At high water that night the S.S.West Barbican, drawing eighteen feet for'ard and twenty-four aft, left Brocklington Harbour, crossing the bar with less than five feet of water under her keel.
Fortunately the weather had moderated, the wind flying round off the land, otherwise she might have been detained for days, owing to the condition of the bar. The ship was now making for Gravesend to pick up passengers and mails, and thence for East Africa according to her usual programme.
Peter went on watch at ten that night with the unalluring prospect of remaining on duty till midday—perhaps longer—since Partridge and Plover, who had bucked up considerably during the vessel's stay in port, promptly showed signs of internal troubles the moment the bar was crossed.
It was not a prearranged case of malingering. There was no doubt about it: they had been ill. Neither knew of the burning of the oil-tanker, and of the dangerous position of theWest Barbicanwhen she proceeded to the rescue, until late on the following morning, and even then they received the news apathetically.
So Mostyn just carried on, pondering over the Company's doubtful economy, since, in addition to his normal pay, he was already raking in a fair sum for overtime in excess of the Merchant Service eight hours per day.
Gravesend was in its wonted late autumn state when theWest Barbicandropped anchor. A thick fog entirely blotted out the shore. The air reverberated with the dismal hooting of sirens in every imaginable key; while bells clanging from vessels at anchor added to the din. At intervals the sun shone feebly through the yellow pall, although it was impossible to see twenty feet along the deck. To add to the general discomfort a raw, moist, west wind was blowing down London River, without having sufficient force to disperse the baffling fog.
TheWest Barbicanwas two and a half hours late in arriving at Gravesend. If she were to weigh at the scheduled hour the passengers would have to be smart in getting on board with their personal cabin effects. Their heavy baggage had been sent down to the docks and placed in a hold a week previously.
Peter Mostyn had turned in directly the ship dropped anchor. There was a chance of two hours well-earned rest, if rest it could be called, since he lay down on his bunk fully clothed save for his rubber deck-boots. It was one of those frequent occasions when he could not afford to waste precious minutes in dressing and undressing. He was almost too dog-tired to kick off his boots. He was dimly conscious of throwing himself on his bunk and pulling the collar of his greatcoat up over the back of his neck; then he passed into a state of oblivion, notwithstanding the discordant sonata within and without the ship.
He was awakened by the appearance of Mahmed with the inevitable char. The native boy was now in "full rig", a concession to the still-absent passengers. He wore a white drill suit, similar to that worn by officers in tropical climes, with the exception that there were no shoulder-straps. On his head he sported a round skull-cap of astrakhan, with a scarlet top.
"No come yet, sahib," announced Mahmed, in response to Peter's inquiry as to whether the tender had come alongside with the passengers.
"All right," rejoined Peter, as he handed back the empty cup. "Tell Partridge Sahib and Plover Sahib I want them in the wireless-cabin."
Going on deck, Peter found that the fog was as thick as ever. It was now nearly eight bells (4 p.m.), and the crew had been mustered for inspection. All the deck hands were now rigged out in uniforms. Instead of the motley garb, each man had a loose-fitting coat of butcher-blue, reaching to his knees and secured round the waist with a red scarf. His headdress was a scarlet, close-fitting cap, not unlike the Egyptian "tarboosh". This was the uniform issued by the Company for "ceremonial", and the expected advent of passengers was a fitting occasion for the display.
Three short blasts close alongside brought the officer of the watch to the end of the bridge.
"Tender alongside, sir," he announced.
The Old Man, in his best uniform, loomed up through the fog, disappearing as he hastened to the gangway, where, at the foot of the accommodation ladder, two lascars were stationed at the manropes to assist in the trans-embarkation of the passengers.
Gliding through the mist like a wraith the squat, snub-nosed tender ran alongside and was made fast. One by one the passengers began to ascend the swaying accommodation ladder. In all they numbered forty-one, mostly of the male sex. A few were missionaries bound for Kenya and Uganda; there were men taking up farming in the rich lands of the interior of British East Africa; mining engineers for Rhodesia; and people who for various reasons had booked their passages to the Cape by theWest Barbicanrather than by the fast mail-boats. There was also a young man in the uniform of a Mercantile Marine Officer. He was the ship's doctor, "signed on" for the voyage only, thus combining business with pleasure, being in ordinary conditions a hard-worked country practitioner. It was the first long holiday he had had for five years, and he meant to make the best of every minute of it.
There were seven lady passengers. The first one up the ladder was a stout, middle-aged woman, dressed rather startlingly for a trip on a tender in a fog. Her travelling-costume was certainly of good material but too vivid in colour for a woman of her age and build.
Mostyn, standing a few feet from the head of the accommodation ladder, watched her curiously. At one time she might have been good-looking. A perpetual sneer was on her face. She looked a woman who was habitually peevish and vile-tempered. Even as she came up the ladder she was complaining in a loud, high-pitched voice to someone following her—her husband apparently.
"Bet she's a tartar," thought Peter, and turned his attention to the next newcomer—a red-faced, sheepish-looking man, who, judging by his obvious bewilderment, had set foot for the first time upon a craft larger than a coastal pleasure steamer. Mostyn put him down as a country innkeeper, since he bore a strong resemblance to the host of the "Blue Cow" at Trentham Regis.
After that the crowd on the gangway thickened, the swaying ladder creaking and groaning under the weight of this queue of humanity. There were old men, young men; prosperous-looking men, poor-looking men; men with jovial lightheartedness written large upon their faces; others looking woebegone and dejected, as if regretting the past and dreading the future. There were men who might have been chosen as models in the rôle of Adonis; others who outvied in features the deepest Adelphi villain. Amongst the last of the arriving passengers came a girl of about nineteen or twenty.
She was slim andpetite. Although wearing a serviceable raincoat she carried herself gracefully, holding but lightly to the handrail of the ladder. Mostyn noticed that her moist hair was of a rich, brownish hue, her features finely modelled. Her eyes were of a deep grey hue, beneath a pair of evenly arched eyebrows.
In spite of the clammy fog her cheeks shone with the glow of youth—a healthy glow that told unfailingly of an active, outdoor life.
"Jolly pretty girl, that," commented Peter, communing with his own thoughts.
The very last passenger to come over the side—Peter paid no attention to him—was a young, athletic man carrying a travel-worn leather portmanteau. With the air of one accustomed to life on shipboard he stepped briskly off the end of the gangplank and made straight for the saloon.
On the passenger list he appeared as William Porter, of Durban. Not one of theWest Barbican'sofficers realized what viper the good ship was cherishing in her bosom; for in Berlin William Porter would have answered readily and truthfully to the name of Ludwig Schoeffer.
Some of the incidents in this chapter are based upon actual facts recorded inThe Signal. The author takes this opportunity to express his thanks to the editor of that journal for permission, readily granted, to make use of certain incidents here recorded.
Mostyn made his way to the wireless-cabin to find his two satellites standing by according to orders.
"Well, all right now?" asked Peter solicitously.
"Yes, sir," was the reply in unison.
"What did you have for dinner in your mess?" pursued Mostyn, addressing Partridge.
"B'iled mutton, sir; and it weren't 'arf good."
"Not 'arf," corroborated the other bird. "An' b'iled peas an' dumplin's an' orl that."
"Right-o!" rejoined Peter briskly. "That shows you're both as fit as fiddles. We start sea routine at 10 p.m. You'll take on till four bells, Partridge——"
"Say, wot about my dinner?" objected the Watcher.
"Dinner?" repeated Mostyn, failing to grasp the reason of his subordinate's objection. "What's that got to do with it?"
"Dinner's at two bells, sir."
The Wireless Officer suppressed a desire to laugh.
"Four bells in the middle watch," explained Peter.
"That's 2 a.m. Surely to goodness you didn't expect to do a fourteen hours' trick? Plover, you relieve Partridge at four bells and carry on till I take over at eight bells—that's eight o'clock in the morning, not noon or four in the afternoon," he added caustically. "Got that?"
Yes, Messrs. Partridge and Plover had got that part all right.
"Now," continued Peter, "you know your duties. On no account touch the transmitter. Call me if there's any real need for it; and, don't forget, if you fall asleep on watch there'll be trouble."
Mostyn dismissed his assistants and donned the telephones. TheWest Barbicanhad weighed and was creeping cautiously down London River, over which the fog still hung as thickly as ever.
He anticipated a busy time. There were sure to be passengers who wanted to send messages at belated hours; urgent radiograms from shore stations, and radiograms that weren't urgent, were bound to be coming in; while, in addition, he had to deal with calls from ships and stations in the vicinity, and look out for time signals, weather reports, and possibly SOS and TTT warnings. Otherwise, save on approaching or departing from a port, the operator's work is light and at sea often approaching boredom.
Ten p.m. found theWest Barbicanrounding the North Foreland. She had now increased speed to nine knots, the weather becoming clearer. Hitherto, her passage down the river as far as the Edinburgh Lightship had been perforce at a painful crawl of four to five knots, with her siren blaring incessantly.
Mostyn had seen nothing of the passengers after their arrival. Being on duty he had missed dinner in the saloon. Not that he had missed much from a spectacular point of view, for most of the passengers were absent from that meal. A good many, in fact, would fail to put in an appearance at meals for several days, giving the hard-worked stewards and stewardesses a strenuous time in consequence. The latter were at it already, judging by the frequent popping of soda-water-bottle corks and cries of varying intensity and vehemence for "steward".
The tindal had gone for'ard and rung four bells. Peter, with the telephones still on, waited for his relief. Five minutes passed. He was beginning to think that the bird had played him false again, when Master Partridge's hobnailed boots were heard clattering on the brass-treaded ladder.
"Quite ready, boss," he observed genially.
Mostyn, without a word, handed him the telephones, repressing the desire to tick him off for unpunctuality. Then, waiting until the Watcher had adjusted the ear-pieces to his broad head, he wished Partridge "good night".
"Shall I turn in all standing?" he asked himself, as he switched on the light and surveyed his bunk. It was a bitterly cold night, for, with the partial dispersal of the fog, a cold nor'easter had sprung up. "A hundred to one I'll be routed out. Thank goodness we'll soon be in the Tropics!"
It did not take Peter long to turn in. For some minutes he lay awake thinking. He was far from easy in his mind concerning the Watcher on duty. In a congested waterway like the Straits of Dover and the English Channel—particularly in the vicinity of the Downs and off St. Catherine's—wireless messages of great importance to the safety of the ship and her passengers and crew might be sent; but would Partridge be alert enough to warn theWest Barbican'soperator? Supposing the bird fell asleep on watch? It was all very well for Mostyn to say that if a disaster should occur it would be put down to the fault of the system. That was not good enough for a conscientious fellow like Peter.
He resolved, in spite of his weariness, to make periodical visits to the wireless-cabin.
At 10.30 p.m. he cautiously approached the cabin; not with the idea of eavesdropping but merely to see if Watcher Partridge were on the alert. If he were, Peter meant to withdraw without disturbing him. If he were not—Peter smiled grimly.
Thrusting his feet into his rubber boots (on principle Mostyn always had sea-boots a size larger than he wore with shore-going kit) the Wireless Officer made his way to the cabin. A glance through the closed scuttle showed him that Partridge was wide awake, and that he still wore the telephones. Satisfied, he began to retrace his steps and encountered Preston tracking along the alleyway.
Dick Preston was still Acting Chief, the Chief Officer having failed to join the ship at Gravesend. Consequently theWest Barbicanwas one executive officer short.
"Hello there!" exclaimed Preston. "Thought it was your watch below, Sparks. What's up: developed insomnia?"
Mostyn told him the reason for his visit to the bridge.
"That's all right, young fellah-me-lad," declared the Acting Chief. "You turn in. I know you've had a pretty sticky time. I'll keep an eye on yon greenhorn and see that he doesn't drop asleep on his perch. Trust me for that."
Five minutes later Peter was sound asleep.
Suddenly he was aroused by a hand grasping his shoulder. Only half awake the Wireless Officer sat up in his bunk, narrowly avoiding collision with the cork-cemented beam overhead.
"TTT, sir!" bellowed an excited voice.
For the present Peter was still hovering on the border-line 'twixt slumber and wakefulness. Somehow he had the idea in his brain that he was once more on board the S.S.Donibristle, and the officers' steward had brought him a cup of tea before going on watch.
"No, dash it all!" he expostulated. "I don't want tea now."
"TTT, sir! TTT!" repeated the disturber of Mostyn's peace.
Then Peter realized the situation. It was Watcher Partridge, almost falling over himself in his anxiety to proclaim the fact that at last he had had a call through of an important nature.
Tumbling out of his bunk, Peter slipped into his bridge coat, and hurried to the wireless-cabin, the Watcher, puffing and blowing, following hard on his heels.
Picking up the 'phones, Mostyn listened for a few seconds. Then he replaced the ear-pieces on the table.
"You'll have to do better than that next time," he observed caustically. "That's not TTT—nothing like it. It's North Foreland on our starboard quarter calling CQ. Tuning in, most likely."
Returning to his bunk, Peter noticed that it was now 11.15 p.m. There was still a chance of a good night's rest, he reflected.
At a quarter to twelve he was called again to receive time signals. Forty-five minutes later he was aroused to call for wireless orders for the ship. On this occasion nothing was forthcoming, so back along the now familiar alleyway he hurried to his sleeping-cabin.
It seemed as if Peter had been asleep only a few minutes when there was a terrific hammering at his door. Sitting up, Mostyn felt for the electric light switch. He found it easily enough. There was a metallic snap—but the cabin was not flooded with light. Something had gone wrong with the bulb, he reflected, as he shouted to the disturber without to come in.
The door opened. There appeared the perspiring face of Crawford, the engineer of the watch, his features thrown into weird relief by the guttering gleam of an oil hand-lamp.
"Hey, laddie!" he exclaimed in sepulchral tones. "Yon Watcher, he's——"
Words failed the Second Engineer.
"I'm awa' to sort yon," he added, and, as if no further explanation were necessary, bolted precipitately.
Imagining that nothing short of a vision of Partridge grilling on the main switch would meet his gaze, Peter doubled to the wireless-cabin. The alleyway was in pitch darkness. He collided violently with the Third Engineer, who, summoned from his slumbers, was making tracks for the engine-room.
On the bridge the officer of the watch was shouting to the serang to bring up the emergency oil-lamps. Every fuse in the ship had been blown out, and consequently not only the internal lighting had failed but the electric masthead and side lights had refused duty. With theWest Barbicanproceeding down Channel at fifteen knots on a dark night the possibilities of a disastrous collision were great, until the emergency lights were rigged up and the ship brought back on her course, since the binnacle lamp had failed with the other electric lights.
A strong smell of burning gutta-percha and ebonite greeted Peter as he gained the vicinity of the wireless-cabin. Outside stood Partridge and Plover, the latter about to take over the watch. Both were horribly scared, and no wonder, for upon striking a match Mostyn found the reason for all the trouble.
Watcher Partridge, on turning over to his opposite number, had hung the telephones on the main switch. He was deeply surprised and not a little pained when there was a miniature Brocks' display inside the cabin, both ear-pieces of the 'phones burning out and emitting most nauseating fumes, while every fuse on board had been blown out, causing a complete breakdown of the electric-light system.
After explaining matters to the angry Old Man, who was, figuratively, hunting for the scalp of the luckless Partridge, Mostyn set to work to rectify the share of the damage that came within his province. It took him the best part of an hour to replace the defective main switch by a new one, connect new telephones, and overhaul the set.
Then, back once more to his bunk, Peter realized that less than five hours remained before he took over the watch. It was now 3.15 p.m.
At 4.45 the engineer of the watch interrupted Mostyn's dreams. Once again the fuses had blown out, the cause being traced to the wireless-cabin.
The Wireless Officer stumbled across Master Plover at the foot of the bridge ladder. The Watcher was nursing his foot, and making inarticulate noises that denoted pain. The sole of his left boot was missing, together with the fearsome array of hobnails that used to play a tattoo upon the brass treads of the ladders.
Master Plover could give no coherent account of what had happened.
"I was sittin' there as quiet as a mouse a-listenin' in," he whimpered, "when I found myself chucked orf me chair right through the blinkin' door. S'elp me, I didn't do nothin' to the gadgets."
Peter guessed rightly as to what had actually happened. The Watcher wasn't watching. In other words, he had been dozing, and in a somnolent state had unconsciously placed his iron-shod boot upon the long-suffering main switch.
Making good defects, Mostyn managed to soothe the still highly nervous Plover into a state of tractability. Till a quarter to eight the jaded Wireless Officer did enjoy an uninterrupted sleep, then to be awakened by Mahmed's cheerful announcement: "Char, sahib."
Ten minutes later Peter took on. As he heard the dot-and-carry-one patter of the relieved Watcher's solitary boot, he smiled to himself and reflected that, although the work of a wireless officer is at times a strenuous one, it has its humorous side and is not without compensations.
During the rest of the day theWest Barbicanrolled before the following wind, to the no small discomfort of the majority of the passengers. It was a cold wind, too, and few of the passengers who had withstood the attacks ofmal de merventured on deck.
"Have you found out who that loud-voiced female passenger is?" inquired Peter of Anstey, as the two paced the almost deserted boat-deck.
He put the question with ulterior motives, masking the main point of his curiosity.
"That queer specimen?" rejoined the Third Officer. "No, I haven't, beyond the fact that she's a Mrs. Shallop, and her husband, that red-faced man, is a horse-dealer, who made a pile in the war by stopping at home and selling broken-down hacks to Government inspectors who hardly knew the bow of a gee-gee from the stern. Yes, we're going to have some fun out of Mrs. Shallop before long, old son. She's had a row with the purser, two with the chief stewardess, and a few with the stewards thrown in as make-weights."
"What about?' asked Mostyn.
"Goodness knows," replied Anstey. "The purser was talking to the Old Man about it after breakfast. She's rather got on the poor chap's nerves. Apparently she's an imaginary grievance that they don't treat her like a 'lydy', so she's been ramming it down their throats that she's a naval officer's daughter—a captain's daughter."
"Well, isn't she?" asked Peter.
The Third Officer sniffed scornfully. Evidently Mrs. Shallop had fallen foul of him already.
"Naval captain's daughter!" he exclaimed. "Might be. Sub-lieutenants become captains, or at least some of them do; and subs have been known to do rash acts when they are young. But when a woman, whose accent, manners, and grammar are decidedly rocky, goes out of her way to assert that she's a naval officer's daughter, well then, snap goes the last thread of your credulity. My dear old thing, we're going to have some fun this trip, so get busy."
"Who is the girl—the girl who was almost the last on board?" asked Mostyn, broaching the long-deferred question at last. "Has she no friends on the ship?"
"Goodness only knows!" ejaculated the Third Officer fervently. "She's a Miss Baird, and I think she's by herself. We'll find out in due course. Hark! Yes, at it again! It's poor old Selwyn getting it this time."
Through a partly open skylight came the now familiar voice of Mrs. Shallop, almost ear-piercing in its intensity and raucous in its tone. Mingled with the strident outbursts of the woman came short, incompleted protests from the doctor, who apparently was not able to hold his own.
"At it again," reiterated Anstey. "She's trying the naval captain stunt on the doc. I guess—by Jove! Wait till she tackles the Old Man."
Just then Dr. Selwyn appeared on the boat-deck. He was a dapper little man with the reputation of being a skilful and rapid surgeon. He could have commanded a large practice in town, but, preferring the country to city life, was content with a moderate income and plenty of hard work in congenial surroundings. In manner he was affable, and possessed an old-world courtesy that made him extremely popular. He was mild in speech, and rarely lost his temper; but when he came on deck it was obvious to both Peter and Anstey that he was labouring under suppressed anger.
"Morning, Doc," was the Third Officer's greeting. "Up for a breather?"
Selwyn braced his shoulders and gazed out to starboard. Nine miles to the nor'ard the white cliffs of the Isle of Wight stood out clearly against the dark grey clouds.
"Yes," he agreed. "A breather. Had a fairly stiff time with sundry patients. Sort of thing one must expect in the early days of a voyage. What's that land over there?"
"St. Catherine's," replied Anstey. "If it's clear enough we may sight the Isle of Purbeck, but I doubt it. So take your last look at Old England for a while, Doctor."
The three men remained in conversation for several minutes, but Anstey failed hopelessly in his attempt to "draw" Selwyn with reference to his encounter with the "tartar".
"I'd like to see your wireless-cabin," remarked the doctor.
"Certainly," agreed Mostyn. "As a matter of fact I'm about to take over the watch."
Anstey, to whom the wireless-room was no novelty, "sheered off" and shaped a course for the smoking-room, while Peter and the doctor made their way for'ard to the former's post of duty.
Suddenly Peter stopped. From the open door of the wireless-cabin came the deep bass voice of Captain Antonius Bullock. He was "letting rip" vigorously, and there was anger in his tone. Then, trembling like a leaf, Watcher Plover appeared.
The Old Man, paying an unexpected visit, had found the Watcher fast asleep.
Already the skipper was "fed up to the back teeth" (to use his own words) with the two birds. Coming on top of the disconcerting incidents of the night, when both Watchers had severally dislocated the electric-lighting service, Plover's delinquency, serious enough in any circumstances, completely upset the Old Man's equilibrium.
By this time he was fully convinced that the Watcher system was rotten to the core. On his previous voyage Captain Bullock had fallen foul of his wireless officers, but that was over technical matters. Otherwise he had had no cause for complaint, and, generally speaking, the relations between skipper and radiographers were harmonious if not exactly cordial. Now, thanks to a misguided attempt at economy, the Old Man could put no dependence upon Mostyn's assistants, and, in fact, he was inclined to blame Peter for not exercising more supervision over his subordinates.
Which was rough on Peter. In Captain Bullock's present mood it was useless to point out how many times during his "watch below" Mostyn had been called to the wireless-cabin. The fact remained that Partridge and Plover had been signed on for the trip. Even if the Old Man wished he could not land them this side of Las Palmas, and so for the present Peter must make the best of things, trusting that in due course the two incompetents might be "licked into shape".
As soon as Captain Bullock had retired to his cabin, Peter took over the watch, Selwyn standing by as the Wireless Officer made the usual tests.
"Now you can listen in, Doctor," announced Mostyn, after he had produced and connected up a supplementary pair of 'phones. "There's not much doing, I fancy."
Selwyn adjusted the ear-pieces, while Peter, similarly equipped, stood by pencil in hand in order to give his companion some inkling of any stray message.
"There's something!" exclaimed the doctor. He was excited. As cool as the proverbial cucumber when he was performing a deft and rapid operation upon which human life depended, he was now as delighted as a child with a new toy, when he heard the high-pitched buzzing sound that indicated a message in transit.
"Niton," explained Peter. "Isle of Wight station. She's calling up—no—half a minute."
Mostyn's pencil was moving rapidly as he recorded the message.
"Cut out o.m. SOS signals out: stop sending."
Then almost immediately after came a plaintive wail from a ship:
"Please repeat whole of preamble and words after 'overcoat'."
"Explain, please," asked Selwyn.
Mostyn, busy altering the wave length in an attempt to pick up the SOS, did not reply. Explanations could come later.
A vessel fifty miles away was trying to obtain a repetition of a message from Niton. Part of it she had received, but her operator was doubtful about the preamble and the words following overcoat. It was a purely private message, of no interest to anyone save the sender. Niton was trying to make the operator stop sending, as there was an SOS message coming from somewhere. The ship's operator for some reason was persisting in his inquiries for the words following overcoat. In addition a distant high-power station was chipping in, and there were also "atmospherics" of high frequency.
Out of this chaotic "jam" Mostyn was trying to isolate the urgent wireless call for aid.
Almost deafened by the exaggerated reverberations of the ear-pieces as Mostyn pursued his efforts to tune in, Selwyn watched with unabated interest the Wireless Officer's deft manipulations of the set. Greek the doctor understood, but this was something far beyond his ken.
At last. Faintly, almost indistinguishable from the cackling of the atmospherics, came the despairing SOS. It emanated from a vessel in dire distress. Peter knew that she was using her comparatively low emergency set. That indicated the fact that her ordinary sending apparatus had broken down.
"SOS. S.S.Passionflower17 miles s. by w. of Owers. Boiler explosion, ship making water rapidly; pumps inadequate."
"Message received," sent Mostyn, then handing Selwyn the paper on which he had written the fateful message, "Captain, please," he said.
The doctor removed his telephones and departed on his errand. Meanwhile Mostyn was listening in for other vessels in the vicinity replying to the general and urgent call for aid.
In the chartroom the Old Man and Preston held a hasty conference. Only an hour previously theWest Barbicanmust have crossed the track of the disabledPassionflower, within a few miles of her. Now a distance of between fifteen and twenty miles separated the two vessels, and to render assistance the former vessel would have to retrace her course. At fifteen or fifteen and a half knots it would take her more than an hour to close with thePassionflower. If she did, would she be the first on the scene?
Both the Old Man and the Acting Chief Officer doubted it. This part of the Channel was a busy one. Not only was there the "up and down" traffic, but a large number of vessels was plying between Southampton and the Normandy ports. In addition, thePassionflowerwas within an hour's run of Portsmouth, where there were Government tugs and destroyers ready to render aid.
The navigating officer's doubts were confirmed when Mostyn appeared with a report that already five vessels were proceeding to the rescue of thePassionflower. So theWest Barbicanheld on her course.
A little later Peter, who had contrived to "cut out" the plaintive and persistent inquiry as to the words following overcoat, got into touch with the P. & O. linerNowabunda. From her he learnt that thePassionflowerhad been sending out her SOS for an hour before theWest Barbicanhad picked up the distress call.
Either Watcher Plover had been asleep for some time before being awakened by the skipper, or else his untrained ear had failed to detect the low notes of the distressed vessel's emergency set. The actual result was the same. TheWest Barbican, although nearest to thePassionflowerwhen she first began the call for aid, had passed by unheedingly. Had she proceeded to the spot she could have towed the crippled vessel into Portsmouth or Southampton with very little difficulty.
This is what the Portsmouth tugSampsondid, thePassionflowerbeing dry-docked just in time to save her from foundering. In the Admiralty courts the salvage earned theSampson£11,000, and this theWest Barbicanlost simply and solely through Watcher Plover's incapacity.
Captain Antonius Bullock had turned in for the night. He had received the reports of the officer of the watch and the engineer of the watch, the time signals and weather reports from the Wireless Officer, and was now free from the cares of command until such time as his steward called him. He might be called within the next minute; but with luck he hoped to remain undisturbed until six bells in the morning watch.
It was now 1 a.m. TheWest Barbicanhad passed Ushant twenty miles to port, and was entering the Bay of Biscay.
The weather was still cold, but the wind had moderated considerably, coming off the land. The Bay was on its best behaviour, and consequently the passengers, who were beginning to find their sea-legs, were wandering farther afield than the limited expanse between the saloon and their respective cabins.
The notice on the Old Man's door, "Don't knock, come in", had disappeared. Captain Bullock had seen to that. It served its purpose when the ship was getting ready for sea, but once the passengers came on board the brusque invitation vanished.
Although the air without was raw it was cosy and warm inside the cabin. The radiators, heated by steam from the boilers, kept the apartment at an even temperature, while, as a concession to appearances, a fire glowed in a polished, brass-mounted grate. Only no heat came from that fire: it was a dummy, composed of coloured paper rolled into loose balls and packed around an electric-light bulb. It had a comforting look, and frequently visitors to the Old Man's cabin stood on the hearthrug enjoying the heatless glow in utter ignorance of the fact that no fire burned in that polished brass grate.
Over the door and scuttles the dark-blue baize curtains had been drawn. The electric light had been switched off, and only the red glow from the grate faintly illuminated the cabin.
Captain Bullock lay in his bunk, raising his head occasionally to sip at a stiff glass of special Scotch. From early morn to midnight he was a rigid teetotaller Even at dinner the decanters passed by him untouched, but every night, even in the hottest weather, his steward mixed a uniformly strong glass of whisky, hot water, and lemon.
Generally the Old Man was quickly asleep, but to-night he felt wakeful. Not as a rule a deep thinker—he was essentially a man of action—he found himself pondering over various matters.
He was beginning to realize that this was his last voyage. On theWest Barbican'sreturn to London he was to relinquish his command and retire on pension. How he hated the idea! The sea was part of his being. No one knew the call of the deep more than he. True, at times, he had been "fed up" with the sea, but those were only passing moods. Some men looked forward to superannuation from the time they entered seriously into the battle of life. They had visions of peaceful if not luxurious retirement, living happily and contentedly on their hard-earned pensions. "And usually," thought Captain Bullock, "they are dead in a couple of years—rusted out through sheer idleness."
No, he hated the idea of having to "go on the beach" for the rest of his life. Settling down in the country and keeping fowls did not appeal to him in the slightest. He might get a job as harbour-master in some minor port, but these ports are limited in number. Besides, he did not take kindly to the idea of being badgered by a petty Harbour Board, the members of which were probably coal-dealers and corn-factors who knew nothing about the sea.
"Here I am, as hard as nails, sound as a bell, and a better skipper than I was twenty years ago," he soliloquized. "Why can't the Company keep masters on till they show signs of cracking? They'd get something for their money instead of paying it out in pensions."
Then his thoughts reverted to the lost opportunity of thePassionflowersalvage job. True, there was the business of the oil-tankerBivalveas a set-off, but he wondered what his owners would think when they read of the case in theShipping Gazette.
Suddenly his reveries were interrupted by the sound of the cabin door lock being turned very cautiously. The sound was barely audible above the varied noises without.
By this time Captain Bullock was in a drowsy state. Without raising his head from the pillow, he was dimly aware that some one had entered the cabin. It was unusual. Sometimes his steward had occasion to enter during the night. Occasionally the officer of the watch or the Wireless Officer brought a report, and in any case they explained their presence verbally.
"Perhaps he thinks I am asleep and doesn't want to disturb me," thought the drowsy man, and, without attempting to fix the intruder's identity, he lay still, apathetically watching the other's movements.
The intruder crossed the cabin silently yet without hesitation. He stood at the writing-desk for a brief instant and then withdrew.
"'Spose it's Anstey with a chit," decided Captain Bullock, and, satisfied with his own explanation, he fell asleep.
At 6 a.m. the Chief Steward mustered his staff preparatory to the usual routine. There was an absentee: the Captain's steward.
"Anyone seen Wilkins?" demanded the Chief Steward.
No one had. Some one dispassionately volunteered the information that Wilkin's bunk had not been slept in. Men roused from slumber to perform the irksome routine are apt to be apathetic before breakfast.
The Chief Steward dismissed his staff to their various duties, and proceeded to search for the missing man.
He found Wilkins fully dressed and fast asleep on the floor of the pantry. On a shelf stood an empty tumbler that smelt of whisky.
The Chief Steward stirred the sleeping man with his boot.
"Come along," he exclaimed. "Show a leg, there! Skipper's waiting to be called."
Beyond a protesting grunt Wilkins showed no sign of recognition.
"Drunk as a lord," commented the Chief Steward. "Come on, man!" he added sternly. "Pull yourself together. You've been after the Old Man's whisky-bottle."
A friendship existed between the two men. The Chief Steward had obtained Wilkins's post for him. In consequence the former made allowances, which he would not have done in the case of another of his subordinates.
Holding Wilkins under the arms the Chief Steward dragged him unceremoniously along the deserted alley-way, and bundled him into his own cabin. There he would be safe from detection.
Locking the door, the Chief Steward returned to the pantry, washed out the tell-tale tumbler, and then summoned an assistant steward.
"Wilkins is ill," he announced briefly. "Take on Captain's steward's duties until he's fit again."
At five minutes to seven Assistant Steward Scott, bearing a can of hot water and a cup of tea, tapped at the Old Man's cabin door.
Captain Bullock, as fresh as a proverbial daisy, eyed the deputy coldly. Any alteration of routine jarred him.
"Where's Wilkins?" he demanded.
"On the sick list, sir."
"Humph. Bath ready?"
"Yes, sir."
The Old Man donned his bridge coat over his pyjamas before making tracks for the bathroom.
Suddenly he turned to his servant:
"So you were the man who came into my cabin during the middle watch?"
Scott stammered and went very red in the face. He was a meek, inoffensive man, and stood in deep awe of those set in authority over him.
"No, sir. Please, sir, I didn't," he protested. "I only took on at four bells."
Captain Bullock made no audible comment. He went to the writing-desk to see if anyone had left a chit there. There was none. He gave a swift, comprehensive glance at the book-shelf where, among other volumes, were the three separate code-books by which the owners and consignors were able to communicate with the ship. They were in their usual places.
The Old Man smiled grimly as he put a hastily formed suspicion from his mind.
"All right," he said gruffly. "Carry on."
Mr. William Porter—otherwise Ludwig Schoeffer, had taken readily to his new surroundings on board the S.S.West Barbican. He made it a habit to do so, wherever he was: at the Wilhelmstrasse, Berlin, or in Sing Sing Prison, New York. He made a speciality of studying men and things, and, in order to do so, he naturally came to close quarters with the objects of his professional attention.
He had failed to prevent the shipment of the Brocklington Company's consignment of steelwork for the Kilba Protectorate. There remained a chance of achieving his object while the steelwork was on the high seas; and to that end he had booked a passage in theWest Barbican.
His primary idea was to sink the ship without loss of life. It might have been a new-born hesitation to take human life that actuated his plans. During the war he had not been so scrupulous. Now, perchance, he looked upon murder and manslaughter in a different light. Or perhaps he was developing nerves and was afraid of falling into the clutches of the law, for he knew full well that, if he bungled, his employers in Germany would utterly repudiate him.
It might have been possible for him to place a delayed-action infernal machine in the hold of theWest Barbicanwhen she was loading up at Brocklington. But he had not an intimate knowledge of the construction of the ship, and he feared to take drastic steps without being certain of his surroundings. Nor did he wish to immolate dozens of passengers.
The majority of the latter would be leaving the ship either at Cape Town or Durban, so their departure would ease the situation as far as the remnants of his conscience were concerned.
He decided, therefore, to go as far as South Africa as a passenger on theWest Barbican. During the voyage he could obtain a good knowledge of the ship's routine, and the accessibility or otherwise of the holds and bunkers. Then, before leaving the ship at Durban, he could "plant" his high-explosive bomb and send theWest Barbicanto her doom.
It was an easy matter to convey the explosives on board. The customs officers at British ports are vigilant enough in connection with homeward-bound passengers' baggage, but not so in the case of departing ships. No one paid any attention to the dark-red, cloth-bound book that Mr. Porter carried under his arm. It never occurred to Ludwig Schoeffer that it was hardly fair to a book to be carried so openly on a damp, foggy day.
Outwardly it was a book, but between the covers there were no leaves except dummy edges. In the recess thus formed was four pounds of very high explosive, sufficient to blow a hole completely through the steel plating of a merchant-ship's hold. The explosive without a primer was comparatively innocuous. It could be subjected to a severe blow without detonating; fire had no effect upon it, except that it would smoulder without bursting into flame. But when mixed with a solution of potash the latent power was instantly and terrifically released.
Until the bomb was prepared for action Schoeffer kept the glass tube containing the potash separate from the main explosive. If necessary he could easily explain the potash by saying it was medicine.
The detonation of the infernal machine was actuated by a fairly simple device. It was only necessary to smash the glass tube of potash; but the point was: how could Schoeffer break the glass when he was away from the ship?
If anyone had had an opportunity of inspecting Mr. Porter's watch he would certainly have been interested; for, in addition to the hours, minutes, and seconds hands, the dial sported a hand that indicated the days up to seven. But in place of numbers on the day circle there were seven black dots. Each of these dots proved to be a small insulated metal peg, capable of being raised until it projected a fraction of an inch from the dial, yet sufficiently to hold up the hand.
To complete the outfit there was a small eight-volt battery, which, on a circuit being formed, would detonate a minute charge of explosive, enough to smash the glass tube, liberate the potash, and cause the desired catastrophe. By means of the watch Schoeffer could delay the explosion from one to seven days after he had set the bomb in position.
Mr. Porter made rapid strides in forming acquaintances on board. He was affable without being obtrusive; communicative up to a certain point, without volunteering information; a good conversationalist without boring his listeners. He took a keen interest in the officers, the stewards, and even the lascars, but, in the course of conversation with them, he rarely if ever asked questions concerning their professional duties.
One person in particular he cultivated. That was Wilkins, the Captain's steward. Wilkins was a professional postage-stamp agent; he bought large quantities of stamps in foreign parts on behalf of a London firm. Mr. Porter was a keen amateur collector, and so a bond of interest was formed.
Since the facilities for encouraging conversation between passengers and stewards are limited, Schoeffer found a convenient opportunity to confer with Wilkins on the subject of postage stamps. The opportunity occurred just before "lights out", the venue being the pantry.
Schoeffer found that the subject of stamps afforded him a splendid chance of gaining information concerning the Old Man. He knew that the skipper kept the code-books in his cabin. Two of them—theABCand theTelegraph Code—were practically public property, but the third was the private code of the Blue Crescent Line, by which the owners telegraphed orders to their various ships.
The German agent made no attempt to suborn the steward to "borrow" the code-book. He preferred to work single-handed. It was infinitely safer. But he soon discovered that Captain Bullock was a light sleeper and that he was practically an abstainer from strong drink, except for his regular "night-cap".
One night the chance occurred. Wilkins had mixed the Old Man's grog. His attention diverted for a minute, he was unaware that Mr. Porter had dropped into the glass a cube resembling sugar but containing a powerful narcotic quite devoid of taste.
"Well, sir," remarked Wilkins, "I must push off and take this to the skipper."
With this gentle intimation the steward speeded his guest. He had reasons for so doing. He had no desire to let even an affable gentleman like Mr. Porter know that he was in the habit of helping himself to the Old Man's whisky.
A few minutes later Wilkins poured out another stiff glass of grog and carried it to the skipper, leaving for his own consumption the glass that Schoeffer had doped.
Ten minutes later the steward returned to the pantry, drunk the doctored whisky, and spent the rest of the night in a state of insensibility, in which condition he was found and befriended by the Chief Steward.
Returning to his cabin—a single-berth one on the port side—Schoeffer closed the deadlight and drew a curtain over the jalousied door. At twelve the electric lights in the passengers' cabins were switched off, but that hardly troubled "Mr. Porter". An electric torch gave him all the light he required.
Two bells sounded. Cautiously Schoeffer switched off the torch, undressed, and put on dark-coloured pyjamas and felt bedroom slippers. Then, after listening to hear that no one was about, he stole silently from his cabin.
He guessed that the officer of the watch would be drinking cocoa in the chartroom, and that the bridge would be deserted save for the native quartermaster at the wheel. If he were intercepted, Schoeffer would pose as a somnambulist and suffer himself to be led back to his cabin.
But no one was about. Boldly yet stealthily he gained the bridge and entered the skipper's cabin, confident that the Old Man was in a drugged sleep. He would have had a nasty shock had he known that Captain Bullock was merely drowsy and was aware of his presence.
With the private code-book in his possession Schoeffer retraced his way to his cabin. Luck was with him. Unseen and unheard he entered his stateroom and closed the door. For the next two hours he was hard at work carefully copying out cryptic letters, that in due course would enable him to carry out his nefarious plans to perfection. He also carefully committed to memory the instructions printed in the front of the book relating to the procedure to be followed in sending and receiving instructions by code.
Again he sallied forth to the Captain's cabin and replaced the book. What rather puzzled him was the fact that the Old Man was sleeping naturally. His deep, regular breathing did not conform to the suggestion that he was under the influence of a powerful drug.
It was a disquieting discovery. He could not account for it. Perhaps, he thought, Captain Bullock had something up his sleeve. Even the satisfaction of having secured and made full use of the secret code-book had much of its greatness shorn by the haunting dread of the burly captain of the S.S.West Barbican.