It was Ralph who spoke—brave, quiet, English Ralph—and bravely and quietly did he speak, while his comrades looked on astonished. Courageous they all knew he was, in a fine old lazy Saxon fashion; but to see him stand forth in the hour of need, six feet and over of brawny stalwart heroism, ready and willing to lead a forlorn hope, took his friends aback.
“See here, mate. I’ll go with you to flood the magazine. If it’s only the smoke you fear, I know how to steer clear of that. I was at the burning of Castle Bryn Mawr, and gained an experience there that will last me a lifetime. Come below with me quickly. Now get me towels and a basin of water. Thanks! now watch what I do. Your handkerchief, Rory; yours, Allan. See here now—with this tiny pair of scissors I first cut two small eyeholes in the towel. Then I wet it in the water. Now I tear a handkerchief in two, and wet the parts and fold them into pads. Sit down, mate, sit down. One little pad I place at each side of the nose, the towel I bind firmly round the head and fasten behind. Now, mate, you can only breathe through the wet towel, and no smoke can harm you. Now, boys, here is the other wet towel and the pads, do the same by me.”
In less time than it has taken me to describe them, these simple operations were completed, and next minute Ralph was stepping manfully forward to the forehatch, followed by the mate.
The latter seized the hose with his left hand, and took Ralph’s left hand in his own right. He could thus guide him, for the mate knew where the magazine lay, but Ralph could not. Then they disappeared.
The bucket-men had, at the mate’s orders, ceased to work for a time, and took their turn at the pumps to relieve the others. They stood quietly with their backs to the bulwarks and with folded arms. Something they knew was being done below—something connected with the safety of the ship, and they were content.
Minutes, long minutes of terrible suspense to McBain and his two boys, went slowly, slowly by. Rory, who was passionately fond of Ralph, thought the time would never end, and all kinds of horrible fancies kept creeping into his mind. But look—they come at last; the heroes come. They stagger to where their friends are standing, and Rory notices that Ralph’s hands are sadly blackened, and that his finger-nails drip blood. It had been trying work. The magazine lid had fouled, and it took them fully five minutes to wrench it off, and five minutes more to flood the compartment. But it is done at last, and safety, for a time at least, is insured.
And now to fight the fire, to flood the hold, without admitting too much air to feed the flames.
McBain’s proposal was carried unanimously. It was to scuttle the lower deck, and fasten into the hole so made, the end of the long copper ventilator which stood between the fore and the main masts, and was used for giving access to air into the men’s living and sleeping rooms.
Ralph determined to go down again, and could not be restrained from doing so. His work, he averred, was but half finished; the mate and he between them could scuttle the deck with adzes and axes, and fix the funnel-shaped ventilator, in a quarter of an hour. They were too anxious to stop long for refreshment. Only a draught of water, and seizing their implements, down they went once more.
So perfect were the simple face-guards they wore, that they might have stopped below until the work was completed, had it not been necessary to come on deck to have them removed and re-rinsed in clean water. Happily the fire was not raging immediately beneath the spot where they cut the hole, or the flames might have defied all their efforts to fix the copper funnel. It was no easy task to do so as it was, for the smoke rolled up in blinding volumes, and the heat was intense. But they finished the work nevertheless, and finished it well, carefully surrounding the end of the ventilator with wet swabs.