Armed with a bunch of keys, Peter made his way up several ladders until he gained the box-like structure bearing a brass plate inscribed "Wireless Cabin".
The erection was of solid construction, lighted by six brass-rimmed scuttles. The door, opening aft, was affording support to a couple of pale-faced, weedy-looking youths, who, on seeing Mostyn appear, made no attempt to shift their position, not even to the extent of removing their hands from their pockets.
The Wireless Officer realized at once who these lads were. Already he had had his suspicions on the point. The fact that he had received no intimation of the presence of a junior wireless operator rather prepared him for the discovery.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
The taller of the two boys glanced at his companion as if urging him to reply. Receiving no encouragement from that direction he gazed vacantly into space.
"Bloke dahn there told us to 'ang on 'ere," he announced, in the sing-song voice of a city-bred, elementary schoolboy.
"We're Watchers," added his companion.
"Oh, are you?" rejoined Peter. "Then please to remember that when you are spoken to by an officer you will address him as 'sir'."
Mostyn was not snobbish—far from it, but the attitude and tone of the pair went against the grain. It was the first time that he had found himself "up against" the genus Watcher, and the impression served to support the adverse reports he had heard of the general incompetence and uselessness of the class.
"Watchers" were the outcome of an ill-advised step on the part of shipowners towards economy. A second-class ship, such as theWest Barbican, might carry either two trained and Government-certificated operators—men who were qualified in both the practical and technical side of radiography—or she might carry one operator and two Watchers.
The latter were simply and solely unskilled youths who were sent on board ship to "listen-in" for wireless messages. They took turns in putting on the telephones and waiting for wireless calls. All they could do—or were expected to do—was to recognize two call signals: the SOS and TTT, the latter an urgent general signal of lesser importance than the well-known call for aid. To the Watchers the Morse Code was a sealed book. Their occupation was of a blind-alley nature. They could hardly hope to qualify as operators, lacking the aptitude, intelligence, and opportunities for gaining their wireless ticket. In short, they were a cheap product whereby their employers sought to cut down expenses by dispensing with one of two wireless officers, regardless of the grave risk that an error on the part of these half-baked dabblers in radiography might endanger the ship.
As a class, too, they were resented by the wireless staff proper. Not only would the employment of Watchers tend to diminish the numbers ofpukkawireless officers serving afloat; but the wireless officer on a ship carrying Watchers would be always on duty although not actually in the cabin. Instead of taking "tricks" with his "opposite number" he would be liable to be summoned by the Watchers on duty at any hour of the day or night, simply because his assistant could not, and would not be allowed to, receive or send out messages.
"Is this your first voyage?" asked Peter, addressing the taller Watcher.
"Yes," was the reply.
"Yes, what?" demanded Mostyn sharply.
"Yes, sir."
"That's better," continued Peter, as he unlocked the door, the two lads having summoned up enough physical energy to stand aside. "What's your name?"
"Partridge,"—pause—"sir."
"And yours?"
"Plover, sir."
"Weird birds," soliloquized Mostyn; "but perhaps they'll lick into shape."
His first impression of the interior of the cabin was not a good one. TheWest Barbicanhad been laid up for nearly four months, and, although her late Sparks had conscientiously carried out his written instructions as to the precautions to be taken when "packing up", the prolonged period of idleness had not improved the appearance of the apparatus. In spite of a liberal coating of vaseline the brasswork was mottled with verdigris; moisture covered the ebonite and vulcanite keys; the roof had been leaking, the course of the water being indicated by a trail of iron rust upon the white paint.
Dust covered everything, while the absence of fresh air, owing to the scuttles having been secured for months, was distressingly noticeable.
"Phew! What a reek!" exclaimed Peter, stepping backwards into the open and nearly colliding with the impassive Mahmed.
"Char, sahib."
Mostyn gulped down the hot beverage, and literally girded up his loins for direct action.
"Nip below," he ordered, addressing the still torpid Partridge. "Get hold of a bucket of hot water, a squeegee, and some swabs. Look lively, Plover; get busy with those scuttles. Open all of them. Scuttles, man; those round glass windows, if you like."
Watcher Plover tackled his allotted task with a zest that rather surprised his superior officer, but it was not until five minutes later that Peter found the Watcher trying to unbolt the brass rims instead of unthreading the locking screw.
"Belay there," exclaimed Mostyn. "Don't take the whole of the cabin down. Let me show——"
His words were interrupted by a metallic clatter followed by sounds of falling water. Watcher Partridge's hob-nailed boots had slipped on the brass treads of the ladder, and he had finished up ingloriously upon the deck, sprawling upon his back in a puddle of coal-grimed water.
While the unlucky Partridge was making a prolonged change and refit, Mostyn with his other assistant tackled the demon dirt in his lair. Not until the dust was removed and the paint-work and floor well scrubbed and dried did Peter begin to overhaul the "set".
The dull daylight faded and gave place to night, but still the indefatigable wireless operator carried on, until the bell summoning the officers to dinner warned him that it was time to knock off.
"Not so bad," he conceded modestly, as he surveyed the array of glittering brasswork and polished vulcanite. "I'll leave the actual tuning up and testing till to-morrow. Buzz off, you fellows. You won't be wanted until two bells in the forenoon watch."
Locking the door, Mostyn made his way to his own quarters. His cabin was of the usual double-berth type, one bunk being superimposed immediately above the other. In this instance he was the sole occupant of the cabin, and rather grimly he commented upon the saying that it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good. Had he not been called upon to endure Messrs. Partridge and Plover, he would have had to the share cramped quarters with another wireless officer.
In the adjoining cabins the jaded occupants were busily engaged in removing the traces left by their arduous labours. The coaling operation had been completed. The bunkers had been trimmed, decks washed down, and the hideous but necessary coaling-screens stowed away. Yet the ship reeked of coal-dust. The alleyways seemed stiff with it. It penetrated even into the locked and carefully curtained cabins and saloons.
On board the S.S.West Barbicanthere was nothing in the way of formal introduction. A newly joined officer simply "blew in" and made himself at home. When off duty the fellows were more like a pack of jolly schoolboys than men on whose shoulders rested a tremendous weight of responsibility. They accepted a newcomer as one of themselves, and, unless he were an out-and-out bounder, soon set him entirely at his ease.
In vain Peter scanned the features of his new shipmates in the hope of recognizing a familiar face. For the most part the officers had been on board for lengthy periods, the interval of idleness notwithstanding. They were a conservative crowd in the Blue Crescent Line, and, since Mostyn had served on vessels plying between Vancouver, Japan, and China, he was not surprised, although disappointed, to find that his hopes were not realized.
"Have we got our orders yet?" inquired the Chief Engineer, addressing the Acting Chief Officer, who, in the absence of the skipper, was sitting at the head of the long table.
"Yes," replied Preston. "We're off to a place called Brocklington, on the East Coast, to pick up the bulk of our cargo—steelwork, worse luck. Next to iron ore I know of nothing worse. It'll make the old hooker roll like a barrel. After that we return to Gravesend on Monday, pick up our passengers, and then away down Channel. Let's hope we don't see London River again until shipping looks up considerably. I've had enough of kicking my heels on the beach, and I guess you have too. Once we go East the owners aren't likely to send us home in ballast."
"Dull times these, especially after the war," remarked Anstey, the Third Officer. "Even those pirate stunts in the Atlantic and Pacific are a wash-out."
"Which reminds me," added Preston, indicating the modest Mostyn. "Our Sparks here was in theDonibristlewhen that Porfirio blighter collared her. For first-hand information apply to our young friend here."
So Peter had to relate briefly the hazardous adventures of the crew of his former ship, after they had been taken into captivity by the swashbuckling pirate Ramon Porfirio. Before the evening was over he felt as if he had known his new messmates for ages.
Mostyn awoke soon after daybreak, or rather was aroused by the appearance of Mahmed with a cup ofcharin one hand and a copper jug full of hot water in the other.
It was a novel experience for Peter to watch the deft movements of his servant, who seemed to possess an uncanny knowledge of where his master's personal belongings were stowed. Mostyn's safety-razor, strop, shaving-pot, and soap were placed ready for use; his boots were shining with unusual brilliancy, even in the comparatively feeble rays of the electric lamp. His clothes, folded and pressed, were placed ready to put on. How and when Mahmed had contrived to make these preparations without disturbing his master rather puzzled the Wireless Officer, for he considered himself a light sleeper.
Breakfast was more or less a scrambled affair, many of the officers having to gulp down a cup of hot tea and hurry off to their appointed tasks, for theWest Barbicanwas sailing at noon, and there were multitudinous duties to be seen to before the ship was actually under way.
Directly after breakfast Peter hastened to the wireless cabin in order to put in an hour's uninterrupted work before the appearance of his two inefficient assistants. Not that they would have worried him by asking questions, intelligent or otherwise. It was their wooden-faced passivity that Peter found disturbing. He wondered by what manner of means such a quaint pair of birds was taken into the Company's service.
At four bells—ten o'clock—Mostyn had got his set into working order, and a quarter of an hour later the wireless inspector came on board to receive the radio-officer's report, and to satisfy himself that the installation was in every way efficient.
"I can give your little outfit a clean bill of health pretty quickly, Mr. Mostyn," remarked the inspector. "Evidently your predecessor left you very little to do. Once you've broken in your two Watchers you ought to have a very soft time."
"I hope so," rejoined Peter guardedly, but he had grave doubts on the subject. Not that he wanted a "very soft time"—he was far too energetic for that—but because he felt convinced that his assistants were not cut out for the job.
At length a blast on the siren announced that theWest Barbicanwas about to leave the dock. Peter left the cabin to watch the now familiar yet engrossing scene, familiar save for the fact that for the first time he had shipped with a crew of lascars. It was a strange sight to see the natives on the fo'c'sle, carrying out orders under theserang, and to watch a barefooted lascar go aloft, gripping the shrouds with hands and toes with equal facility.
Under the gentle yet firm persuasion of a couple of fussy tugs theWest Barbicanrenewed her acquaintance with London River. There were no demonstrations at her departure. None of the officers had any relations or friends to wish them God-speed from the shore, and, since the passengers had not yet embarked, the usual display of farewells was not in evidence.
It was not until the ship entered Sea Reach that Peter called his assistants.
"You, Partridge, will take on now," he said. "Plover, it's your watch below. You'd better see that you get some sleep. Now, you know your duties, Partridge?"
"Yes, sir."
"Right-o; carry on!"
Partridge sat down and clipped on the telephones. Peter left him, but promised himself to visit the cabin pretty frequently, to see that the Watcher was watching. Meanwhile he had plenty to do in the clerical line, filling up forms and making reports upon various technical matters.
Half an hour later Mostyn returned to the wireless-room. He was not surprised to find that Master Partridge was lying on the floor, having previously "mustered his bag" with the utmost impartiality. Watcher No. 1 was down and out.
"The poor bounder can't help being sea-sick, but he ought to have been a little more considerate," soliloquized Mostyn, after he had told the unhappy Watcher to clear out and turn in. In fact, Partridge was so bad that Peter had to assist him down the ladder until he handed him over to the care of a lascar.
Although the ship had not yet passed the Nore she was rolling considerably, for there was a fresh wind on the starboard beam. Evidently she was doing her best to live up to her reputation. But Peter made light of the motion. With the telephones clipped to his head he sat in the open doorway of his "dog-box", watching the ever-changing seascape so far as a couple of boats in davits permitted.
When the hour arrived for Watcher Plover to take over the watch, that individual was not forthcoming. Peter waited a full ten minutes and then told aseedee-boyto warn the absentee.
Presently the Indian messenger returned with a faint trace of a smile on his olivine features.
"No go, sahib," he announced. "He ill—very sick like to die."
Mostyn shrugged his shoulders and "carried on". Fortunately he had had a fairly good night's rest. The treble trick he could endure with equanimity, buoyed up by the hope that the indisposition of his two inefficient assistants would be of short duration, especially as theWest Barbicanwas due to berth in Brocklington Dock by six the next morning.
Before long the weather began to get decidedly dirty. The haze that had been hanging over the coast had vanished, but to the east'ard banks of ragged-edged indigo-coloured clouds betokened a hard blow before very long. The wind, too, had backed from sou'-sou'-east to nor'-nor'-east, and was rapidly increasing in force.
TheWest Barbicanwas not belying her reputation for rolling. In the wireless cabin, between forty and fifty feet above the sea, everything of a movable nature was slithering to and fro with each long-drawn oscillation of the ship. More than once Peter had to grip the table to prevent his chair sliding bodily across the deck. The wind was thrumming through the shrouds, and whistling through the still open scuttles, while the aerial vibrated like a tuning fork in the shrieking blast.
It was one of those sudden gales that play havoc with small craft, especially in the comparatively shallow waters of the North Sea; but, although Peter kept a vigilant look out for SOS signals, the air was remarkably free from radio calls. At intervals he could hear a peculiar buzzing in the ear-pieces—a noise that he knew from previous experience to be distant rain.
A shadow darkened the cabin. Peter turned his head and saw Anstey, the Third Officer, standing in the doorway. He was prepared for the storm, his head being partly concealed by a sou'wester, while a long oilskin coat and a pair of india-rubber boots completed the visible portion of his rig-out.
"Hello, Sparks!" he exclaimed. "How goes it? Anything doing?"
"Absolutely nothing," replied Mostyn. "Everything's as quiet as the proverbial lamb. I suppose——"
He broke off suddenly.
Anstey made some remark, but the Wireless Officer took not the slightest notice. Already he had snatched up a pencil and was scribbling upon the ever-ready pad.
It was a TTT or urgent warning signal. Mostyn wrote it down mechanically without knowing its import, but the Third Officer, looking over Peter's shoulder, made a grimace as he deciphered the other's scrawl:
"CQ de GNF—TTT—mine warning—S.S. two-step reports 1630 sighting two mines, lat. 53° 20' 15", long. 1° 5' 30" east stop mines just awash barnacle covered apparently connected by hawser—end of message."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Anstey. "Just our luck. Right in our course, an' it's my blessed watch."
Making his way to the chartroom the Third Officer "laid off" the position of the mines. His rough guess proved to be remarkably accurate. According to the position given, the source of danger was only a few miles from the Outer Dowsing Lightship, and theWest Barbicanhad to pass close to the Outer Dowsing on her course to Brocklington.
Anstey's next step was to inform the Captain. The Old Man, a sailor to the backbone, was in the chart-house in a trice, where, after a brief but careful survey of tide-tables and current-drift charts, he was able to determine the approximate position of the floating mines when the ship would be in the immediate vicinity of the light-vessel. Allowing for the set and strength of the tide and the drift caused by the wind, between the time the mines were first sighted and the time when theWest Barbicanentered the danger-zone, he was able to assert that, if the ship's original course were maintained, she would pass at least ten miles to the east'ard of those most undesirable derelicts.
"I think we're O.K., Mr. Anstey," he remarked. "Besides, for all we know the mines might have been exploded by this time. Those naval Johnnies are pretty smart at that sort of thing. Well, carry on. Let me know if there are any supplementary warnings."
The Old Man returned to his cabin, and was soon deep in the pages of a novel; while Anstey resumed his trick, thanking his lucky stars that, unlike Mostyn's, his watch was not indefinitely prolonged through the shortcomings of two sea-sick "birds".
Just as darkness set in, the gale was at its height. Clouds of spray flew over the bridge as the old hooker wallowed and nosed her way through the steep, crested waves, for the wind had backed still more and was now dead in her teeth.
Even in the wireless-cabin the noise was terrific. The boats in davits were creaking and groaning, as they strained against their gripes with each disconcerting jerk of the ship. Spray in sheets rattled upon the tightly stretched boat-covers like volleys of small shot, while the monotonous clank-clank of the steam steering-gear, as thesecuni(native quartermaster) strove to keep the ship within half a degree of her course, added to the turmoil that penetrated the four steel walls of the cabin.
Vainly Peter tried to concentrate his thoughts on a book. Yet, in spite of the fact that he was wearing telephones clipped to his ears, the hideous clamour refused to be suppressed. Reading under these conditions was out of the question. He put away the book and remained keeping his weary watch, valiantly combating an almost overwhelming desire for sleep.
Suddenly, with a terrific crash, something hit the deck of the flying-bridge immediately above the wireless-cabin. For a moment Peter was under the impression that one of the foremost derricks had carried away and crashed athwart the roof of the cabin.
Soon he discovered the actual cause. The stout wire halliard taking the for'ard end of the aerial had parted, and the two wires, spreaders, and insulators had fallen on the boat-deck.
Removing the now useless telephones and donning his pilot coat, Mostyn went out into the open, glad of the slight protection from the cutting wind afforded by the canvas bridge-screens and dodgers. Already lascars, in obedience to the shrill shouts of the serang andtindal(native petty officer), had swarmed upon the bridge ready to clear away the debris.
Accompanied by the bos'un Mostyn made a hasty examination of the damage. The aerials had fortunately fallen clear of the funnel, and, although the for'ard insulators had been shattered, the drag of the wires had kept the after ones from being dashed against the main topmast.
It was "up to" the Wireless Officer to repair and set up the aerials as soon as possible.
While the lascars were clearing away a spare halliard, Peter began to replace the broken spreader and its insulators. Cut by the keen wind, drenched with the rain and spray, and chilled to the bone in spite of his heavy pilot coat, Mostyn struggled with refractory wires until his benumbed hands were almost raw and hardly capable of getting a grip on the pliers.
It was a hit-or-miss operation. In the circumstances he had no means of testing the insularity of the aerial. He could only hope that, when once more aloft, it would function properly.
With a sigh of relief he completed the final splice and turned to the serang.
"Heave away!" he ordered.
The man gave a shrill order. Instantly the hitherto passive line of lascars handling the slack of the rope broke into activity. Gradually the aerial tautened, as a score of brown-faced, thin-limbed natives tailed on to the hauling part of the wire halliard. Quickly at first, then with gradually diminishing speed, the double line of wire rose from the deck and disappeared from view in the spray-laden darkness of the night, and presently the serang reported that the aerial was close up.
Mostyn returned to his post. Glancing at the clock he noted with astonishment that the task had taken him exactly an hour. Then, replacing the telephones to his ears, he endeavoured to thaw his benumbed fingers in front of the electric-light globe.
Hour after hour passed in monotonous inactivity. The appearance of the devoted Mahmed with a cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches—most of the tea was spilt, and the sandwiches were abundantly salted and moistened in the process of mounting the bridge—proved a welcome diversion.
Just before midnight a second disaster occurred to the aerial. This time the double wires parted, practically simultaneously, about midway between the masts. This point, being almost immediately above the funnel, is always a fruitful source of trouble, owing to the comparatively rapid deterioration set up by the gases from the furnaces.
Repairs, even of a makeshift nature, were for the present out of the question. It was impossible to send men aloft to assist in setting up the wires. No human being could hold on in such a gale, far less perform the intricate task of reeving fresh halliards and wires. All Mostyn could do was to make all secure in the wireless-cabin. He was then free to turn in and enjoy a few hours' rest, until the ship's arrival at Brocklington Dock should afford an opportunity for repairing the damage.
Peter was exchanging a few words with the officer of the watch when the attention of both was attracted by a flash.
"Distress signal!" exclaimed Peter.
"Not vivid enough," rejoined his companion "Might be a rocket from one of the Dowsings—the Inner, most likely. If——"
Another flash, faintly visible through the murk, interrupted Anstey's words. For several seconds both men listened intently for the double detonation. None was audible. Distance and the howling of the elements had completely deadened the reports.
Even as they looked a steady pin-prick of reddish light appeared on exactly the same bearing as the previous flashes. For perhaps fifteen seconds it remained constant; then momentarily it grew in volume until a trailing column of ruddy flame, fringed by a wind-torn cloud of smoke, illuminated the distant horizon.
Bringing his night-glasses to bear upon the source of the flames the Third Officer studied the scene. Then, replacing the binoculars, he shouted to his companion:
"Vessel ablaze from end to end. Tanker, I guess. I'm off to call the Old Man."
Captain Bullock was quickly out of his cabin. He had waited merely to put on his bridge-coat over his pyjamas and thrust his bare feet into a huge pair of sea-boots. He was one of those powerfully framed, tough men for whom the sudden change of temperature had no terrors and few discomforts.
Shouting a hoarse yet unmistakable order to the secum at the wheel, and ringing down to the engine-room for increased speed, Captain Bullock waited until theWest Barbicanhad steadied on her new course, then he turned to the Third Officer.
"She's a tanker, right enough, Anstey. Got it properly in the neck. See that the boats are cleared away, although I'm afraid there's precious little chance of using them in this sea. I'm off to shift into thicker togs."
In five minutes the Old Man returned. By this time theWest Barbican, making a good twelve and a half knots against the head wind and sea, had got within a couple of miles of the doomed vessel.
Already she was well down by the head, and blazing furiously from stem to stern. To windward of her the seas were breaking heavily against the hull of the burning ship. Already she had lost way and was drifting broadside on to the wind. Cascades of water pouring over her listing deck had no effect in quenching the flames but merely raised enormous clouds of steam to mingle with the flame-tinged, oily smoke. To leeward the sea was calm for almost a mile, owing to the liberation of the oil. And not only was it calm: it was a placid lake of fire, as the floating, highly inflammable coating of petroleum burnt furiously in half a dozen detached areas.
"See any signs of a boat?" demanded the Old Man.
"No, sir," replied Anstey.
"Thought not," was the rejoinder. "A boat would be swamped to wind'ard, and burnt to a cinder to lee'ard. Doubt even whether the poor fellows had a chance to lower away—— What's that on our port bow? By heavens, Anstey, it's a boat!"
Both men levelled their binoculars. Mostyn, keeping discreetly in the background, made use of the chartroom telescope.
Silhouetted against the glare was a ship's boat. There were people in her, but they were making no apparent effort to draw away from the danger zone. Rising and falling on the long, oily swell, the frail craft was midway between two patches of fiercely burning oil that threatened to converge and destroy the boat and its human freight.
"We'll have to risk it, Anstey," decided the Old Man, as he rang for half speed. "I only hope the lascars'll stick it. I'm going to take the old hooker between those patches of burning oil. We'll try towing the boat clear. If that fails we'll have to lower one of our own boats. Pass the word for the serang to stand by to heave a line, and then give an eye to thesecuni. If he runs the ship into either of those patches it'll be a serious matter."
"Ay, ay, sir."
Ringing for stop, Captain Bullock knew that there was sufficient way upon the ship to enable her to close the boat without the former being out of control. Allowance had also to be made for the wind, which, owing to the alteration of course, was now two points on the starboard bow.
The heat was now quite perceptible, while at intervals wisps of black, suffocating smoke swept to lee'ard, completely enveloping theWest Barbican. On either side of her were expanses of burning oil, bubbling and popping in a series of miniature explosions, as the heated water beneath the oil vapourized and blew out through the covering layer of burning viscous liquid.
Right in the centre of the steadily decreasing avenue of unlighted oil lay the boat. Two cables' lengths beyond, and now a glowing mass of white-hot metal, lay the burning tanker, awash for'ard and with her propeller showing clear above the agitated water.
Admirably manoeuvred and conned by the Old Man, theWest Barbicandrew near the tanker's boat. Slowly she passed within heaving distance. The now excited lascars heaved lines, several of which fell short. Two at least dropped athwart the boat, but no attempt was made on the part of her crew to secure them. The luckless men were either dead or else rendered insensible by the hot, suffocating air.
The ship had now lost way. Her head was beginning to pay off. It was necessary to go ahead in order to regain steerage way; but, at the same time, if the work of rescue were to be consummated, it would be necessary to make use of one of theWest Barbican'sboats.
"Lower away!" roared the Old Man.
At that moment the tanker disappeared beneath the surface. The tower of flame that enveloped her died down to a mere flicker, completely outclassed by the glare of a dozen distinct patches of fiercely burning oil.
The lascars manning the falls hesitated, while their comrades in the boat showed signs of panic. In the confusion they noticed that, unaccountably there was no officer on board the lifeboat.
Mostyn was one of those men who in moments of danger are prone to act independently—they simply cannot remain passive spectators when there is work to be done. It was no business of the Wireless Officer to go away in the boats. His duty was to stay by the wireless gear. But in this case Peter knew that he could do nothing in the cabin with the aerial out of action. He could be of use in the boat, to take command and steady the decidedly "jumpy" Asiatics.
The overwhelming instinct to bear a hand seized him in an instant. Running aft to where the lifeboat swung outboard he leapt into the stern-sheets, grasped the yoke lines, and shouted to the tindal to lower away. The man, seeing that a sahib was in the boat but not recognizing who he was, gave the word to the lascars manning the falls, and the boat was lowered rapidly and evenly.
Mostyn had a momentary vision of the lighted scuttles slipping upwards as the boat dropped down past the ship's side. Then with a sharp flop the lifeboat struck the oily surface. Simultaneously the lower blocks of the falls disengaged, and the boat began to drift astern.
"Give way!" ordered Peter.
The lascars, trained to obey commands issued in English, acted smartly. With the presence of a sahib in the lifeboat their fears, if not entirely banished, were cloaked by the sense of discipline.
"Pull starboard; back port."
The lifeboat turned in almost her own length.
Already the steadily converging patches of flames justified this order. To turn under the use of the helm alone would bring the boat in contact with the oil-fired water.
"Together—way 'nough—in bow."
In five minutes from the time Peter had taken his place in the stern-sheets the two boats were gunwale to gunwale. In the tanker's whaler were seven human forms huddled in weird postures, either on the bottom-boards or across the thwarts.
Whether they were dead or alive Mostyn knew not. All he could do was to have the seemingly inanimate bodies transhipped, and then return to theWest Barbican—if he could.
Working like men possessed, four of the lascars unceremoniously bundled the bodies into the lifeboat. Then, pushing off, they resumed their oars, pulling desperately for the ship, which was now gathering sternway at a distance of a cable's length.
For the first time Mostyn realized the extreme gravity of the situation. The ship was now gathering sternway, drifting rapidly to lee'ard the while. The churning of her propeller had caused a large patch of burning oil to still further contract the narrow fairway between the ship and the boat.
Peter knew full well that he and the boat's crew stood less than a dog's chance should the fiery sea cut them off. He was also aware of the great difficulty of being picked up by the ship, since the latter had herself to be constantly manoeuvring to avoid contact with the fire. Even if the lifeboat escaped the flames, there arose the danger of her being crushed by her parent. In that case there would be little or no chance of swimming in the thick layer of oil that had not as yet become ignited.
It was touch and go. Dazzled by the glare, partly stifled by the thick smoke, and scorched by the hot, raging wind, Peter all but lost his bearings. A momentary dispersal of the smoke showed him the hull of theWest Barbicanless than four boats' lengths away.
"Boat oars!"
The now thoroughly scared lascars obeyed very hurriedly. The bowman grasped and engaged the for'ard falls, pulping one of his fingers in the operation. Almost simultaneously the lower block of the after falls was hooked on, and with a disconcerting jerk the lifeboat rose clear of the water.
Only by a few seconds had she won through. Before the boat was hoisted home the sea beneath her was covered with crackling, spluttering flames.
Peter Mostyn's chief desire upon regaining the deck was to go below and get something to drink. Now that the immediate danger was over, his throat was burning like a lime-kiln, and his head was buzzing as if he had taken an overdose of quinine.
Slipping off his lifebelt—he had donned it mechanically on rushing to the boat, although in the circumstances the advantages of wearing a lifebelt were of a negative order—Peter returned to the bridge, keeping discreetly in the background.
The Old Man was fighting a tough battle. With Preston and Anstey he was extricating his command from a perilous situation, where skilful seamanship alone could regain control of the helm without allowing the vessel to wallow helplessly in the fiery sea. Putting the ship ahead and astern alternately the Old Man allowed her head to pay off under the force of the wind until he saw a chance of turning. Then, with a grunt of supreme satisfaction, he rang for full speed ahead. Five minutes later theWest Barbican, clear of the oil-calmed water, was rolling in the tempestuous seas.
"Carry on, Mr. Anstey," he ordered. "Lay her on her old course."
He turned abruptly on his heel, intending to see how the survivors of the tanker were faring. As he swung round he noticed Peter standing under the lee of the wireless cabin.
"Mr. Mostyn!"
"Sir?"
"How many survivors?"
Peter told him.
"A smart bit of work of yours, Mr. Mostyn, but—oh, very well, go below and turn in. I'll see you in the morning."
The Wireless Officer obeyed only too gladly. As he washed the grime from his face he reflected that, thanks to the damaged aerial, he would have an uninterrupted watch below.
For a long time he lay awake in his bunk. It was not the heavy rolling that was responsible for his sleeplessness. The whole of the night's adventure passed in review, its horrors intensified in retrospect. It was not until dawn was breaking that he fell into a fitful slumber.
Meanwhile the skipper had his hands full. In the absence of a doctor he and the purser were attending to the helpless survivors of the tanker. Of the seven removed from the boat only two were conscious, and one of the pair had a compound fracture of the right leg.
His companion was able to give an account of the disaster. The vessel was the American-owned oil-tankerBivalveof and from New York for Hull. She had struck the two drifting mines, concerning the presence of which a general wireless message had been sent out. Both exploded amidships, one on either side, about fifty feet for'ard of the engine-room, which in vessels of theBivalve'stype are well aft. Within a few minutes the petroleum tanks exploded, and the sinking ship became a raging furnace. Two boats were lowered, but of the fate of the second the narrator had no knowledge. He remembered pulling desperately at an oar until the smoke cloud overwhelmed the boat. Then, gasping frantically for breath, he lost consciousness until he found himself on board theWest Barbican.
At eight bells (8 a.m.) Peter was roused from his slumbers. A glance through the now open scuttle showed him that the ship was berthed alongside a wharf, and that the stevedores were already getting busy. A huge crane was transporting long, timber-protected pieces of steelwork into theWest Barbican'sNo. 1 hold.
Peter regarded the steelwork with interest. It was the material on which rested the reputation and success of the Brocklington Ironworks Company, of which his father was managing director.
But other matters quickly demanded his attention. There was the damaged aerial. That had to be replaced under the direction of the Acting Chief Officer, but upon Mostyn's shoulders depended the responsibility of the perfect insulating of the wires. Already the necessary material had been "marked off", and the serang and his party were engaged in making eye-splices in the wire rope. At the mast-head of both fore and main, men were reeving fresh halliards for the purpose of sending the aerials aloft.
Captain Bullock was standing on the bridge watching the cargo being shipped, when he caught sight of the Wireless Officer. He beckoned Peter to approach. The officer of the watch was at the other side of the bridge superintending the securing of an additional spring; otherwise the bridge was deserted.
"Mr. Mostyn," began the Old Man abruptly, "I want you to understand clearly that there is only one captain on board this hooker, and he alone gives permission for officers to leave the ship. Who, might I ask, ordered you away in the lifeboat last night?"
"No one, sir," replied Peter.
"Then please remember that in future you are not to act on your own initiative except in matters directly concerning your duties as Wireless Officer. You were guilty of a grave breach of discipline. Don't let it occur again."
Mostyn smarted under this unexpected rap over the knuckles. He realized upon consideration that the rebuke was well merited. His offence was a technical breach of discipline. It was of no use telling this bluff old skipper his reasons. Yarns about "impulses of the moment" would elicit little sympathy. So he kept silent.
"All the same," continued the Old Man, in a less gruff tone, "you did a smart bit of work last night. Where did you learn to handle a boat?"
Mostyn flushed with pleasure.
"I've had three years in the Merchant Service, sir, and I've been in yachts and sailing dinghies ever since I can remember."
"I knew you didn't learn seamanship as a wireless man," continued the skipper. "Sorry I had to tick you off, my lad, but I simply had to. I'd like to send in a recommendation on your behalf, but I don't see how I can. Your Company would kick up the deuce of a shine if they knew I employed a wireless officer on executive duties. It's not done; or it's not supposed to be done—put it that way. And another thing: supposing, and it was quite likely, you'd lost the number of your mess over that business, what sort of yarn could I have pitched into the Board of Trade people? And my employers too? A pretty fine skipper they'd think I was, allowing a wireless officer to take away a lifeboat. Likely as not I'd have got the push from the Company's service and lost my ticket into the bargain. D'ye see my point?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then we'll cry quits. All the same it was a smart bit of work—a jolly smart bit of work—but I'll have to make an entry in the log recording the fact that you've been reprimanded and stating the reason. I don't think it will adversely affect you, Mr. Mostyn; rather the other way, I fancy."
Peter thanked the Captain and went about his duties, reflecting that the Old Man wasn't at all a bad sort, and that his bark was certainly worse than his bite.
Looking more like a blacksmith than a radio-operator, Peter completed his part of the work and applied the necessary tests. Everything was apparently in order in the wireless-cabin. With a grunt of satisfaction he replaced the receivers and left the cabin. Until the ship sailed—she was due to leave at ten that evening—he was at leisure.
"Now for a bath, a shave, and a change," he soliloquized. "It would never do to meet the pater in this state."
Somewhat to his surprise he found his father waiting in his son's cabin.
"Hello, Peter, my boy," was Captain Mostyn's greeting; "been ratting—or sweeping flues?"
Peter certainly looked a bit of a wreck. His sleepless night, following the perilous affair in the lifeboat, had given him a washed-out appearance. He was dog-tired, physically and mentally. He was dirty, unshaven, and rigged out in a very old uniform, with a scarf knotted round his neck in place of the regulation collar and tie.
"No, Pater," replied Peter. "Neither ratting nor sweeping flues. I've been choked off by the skipper."
"Easy job, judging by that running noose on your neck-gear," commented Captain Mostyn jocularly. "What's happened?"
Peter told him, simply and straightforwardly. There was never a lack of confidence between father and son. His parent listened attentively to the bald narrative.
"Your skipper was quite right," he observed. "In my days in the Service I wouldn't have thought of allowing a watch-keeping sub to go down to the engine-room and play about with the gadgets in order to slow down the ship. You did much the same sort of thing, chipping into a department that wasn't yours. At the same time, I'm proud of you, Peter. It shows you are not deficient in pluck. Right-o! carry on with your ablutions. I want to have a few words with Captain Bullock about the steelwork. While I'm about it I'll ask him to let you go ashore to lunch with me."
Captain Antonius Bullock was rather astonished to find that the managing director of the firm that had virtually chartered theWest Barbicanfor three days was the father of his Wireless Officer.
"And I had to log him this morning," declared the Old Man.
"Yes, he told me about it," rejoined Captain Mostyn. "No, he didn't grouse about it. He quite sees the force of your argument. In fact, I told him practically the same thing."
"All the same," said Captain Bullock, "it was a smart piece of work. At my age I'd think twice before taking on a job of that sort. If I had to do it I'd do it, you'll understand, but these youngsters often rush into danger when there's no particular call for it; not their duty, in a manner of speaking. I'm rather curious to know what he did when that pirate collared theDonibristle. He told a lot about the affair, but precious little about his share in it."
"Peter had a pretty stiff time, judging from what he told me," observed Captain Mostyn. "Amongst other things he still bears the scars of eighteen wounds he received when theDonibristle'swireless-cabin was demolished by a shell."
"Eighteen, by Jove!" exclaimed Captain Bullock. "I had one—a beauty—in the war. Splinter from a four-inch shell when Fritz torpedoed the oldHarkawayand fired on the boats. But eighteen!"
"Yes," commented Captain Mostyn. "He's seen more adventures during his short time in the Merchant Service than I did in thirty-seven years in the navy. During the whole of my sea service I never saw a shot fired in anger. Very good, I'll be on board at four o'clock to sign those papers. Do you mind giving my boy leave till then?"
Captain Bullock readily gave the required permission, and father and son had an enjoyable spell ashore.
By four o'clock most of the steelwork was safely stowed in the hold. Only a few crates of small parts remained to complete the all-important consignment for the Kilba Protectorate Government.
"That's all shipshape and Bristol-fashion, sir," remarked Captain Bullock, as the necessary signatures were appended to the papers in connection with the shipment. "If that precious lot isn't delivered safe and sound in Pangawani Harbour by the first of February it won't be the fault of Antonius Bullock."