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 Barbicandrew 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 theWest Barbicanreturned 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 theWest 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 strickenWest Barbicanenabled 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.
Acting Chief Officer Dick Preston, on receiving the Old Man's order to get the boats away, lost no time in getting to the scene of operations. The frantic rush of the lascars to the boat-deck warned him of what to expect. He had seen the panic-stricken clamour of a crew of white-livered dagoes, had watched them tumble pell-mell into the sole remaining boat, and had witnessed the result—a swamped whaler and twenty men struggling for dear life, and struggling in vain in the icy cold water off the Newfoundland Banks. That was many years ago, but the lesson had not been lost on Dick Preston.
Hurriedly loading his revolver, the Acting Chief gained the boat-deck. Already the native crew had swung out one of the boats, and a fierce struggle was in progress between the lascars and the firemen as to who should go away in her.
There was no love lost between the two classes. They were of different races, the lascars hailing from Bombay while the firemen were recruited from the Coromandel coast; they were of different faith, the former being Mahommedans, the latter Buddhists. It needed little to cause a row. When it came to a struggle for life the natives were in a state bordering upon madness.
"Chup rao!" shouted Preston, levelling his revolver. "Belay there! Stand fast!"
For a moment the lascars and firemen hesitated. Then, as the ship shook and staggered as the bulkhead of No. 2 hold gave way, they surged in a living torrent into the out-swung boat, regardless of the revolver shots which the Acting Chief fired over their heads.
Preston made no further attempt to restore order on the boat-deck. If the men disobeyed orders he was no longer responsible for their safety.
He passed along until he came to a knot of comparatively amenable Madrasis, who had been gathered together by Anstey and two of the engineers.
"Right-o, old man!" exclaimed the Acting Chief to the Third Officer. "Lower away! You take command, and good luck to you."
Quickly, yet with good discipline, the boat was manned and lowered—Anstey, the two engineers, and Mr. Shallop in the stern-sheets.
"Keep in company, Mr. Anstey," shouted Preston, as the falls swung free.
"Ay, ay, sir," was the reply, followed by the order: "give way."
Anstey's boat was barely clear of the side when the first boat to be swung out was let go with a run. Greatly overcrowded, it struck the water with tremendous force. The impact broke her back, and in a moment she filled, leaving the frantic natives floundering in the water. Some were crushed as the sea flung the waterlogged craft against the ship's side. Others strove to clamber into the boat, only to destroy her slight buoyancy. In the mêlée knives were used with deadly effect, until only half a dozen men, who had swum clear of the boat, were left out of the thirty odd who had crowded into her.
It had been both Preston's and Anstey's plan to get the women away first; but each had quickly realized that this was out of the question. For one thing, neither Mrs. Shallop nor Olive was on the boat-deck. For another, it was useless to attempt to place them in the boats until the panic-stricken mob was effectively dealt with.
Two more boats, each under the charge of an engineer, and with three or four stewards, got away with difficulty. The crowd on the boat-deck had thinned considerably.
"Now, then, where are the women?" demanded Preston. He was not altogether certain whether they had already got away, for, save for the less frequent flashes of lightning, the scene was in total darkness.
"Here you are, Preston!" shouted a voice that the Acting Chief recognized as the Purser's.
A bluish glare, a prolonged flash, enabled Preston to see the missing passengers. The Purser was literally dragging Mrs. Shallop along the deck, while Olive was close behind.
For once Mrs. Shallop was silent. She was unconscious.
"I wondered why she wasn't complaining that she was not being treated as a lady," thought Preston grimly. "That accounts for it."
Together, the Acting Chief and the Purser unceremoniously bundled the insensible woman into the last boat but one on the port side. Those on the starboard were useless, for, owing to the excessive heel, they could not be lowered clear of the sloping side.
"Now, Miss Baird."
Guided by Preston the girl entered the boat, in which were three lascars—one of them Mahmed, Peter's boy.
"Where's Mostyn?" shouted the Acting Chief. "Partridge! Plover! Hurry up, now!"
He called in vain. The two Watchers had already got clear of the ship. Mostyn was still vainly endeavouring to get the SOS message through.
Meanwhile the Purser, the Chief Steward, and the remaining natives had lowered the last available boat. Preston was left alone on the boat-deck—a fact that was revealed to him when the next lightning-flash rent the sky.
"Where's the Captain?" he shouted, hailing the boats lying a short distance away. "Anyone seen Captain Bullock?"
By this time the water was washing over the well-deck. At any moment theWest Barbicanmight turn turtle.
A voice from one of the boats replied:
"Here!"
"What's that?" bawled Preston.
"All right," answered the voice.
The Acting Chief was puzzled. It was not the Old Man's voice, but perhaps Captain Bullock had been injured. He had not seen the skipper since he left him on the bridge. Apparently the bridge was deserted. It looked untenable owing to the great list of the ship.
A muffled explosion, as yet another bulkhead gave way under the pressure of water, warned Preston that it was time for him to go. It was his duty to take charge of the boat in which were the two women passengers.
Leaping into the boat, Preston signed to Mahmed to help him with the after falls, at the same time shouting to the other two lascars to lower away handsomely.
Although there was no one on deck to man the falls, it was a fairly easy matter to lower away the comparatively light boat with only six persons on board, the distance from the davit-heads to the water being only about ten feet, so deep had the ship settled.
"Fend off!" ordered Preston, as he jerked the lever of the patent disengaging gear.
Even as he spoke the heavy metal block of the lower after falls swung violently outwards. In the darkness the Acting Chief did not see the impending danger.
The next instant the swaying lump of metal struck Preston full on the temple. Without a groan or a cry he pitched headlong upon the stern-sheet gratings.
It was Mahmed who discovered the apparently lifeless form of the Chief Officer. He communicated his discovery to his compatriots, and an excited conversation ensued. Meanwhile the boat was drifting aimlessly at less than ten yards from theWest Barbican'sport quarter. Until it occurred to the lascars—who were arguing on a question of precedence as to who should now give orders—that there was imminent danger of the boat being swamped by the suction of the foundering ship, they made no effort to man the oars.
When about a hundred yards from the ship the lascars ceased rowing and resumed their argument.
All this time Olive had done what lay in her power to render Mrs. Shallop's plight less painful. She was in utter ignorance of the accident that had befallen the luckless Acting Chief Officer, although she was rather puzzled at the lack of discipline displayed by the lascars, and the fact that the officer in charge of the boat made no attempt to check the dispute.
Another vivid sheet of lightning illumined the scene, but Olive was not looking into the boat. Her attention was attracted by the sight of two men standing on the listing bridge of the ill-fatedWest Barbican.
The glare was of sufficient duration to enable her to distinguish Captain Bullock and Mostyn. She saw the former raise his hand and beckon the boat to pull clear. He was shouting something, but in the turmoil the words were indistinguishable.
The long-drawn lightning flash ended, leaving the girl blinking in Stygian darkness.
"There's Captain Bullock and Mostyn still on board, Mr. Preston," she exclaimed, in anxious tones. "Can't we put back to fetch them?"
There was no reply.
In a louder tone Olive repeated the question of entreaty.
Still there was no answer.
The lascar bowman resumed his oar, pulling the boat's head round. Finding his companion idle he prodded him in the back with his foot, with the result that the man gave a few desultory strokes. In the utter darkness the lascars had lost all sense of direction, and, instead of pulling away from the ship, they were slightly closing with her.
Suddenly a hissing sound rent the air. It was the ship plunging beneath the waves. The boat, caught by the turmoil of the tempestuous seas, was thrown about like a cork. One of the men was hurled off the thwart by the loom of his oar striking him in the face. The oar was swept from his grasp and lost overboard.
To Olive, crouching on the bottom-boards, it seemed as if the boat were being lifted vertically. The movement reminded her of the sudden and unexpected starting of a lift. Then, heeling terribly, the boat dipped her gunwale under, and a cascade poured into her until Olive was sitting waist deep in water.
Her first act was to raise Mrs. Shallop's head. The shock of the water had caused that lady partly to recover consciousness. She was moaning and coughing.
The violent motion lasted for quite a minute, then the maelstrom subsided, and the partly waterlogged boat bobbed sluggishly on the waves. The lascars, now roused to activity, were baling furiously with their hands, since in the darkness it was impossible to find the baler which was supposed to be in the boat.
"Mr. Preston!" exclaimed Olive once more.
"Preston Sahib he dead man," was Mahmed's startling announcement, although the words were delivered with the imperturbability of the Asiatic.
The horror of the situation gripped the plucky girl. Throughout the period between the explosion and the foundering of theWest Barbicanshe had been perfectly self-possessed, her chief solicitude being for her tyrannical employer. Now the full magnitude of the disaster became apparent. She and the unconscious Mrs. Shallop were alone in the boat with three apparently incapable lascars. Preston was, presumably, dead; Mostyn she had seen standing on the bridge just before the ship sank, keeping up the traditions of the Wireless Service to remain at his post as long as the ship was afloat and the transmitting apparatus was capable of being worked.
The other boats were neither to be seen nor heard. Whether they were still standing by or whether they were making for the nearest land the girl knew not.
She would have welcomed another lightning flash, out none came. The electrical storm had passed. Rain was now falling heavily, and the total absence of wind was ominous. It presaged a hard blow, possibly a storm, at no distant date.
Olive was thinking deeply. It was "up to her" to show the lascars that a British woman is not helpless in a tight corner.
"If only it were light," she thought.
Then she remembered that the boats usually carried an emergency equipment, an oil lamp amongst other things.
"Mahmed," she ordered, "get the boat's lamp from the stern-locker and light it."
She would have found it herself, but for the fact that Preston's body lay on the stern-gratings. She frankly admitted to herself that nothing could induce her to grope her way past that in the darkness.
The two lascars were still baling in the bows. They too were reluctant to go aft, where, by removing the stern-sheet gratings, they could deal more effectually with the water in the bilges.
Mahmed obeyed without protest. Olive could hear the search in progress; first the clatter of the detached locker-cover, as it slipped upon the stern-sheets, then the rasping of a metal-bound keg, and the metallic clank of the lamp.
"No can do, memsahib," reported Mahmed. "No light, no match."
"Look again," commanded the girl. Unless some unprincipled person had purloined them, there ought to be matches in a watertight box along with the rest of the gear in the after locker.
A further search proved futile. The boats and their gear had been inspected by the officer of the watch only that morning, and had been reported as being in good condition and fully equipped in every respect. Either Anstey, as inspecting officer, had shirked his whole duty or else, which to Olive seemed unlikely, the matches had been stolen in broad daylight.
"See if there are matches in Preston Sahib's pocket," said the girl.
But Mahmed drew the line at that. In his quaint English he explained, giving several reasons that seemed puerile.
"I suppose it's hardly fair to get him to do what I daren't do myself," thought the girl. Then, summoning up her resolution, she leant over the stroke-thwart, and shudderingly groped for the Acting Chief's pockets.
To her delight she found a box of Swedish matches in the breast pocket of Preston's drill patrol jacket. Before she could withdraw her hand the supposedly dead man moved slightly, but none the less perceptibly. That altered the situation. Olive was no longer dealing with a corpse, but with a living person. Instinctively she placed her hand over Preston's heart. It was beating very feebly.
"Here are matches, Mahmed!" she exclaimed. "Light the lamp quickly. Preston Sahib is not dead."
It seemed an interminable delay before Mahmed succeeded in getting the lamp lighted. The matches were damp, the wick wanted trimming, and the colza oil was a long time before it gave out a flame.
At length the lamp was lighted, and there was quite a steady light, and the transition from utter darkness imparted confidence.
Giving a hasty look at Mrs. Shallop, to see that she was still in the recovering stage, Olive turned to the more important work in hand.
Preston looked a ghastly sight. One side of his face had been badly injured, while the concussion had caused blood to ooze from his eyes, nose, and mouth.
Olive's first step was to wash the injured man's face and moisten his lips with water. She had the good sense to use salt water for the washing process, knowing that the contents of the water-beaker were likely to be more precious than gold before the adventure was over. Then, pillowing the patient's head on a sail and covering him with a piece of tarpaulin, she debated as to what was to be done next.
Clearly Preston's case required medical aid. Selwyn was in one of the boats, but whether they were in company or not Olive had no idea.
"Hold up the lamp, Mahmed," she ordered. "High up."
The boy obeyed, while Olive, shading her eyes from the heavy rain, peered around in case any of the other boats might be displaying a light. It was a doubtful point. Even if they had, the torrential downpour would tremendously curtail the range of visibility of the low-powered light.
In fact, held high above Mahmed's head, the rays simply illuminated a circular patch of rain-threshed water, a little more than a dozen yards in radius, Beyond was an impenetrable wall of darkness.
An involuntary cry came from Olive Baird's lips. She could hardly believe the evidence of her eyes, for floating inertly within an oar's length of the boat was a man—Peter Mostyn.
Whether he was alive or dead Olive knew not. His usually tanned features looked a ghastly greenish hue, his eyes were closed, and his head was hanging sideways. His arms were moving slightly, but the movement was purely automatic as the lifebelt-clad figure lifted to the gentle undulations of the sea.
Startled by Olive's cry, Mahmed looked in the direction to which the girl was pointing. His fright at seeing, as he thought, the dead body of his master, was almost disastrous in its result. The upheld lamp slipped from his nerveless fingers and fell clattering upon the gunwale. For an instant it seemed uncertain whether it would drop into the sea or not, but luckily a movement of the boat slid it inboard.
But the fall had extinguished the lamp. Mahmed was in too much of a blue funk to relight it. Olive settled the question by taking the box of matches from him and lighting it herself.
Neither of the two lascars for'ard would move a finger to row towards the Wireless Officer. Superstition akin to panic held them in its grip. They would not—they could not—use their oars. Every bit of courage seemed to have oozed out of them.
Seizing one of the spare oars lying across the thwarts, Olive, using the unwieldy ash paddle-wise, slowly brought the boat nearer and nearer the seemingly inanimate man. Had there been any wind the task would have been almost impossible, owing to the high freeboard of the lightly laden boat; but in the absence of even a faint breeze Olive was able to accomplish her aim.
With a sigh of relief she threw down the oar, and, leaning over the gunwale, grasped Peter by one arm.
Exerting every ounce of strength, Olive tried and tried in vain to haul Mostyn into the boat. In normal conditions he was no light weight, and now, in his waterlogged clothing and wearing a cumbersome lifebelt, he was so heavy that the girl could do no more than lift his head and shoulders clear of the water.
She called to the lascars for assistance, but the only reply she received from the two men for'ard was: "No good; him dead man."
Mahmed, however, although he had no doubt that he was handling a corpse, came to her aid, although he worked with an averted face. Even with his assistance Olive had a hard task, but at length Peter was unceremoniously bundled over the gunwale, and placed in the stern-sheets close to the unconscious Preston.
Anxiously the girl gazed at his pallid face, hoping to detect some sign of life. Then she began the operations as laid down in the instructions for restoring the apparently drowned.
In her schooldays Olive had been taught this useful knowledge, but she had never before had an opportunity of putting the knowledge to the test. She felt none too sure of it. Once or twice she found herself wondering whether she was doing the wrong thing.
For a full half-hour she kept up the respiratory exercises, until, in the uncertain light of the lantern, she fancied that the colour was stealing back to Peter's face.
"He is alive; your master isn't dead!" she exclaimed to the hitherto apathetic Mahmed.
The announcement had an electrical effect upon the Indian boy. Peter dead was nothing to him; Peter living was his master for whom he had undoubted affection and devotion.
He began chafing Mostyn's hands, while Olive, now deadly tired, doggedly continued her efforts.
Mostyn's heart was now beating. His nostrils were quivering. He was breathing faintly, but with steadily increasing strength. Though partially choked by the water he had involuntarily swallowed when carried down by the ship, he had been saved from suffocation by his lifebelt, which kept his head clear of the water after he had regained the surface.
Restoring the circulation was the next step. Fortunately both the water and air were warm, and the dangerous consequences of a prolonged immersion were mitigated. Had the disaster occurred in other than tropical waters, the comparatively low temperature would have been fatal.
At length Peter opened his eyes. He was quite at a loss to grasp the situation. The lamplight puzzled him. At first he was under the impression that he was in his bunk, and that either Watcher Partridge or Watcher Plover had roused him to take in a signal. Somehow that didn't seem correct. Awkwardly he fumbled for the edge of the bunk board. Instead, his fingers encountered the stern-grating. Then his attention was wonderingly attracted by one of the knees of the after thwart. It had been split, and the sight of it irritated him, although he didn't know why, exactly.
He was beginning to realize that he was in a boat. How he got there, and why he should be in it, was a perplexity. It might be the Old Man's motor-launch—but no! Something was wrong somewhere.
A dozen fantastic theories flashed across his mind, only to be dismissed so unsatisfactorily that the failure made him angry. One thing he was certain of. Miss Baird was with him, but what she was doing there was a baffling problem. He wanted to speak to her, but hesitated lest that certainty should turn out to be an unreality.
He was still cudgelling his brain when he fell into a fitful and uneasy sleep.
The short tropical dawn was breaking when Peter awoke. He was now fully conscious of the events leading up to the foundering of theWest Barbican, but was still at a loss to account for his presence in the boat. Stranger still it was to find that he had not been labouring under a hallucination with regard to Olive Baird.
The girl was sleeping on the bottom-boards, her head pillowed on a lifebelt. On the next thwart sat Mrs. Shallop, looking extremely dishevelled, with her black hair streaming in the wind. For once she was silent. On recovering consciousness she had grumbled considerably. Now there was no one to listen to her complaints. Peter had been asleep; Olive was still slumbering. Preston, although awake, was decidedly light-headed. As for Mahmed and the two lascars, they were huddled together in the bows awaiting the appearance of the sun with its beneficent warmth.
Peter sat up wonderingly. His head swam a little, and he felt as weak as the proverbial kitten. Some one had covered him with an oilskin. He wondered who?
It came as a nasty shock to see poor old Preston stretched alongside, with one half of his face looking as if it had been battered in. The Acting Chief looked at Peter, but there was no recognition in the look.
"Hello, old man!" exclaimed Mostyn. "How goes it?"
The greeting was ignored. Preston made an effort to place his hand on his head. The attempt failed. With a groan the Acting Chief rolled over on his side.
"Water!" he gasped feebly.
Peter dragged the beaker from under the stern bench and moistened the injured man's lips. His own throat felt dry and parched, but already he realized the absolute necessity for husbanding the precious fluid.
Preston sighed and closed his eyes. For the time being Peter could do nothing more for the badly injured Acting Chief.
The Wireless Officer was feeling far too "groggy on his pins" to stand. Supporting himself by the gunwale, he knelt up and scanned the horizon. The wind was fresh and the sea fairly high, though regular. The boat, not under control, was driving broadside on to the wind, her high freeboard and comparatively light load allowing her to scud at quite a steady rate. Also, owing to the same circumstances, she rode the seas well, only an occasional flick of spray finding its way inboard.
The rain had ceased during the night, but the bottom-boards were awash. The masts and sails were still rolled up and stowed in a painted canvas cover. Beside them was a bundle of oars, and on top of them a rudder.
The fact that the boat was not under control stirred Peter to action. Having made sure that none of the rest of theWest Barbican'sboats was in sight, he aroused the inert lascars.
"Hai! hai!" he shouted. "Aft, you hands, and set sail."
The men showed no great haste to execute the command.
"Where go? India?" asked one.
"Lay aft, both of you," exclaimed Peter sternly, although in his weak state he found himself asking how he could enforce obedience. He knew enough of the native temperament to realize that if he gave a command and failed to see it carried out, his authority over the lascars was as good as gone for ever.
"Me tired," objected the other. "Nopani, nopadi."
Without another word Mostyn produced and ostentatiously displayed his automatic. There were great odds against its efficacy, after being submerged for several hours. The cartridges were supposed to be watertight, and were well greased. He had little fear on that score. The difficulty lay in the fact that the delicate mechanism of the pistol might have been deranged through the action of the salt water.
He felt confident that he could rely upon Mahmed. The boy was a devoted servant, and true to his salt. And Peter had no doubt about Miss Baird's ability to aid him if the lascars proved openly mutinous. For the present Preston was out of the running, while Mrs. Shallop was literally and figuratively a "passenger".
Greatly to Mostyn's relief the sight of the automatic acted like an electric shock upon the two lascars. With great agility and speed they began casting off the sail-cover and setting up the heavy mast.
While they were hoisting the lug-sail Mahmed shipped the rudder, and soon the boat was slipping along before the breeze.
Peter had been puzzling over the course for some considerable time. Against the westerly breeze he knew that days might elapse before the boat made the Mozambique coast. Being light and not provided with a centre-board, she was unable to sail at all close to the wind. In fact, it was doubtful whether she would make to windward at all. On the other hand, she would run well, and, with the knowledge that the island of Madagascar was somewhere under his lee—it might be anything between two hundred and four hundred miles—Mostyn decided that the best chance lay in making for it. There was, of course, a great possibility of several vessels being in the vicinity. If the boat were sighted, so much the better. If not—well, they would have to "stick it out" on very short rations.
A thorough search in the after locker disclosed the fact that there was an airtight tin containing fourteen pounds of biscuits, another lantern and a pound of tallow candles, a lead-line, some rusty fishing hooks and lines (relics of a long-forgotten fishing expedition), a hatchet, grass rope, and half a dozen signal rockets. Elsewhere in the boat were a small compass, a water-beaker about three-quarters full, spare oars, baler, boat-hook, grapnel, and a jib and mizzen sails, besides the lug that had already been set.
The baler had been nearly filled with rain-water during the night, but the lascars had drunk every drop. Peter, of course, was ignorant of this, and when he served out a small quantity all round the lascars must have congratulated themselves on their astuteness.
The tin of biscuits was then broached, and one biscuit handed to each person in the boat. Preston munched his ravenously, although every movement of his jaw caused him intense agony. He was still lightheaded, muttering incoherently about taking over the middle watch.
Olive was hungry and ate the "hard tack" with zest, but Mrs. Shallop pettishly declined her share as being unfit for a lady to eat. She even began her now well-known speech of self-advertisement, when Peter cut her short.
"I can offer you nothing better," he said curtly. "I would advise you to keep it, because you'll want it badly before long. And please understand there must be no grumbling. It has a bad effect upon the lascars."
"Surely I can talk if I want to?" protested the woman.
"Within limits, yes," replied Mostyn. "But I would point out that it would be far better if you did something useful. There's Preston, for instance, he requires pretty constant attention."
"Oh, Miss Baird can see to him," declared Mrs. Shallop. "She's younger than I am."
"Considering Miss Baird had three cases on her hands during the night—you, Preston, and myself—I think she's done more than her fair share," said Peter, and, filled with disgust, he turned to the helm, which Mahmed had temporarily taken.
He could see Olive's face flush under the selfish rudeness of the parvenue, but the girl, repressing her impulse to reply heatedly, remained silent.
A stiff glass of brandy, and the sound sleep resulting from it, had kept Mrs. Shallop in ignorance of her narrow escape from death in the disaster to theWest Barbican. She was in the habit of consuming the contents of a bottle of strong waters per week. "By Dr. Selwyn's orders," she would explain. "He says I must have it, and it must be the very best." And Selwyn was never more astonished than when he heard of the prescription that was attributed to him. When the ship shook under the explosion a steward had rushed to Mrs. Shallop's cabin, and, unceremoniously dragging that lady from her bunk, had carried her along the alleyway to the companion ladder. Here the lady promptly collapsed. Meanwhile Mr. Shallop, who had been in the smoking-room, had gone on deck. In the darkness he saw nothing of his wife, and concluded that she was amongst the first to get away in the boats. At which he congratulated himself. He was spared the ordeal of being cooped up with Mrs. Shallop, who would to a certainty vent her anger upon him for having taken the sea voyage, although it was entirely on her suggestion that the ill-assorted couple booked passages on the S.S.West Barbican.
"This isn't going to be a picnic, I can see," soliloquized Peter, as he glanced to wind'ard. "It's up to me to do something now. I wonder if the Old Man would have logged me for this? Decent old chap, Bullock. I suppose he's gone."
Mostyn was steering due east by compass. He had no idea of the magnetic variation in this part of the Indian Ocean, neither had he any knowledge of the deviation of that particular compass. By steering due east he was hoping to effect a landing between the north and south of Madagascar—a fairly generous target of 1000 miles in length.
It was responsibility with a vengeance. Not only had the Wireless Officer to take over executive duties; he had to navigate the boat, regulate the supply of food and water, and maintain discipline until such times as Preston recovered and was able to take command. Judging by the injured man's appearance that day was still very remote.
Meanwhile Peter Mostyn, hiked by fate into the joys and difficulties of command, accepted the situation with typical British grit.
"I'll just carry on and make the best of it," he decided. "It won't be for want of trying if I don't get the boat safely to shore."