With the first streaks of dawn, Peter, who had been sleeping soundly in the open, with his feet towards the still glowing embers, shook himself like a great mastiff, and stretched his cramped limbs. It had been a strange sensation sleeping on the hard ground after days and weeks on the ocean. Some moments elapsed before he was fully aware of his surroundings.
He looked seawards. The flood-tide was making, and the wavelets were lapping against the edge of the serrated reef. The boat was still aground. Her anchor warp had not tautened, so that it was obvious that she had not shifted her position on the top of the previous high water.
The wind had piped down considerably, but was now blowing softly from the west'ard. During the night the breeze had veered completely round from east to west.
"Just our luck!" thought Peter. "Now we have fetched Madagascar after beating for hours against it, the wind shifts round. It would have saved us hours if it had been in this quarter for the last twenty-four hours. However, here we are, so I mustn't grouse."
None of his companions showed signs of stirring. Silence reigned in the tents. The scent of the morning air was mingled with the pleasing reek of the camp-fire. Farther along the coast a number of seagulls were hovering over some object and screeching, as they warily circled round the coveted piece of flotsam.
From where Peter stood, the landscape was rather limited. Less than a mile to the nor'ard a bluff of about two hundred feet in height served as the boundary of his vision in that direction. Southward the wall of cliffs terminated abruptly at a distance of about a quarter of a mile. Evidently beyond that the coastline receded, unless the light were insufficient to enable the more distant land to be seen.
"May as well stretch my legs," thought Peter. "I'll have a shot at getting to the top of the cliffs and see what's doing. I wonder how far it is to the nearest village?"
He had to walk a hundred yards along the beach before he found a likely means of ascent—a narrow gorge through which a clear stream dashed rapidly. Yet the rivulet never met the sea direct. The water, although of considerable volume, simply soaked into the sand and disappeared.
"We shan't need to go slow with the drinking-water," he said to himself, as he gathered a double handful of the cool, sparkling fluid and held it to his lips. "By Jove, isn't that a treat after water from a boat's keg. Well, here goes."
The ascent was steep but fairly easy. Nevertheless Mostyn was so out of training, from a pedestrian point of view, that his muscles ached and his limbs grew stiff long before he arrived at the top.
At length, breathless and weary, he gained the summit and threw himself at full length upon the grass.
After a while he stood up and looked around. The sun was just rising—and it appeared to rise out of the sea. From where he stood, Peter could see right across the ground from west to east and from north to south; and, save where the tall bluff cut the skyline, sea and sky formed a complete circular horizon.
Peter gave a gasp of astonishment. Instead of finding himself, as he had expected, upon one of the largest islands of the world, he was on a sea-girt piece of land barely three miles in length and two in breadth. In vain he looked for other land. The extent of his view, assuming that the point on which he stood was two hundred feet above the sea-level, was a distance of roughly twenty miles, and, except for the island upon which the boat had stranded, there was nothing in sight but sky and sea.
"So much for Madagascar," ejaculated the Wireless Officer. "I'm a rotten bad navigator. Wonder where this show is, and if it is inhabited."
For the most part the island consisted of a fairly level plateau covered with scrub. The southern part was well wooded with palms, while the course of the little stream was marked by a double line of reeds.
In vain Peter looked for signs of human habitation. Not so much as a solitary column of smoke marked the presence of any inhabitants.
"This is out of the frying-pan into the fire with a vengeance," said the Wireless Officer to himself. "We've plenty of fresh water, it is true, but precious little to eat. And the boat is beyond repair with the limited means at our disposal. Fire, did I say? We can obtain that, so the possibility of having to eat raw or sun-dried fish is removed."
By this time the rest of the temporary sojourners on the island were astir. From his lofty point of vantage Peter could see the three Mohammedans at their devotions at some distance from the tents. Mrs. Shallop was actually out and about, and had deigned to fetch a balerful of water. Miss Baird had thrown fresh driftwood and kelp on the fire, and was apparently undertaking the frying of some of the fish. Propped up on a roll of painted canvas was Preston, slowly and steadily gutting the herrings before grilling them in front of the fire.
"Hello, old man!" exclaimed Peter, when he rejoined the others and had greeted Miss Baird. "Feeling better?"
"Much thanks," replied the Acting Chief. "Soon be O.K., I hope. And what have you been doing, Sparks?"
"Taking my bearings," said Mostyn. "My festive chum, I've made a hash of things. We're on an island."
"Madagascar is an island," remarked Preston. "So why make a song about it?"
"This isn't Madagascar," replied Peter. "It's a small island. A fellow ought to be able to walk right round it in a couple of hours comfortably."
Preston tried to whistle and failed miserably. The attempt was still too painful.
"You seem fond of putting boats ashore on small islands, old man," he remarked. "How about grub? Seen anything in the edible line?"
"A few coco-palms," announced Mostyn. "I didn't investigate. We may strike oil."
"I'd rather strike grub," rejoined the Acting Chief. "Well, there's one blessing—we've cigarettes."
Breakfast consisted of biscuits, fresh water, and fried fish. It was meagre fare, but the hungry castaways relished it. They could have eaten more, but Peter kept an iron hand on the biscuits, and fried fish without biscuits was neither satisfying nor appetizing.
The meal over, Mostyn set all hands—Preston excepted, by reason of his injuries—to work. He meant to keep everybody employed—even Mrs. Shallop. Idleness breeds discontent and discord, and he had no wish to have either.
The first task was to carry the tents and the small kit at their disposal to the high ground beyond the edge of the cliffs. Peter and the lascars managed the spars and canvas between them, while Olive and Mrs. Shallop carried up the lighter gear. Once she made up her mind that she had to work, Mrs. Shallop became quite energetic, finding her way up the cliff-path with tolerable speed in spite of her bulk. By ten in the morning the whole of the stuff brought ashore had been taken to a spot a hundred and fifty feet above the sea-level, and placed in a sheltered hollow within easy distance of the little stream that Peter had discovered.
While the two Lascars were setting up the tents, Peter and Mahmed constructed a stretcher in order to get Preston to the new camp.
The Acting Chief was practically helpless. At first it was thought that his injuries were confined to his head; but after he had been brought ashore his legs were found to have been crushed, and from the knees downwards the limbs were devoid of any sensation of pain, and the muscles incapable of responding to the dictates of his will.
It required twenty minutes of hard yet cautious work to carry Preston to the top of the cliffs, in spite of the fact that the path was fairly easy for an unencumbered person. The difficulty was for the bearers to keep their burden in a horizontal position, and at the same time maintain their footing. For the greater part of the ascent Mahmed was crouching and holding his end of the stretcher within a few inches of the ground, while Peter was supporting his end on his shoulders and cautiously feeling his way, since it was impossible for him to see where he was treading.
At length Preston was brought to the camp and placed in one of the tents, while his bearers, hot and well nigh exhausted, threw themselves at full length in order to rest and regain their breath.
The next step was to salve the boat. This task required all available hands, for the craft was heavily built of elm.
By dint of strenuous exertions the boat was lifted clear of the jagged coral, and dragged along the ledge and up the sandy beach well above high-water mark.
"That will do for the present," decided Mostyn. "She won't hurt there. We'll have to patch her up and resume our voyage as soon as possible."
He spoke sanguinely, but in his mind he realized that the task was practically beyond the small resources at their command. With the exception of a small rusty hatchet, that was discovered under the floor of the after locker, a knife, and a marline-spike, there were no tools available for the extensive repairs necessary to make the boat again seaworthy.
The time for the midday meal came round only too soon. Feeling like a miser compelled to disgorge his treasured hoard, Peter served out more of his carefully husbanded biscuits. These were augmented by coconuts, which Mahmed and the lascars had obtained from some palms growing close to the camp. Up to the present there were no indications of the presence of bread-fruit trees, but, as Olive remarked, there was a good deal of the island to be explored.
"What's the time, Miss Baird, please?" inquired Preston.
The girl consulted her watch.
"Five minutes to twelve, Mr. Preston."
"Thank you," rejoined the Acting Chief, then, after a slight pause, "is your watch fairly accurate?"
Olive shook her head.
"I never possessed a fairly accurate watch," she replied. "Mine gains about a minute a day, and every time I wind it I put it back a minute. It was set by ship's time on the day theWest Barbicansank."
"Why so anxious to know the time, old man?" inquired Mostyn. "You haven't to go on watch."
"Never you mind, old son," rejoined the Acting Chief. "In due course I'll enlighten your mind on the subject, but until then—nothin' doin'."
For the next ten minutes conversation drifted into other channels. Peter had almost forgotten about the mysterious inquiries of Mr. Preston, when the latter inquired abruptly:
"What do you think is our position, Sparks?"
"About fifty miles west of Madagascar," replied Peter.
The Acting Chief shook his head.
"Wrong, my festive. Absolutely out of it," he stated with conviction. "Say a hundred and fifty miles to the south'ard of Cape St. Mary—that's the southern-most point of Madagascar—and you won't be far out."
"But, why——?" began the astonished Wireless Officer.
"Hold on," continued Preston. "It's now mid-summer in the Southern Hemisphere. Consequently the sun must be overhead, or nearly so, on the Tropic of Capricorn. Here, at midday, it's roughly five degrees north of our zenith. That means we're well south of the island you were making for."
"But how's that?" demanded Mostyn. "I steered due east, and when the wind headed us I tacked for equal periods."
"Maybe you did," rejoined the Acting Chief drily. "You don't know the deviation of the boat's compass. Neither do I, for that matter. It might be points out on an easterly course. Again, there's a strong current setting southward through the Mozambique Channel. Another and by no means inconsiderable factor is that almost every boat when close-hauled sails faster on one tack than the other. The net result is that, unconsciously, you were faced well to the south-east instead of making due east. However, here we are, and we must make the best of it. Everything considered, old man, you haven't done so badly."
By dusk everything was in order so far as their limited resources permitted, even to the extent of building a light breastwork on the windward side of the camp to protect the tents from storms from seaward. The strenuous labours had kept the castaways' minds so fully occupied that they had had no time to think about their difficulties.
Tired in body, yet cheerful in mind, they slept the sleep that only the healthy can enjoy.
At sunrise on the following morning Peter scaled the highest point of the island, hoping that in the clear air his range of vision would be increased sufficiently to make out land.
He was disappointed. Nothing of the nature of land was in view. The horizon, clear and well defined, surrounded him in an unbroken circle.
He was considerably troubled in his mind over the situation. Desert islands were all very well in their way, provided there was a chance of getting away from them. Evidently this island was well out of the regular steamer track, while sailing vessels, running between The Cape and India and the Federated Malay States, would pass well to the eastward in order to take full advantage of the monsoons.
The boat was practically useless as a means of leaving the island. Had there been a supply of nails in the locker, Peter would not have hesitated to fasten a sheet of painted canvas over the holes in the garboards, and then risked a dash for Madagascar. But without suitable material that was out of the question.
Naturally of an inventive turn of mind, Peter thought out half a dozen plans to make the boat seaworthy; but, as fast as he worked out a solution of the difficulty, objections apparently insurmountable caused him to reject the scheme and start afresh on another tack.
His previous error in navigation rather damped his enthusiasm, but with Preston on the road to recovery he was no longer dependent on himself. The Acting Chief had had years of experience of the Indian Ocean, and, knowing the set of the chief currents and the direction of the prevailing winds, would be of material assistance in navigating the boat—provided she could be made seaworthy.
Still pondering, Mostyn descended from the bluff and walked towards the camp. A more urgent problem demanded his attention: that of catering for the needs of his companions and himself.
The biscuits would not last out much longer, coconuts were unsatisfying fare, and apt to have injurious effect if used as a staple form of food. Whether the island possessed other resources, either animal or vegetable, had yet to be seen. Preliminary investigations had drawn blank in that direction.
Returning to camp, Mostyn found the others busily engaged in getting breakfast. Mahmed had found some oysters, many of them a foot in diameter, while the lascars had surprised and killed a small turtle.
It was rather a curious fact that Mrs. Shallop, childishly ignorant on most matters, was an authority on cooking. She just "took on" the turtle as a matter of course, and by the time Peter returned the choicest parts of the animal were stewing over a wood fire. In the absence of a suitable pot, for the baler was far too small, the self-constituted cook had employed the shell of the turtle as a receptacle for the stew. The oysters were eaten raw, flavoured with the vinegary milk of a young coco-nut.
But the success of the meal was the result of Mahmed's investigations. He had wandered towards the main coco-nut grove on the southern point of the island and had discovered a number of "jack-fruits", a species of bread-fruit. These had been sliced and roasted, forming a good substitute for bread. The lascars, however, disdained the fruit, and were content with the seeds, which they bruised and cooked in coconut shells.
For the moment the grim spectre of starvation had been driven away.
"I've been thinking, Peter," remarked Olive during the rest-interval. "Couldn't we make a canvas boat? We have plenty of sail-cloth, and we could use timbers and planking out of the damaged boat."
"Might," admitted Mostyn. "It would take some doing, and after all it would be a frail craft to carry seven people. We might try it."
He thought over the matter, and the more he did so the greater became the difficulties. Even in calm water a canvas boat, unless properly constructed of suitable materials, is a sorry craft. In the high-crested waves of the Indian Ocean she would not stand a dog's chance.
Yet Olive's suggestion was not without good result. Based upon the idea, Peter's thoughts returned to the damaged boat. Could that not be patched with canvas and strengthened by woodwork so that it would be once more seaworthy?
"By Jove, Olive!" he exclaimed. "I believe you've put me on the right tack. Come on down to the boat. We'll take the lascars with us and see what's to be done. The sooner we get away from this place the better."
Olive did not agree with the latter remark, although she made no audible comment. She was rather enjoying the novelty of the situation. Peter, on the other hand, had got over the glamour of desert islands. An exciting time upon a coral island in the North Pacific had cured him of that. It wasn't to be regretted from a retrospective point of view, but he did not hanker after a repetition.
By the aid of a tackle composed of the halliards and main-sheet blocks the boat was canted over and finally lowered keel uppermost. The full extent of the damage was then apparent. There was a jagged hole about nine inches in diameter through the garboard strake and the strake next to it on the port side about five feet from the stem. On the starboard hand was a smaller hole close to the bilge keel, while there was a slight fracture on the same side eighteen inches from the stern-post.
"Rather a lash-up, what?" exclaimed Peter, as he noted the damage. "Guess we'll be able to tackle that."
He first directed one of the lascars to trim the jagged holes with the axe. The next step was to smooth down the planking adjacent to the gaps by means of canvas and wet sand. This done, the boat was lifted on to her side and the bottom boards removed. A corner of the axe was then employed to remove the brass screws from the stern-sheet benches, while the gratings were sacrificed for the sake of the brass brads that secured them.
This task occupied the whole morning.
After lunch, work was resumed. Strips of painted canvas, smeared with a sticky substance smelling of turpentine, were laid over the holes and tacked down with the brads. Over this canvas the dismembered bottom-boards were firmly screwed. In less than an hour and a half this part of the work was completed.
The boat was then turned over on her keel, and the holes levelled flush with the inside planking by means of clay found in the bed of the little stream. Over this additional canvas was tacked and pressed into position by strips of wood from the bottom boards, struts being fixed between them and the under side of the thwarts to counteract the pressure of the water.
Well before sunset the task of making the boat water-tight was completed, and Peter surveyed the result with intense satisfaction.
"To-morrow," he declared to Olive, who had been working as steadily as anyone, "to-morrow we'll test her. I don't think she ought to leak very much."
"Aren't we going to explore the island, Peter?" asked the girl wistfully.
Mostyn capitulated.
"Yes, certainly, if you wish," he replied. "We can do that easily in a few hours. I don't suppose you'll find it particularly interesting. You see, the weather looks as if it will be fine for some days, and I naturally want to take advantage of it. What do you say to a jaunt before breakfast? We could take something to eat with us, of course. That will leave the forenoon clear for testing the boat."
This suggestion was acted upon, and soon after dawn on the following day Peter and Olive set out on their tour of exploration.
It was a very enjoyable walk for both: to Mostyn because of the companionship of a jolly, unaffected girl; to Olive, because of the novelty of it all. But there was nothing of an adventure about it. The island was devoid of anything of a romantic nature. There were no caves, no traces of former inhabitants. It would have taken a high-flown imagination to weave a thrilling story round that isolated chunk of earth rising out of the Indian Ocean.
They saw no signs of animal life, beyond a few turtles basking on the coral sands, and an occasional lizard scooting for shelter under the trees. There was not a bird to be seen or heard.
Nor did the vegetation give much variety, although Olive discovered a grove of orange trees on the northern extremity of the island. To her disappointment the fruit was intensely bitter and quite unfit to eat.
They returned in time for breakfast, and were greeted warmly by Preston. Mrs. Shallop eyed them with marked disapproval. Although she refrained from making any remark, there was a specially sour look upon her face. Perhaps she regretted having given her companion her dismissal, since by so doing she no longer had control over the girl's freedom.
Directly the meal was over, Peter took one of the lascars down to the beach. It was a perfect day for testing the boat, as the water was as smooth as a millpond, and the tide being full there was little difficulty in launching the repaired craft.
To Mostyn's delight and satisfaction the boat answered admirably. The canvas stood well, and beyond a few drops of water leaking through the seams owing to the action of the sun's rays, the boat was practically watertight.
Quickly the good news was conveyed to the others at the camp, and preparations were begun for the voyage.
Mrs. Shallop had baked quite a quantity of jack-fruit, and had prepared about thirty pounds of turtle-flesh, treating it with brine in order to preserve it for future use. The water-beaker was filled at the stream, and additional water carried in the shells of fully-matured coco-nuts. By two o'clock in the afternoon, just as the north-east breeze sprang up, the camp was struck and the gear stowed away on board the boat.
"Now, old man," said Peter to the Acting Chief; "no mistake this time. You set the course and I'll see that it's kept."
"Right-o!" agreed Preston.
The boat lay riding to her kedge at less than twenty yards from shore. She was in not more than two feet of water. Peter would not risk bringing the boat closer inshore, lest, with her full complement, she would grate over the coral and so injure herself.
Mahmed was first on board, his duty being to assist the two lascars to hoist Preston over the gunwale. This operation was successfully performed without even a groan or a gasp from the injured man, and the lascars returned to carry the portly Mrs. Shallop through the water.
They had a difficult task this time, for the lady confessed to twelve stone, and probably tipped the scale at fifteen. Nevertheless the lascars tackled the job with such a will that their energy was more than sufficient.
Mrs. Shallop began to rock. The oscillations continued until in desperation she clutched at the head of one of her bearers. At the same moment his feet struck a particularly sharp patch of rock. Never "strong on his pins", and additionally handicapped by an unequal share of his fifteen-stone burden, the Indian found himself falling. The prospect of being sandwiched between the sharp coral and the portly mem-sahib was too much for his self-control. With a vigorous and despairing effort he threw himself clear. The other lascar, unable to maintain his charge, let Mrs. Shallop go with a run.
For some seconds she floundered in eighteen inches of tepid water, her horrified features mercifully obscured from the onlookers by a miniature waterspout. Before Mostyn could go to her assistance she regained her feet. For a very brief interval there was absolute silence. Even the lapping of the wavelets upon the shore seemed to have ceased.
Then the storm broke. Mrs. Shallop's pent-up loquacity let itself loose, after being kept under control for nearly forty-eight hours. She stormed at the lascars until they took to their heels, but fortunately they were ignorant of what she did say. Then she directed her battery upon Peter, although he was quite at a loss to know why he should be marked down in this fashion; while for vehemence her expressions—to quote the immortal Pepys—"outvied the daughters of Billingsgate".
Mostyn suffered the storm in silence. Most people in their passions "give themselves away", and in this instance Mrs. Shallop's outburst simply confirmed Peter's doubts as to the lady's claims to be a naval captain's daughter.
But when Mrs. Shallop included Olive in her revilings Peter's square jaw tightened.
"Enough of this!" he exclaimed sternly. "On board—at once!"
Mrs. Shallop hesitated, trying, perhaps, to find a flaw in the armour of her youthful antagonist. For his part Peter kept his eyes fixed steadily upon the infuriated woman, although he found himself inquiring what he could do to enforce obedience should she prove obdurate.
The tension was broken by Preston's gruff voice. From where he lay in the stern-sheets the Acting Chief could see nothing of what was going on. One ear was covered with bandages, but the other was doubly sharp of hearing. To him a refusal to obey lawful orders was mutiny, whether it came from a dago, "Dutchie", or, as in the present instance, from a blindly angry woman.
"You had one ducking by accident," he shouted. "You'll get another by design—in double quick time—if you don't take your place in the boat."
It was high time, Preston thought, that he had a say in the matter. It was a drastic step to threaten a woman with physical punishment, but there were limitations to the patience and forbearance of himself and his companions. A person of the explosive and abusive temperament of Mrs. Shallop in the boat was not only an unmitigated nuisance but a positive danger. Shorthanded as they were, they could not afford to run the additional risk of being hampered by an irresponsible passenger should they get in a tight squeeze, when the safety of all concerned depended upon coolness, quickness, and unhampered action.
The prospect of another sousing quelled the termagant's spirit. Meekly she waded to the boat and scrambled unassisted over the gunwale.
"Now, Olive!" exclaimed Peter. "To avoid a repetition of part of the performance——"
He lifted the girl in his arms and carried her through the water.
By this time the lascars had returned, and the boat's complement was now complete. The kedge was broken out and stowed, and under oars the repaired craft headed for the open sea, where the dancing ripples betokened the presence of a breeze—and a fair wind at that.
Peter was at the helm, with one hand grasping the tiller and the other shading his eyes from the dazzling sunlight. The two lascars rowed, while Mahmed, armed with the lead-line, took frequent soundings until the boat had drawn clear of the outlying reefs.
"Way 'nough!" ordered Mostyn. "Hoist sail!"
While the Indians were engaged in this operation the Wireless Officer, handing Olive the tiller, made a hasty yet comprehensive survey of the bilges. Except for a slight leaking 'twixt wind and water, the boat seemed absolutely tight. The canvas patches, reinforced as they were with woodwork, were standing the strain splendidly and gave not the slightest indication of leaking. Whether they would withstand the "working" of the boat in a seaway was still a matter that had to be proved.
"What's the course, old man?" asked Peter.
"Keep her at nor'-by-east," replied Preston. "Another thirty-six hours ought to work the oracle."
"It's nearly a dead run," reported Mostyn, after he had steadied the boat on her course.
"So much the better, s'long as you don't gybe her," rejoined the Acting Chief. "Not so much chance of making leeway."
Peter saw the force of this contention, but that did not alter the fact that of all forms of sailing "running" was what he least liked. It soon became apparent that there were others who were of a similar opinion, for, as the boat rolled heavily before the hot, sultry wind, Mrs. Shallop and the lascars were quicklyhors de combat, showing no enthusiasm when the first meal on board for that day was served out.
Even Olive Baird, used as she was to sailing, felt the motion of the boat uncomfortable. The light breeze was scarcely perceptible, although it was making the sail draw well. Not only was the sun pouring down with considerable strength, but the sea was reflecting hot rays of dazzling light.
Already the island astern was a mere pin-prick on the horizon. Ahead and on either beam was the now monotonous expanse of sea and sky.
Late in the afternoon a shoal of flying fish came athwart the boat's course. Evidently they were being pursued, for they flew blindly, several of them bringing up against the sail and dropping stunned upon the thwarts.
"Dolphins in pursuit, I think," explained Peter, in answer to Olive's question. "I don't know about that, though," he added after a pause. "Look at that."
He pointed astern. Twenty yards away was the triangular dorsal fin of a shark.
"The brute," ejaculated Olive, with a slight shudder. "I hope he goes off soon."
But the girl's wish was not to be fulfilled. If the shark had been chasing the flying fish he no longer did so. Perhaps he scented promising and more satisfying fare, for without any apparent effort he began to follow the boat, rarely increasing or decreasing the distance.
"Hang the shark," exclaimed Peter. "Here, Olive, is a chance to show what a good shot you are."
He handed the girl his automatic. Without hesitation Olive took the somewhat complicated weapon. Peter noted, with a certain degree of satisfaction, that she handled it fearlessly, and at the same time with proper caution. He had no cause to duck his head because of the muzzle pointing in his direction.
"Don't forget to release the safety-catch," he said.
"I've done so already," rejoined Olive, pulling back the mechanism that performed the double action of cocking the pistol and inserting a cartridge into the breech.
It was not an easy target, even at twenty yards. Not only was the boat yawing, but the dorsal fin of the shark was constantly on the move.
The pistol cracked. Mostyn, intent upon preventing the boat from gybing, had no opportunity of seeing the result of the shot. The girl, replacing the safety catch, handed the weapon back to its owner.
"Missed it, I'm afraid," she said. "But there's one good thing—the shark's disappeared."
"Scared stiff, if not hit," rejoined Peter. "Do you mind hanging on to the tiller, while I clean out the barrel?"
The day wore on. At six o'clock Peter roused one of the lascars, and told him to take on for a couple of hours. Already the tent had been rigged amidships, while the jib—useless, or nearly so, while running—had been employed as a sun-screen for Preston.
The sun sank to rest, its slanting rays turning the hitherto blue sea into a pool of liquid, ruddy fire, that gave place to a spangled carpet of indigo as the long undulations reflected the starlight. Away in the west the young moon was on the point of setting. It was the sort of sub-tropical evening that made the discomfort of the open boat pale by its soothing influence.
At eight Peter "took over". He had no desire for sleep, and was quite content to keep watch until relieved at dawn by one of the lascars; but he was somewhat surprised to find that Olive was likewise disinclined to turn in.
They watched the crescent moon dip behind the horizon; they saw the stars pale as a slight mist rose from the waters of the Indian Ocean, and the starlight give place to a darkness broken only by the feeble rays of the binnacle lamp.
By this time the wind had dropped to a gentle breeze on the port quarter, and there was no longer any risk of gybing. The erratic movement of the dead run had given way to the steadier "full and bye", with sufficient "kick" in the helm to make steering a pleasure rather than a monotonous routine.
Suddenly the boat quivered and heeled over to starboard. The shock was sufficient to rouse the sleepers.
"Aground!" exclaimed Olive.
Peter put the helm down. The boat responded instantly to the action of the rudder.
"No," he replied. "We've hit something. Wreckage, perhaps."
"It's a fish!" declared the girl, as with a trail of phosphorescence a huge object darted under the keel and disappeared in the darkness. "That shark."
"Or another one," rejoined Peter. "There's one blessing: it isn't a whale. Chup rao!" he called out to the jabbering lascars.
In two or three minutes the awakened members of the boat's crew had relapsed into slumber. Peter swung the boat back on her course, and handed the tiller to the girl.
"I'll have a cigarette, if you don't mind," he said.
"And one for me, old thing, while you are about it," added a bass voice from the stern-sheets.
"By Jove, Preston, I thought you were sound asleep," remarked Peter, as he placed a cigarette to the Acting Chief's lips.
"Keeping an eye on you, old thing," retorted Preston, with brutal candour, then in a lower tone he added.
"Don't say a word to the girl, but I believe we've sprung a leak. Hear that? It's not the water lapping the boat's sides. It's water trickling in fairly fast. Put a lascar on with the baler. That ought to keep it under until we can see what's wrong."
"Right-o," rejoined Mostyn.
He began to make his way for'ard, moving cautiously past the tent in which Mrs. Shallop was breathing stertorously. But before he could get to the nearest of the three Indians a wild shriek rent the air.
For the moment Peter was under the mistaken impression that he had trodden upon the sleeping form of Mrs. Shallop, but his fears on that score were corrected by the lady exclaiming:
"We're sinking. I'm in the water. Let me out! Let me out!"
It was some time before the Wireless Officer could release the woman. She had laced the flap of the improvised tent from the inside, finishing up with a wondrous and intricate knot. In the darkness the task was even more difficult. Peter solved it by wrenching one side of the canvas away from the gunwale, and was rewarded by being capsized by the impact of Mrs. Shallop's ponderous and decidedly moist figure.
Meanwhile Mahmed, acting upon his own initiative, had lighted the lamp. By the uncertain light Peter found that his fears were realized. Water was spurting in through a rent in the canvas patch on the gar-board strake.
A long, pointed object attracted his attention. It was the beak of a large sword-fish. The creature had come into violent contact with the boat, driving the formidable "sword" completely through the temporary planking, two thicknesses of heavy canvas, and the intervening padding of clay. The bone had broken off short, but the worst of the business was that the sudden wrench had split the piece of elm forming the outside of the patch, and through the long narrow orifice thus made, gallons of the Indian Ocean were pouring into the boat.
Desperately Peter strove to wrench the sword clear of the hole. It swayed easily enough, but no amount of force at the Wireless Officer's command enabled him to remove the long, tapering horn.
"Bale away!" he exclaimed to the lascars, who were inertly watching their sahib's efforts to free the swordfish's formidable spike. "Bale, or we'll sink."
"If you can't pull it out, push it back, old son," exclaimed Preston.
Glancing up, Peter found the Acting Chief in a sitting position, supporting himself with one hand grasping the after thwart.
Mostyn acted upon the advice, but he proceeded warily. It was a fairly easy matter to knock out the sword with a metal crutch—it was merely driving out an elongated wedge—but the question arose whether any display of force would prise the temporary planking from its fastenings.
At last to his satisfaction he felt the horny spike giving. After that it moved easily. Peter pushed its point completely clear of the boat, but the next instant the water poured in with redoubled violence, a phosphorescent waterspout rising a good eight or ten inches above the kelson.
Seizing a piece of canvas Peter wedged it into the gaping hole. The inflow was appreciably checked, but in order to withstand the pressure it was necessary for some one to hold the "stopper" in position, until repairs of a more substantial nature could be effected.
Calling to one of the lascars, Peter bade him carry on with the plugging process.
Hot, wellnigh breathless, and spent with his exertions, Peter sat up. He glanced aft. The feeble light from the binnacle showed him that Olive was at the helm, calm and collected. Throughout the anxious five minutes she had kept the boat on her course with the skill of a master-mind—a vivid contrast to the hysterical woman whose incapacity in a tight corner belied her oft-repeated statement as to her naval forbears.
And during that five minutes the breeze had freshened considerably. Already the seas were breaking viciously, their white crests showing ominously in the darkness. Another peril faced the crew. Could the badly strained and leaking boat withstand the onslaught of the threatened storm?
"I'll attend to the leak, Peter," volunteered Olive. "That will leave you free to shorten sail."
"Topping!" exclaimed Mostyn. "Keep your foot on that pad of canvas. Don't press too hard or the whole gadget may carry away."
Reefing was a difficult matter, for the boat was driving heavily and the canvas was as stiff as a board. Mostyn dared not risk lowering the sail. The little craft had to carry way to prevent her broaching-to and being swamped. It seemed incredible that in the short space of five or six minutes the hitherto calm sea should have worked up into a cauldron of crested waves and flying spindrift.
In the contest with the elements Mostyn temporized. Putting the helm up slightly and easing off the sheet, he released the pressure on the canvas sufficiently to enable Mahmed and the two lascars to take in a couple of reefs. At the same time the boat was travelling fast but was well under control.
"Let's hope it won't blow any harder," thought Peter. "She won't stand much more wind, and she'd break her back if she had to ride to a sea-anchor."
One of the lascars came aft and reported that the reefing operation was complete. Peter put the helm down to bring the boat back on her course, when, with a report of a six-pounder quick-firing gun, the tightly stretched canvas parted. Cloth after cloth was rent in rapid succession until the severed sail streamed banner-wise before the howling wind.
Somewhat to Mostyn's surprise and satisfaction the boat showed no inclination to broach-to. Possibly the fluttering canvas offered sufficient resistance to the wind to enable her to answer to the helm.
The next task was to set the jib as a trysail. It was almost useless to expect the lascars to do that. Their knowledge of boat-sailing was very elementary, having been gained in handling their native craft, and occasionally the ship's boats under regulation rig and in charge of their British officers.
Ordering Mahmed to take Miss Baird's place at the leaking patch, Peter handed the tiller over to the girl. There was no need to caution her as to what was to be done. She knew perfectly well that safety depended upon her ability to keep the boat's stern end on to the following seas.
Mostyn had no fears on that score. He knew the girl's capability in that direction by this time. Thanking his lucky stars that he was not dependent upon the indifferent seamanship of the lascars, he went for'ard with the jib which Preston had to relinquish as a covering.
In almost total darkness Peter found the head and tack of the sail. Fortunately the split mainsail was still held by the luff ropes, thus enabling him to gather in the fiercely flogging fragments and secure the lower block of the main halliards.
To the latter he bent the head of the jib. It was now a fairly easy matter to hoist the diminutive triangle of canvas and sheet it home.
"She'll do," he exclaimed, as he relieved Olive at the helm.
The girl nodded in reply. She was too breathless to speak. Her brief struggle with the strongly kicking tiller had required all the strength at her command. There was, she discovered, a vast difference between the long tiller of a well-balanced sailing dingy on the sheltered waters of the Hamoaze, and the short "stick" of a heavy ship's boat on the storm-tossed Indian Ocean.
Through the long hours till morning the boat ran before the storm. Never was day more welcome. At dawn the wind piped down and the sea moderated. The boat had made a fair amount of water, not only through the leaking patch, but over the gunwale, and, in order to keep the leak under, one of the lascars had to keep his hand down on the canvas stopper while the other plied the baler. This they had to do turn and turn about throughout the night, and by dawn they were both pretty well done up.
By nine o'clock, when the sun had gathered considerable strength, the wind had practically died away, and the sea had resumed a smooth aspect save for a long, regular swell. Only a few ragged wisps of canvas and the now almost idle and ridiculously inadequate trysail remained as a reminder of the night of peril.
In vain Mostyn looked for signs of land. Nothing was in sight save sea and sky. To make matters worse, the boat, which in that light breeze would have made about three knots under her mainsail, was now barely carrying steerage way. At that rate she might take weeks to fetch land—if she ever did so at all.
Breakfast over—it was a more substantial meal than their previous ones in the boat—Mostyn set the lascars to work to rig up jury canvas. The damaged mizzen-sail, that had served as a tent, was pressed into service, together with the tarpaulin. These were "bonnetted" together, bent to the gaff, and sent aloft as a square sail, with the result that the boat's speed increased perceptibly. Yet there was still a great difference between her normal rate and that under the jury canvas.
Smoking a cigarette after the meal, Peter let his thoughts run riot. He wondered what his parents were doing; whether they had had by this time any report of theWest Barbican. If so, were they mourning him as dead?
"Rather rough luck on them," soliloquized the youthful optimist; "but won't they be surprised when I roll up again?"
Then his thoughts went to the Brocklington steel contract. He wondered whether the Kilba Protectorate officials had sent to Bulonga for the consignment. It seemed to him rather an idiotic thing to do, to have the stuff dumped down in that out-of-the-way hole, when theWest Barbicanmight, with equal facility, have delivered it at Pangawani. Perhaps, after all, it was for the best. The stuff might have gone down in the ship, in which case Captain Mostyn would be a ruined man.
The mysterious loss of theWest Barbicanhad been a source of frequent perplexity to Peter. He was thinking about it now, trying to put forward a satisfactory theory as to the cause of the explosion. As far as he was aware there were no explosives on board, a consignment of gelignite, for use on the Rand, having been landed at Durban.
His reveries were interrupted by one of the lascars shouting: "Sail on port bow, sahib!"
Peter sat up. The foot of the improvised square sail intercepted the view for'ard. It was not until he made his way to the bows and stood upon the mast thwart that he saw the craft which the lascar had indicated.
She was still a long way off, only her canvas and the upper portions of her hull showing above the sky line. At that distance it was impossible, without the aid of a telescope or binoculars (neither of which was on the boat), to distinguish her rig or in which direction she was heading. As she was a sailing craft, and, taking for granted that she carried the same wind as the boat, the chances were that she would soon disappear from sight.
Nevertheless Mostyn meant to leave nothing undone that might attract the stranger's attention. Rockets were fired in the hope that the loud detonation might be audible at that distance. The light they gave out would be unseen in the terrific glare of the sun.
At Preston's suggestion strips of canvas were soaked in lamp oil and set alight at the end of the boat-hook. These flares gave out a dense smoke that rose to an immense height in the now still and sultry air.
For the best part of half an hour these signals were repeated at frequent intervals. Then, to everyone's disappointment, the strange sail faded from view.
"It's not to be wondered at," remarked Preston. "You know what a look-out at sea is like; and, in any case, they don't keep a fellow on watch to see what's coming up astern."
"They ought to," declared Olive.
The Acting Chief was sitting up, his back supported by some spare oilskins folded over the after thwart.
At the girl's retort he winked solemnly with the eye that was not covered with bandages.
"Do we?" he asked. "Look astern now."
To the surprise of everyone else in the boat a large sailing craft was bowling along dead in their wake. She was now a little less than a mile away, and had evidently been attracted by the signals made to the craft that had so recently been sighted in vain.
"A rum sort of packet, by Jove!" exclaimed Peter.
"A dhow, my sweet youth," explained Preston. "'Tisn't often you find 'em so far south, but you'll see shoals of them up along the coast from Mozambique and Zanzibar right up to the Red Sea and Persian Gulf. Clumsy-looking hookers, but they can shift."
It was Mostyn's first sight of an Arab dhow. He had seen plenty of Chinese junks in Shanghai whilst he was on the Pacific trade. This craft reminded him of them, only its rig was more in accord with Western ideas. End-on it was impossible to see that the masts raked at different angles, but the well-drawing lateen sails and the "bone in her teeth" indicated that she was a swift craft ably managed. Even in the light air she was moving at about six knots.
The Wireless Officer leant forward and whispered in Preston's ear.
"S'pose she's all jonnick, old man?" he asked.
"Sure," replied the Acting Chief. "The slave-dhow and the gun-runner are as dead as the dodo in these parts. Probably she's a trader from Reunion, blown out of her course by the late hurricane. Nothing to worry about, old son."
"Right-o!" rejoined Mostyn, and ordered the lascars to lower the sail and to stand by with the painter.
By this time the dhow, which was coming up "hand over fist", was about a cable's length astern. From the boat it was impossible to see the helmsman of the overtaking craft, owing to the foot of the lateen sail, but in her low bows could be discovered three Arabs intently looking in the direction of the now motionless little craft.
Presently a high-pitched voice called out an order. The hitherto listless Arabs for'ard sprang into activity. With a smartness that would have evoked admiration from the most exacting seaman, the lateen yards were lowered and squared fore and aft, while the dhow, still carrying way, ranged alongside theWest Barbican'sboat.
"Any port in a storm," thought Peter, as the lascar for'ard threw the painter into the hands of one of the Arab crew. "I wonder what we're in for now?"