The S.S.West Barbicanwas within a couple of days of Cape Town. The weather, although still warm, had lost much of the sweltering heat, thanks to the influence of the Trades.
The ship was rolling badly. For the last ten days she had been on her best behaviour in that respect; but now she was making up for lost time. There was a high sea running, and the ship's alley-ways to the saloon were ankle-deep in water.
With the glass falling rapidly the seas increased in violence. It was evident that theWest Barbicanwould receive a heavy dusting within the next few hours.
"Hanged if I like the look of things, Preston," admitted Captain Bullock, sniffing the approaching storm from afar. "We're in for something."
"We are, sir," agreed the Acting Chief. "And I'm not altogether satisfied with that steelwork. Bad enough cargo at any time, but I've an idea something's working adrift in No. 1 hold. I'll get Anstey to have a look at it."
The Old Man concurred.
"Tell the serang to warn the lascars," he added. "We don't want broken limbs and all that sort of thing."
At an order a party of lascars assembled for the purpose of securing any of the cargo that might have broken adrift. Presently Anstey, wearing sea-boots, made his way along the lurching deck. He was not at all keen on this particular job. Hounding about in the semi-darkness of the hold and in momentary danger of being crushed by a mass of shifting metal was not a pleasing outlook. But it was duty, and Anstey was not a shirker.
The lascars cast off a portion of the tarpaulin and removed the aftermost of the metal hatches, disclosing the rusty coaming and the upper portion of a vertical ladder of iron—or, to be more precise, a ladder that was nominally vertical. In present conditions it was swaying with the ship, and describing an erratic curve with a maximum heel of twenty degrees.
Steadying himself by the coaming, Anstey felt with his left foot for the topmost rung. Then, gripping the sides of the ladder, he began the descent.
Very little daylight found its way into the narrow space afforded by the displaced hatch. In fact Anstey soon found himself in gloom approaching total darkness. The air too, after being confined for weeks, was dank and distinctly unwholesome. There was an acute smell from the fumes given off from the red oxide with which the steelwork had been coated.
With his rubber-soled boots slithering on the slippery rungs as the vessel rolled, and gripping strongly with both hands, the Third Officer descended until at length his feet came in contact with the metal floor of the hold. The din was terrific. Without, the seas were hammering on the comparatively thin hull-plating. Bilge-water was foaming and hissing in the cellular bottom, while the vibration of the engines—the noise intensified in the confined space—added to the turmoil.
To these noises Anstey paid scant heed. He was listening intently to a metallic sound, which told him that Preston's precautions had not been taken in vain. Somewhere in the for'ard part of the hold there was a regular metallic thud. It came from a mass of metal that had worked loose from the securing chains.
Anstey's first intention was to order a couple of lascars below.
"May as well do the jolly old job myself," he soliloquized, on second thoughts.
Fumbling in his pocket he produced his electric torch. For some minutes he was dazzled by the blinding glare. Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he could form a good idea of the difficulties of his surroundings.
He was standing in a narrow fore-and-aft passage. The walls consisted of red-painted girders piled up to a height of ten feet on either side of him. Although secured by chains and upright steel bars they presented a formidable appearance, as alternately each wall towered obliquely over his head, the whole mass straining and groaning at its lashings like a Titan striving to burst his bonds.
Staggering along the narrow passage, for the erratic movement of the hold was totally different from the heave and pitch to which Anstey was accustomed on deck, the Third Officer made his way cautiously forward, critically examining the metal gripes that secured the awkward cargo.
Suddenly he stopped. A cold perspiration stood out on his forehead. Danger, imminent danger, stared him in the face. Danger not only to himself but to the ship and her passengers and crew.
Three feet above his head a huge girder was chattering and quivering. The chain that secured it to its fellows had at one time been set up by a massive bottle screw. Possibly the thread was an easy one, but, in any case, the constant working of the ship had caused the bottle screw to "run back". It was now holding by a couple of threads at the most, and momentarily the securing chain might fly asunder.
Anstey realized what that meant. The fifty-ton girder would crush and pulp him to a jelly. Not only that; it would to a certainty start the bottom plates of the hull and shatter the bulkheads of No. 1 hold as well. That meant that theWest Barbicanwould plunge like a stone to the bed of the Atlantic.
Thrusting the barrel of his torch under the strap of his peaked cap, Anstey replaced the headgear, jamming it on so that the peak was over his right ear. That gave him a direct light to work with.
Then, pulling out the marline-spike of his knife, and holding it between his teeth, Anstey began to scale the precarious wall of steel until he could tackle the almost disjointed bottle screw.
It seemed an eternity climbing that five or six feet. To his agitated mind it seemed as if the girders were already slipping bodily upon him. As his toes sought an insecure hold he could feel the steelwork trembling. With each lurch of the vessel to starboard the bottle screw strained, until the young officer felt certain that the last two threads had stripped and the last restraining bonds had been loosed.
At last he found himself in a position to tackle his task. With one foot resting on a girder on one side of the passage, and the other on the opposite side, and steadying himself as best he could with his left hand, Anstey inserted the point of the marline-spike in the slot of the bottle screw.
Then he began to turn the locking device, slowly and firmly.
HE BEGAN TO TURN THE LOCKING DEVICE, SLOWLY AND FIRMLYHE BEGAN TO TURN THE LOCKING DEVICE, SLOWLY AND FIRMLY
HE BEGAN TO TURN THE LOCKING DEVICE, SLOWLY AND FIRMLYHE BEGAN TO TURN THE LOCKING DEVICE, SLOWLY AND FIRMLY
At first he was seized with the terrifying idea that the threads were not gripping. With the torch in his cap throwing its rays erratically with every movement of his head, Anstey felt convinced that his efforts were in vain.
He went on turning and turning, barking his knuckles as the tapering spike slipped again and again. Then, with a grunt of satisfaction, he saw that the ends of the threaded bolts had reappeared.
Even as he looked, the torch slipped from his cap and clattered to the metal floor. The hold was plunged into darkness.
His first impulse was to make for the open air. In the darkness the difficulties of working in the place were redoubled. It required a determined effort to force himself to his incompleted task.
Solely by sense of touch he carried on, until he had the joy of feeling the reunited ends of the threaded bars. That part of the business was finished until next time, he decided.
Regaining the floor, he felt his way between the piled-up girders until his hand came in contact with the ladder. Twenty-five feet above his head he could see a rectangular patch of light, one edge broken by the heads and shoulders of half a dozen lascars.
Up the ladder Anstey swarmed, drinking in copious draughts of the pure, salt-laden air.
But his task was incomplete. He must make sure that everything in No. 1 hold was secure.
"Thatcher, old son," he exclaimed, as he encountered one of the junior engineers. "Lend me your torch, there's a good sort. I've scuppered mine."
Thatcher fumbled in the pocket of his dungarees.
"Here you are, you careless blighter," he replied. "Skylarking, I suppose? Well, take care of my gadget, anyway."
Again Anstey descended the hold and completed his survey. The clang of shifting steel had ceased.
When, after an hour's absence, he regained the bridge, Preston was not to be seen, but the skipper spotted the dishevelled youth and sung out to him.
"Well?" queried the Old Man.
"All correct, sir," reported Anstey. "The——"
"Good," rejoined the Captain, without waiting for the Third's explanation. "Carry on."
Anstey turned away to "carry on". It was his watch below. The job in No. 1 hold was merely an extra. He was still feeling the effects of his desperate efforts in the confined space, and the idea of turning in before he had had a "breather" did not appeal to him.
On the lee side of the bridge he encountered Mostyn.
"Hello, old thing," was Peter's greeting. "What have you been up to? You look a bit green about the gills."
"Nothing much," replied Anstey. "Just been giving an eye to your father's ironmongery. Yes, it's all right. Got a cigarette? My case is down below. Thanks awfully."
TheWest Barbican'sstay at Cape Town was of short duration. She landed about a score of her passengers and a small quantity of cargo, coaled, and proceeded, giving Peter little opportunity of a closer acquaintance with the oldest city of South Africa.
He was fairly busy during the run round to Durban, since the ship was within wireless range both of Cape Town and the seaport of Natal. Consequently he spent most of his waking hours in the wireless-cabin, rather than have to be continually called by Partridge and Plover.
TheWest Barbican, having spent a night at anchor under the Bluffs at Durban, proceeded alongside the quay to disembark the bulk of her passengers and a considerable amount of cargo.
It was here that "Mr. Porter" severed his personal acquaintance with the ship, although his interest in theWest Barbicandid not in the least degree wane. On the contrary it was rapidly increasing.
With a Kaffir porter carrying his portmanteau and suit-case von Schoeffer passed along the gangway and gained terra firma. He had found no suitable place in which he could secrete his explosives, nor had he an opportunity for so doing; so the only course that remained open, short of dumping the stuff into the sea, was to take it ashore with him.
He anticipated no difficulty in passing the Customs. None of the officials would detect in the harmless-looking slab that resembled sheet-glue one of the strongest explosives possible to obtain. They were "traveller's samples" and as such were allowed duty free.
So within ten minutes of leaving theWest BarbicanLudwig Schoeffer was bowling along in a rickshaw, drawn by a huge, muscular Zulu "boy", en route for a small hotel that overlooked the harbour.
On the following day Schoeffer's explosive, with the detonator timed for its maximum limit, was stored in No. 3 hold of the S.S.West Barbican, as one of the twenty odd cases of hardware consigned by the well-known firm of Van der Veld to Senhor Perez Bombardo of Beira.
Simply but effectively disguised, Schoeffer saw the crate whipped on board and lowered into the hold. So far so good. It looked as if he were certain of success. He chuckled as he conjured up a mental picture of the head director of the Pfieldorf Company handing over a substantial cheque.
During the rest of theWest Barbican'sstay at Durban, Ludwig Schoeffer lay low. For the present he had done all that was necessary. His deep-laid scheme was progressing favourably.
His idea was to signal the ship by means of wireless and, by spurious authority, order her to Rangoon. It was not unusual for ships of the Blue Crescent Line to receive unexpected orders when on the high seas, since they held roving commissions once they were round the Cape and had landed their mails.
And, since it would take longer than the seven days to make Rangoon, theWest Barbicanwould end her career mysteriously in mid-Indian Ocean.
At ten one morning theWest Barbicanstood out to sea bound for Beira and Pangawani, at which latter place she was to land the consignment of steelwork for the Kilba Protectorate.
At four the same afternoon Schoeffer walked into the offices of the wireless company at Durban.
"I want this message sent to theWest Barbican," he announced, handing in a form written in code—the private code of the Blue Crescent Line.
The clerk accepted the form without demur. He had no idea of its meaning, nor had he any way of finding out. Not that he wanted to. Messages in code were the rule rather than the exception.
The message as received and ultimately sent off by the shore operator was as follows:
"SW. TLB. FEW. CNI. TLXQ. VP AELB TNI PU. AEMQ".
Ludwig Schoeffer paid the eighteen shillings demanded and obtained a receipt. Then, having got an assurance that the message would be dispatched within an hour, he wished the clerk good afternoon and walked briskly to the waiting rickshaw.
The bogus message read, when decoded:
"I have received telegraphic instructions from your owners for you to proceed straight to Rangoon, where you will unload steelwork, proceeding thence to Port Sudan".
"Hello, Sparks; you look a bit off colour?"
This was Dr. Selwyn's greeting as Mostyn, having handed over the watch to Plover, walked into the doctor's cabin.
"I feel it, Doc," replied Peter. "Touch of the old complaint—malaria."
Selwyn had detected the symptoms the moment the Wireless Officer showed his face inside the door. Peter was trembling violently. He was feeling horribly cold, and his head was aching badly.
"Taken any quinine?" asked the medical man.
"Yes," was the reply. "My ears are buzzing already."
"Then turn in," ordered Selwyn. "I'll make you up a draught. Keep as warm as you jolly well can. This will make you perspire freely before midnight, and you'll be fit by this time to-morrow."
Peter waited while the doctor made up the medicine, and then staggered to his cabin, where Mahmed, greatly concerned, helped his master into bed and piled blankets and a bridge-coat upon his shivering body.
It was now one bell in the first dog watch.
At two bells Peter was still awake and trembling with cold spasms when Watcher Plover hurriedly entered the cabin.
Plover had no idea that Mostyn was down with malaria, and it was not unusual for him to find Peter lying on his bunk when off duty.
"Call for the ship, sir," he reported. "No bloomin' error this time. SVP as sure's my name's Plover."
Mostyn kicked off the blankets and rolled out of the bunk. He staggered as he stood up, and would have been glad of Plover's assistance. But the Watcher, having delivered his message, had gone back to his post.
With a terrific buzzing in his ears Peter almost dragged himself along the alleyway and up the bridge-ladder. Many a time he had regretted the absence of a second wireless officer. Now, above everything, he wanted an efficient substitute; but, of course, none was available.
Entering the wireless-cabin, he picked up the telephones and gave the acknowledgment. Then, a pencil in his trembling hand, he waited for the text of the message to come through:
"SW. TLB. FEW. CNI. TLXQ. VP AELD TNI PU. AEMQ".
Yes, Peter had that all right, but, ever on the cautious side, he asked for the message to be repeated.
"Here you are," he said, handing the duplicate message to his assistant. "Nip off with that to Captain Bullock."
"Don't you look rummy, sir?" remarked Plover, noting for the first time Mostyn's drawn features.
"Am a bit," admitted Peter. "I'll be all right by the morning. Skip along."
Watcher Plover "skipped along" at his usual stolid pace to the Old Man's cabin, while Peter, almost incapable of controlling his trembling limbs, somehow contrived to regain his bunk.
"Signal just come through, sir," reported Plover, as he handed the pencilled form to the skipper.
"All right," replied the Old Man brusquely. "Hand me that book; the second on the left. That'll do, carry on."
It did not take Captain Bullock long to decode the message, but a frown of perplexity spread over his forehead as he read the momentous words.
Then he rang the bell and ordered Plover to return.
"Who received this?" he asked.
"Mr. Mostyn, sir; he had the signal repeated."
"All right. You may go."
The assurance that the Wireless Officer had personally taken down the code message removed all doubts from Captain Bullock's mind.
"Mr. Preston," he sang out.
"Ay, ay, sir,"
"Fresh orders," announced the Old Man. "Here you are: 'I have received telegraphic instructions from your owners for you to proceed straight to Bulonga, where you will unload steelwork, proceeding thence to Port Sudan'. Bring me the chart of the Mozambique coast, Preston, and let's see where we are—and the sailing directions while you are about it."
The Acting Chief hastened to fetch the required articles.
"Bulonga—that's in Mozambique," commented the Old Man. "What the blazes the Kilba Protectorate people want to have the steelwork dumped there for goodness only knows. However, it's my place to carry out instructions, Mr. Preston."
"Ay, ay, sir," concurred the Acting Chief without enthusiasm. He had no love for the Portuguese East African ports. A long spell there meant mosquitoes; mosquitoes meant malaria and other evils in its train. And there was simply nothing to see or do in these ports. Preston had "had some" before to-day.
"They give no reason for the alteration, sir?" he inquired. "I suppose by any chance we haven't got the signal incorrectly?"
"No reason, Mr. Preston," replied Captain Bullock. "And here is the signal in duplicate. Mostyn took that precaution, so I can stake my boots on its accuracy."
The two officers spent some time in poring over the chart and reading up the description of Bulonga harbour and its approaches, as set down in the Admiralty sailing directions for the east coast of Africa.
"It'll be a tight squeeze for our draught," commented the skipper. "It'll mean a Portugee pilot, worse luck. I know those gentry of old. I hope there's a British agent there to take over the Brocklington Company's consignment."
Had Captain Bullock known that Peter was down with a severe bout of malaria he would not have wagered his footgear so readily, for Mostyn had made a mistake in taking in the signal. More, he had duplicated the mistake when he received the repetition at his own request.
With his head buzzing like a high-pressure boiler Peter had read D (—..) for B (—...), his temporarily disordered sense of hearing failing to detect the slight but important difference.
Consequently, instead of theWest Barbicanshaping a course for Rangoon, which in the code signal appeared as AELB, she was making for the comparatively unimportant harbour of Bulonga (AELD).
The while Ludwig Schoeffer's seven-day watch was silently ticking out the seconds, minutes, and hours in theWest Barbican'sbaggage hold. The German agent was sublimely ignorant of the change in the ship's plans. He was still at Durban, awaiting the news that theWest Barbicanwas overdue and believed missing. He would have been considerably surprised had he known that there was every likelihood of the ship sinking in Bulonga Harbour, where at low tide she would have barely enough water to lie alongside the quays.
If he had only known the vital difference that the omission of a "dot" in the spurious signal was to cause!
Peter Mostyn's attack lasted a full twenty-four hours, but at seven the next evening he felt well enough to go down to dinner in the saloon.
That function had become a mere shadow of its former self. On the run to Cape Town the chairs round the long tables were generally filled, once the passengers had grown accustomed to life afloat and had regained their temporarily lost appetites.
Now, the saloon looked almost deserted. Captain Bullock was in his customary place at the head of the table, most of the officers not on duty were present—a mere handful all told. Of the passengers only eight remained. Of these, five were to be landed at Beira and taken on to their destinations by a "Bullard" boat. The remaining three were Mr. and Mrs. Shallop and Olive Baird.
Since Mrs. Shallop's encounter with the skipper she had fought shy of the saloon when the Old Man was present, and was in the habit of having her evening meal in the seclusion of her cabin. Although this arrangement was contrary to the Company's rules and regulations Captain Bullock winked at it; the rest of the saloon congratulated themselves, and even Shallop, away from the disturbing influence of his wife's presence, seemed a different man. In fact, on several occasions his dry and somewhat humorous remarks set everyone laughing.
The temporary retirement of Mrs. Shallop had given Olive much more leisure. At first the selfish woman had tried her level best to compel the girl to share her self-imposed seclusion, but Olive had firmly declined to submit. She had already endured considerable discomfort on her employer's behalf, and had borne the almost continuous "nagging" without a murmur; but now the breaking-strain had been exceeded, and the bullying woman had to admit defeat.
Consequently Peter saw Olive a good deal. They were firm pals. There was nothing sloppishly sentimental about the girl. She was merely a jolly little person emerging from the temporary cloud of reserve caused by the depressing influence of the naval captain's daughter.
She had been fully initiated into the mysteries of the wireless-room; she had taken equal interest in the complicated machinery of the engine-room; and, since leaving Cape Town, Captain Bullock had given her permission to go on the bridge whenever she wished. She had coaxed Anstey into showing her how to "shoot the sun" and to use theNautical Almanacin order to work out the ship's position. Even thesecuniin the wheelhouse so far forgot his duty as to allow the Missie Sahib to take the wheel.
But undoubtedly her interest was keenest in sailing. Both Preston and Anstey had promised to give her a run in one of theWest Barbican'ssailing-boats while the ship was at Durban. This promise they severally performed, but to a certain extent the beat to windward and the run home on the spacious but shallow water of the harbour was a disappointment to Olive—since neither man had offered to let her take the tiller.
Dinner over—Peter had very little appetite—Olive Baird went on deck, and somehow, whether by accident or design, Mostyn found her standing on the starboard side of the promenade-deck, gazing at the moon as it rose apparently out of the Indian Ocean.
"What a topping evening, Mr. Mostyn," observed the girl. "Just fine for a sail."
She gave a glance at one of the quarter-boats, an eighteen-foot gig fitted with a centre-board.
"'Fraid it can't be done," remarked Peter, with a laugh. "Stopping vessels in mid-ocean for the purpose of giving lady passengers a spin in one of the boats isn't usual. Might work it when we arrive at Bulonga. You're fond of sailing, I notice."
"I love it," declared the girl enthusiastically. "Do you?"
"Yes, rather," agreed Peter; "so long as there's not too much of it."
"There never could be too much as far as I am concerned," protested Olive. "What do you mean by too much?"
"Well, for instance, a two-hundred mile run in a boat of about that size," replied the Wireless Officer, indicating the centre-board gig. "I tried that sort of thing once, but the boat never reached her destination."
"Tell me about it," commanded Miss Baird. "Were you single-handed?"
"No," replied Peter. "There were three fellows and a girl. We got wrecked."
For nearly three-quarters of an hour Olive listened intently to Mostyn's account of the escape from the pirate island in the North Pacific; the narrator with his natural modesty touching but lightly upon his share of the desperate enterprise.
"And where is the girl now?" inquired Olive.
"She married my chum Burgoyne," replied Peter. "I had a letter from him when we were at Cape Town. Burgoyne is a jolly lucky fellow."
"We had a sailing-boat of our own once," said Olive, her mind going back to those far-off days before she had a stepmother to make things unpleasant for her. "I used to sail quite a lot on the Tamar when we lived at Saltash."
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Peter to himself. "I felt certain I'd seen her before, but I couldn't for the life of me say where."
For a few moments he remained silent, making a mental calculation.
"Was it in 1913?" he inquired. "Didn't you have a bright, varnished boat with a teak topstrake and a red standing lugsail? And you were about eight or nine then. You used to have your hair bobbed, and wore a white jersey and a scarlet stocking cap?"
"However did you know that?" asked Olive in astonishment.
"Because we had a yacht moored just above the red powder hulks. My father held an appointment at Keyham Dockyard, you see; and whenever he had a home billet he kept a yacht or boat of some sort. Sailing was his favourite pastime."
But Olive was paying scant heed to the description of Mostynpèreas set forth by Mostynfils. Her thoughts too were flying back to those halcyon days before the war.
"I believe I remember you," she said at length. "Weren't you on board a white yawl of about six tons, with a green boot-top and rather a high cabin top?"
"That was theSpindrift, my pater's yacht," declared Peter. "And——"
"And you were about ten or eleven, with a freckly face," pursued Miss Baird calmly. "You were a horrid little wretch in those days, because I distinctly remember you laughing at me when the halliard jammed and I couldn't get the sail either up or down."
"Guilty, Miss Baird," said Peter. "I apologize. Give me a chance to make amends and I'll be all over it."
"I will," agreed the girl. "You may take me for a sail in Bulonga Harbour; but you mustn't be selfish, like Mr. Preston and Mr. Anstey. You will let me take the tiller, won't you?"
Peter gave the required promise. He felt highly pleased with himself. Anstey was evidently in disfavour because he had underrated Olive's capabilities as a helmswoman. In addition, the Third Officer would be fairly busy while theWest Barbicanwas in harbour, as the steelwork had to be taken out of the hold. Reminiscences of youth spent in the West Country, too, were mutual and sympathetic bonds between the Wireless Officer and the girl. No wonder he was feeling highly elated.
"What sort of a place is Bulonga?" asked Olive.
"Haven't the faintest idea," replied Peter. "Never heard of the show until a day or two ago. Don't expect a second Durban, Miss Baird. If you do you'll be disappointed. I shouldn't be at all surprised if it's a pestilential mud-hole. By Jove, it's close on eight bells, and it's my watch."
Half an hour later Mostyn "took in" a message from Durban addressed to Miss Baird. It contained the brief announcement that Mr. and Mrs. Gregory—Olive's relations to whom she was on her way—were returning to England in three days' time, and that Olive's passage-money home was lying at the Company's offices at Durban.
"What a one-eyed crib!" exclaimed Anstey, as theWest Barbicanslowly 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 theWest Barbicancautiously 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 theWest Barbicanto 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 theWest Barbicanwas 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 theWest Barbicanwithout 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 bemañana. 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 theWest Barbicanalongside 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 atête-à-têteunder these conditions was very different from one on the promenade-deck of theWest Barbicanon 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.