The Old Man was fighting a tough battle. With Preston and Anstey he was extricating his command from a perilous situation, where skilful seamanship alone could regain control of the helm without allowing the vessel to wallow helplessly in the fiery sea. Putting the ship ahead and astern alternately the Old Man allowed her head to pay off under the force of the wind until he saw a chance of turning. Then, with a grunt of supreme satisfaction, he rang for full speed ahead. Five minutes later the West Barbican, clear of the oil-calmed water, was rolling in the tempestuous seas.
"Carry on, Mr. Anstey," he ordered. "Lay her on her old course."
He turned abruptly on his heel, intending to see how the survivors of the tanker were faring. As he swung round he noticed Peter standing under the lee of the wireless cabin.
"Mr. Mostyn!"
"Sir?"
"How many survivors?"
Peter told him.
"A smart bit of work of yours, Mr. Mostyn, but—oh, very well, go below and turn in. I'll see you in the morning."
The Wireless Officer obeyed only too gladly. As he washed the grime from his face he reflected that, thanks to the damaged aerial, he would have an uninterrupted watch below.
For a long time he lay awake in his bunk. It was not the heavy rolling that was responsible for his sleeplessness. The whole of the night's adventure passed in review, its horrors intensified in retrospect. It was not until dawn was breaking that he fell into a fitful slumber.