The Old Man's private launch was no sluggard. She could do a good nine knots, but her progress against the formidable ebb seemed tediously slow. She was slipping through the coffee-coloured water quickly enough, as her bow-wave and clear wake denoted; but she seemed to be crawling past the low river banks at less than a slow walking pace.
Peter did not mind. He had no idea of wasting time in the execution of his orders, but, on the other hand, the relatively slow progress did not worry him. He was perfectly happy. Olive, too, was obviously enjoying the run. The breeze set up by the motion of the boat through the still air was delightfully cooling after the enervating atmosphere on board the West Barbican alongside the wharf.
"Like to take her?" asked Peter, when a bend of the river hid them from the ship.
"Rather," replied Miss Baird promptly, and, nimbly negotiating the bulkhead between the stern-sheets and the steering-well, she mounted the low, grating-fitted platform and grasped the wheel.
Mostyn, who had relinquished the helm, stood just behind and a little to the side, so that he could command a view ahead. Occasionally he had to consult the chart in order to avoid the numerous sand-banks.
"Look out for those floating logs, Miss Baird," he cautioned, as three or four huge tree trunks, green with trailing weed, rolled lazily over and over in their aimless passage to the open sea.
Olive avoided them easily. Peter's confidence in the helmswoman increased by leaps and bounds. There was no hesitation on her part, no bungling as the swift, frail craft passed between two of the logs with less than six feet to spare on either side.
"Give that log a wide berth, Miss Baird," observed her companion, after a number of obstructions had been avoided. "Unless I'm much mistaken we'll find that log has a motor of sorts. Yes, by Jove! it has!"
The "log" was an enormous hippopotamus, floating motionless on the water, with only its snout and a small portion of its back showing above the surface.
At this point the river had contracted considerably, the actual waterway being less than twenty yards from bank to bank, although at half tide these banks were submerged and the width of the stream increased to nearly a quarter of a mile.
Olive meant to give the brute as wide a berth as possible, while, on the other hand, the hippo resolved on close quarters with the motor-boat.
Instead of diving to the muddy bottom of the river the hippopotamus began to swim rapidly towards the launch, opening its huge jaws with evident relish at the prospect of biting out a few square feet of gunwale and topside as an entree.
Mostyn and the native coxswain, who had hitherto been "standing easy", were keenly on the alert. The latter, seizing an oar, made ready to deal a blow upon the brute's head, although the hippo would have paid no more attention to the blow than he would to being tickled with a straw.
Olive showed no sign of nervousness. In fact, she acted so coolly and with such excellent judgment that Peter made no attempt to grasp the wheel.
Seeing the animal approach, the girl edged the boat well over to the port side of the narrow channel. In spite of the speed of the launch it was apparent that the hippo would cut it off if the same direction were maintained.
Not until the boat's stem was within twenty yards of the brute did Olive alter helm. Then, with a quick, even movement, she put the helm hard-a-port.
Before the unwieldy animal could turn, the launch had literally scraped the hippo's submerged hindquarters. Then, swinging the boat back on her former course, the girl glanced at her companion.
"Near thing, that," she remarked. "I wonder that would have happened if we'd hit it?"
"We would have come off worst," replied Peter, who, now the danger was over, was beginning to realize what the consequences might have been.
"Perhaps you wouldn't mind taking on," said Olive a little later.
Mostyn took the helm. Although the girl had given no reason for wanting to relinquish the wheel, he felt pretty certain that the incident had shaken her up a bit.
"You're all right?" he asked.
"Quite," was the reply.
Presently the river widened considerably. The launch was now within half a mile of her destination, but, according to the chart, there was a submerged bank on the starboard hand, and fairly deep water close to the right bank.
Without warning the impetus of the launch was arrested. Peter was flung against the wheel; Olive, losing her balance, cannoned into him, and was saved from a violent concussion against the coaming by the fact that the native coxswain had got there first, and had been winded by his impact with the woodwork. The engineer, who had crawled under the fore-deck to replenish the contents of a grease-cup, was flung along the narrow floor by the motor and finished up by butting the petrol tank.
"Aground!" exclaimed Mostyn, stating what was an obvious and accomplished fact.
The engine was racing furiously. Jerking the reverse lever into the astern position Peter hoped that the action of the powerful propeller would release the launch from her predicament. It was in vain. The motor was racing as fast as ever, but there was no flow of water past the boat's side to indicate that the propeller was going astern.
"Blades stripped, by Jove!" ejaculated Mostyn.
He switched off the ignition, and, in the relative quietude that succeeded the machine-gun-like explosions of the exhaust, took stock of the situation.
"Quite all right, thank you," replied the girl, in answer to Peter's question. The reply set Mostyn wondering whether in any circumstances Olive would say otherwise.
By this time the native coxswain was sitting up. Although he was not taking nourishment he was gently caressing the bruised part of his anatomy, but otherwise betraying no interest in things.
Then the engineer appeared, backing out of the motor-room, and mopping the blood on his forehead with a silk scarf. Gaining the steering-well he drew himself up and salaamed.
"Why sahib stop engine?" he inquired.
"'Cause the propeller blades are gone," replied Mostyn. "Savvy? Blades—screw—no can do. Like this."
He tried to convey the magnitude of the disaster by means of dumb show. The native failed to understand. Being aground mattered little to him; being slung about like a pea in a box he took more or less as a matter of course. The thing—the thing that counted—was the fact that the sahib had taken unto himself the duty of Abdullah Bux, engineer of the Sahib Captain's launch, and had stopped the motor. Abdullah Bux felt that on that account he had a grievance.
The launch was lying well down by the head in about a couple of inches of water. Her stem had struck a waterlogged tree trunk almost buried in the soft mud. The impact had lifted her bows well clear of the water, the greater portion of the keel passing over the obstruction until, the bows dropping and plunging into the mud, the boat came to a standstill. Then it was that the swiftly moving propeller had fouled the log, with the result that the three blades were shorn off close to the boss.
"Tide still ebbing," remarked Peter. "We're properly on it, Miss Baird."
"Yes, unfortunately," was the rejoinder. "There's no way of getting her off till the tide makes?"
"Might try kedging her off," suggested Mostyn.
"A kedge wouldn't hold in this slime," declared the practical Miss Baird, "even if you were able to lay it out. But you can't. The mud's too soft."
Peter sounded with an oar. The blade sank almost without resistance to a depth of three feet in the noxious slime.
A tedious wait followed. There was no denying the fact that it was tedious. Peter and the girl sat under the after canopy, but a tête-à-tête under these conditions was very different from one on the promenade-deck of the West Barbican on a tranquil, starlit night. It was hot—insufferably so. Not only did the sun pour fiercely down upon the double awning. The mud, now "dry", was radiating heat—a clammy, evil-smelling heat, as the rotting vegetation left high and dry by the receding tide lay sweltering in the sunshine. The heavy, motionless air, for there was not the faintest suspicion of a breeze, reeked as only the air of an African swamp can—an overpowering, nauseating stench. Thrown in as a makeweight came the reek of hot oil from the badly overheated engine.
"Tide's turning," said Peter, breaking the long silence.
There was no lull in the change from ebb to flood. At one moment the brownish waters were foaming seawards; at the next a miniature "bore" was breaking over the fringe of the mud-flats, bringing with it a collection of flotsam in the form of branches and trunks of trees.
"'Fraid I'm giving you a rotten time," continued Peter apologetically. "Sailing with Preston and Anstey in Durban must have been a joy compared with this—and you told me you didn't like it a bit. You must think I'm a rotten pilot."
"Nearly everyone gets aground some time or other," replied Olive. "The awkward part is that this isn't exactly like the mud-banks of the Tamar. And it's unfortunate about the propeller. What do you propose to do when we float?"
"Row up to Duelha. It's less than half a mile. If we can't get a spare propeller we might ask Senhor Aguilla to tow us back in his motor-boat."
The flood-tide made with great rapidity. In less than half an hour the launch was afloat. The two lascars manned the oars, and the boat, borne rapidly by the tide, quickly covered the remainder of the way to Duelha.
The Portuguese agent was overwhelmingly polite. He insisted on entertaining Olive and Peter to coffee, and promised to tow the disabled launch back to the ship, at the same time regretting that there were no facilities at Duelha for repairs.
"Eet is no trouvel, senhor," declared the Portuguese. "I myself vill speak to el capitano Bullock concerning de stores from de sheep. Eet is pleasair to do business vid de Englees all de time."
It was sunset before Olive and Peter returned to the S.S. West Barbican.
CHAPTER XXI
The End of S.S. "West Barbican"
Throughout the day the scantily clothed Bantu workmen had been busily engaged in unloading the steelwork. The natives, unlike their Portuguese masters, had to keep hard at it, with the result that by the time "knock-off" was announced and the Bantus, resuming their calico skirt-like garments, had trooped ashore, the S.S. West Barbican drew five feet less for'ard than when she crossed the bar. Captain Bullock's interview with Senhor José Aguilla was of a mutually satisfactory nature. The latter undertook to store and look after the consignment of the Kilba Protectorate until such time as it was claimed by the authorities. The terms were so many thousand milreis per month, a sum that on paper looked truly formidable, but actually was equal to about seven pounds of English money.
The Old Man was pleased to get the steelwork off his hands so reasonably. Senhor Aguilla was pleased because he had the steelwork on his hands. That was the difference.
The Portuguese knew that the longer the consignment remained unclaimed the longer he would continue to draw a fairly substantial sum for wharfage and storage; and, although he promised to forward a letter to the Kilba Protectorate agent at Pangawani by the next weekly steamer, he meant to take steps to prevent, for as long as he possibly could, the information concerning the steelwork reaching the proper quarter.
Having, as he thought, satisfactorily settled with Senhor Aguilla Captain Bullock sent for his Wireless Officer.
"That means a ticking off, I expect," thought Peter, when Mahmed delivered the message. "The Old Man's rattled about his motor-launch."
Mostyn was only partly right in his surmise. Captain Bullock was annoyed, which was natural enough. No boat-owner likes to have his craft damaged, especially when he is not on board. He has a sort of feeling that the accident, whatever it might be, would not have occurred had he been present. It was an awkward mishap. Until the West Barbican returned to Durban, or some other large port, it would be hopeless to expect to obtain a new propeller.
But the skipper, in spite of his bluntness, was a just man. He dealt with cases impartially, and no one having been censured by him had good reason to doubt his judgment.
Peter went to the skipper's cabin and reported the circumstances of the accident. The Old Man listened attentively until the Wireless Officer had finished his narrative; then he pointed to a chart of Bulonga Harbour that was lying on the desk.
"Show me where the stranding occurred, Mr. Mostyn. What, there? On the port-hand side of the channel?"
"Yes, sir."
Captain Bullock had no cause to doubt Peter's word, but he made up his mind to question the two lascars who were in the boat, and also to see if Miss Baird could throw any light upon the matter.
"H'm. I suppose the river has changed its bed," he remarked. "African rivers have a nasty habit of doing that. It was unfortunate that you struck a snag; otherwise it wouldn't have mattered very much. All right, carry on."
Abdullah Bux and his compatriot could give no definite information. Miss Baird, for the present, was not available. The strident tones of Mrs. Shallop indicated pretty clearly that the lady was bullying the girl for her prolonged and involuntary absence.
At sunrise next morning the West Barbican, drawing considerably less water than she had done eighteen hours previously, recrossed the bar. The Portuguese pilot was dropped, and a course steered to pass through the broad Mozambique Channel. Without exception all on board were glad to get away from the malodorous harbour of Bulonga.
On the afternoon of the seventh day after leaving Durban the weather "came on dirty". A heavy wind from the east'ard raised a nasty sea, which would have been angry but for the torrential downpour of rain that had the effect of beating down the crested waves.
As darkness set in the sky was almost one continuous blaze of vivid sheet lightning. The rain was still heavy but the wind piped down, blowing softly from the nor'-east.
"We haven't seen the last of this yet," declared Preston. "The glass is a bit jumpy. It'll blow like billy-ho before morning. How about your aerial, Sparks? Aren't you going to disconnect it?"
The two officers, clad in oilskins and precious little else, were keeping the first watch. There was nothing doing in the wireless-cabin. Atmospherics were present, but, apart from these disturbances, no sound had been audible in the telephones during the best part of Peter's watch. Insufferably hot, he had put on an oilskin and had gone out for a breather.
"No need," he replied. "At least not until we get forked lightning."
"I'm not sorry we've got shot of that steelwork," remarked the Acting Chief after a pause. "It's awkward stuff to carry. But the trouble of it is that removing it has altered our deviation. The compass cannot possibly be the same with that enormous amount of metal taken out of the ship. I suggested to the Old Man that we ought to have swung the old hooker before we left Bulonga and adjusted compasses. But he was in a hurry to get under way, and, apart from that, the harbour was so shallow that we couldn't get a clear swing. She's not far out on this bearing. I took a sight at the Southern Cross for that. Talking of compasses: did you hear that yarn about the Flinder's bar?"
"About the candidate for Mate's certificate who told the examiner that: 'There ain't no pub o' that name in Gravesend'?" asked Peter.
"No, but that's not so dusty," replied Preston. "My yarn concerns an old skipper in the Penguin Line. He was——"
But Mostyn was not to hear the anecdote.
A violent concussion, as if the ship had struck a rock, almost threw the two men off their feet. A muffled report followed.
"Mined, by Jove!" exclaimed Preston, in the brief lull that succeeded the detonation.
Then pandemonium was let loose. The lascars, yelling and shouting, poured on deck, followed by a mob of native firemen. Capable enough in ordinary circumstances, the Indians lacked the stolidity and grim courage of British crews when disaster, sudden and unexpected, stared them in the face.
Captain Bullock was quickly on the bridge. He could do little or nothing to allay the panic, for the native petty officers were as frantic as the rest. To add to the difficulties of the situation, every light on board went out. Vast clouds of smoke and steam were issuing through the engine-room fiddleys. The propeller was slowing down. The engineer on watch had, on his own initiative, cut off steam and opened the high-pressure gauges.
The Old Man shouted through the speaking-tube to the engine-room. There was no response.
Just then, in the glare of the lightning, he caught sight of Anstey, who, awakened by the explosion, had hurried to the bridge in his pyjamas and uniform cap.
"Nip below, Mr. Anstey, and see the extent of the damage," he ordered.
Anstey turned to obey. At the head of the bridge-ladder he encountered Crawford, the engineer of the watch.
"Nice sort of night to be in the ditch, laddie," exclaimed Crawford, as he elbowed his way past the Third Officer. "How far is to land, anyway?"
Crawford was on his way to report to the bridge. He had been flung violently on the bed-plates when the explosion occurred. Upon regaining his feet he found the engine-room in darkness save for the feeble glimmer of an oil lamp. Water was pouring in like a sluice through a rent in the after bulkhead that separated the engine-room from No. 3 hold. The firemen, panic-stricken, were bolting on deck. Neither by words nor action could Crawford stem the human tide of affrighted Asiatics.
Quietly he made his way to the platform and awaited orders from the bridge. The telegraph remained silent, the indicator on the dial still pointing to "Full Ahead".
By this time the water in the stokeholds was damping the fires, and Crawford deemed it prudent to shut off steam and open the escape valves in order to avert an explosion of the boilers.
Knee deep in the oily water that slushed to and fro as the ship rolled, the engineer of the watch groped his way through clouds of steam until his self-appointed task was done. Then, after shouting in case anyone else had remained below, he effected his retreat and at once made for the bridge to report to the Old Man.
"She's going, Mr. Preston," declared Captain Bullock.
"She is, sir," agreed the Acting Chief. Experience had taught him the now unmistakable symptoms of a foundering ship.
"Call away the boats," continued the Old Man "If you've trouble with that mob use your revolver, Preston. Don't hesitate. Remember we've women on board. Use your discretion as to what boat you stow 'em in."
The Acting Chief hurried off, pausing outside the wireless-room to give Mostyn the last known position of the ship, which information was a necessary adjunct to the SOS call.
Peter had not been idle. The moment the seriousness of the situation became apparent he was back at his post in the wireless-cabin.
The shutting off of steam had automatically stopped the dynamo. In any case, the explosion had severed the "leads". The main set was out of action. Mostyn had to fall back upon the emergency gear.
For quite ten minutes he contrived to call up, but no reassuring reply came through in reply to the urgent appeal for aid. There were ships within range of the emergency set, that Peter knew. He had spoken them earlier in the evening.
"Either atmospherics or else they've another Partridge and Plover on board," he thought grimly. "Wonder where my birds are?"
The two Watchers ought to have been on the bridge by this time. In case of distress it was their duty to "fall in" outside the wireless-cabin and await instructions. Neither had done so.
The floor of the cabin had quite an acute list by this time. It was only by propping his legs against the lee bulkhead that Mostyn could keep seated. He realized perfectly well that the ship was sinking rapidly, but it is part of an unwritten code of honour that a wireless officer "stands by" until he is ordered away by his skipper or swept from his post by the sea itself.
Even as he waited, still sending out the unacknowledged SOS, he thought of Olive Baird, wondering how she was faring in the horrors of the night. If he only knew—but perhaps for his peace of mind it was as well that he did not.
Above the turmoil without came the report of two pistol shots in quick succession. There was no mistaking the sharp cracks. They differed completely from the detonations of the distress rockets that at intervals were fired from the bridge, on the chance that a vessel in the vicinity might proceed to the aid of the foundering ship.
The pistol shots reminded Peter of something that he might otherwise have overlooked. Without removing the telephones from his ears he groped and found his automatic and a box of cartridges.
"No knowing when it might come in useful," he soliloquized, as he thrust the weapon into his hip pocket. "While I'm about it I might as well get dressed."
With considerable difficulty, owing to the now terrific list of the ship, he contrived to throw off his oilskin and don his white patrol suit over his pyjamas. Then, putting on his oilskin once more, he waited.
He had not much longer to wait.
"Any luck?" inquired the Old Man, who was gripping the doorway of the wireless-cabin with both hands in order to prevent himself slipping bodily to lee'ard.
"No, sir," replied Mostyn.
"Then chuck it," continued the skipper. "Look nippy. She's nearly gone. Where's your life-belt?"
A slight recovery on the part of the stricken West Barbican enabled Peter and the skipper to gain the weather bridge rail, the former securing a lifebelt from the chest by the side of the chartroom.
It was a weird and terrible sight that met Mostyn's eyes as he clung to the rail. The vivid flashes of lightning threw the scene into strong relief as the bluish glare illumined the night.
Not only was the ship listing to port. She was well down by the stern, her poop being practically submerged. From the lee side of the boat-deck a row of empty davits overhung the black water, the lower blocks of the disengaged falls flogging the ship's side like a series of blows with a sledge-hammer.
A cable's length away was one of the boats with only half a dozen people in her. Another more laden was a little distance away, the rowers laying on their oars. A third, deep in the water, was laboriously putting away from the ship. A fourth, waterlogged, with her bow and the top of the transom showing above the surface, was drifting at some distance astern of the ship, while a fifth was floating bottom upwards with five or six lascars struggling to clamber upon the upturned keel.
"We'll have to shift for ourselves, Mostyn," said the Old Man calmly. "The best of luck!"
The people in the sparely manned boat, noting the skipper and the Wireless Officer on the bridge, began to back towards the foundering ship.
"Avast there!" bawled Captain Bullock. "Stand off. Keep clear of the suction. She's going!"
With a shudder like an animal in mortal pain the staunch old ship made her final plunge. Amidst the rending of wood, as the enormous pressure of confined air burst the decks asunder, and the crash of the funnel as the guys carried away, she slid stern foremost beneath the waves.
Then a violent rush of water swept Peter off the shelving planking of the bridge. He was conscious of being flung heavily against some solid object, turned round and round like a slowly spinning top, and being dragged down, down, down.
Vainly he tried to keep his breath. The pressure on his lungs became intolerable. He was barely conscious of struggling madly in the crushing embrace of the black water.
Then everything became a blank.