"It's about time we had a letter from Peter from Cape Town, isn't it?" inquired Mrs. Mostyn.
Captain Mostyn deliberately lighted a cigarette while he worked out a mental sum.
"Hardly," he replied. "Give the Royal Mail a chance, old lady. We heard from the boy from Las Palmas. That ought to keep you satisfied for another week or so. By that time we ought to see the announcement of theWest Barbican'sarrival at Pangawani. Let me see: it was ten days ago when we saw the news of her departure from Durban. By Jove, old lady, we'll have a jollification when we know that the steelwork is handed over to the Kilba Protectorate Government."
There was no doubt about it. Captain Mostyn was worrying over the contract. The actual manufacturing of the bridge material had caused him very little anxiety. The keenness with which he had followed the work, the personal attention he gave to all the details, and the professional supervision of the whole process of manufacture had kept him busy both mentally and physically. But from the time the consignment was shipped on board theWest Barbicanat Brocklington he was metaphorically on pins and needles.
The contract was to include delivery at Pangawani. There were certain risks in the long sea passage that were to be taken into account. Unavoidable accidents might occur, that the most skilful master in the Merchant Service could not avert. Pangawani Harbour, with its shifting bar, had a sinister reputation in insurance company circles. That fact had resulted in the refusal of every underwriter whom Captain Mostyn approached to insure the steelwork to anything like its full value. The best terms he could obtain were 75 per cent, while theWest Barbicanwas between the United Kingdom and Table Bay, and 66-2/3 per cent between Table Bay and Pangawani. That meant the bankruptcy of the Brocklington Ironworks Company should the steelwork fail to reach its destination, since every pound of available capital had been sunk in Captain Mostyn's "great push".
Curiously enough, his anxiety was solely for the safety of the steelwork. The knowledge that his son was on the very boat that was taking out the consignment hardly entered into his calculations. An indescribable faith in Peter caused him to regard the lad as being well able to take care of himself, happen what might. The ship might be lost, but Peter would be sure to come out all right.
Captain Mostyn and his wife were still discussing the movements of theWest Barbican, and speculating upon the date of her arrival at Pangawani, when one of the maids brought in the evening paper, which was regularly left at the house by a newsboy from the village.
The Captain's first consideration was given to the Shipping List. TheWest Barbicandid not appear.
"I told you so, my dear," he remarked. "We'll have to wait a little longer. Let me see; you want the serial page. Here you are."
Peter's father, always methodical, took a paper-knife from the writing-bureau and carefully cut the newspaper in half. Handing the back page to his wife, he settled down to read the news, notwithstanding the fact that most of it was reproduced from the London dailies, which he had already digested early that morning.
Mrs. Mostyn settled down for a comfortable evening. The fire was burning brightly in the open well-grate, the arm-chair was most comfortable. With the serial page and a half-finished jumper to work at while she read, Mrs. Mostyn meant to have a quiet and restful evening's amusement.
Presently she finished the instalment of the serial. She hardly knew what to think of it. Its abrupt ending made her angry with the author, or whoever was responsible for the conclusion, while the thrilling curtain left her on thorns as to what was going to happen in the next instalment. The rest of the page usually contained very little of feminine interest, consisting mainly of sporting topics and lurid testimonials to so-and-so's patent medicines.
Quite casually her eye caught sight of a badly printed paragraph in the Stop Press column. She read it through without the full significance of it coming home to her. Then she re-read it slowly and haltingly, as if every word was burning into her brain.
"John!" she exclaimed.
"Half a moment, my dear," protested Captain Mostyn, deep in an article dealing with the coal industry.
"John!" she said again.
Captain Mostyn glanced over the top of his half of the paper. He did not like being disturbed. It usually meant that his wife had discovered a stupendous bargain in the sales column, with the inevitable result.
"Good Heavens, old lady!" he ejaculated, greatly alarmed at the grey, drawn expression on his wife's face. "What is it?"
Mrs. Mostyn did not reply. With trembling hands she gave the paper to her husband, and pointed to the grim announcement in the Stop Press column:
"Lloyd's agent at East London telegraphs, 'S.S.Maréchal Focharrived here to-day with eighteen lascars, survivors of the S.S.West Barbican, which foundered in the Mozambique Channel on the night of the 22nd. No trace has been found of the ship's officers and the remainder of the crew. Survivors cannot give any explanation of how the disaster occurred.'"
"Peter!" gasped Mrs. Mostyn.
Her husband was thunderstruck. The gravity of the news had taken him completely aback. He gave no thought to the precious steelwork. His whole concern was for his son.
The bald announcement was serious enough in all conscience. Reading between the lines it gave scant hope that there might be other survivors. Was it possible that Peter had in his prime fallen a victim to the remorseless sea?
"There's nothing very definite, my dear," he remarked as calmly as he could. "Perhaps to-morrow we'll hear that some more boats have been picked up. Strange things happen at sea."
Mrs. Mostyn shook her head. After Peter's almost miraculous return when given up for dead, after the S.S.Donibristlehad been reported "overdue, missing, and believed a total loss", she could hardly hope for a second intervention of Providence.
"Tut, tut," said Captain Mostyn, his forced manner belying the doubts that assailed him. "Why shouldn't he turn up trumps a second time? Why, I know an old pensioner at Portsmouth who, during his twenty-one years' sea life, was reported killed four times. And he's hale and hearty to-day at eighty-five, or he was when I heard of him a fortnight ago. I'll see my friend Parsons at Lloyd's to-morrow. He'll keep me posted as to the latest news. Peter will be all right, never fear."
But Captain Mostyn had his doubts. He knew enough about the sea to realize the possibility of his son going down with the ship. He argued that the disaster must have been sudden, since there was no mention of the ill-fatedWest Barbicanhaving sent out wireless messages for aid. That pointed to the vessel foundering in a few minutes; in which case there had not been time to lower all the boats. Quite likely the one containing the eighteen lascars was the only one successfully lowered. Again, the absence of an officer in the boat pointed to a complete disorganization of discipline. On the face of Lloyd's telegraphed report things looked very black indeed.
Captain Mostyn spent a sleepless night, but he hardly gave another thought to his financial losses. Over and over again he tried to reconstruct the scene on board the sinking liner, with the object of convincing himself that his son had escaped with his life. Throughout the long night he was building up suggestions and immediately demolishing them on account of an incontestable flaw in the theory.
Next day Captain Mostyn went up to town by his usual train, but, instead of proceeding to the offices of the Brocklington Ironworks Company, he went straight to Lloyd's. Here he was informed that no further news of the loss of the S.S.West Barbicanhad been received, but the detailed report of the Master of the S.S.Maréchal Fochwas expected by cable that day.
The same afternoon there was a hurriedly convened meeting of the directors of the Company. None of them had noticed the announcement concerning theWest Barbicanin the papers, and Captain Mostyn's bald statement came as a complete surprise. No definite steps could be taken until the ship was officially reported lost, and then only would the underwriters pay the 66-2/3 per cent of the value of the steel-work.
A fortnight or more passed, with nothing to break the silence that seemed to be brooding over the loss of theWest Barbican. For some reason the report of the captain of theMaréchal Fochhad not materialized. It afterwards transpired that he was in hospital at East London.
At last the silence was broken by the receipt of a Press Association cablegram from Port Louis, Mauritius:
"Portuguese sailing shipBalsamao, Lorenzo Marques to Goa, arrived here to-day with sixteen Europeans and eleven Indians, survivors of the S.S.West Barbican. Names of the Europeans as follows: Anstey, Crawford, M'Gee, Peterson, Fulwood, Selwyn, Wright, Scott, Palmer, Partridge, Plover, Smith, Fostin, Applegarth, and Shallop (passenger)."
A ray of hope flashed across the minds of Peter's parents. The name "Fostin": it was possible that it was a telegraphic error for "Mostyn". The conviction grew until Captain and Mrs. Mostyn felt perfectly convinced that the name in question was actually supposed to represent that of their son.
But, alas! disillusionment came next day when Captain Mostyn paid a visit to the offices of the Blue Crescent Line, and was given a list of the names of the officers and crew of the ill-starredWest Barbican. Amongst them was: "Geo. Fostin, steward".
"We are afraid to have to admit that Captain Bullock is amongst the missing," said the secretary of the Blue Crescent Line to Captain Mostyn. "One of our senior and most experienced skippers, and on his last voyage before retiring. The Chief Officer, Mr. Preston, is also missing, also the Wireless Officer. It can only be surmised that they stuck to the ship to the last and went down with her. The Wireless Officer's name is—let me see."
The official referred to the list in front of him.
"The same as yours, sir," he continued. "A relation, perhaps?"
"My son," replied Captain Mostyn sadly yet proudly.
"What is the time, please, Miss Baird?" inquired Peter.
"Nine o'clock," replied Olive, consulting her wristlet watch, the only one of five in the boat that had survived.
"Too early for grub, then," continued Mostyn "We must economize. And with water, too. It's going to be a scorching hot day."
He omitted to add that in all probability there would be a stiffish wind before long, possibly increasing to hurricane force. The thundery rain, coming before the wind, pointed to a severe blow before many hours were past. Meanwhile the breeze had dropped until the boat was making less than one knot.
Peter had practically shaken off the effects of his prolonged immersion. He was feeling a bit stiff in the limbs, and had developed a healthy hunger. The latter troubled him far more than the stiffness. Work would relieve his cramped arms, but it would also increase the pangs of the inner man.
In the light breeze he could safely entrust the helm to one of the lascars, provided he kept his weather eye lifting in case a sudden squall swept down upon the boat. The native might or might not be able to handle a sailing craft, but Peter was resolved to take no risks on that score. He would rather place Olive at the helm, although in the event of danger he meant to stick to the tiller for hours if needs be.
"Due east,mutli," ordered Mostyn, having signed to the lascar to come aft.
The man nodded and repeated the compass course. Since Peter had displayed his automatic the pair of lascars had been remarkably tractable.
The Wireless Officer's next step was to rig up a tent to shelter the women from the blazing sun. Calling Mahmed to assist him, he lashed the unshipped mizzen mast to the mainmast just below the goose-neck of the latter, so that the boom could swing out in the event of a gybe without fouling the almost horizontal ridge-pole. The after end of the mizzen was propped up by a crutch made by lashing a couple of boat-stretchers crosswise. Over this was spread the mizzen sail, the ends of the ridge-tent being enclosed by means of the jib and a couple of oilskin jackets.
"There you are," declared Peter, surveying the result of the joint handiwork of Mahmed and himself. "You'll be sheltered under the sail. I would advise you both to sleep during the heat of the day."
Olive declined, with a smile, adding that she preferred to be in the open air. Mrs. Shallop hardly deigned to acknowledge the effort Mostyn had made for her comfort as far as lay in the resources at his command.
She had not been under the tent for more than a minute, when she reappeared holding up a ring-bedecked hand for inspection.
"I've lost a diamond out of this ring," she announced in a loud voice; "and it's a valuable one. It cost a sovereign."
Peter could not help smiling.
"Whatever can one do with a female like that?" he soliloquized. "The loss of a twopenny-halfpenny stone is of more consequence to her than the chance of losing her life."
Contriving to conceal his amusement he replied: "It can't have gone very far, Mrs. Shallop, if you had it in the boat. We'll probably find it under the bottom-boards."
"Then make those blacks look at once," ordered the lady peremptorily.
Peter pretended not to have heard the strident, imperious command. It would have been waste of breath to point out that the boat could not be searched without disturbing Preston, and that the awkwardly placed bottom-boards could not be removed while the boat was under way.
With a parting shot at the young officer for his incivility, Mrs. Shallop retired to the tent and began to nag Miss Baird, who had shown no disposition to assist in the search.
"Thanks, Mr. Mostyn," said the girl, when Peter warned her of the heat of the sun. "I'm quite all right. You see, I took the precaution of wearing a topee when we were ordered into the boat. May I steer?"
For a second time that morning Mostyn relinquished the helm. Then, having seen that Preston was as comfortable as possible, he sat on one of the side-benches and chatted to the helmswoman. Even then he was not idle, for, on the principle that "you never know when it may be wanted", he took his automatic pistol to pieces and carefully cleaned the mechanism, sparingly oiling the working parts with a few drops of oil from the lamp.
"Do you know how this thing works?" inquired Peter casually.
"Yes," replied the girl promptly. "You have to pull back the hammer for the first shot, and as long as the trigger is pressed the pistol goes on firing until the magazine is empty."
"I wonder how you know," thought Mostyn.
He shook his head.
"This pistol doesn't," he explained. "Some simply act automatically as long as the trigger is pressed. That's rather a drawback if a fellow's a bit jumpy. He's apt to let fly a hail of bullets indiscriminately. No! This pistol of mine cocks itself after every shot, and it requires another pull on the trigger to fire each of the succeeding cartridges."
"The one I saw was different," rejoined the girl. "It was my brother's. He was killed at Ypres in '18."
Peter politely murmured regrets, but inwardly he felt relieved that the fellow who had instructed Olive into the mysteries of automatic pistols was only a brother.
Just then Preston roused slightly and asked for water.
"Better, old man?" asked Mostyn, as he poured a few precious drops into the baler, and held the rim to the Acting Chief's dry lips.
"Hocussed an' sandbagged, that's what's happened to me," mumbled Preston thickly. "Where the hooligan Harry am I?" And, with a sudden movement, he jerked the baler out of Peter's hand.
The man was obviously still delirious. Before Mostyn could decide what to reply, Preston shut his eyes and went to sleep again.
Mostyn picked up the baler from where it had fallen under the stern-bench. A couple of spoonfuls of fresh water had been wasted.
"Is that land?" suddenly inquired Olive, pointing away on the port bow, where a low, dark line was just visible on the horizon, looking very much like a chain of serrated mountains.
"Cloud bank," replied Peter briefly. Then in explanation he added: "There's wind behind that lot, Miss Baird; probably more than we want. It may head us too."
Glancing into the compass hood to see that the girl was steering a correct course, Mostyn rapped on the thwart immediately abaft the canvas shelter in which Mrs. Shallop was either resting or brooding over more or less imaginary grievances.
"We'll have to unrig the tent," he announced. "There's a stiff breeze bearing down on us."
"I don't like stiff breezes," retorted the lady promptly. "I'd rather have the tent up to keep the wind out."
"Sorry," replied the Wireless Officer. "It can't be done. In two minutes the lascars will commence unrigging the tent."
Mostyn allowed a good three minutes to elapse before signing to Mahmed and the lascars to take down the canvas. It was an absolutely necessary step, in order to allow unimpeded access to the working canvas, should it be required either to reef the sail or stow it altogether.
Having seen the task carried out, Peter proceeded to rig up a sea-anchor.
"It may come in jolly useful," he remarked to Miss Baird. "If we don't want it I won't complain about useless work."
With the assistance of the three Indians Mostyn bent a rope span to the yard and boom of the mizzen sail. Through the centre of each span he secured a stout grass warp, weighting the yard with the grapnel, so that, if it became necessary to ride to the improvised sea-anchor, the grapnel would keep the sail taut and in a vertical plane.
By the time these preparations were completed the bank of ragged-edged clouds had covered most of the sky to wind'ard. The sun was beginning to become obscured, while there was an appreciable drop in the temperature of the air. The wind had fallen away utterly, leaving the sail hanging idly from the yard. The water no longer rippled under the boat's forefoot. All was silent save for the creaking of the mast and spars as the boat rolled sluggishly in the long, gentle swell.
Keenly on the alert, Peter had taken over the helm, and was keeping a sharp look-out to wind'ard.
"Down sail!" he ordered.
The canvas was lowered and stowed. As a precautionary measure Mostyn had the sea-anchor hove overboard, trusting that at the first squall the high, freeboarded boat would drift rapidly until brought head to wind by the drag of the improvised floating breakwater.
"It's coming," said Olive in a low voice, as a long-drawn shriek could be faintly heard—the harbinger of a vicious squall.
By now it was almost dusk, so dense were the clouds overhead. The tropical sun had no power to penetrate the sombre masses of vapour. Less than half a mile to wind'ard the hitherto tranquil water was white with wind-lashed foam; while, in strange contrast, the sea-anchor was rubbing gently alongside the boat in the perfectly smooth sea.
Louder and louder grew the volume of sound, until with a vicious rush the squall swept down upon the boat. For a few seconds, while she lay broadside on, the boat heeled to such an extent, under the wind-pressure upon her high sides, that the water was actually pouring in over the lee gunwale. Then, spinning round as the grass rope attached to the sea-anchor tautened, the boat rode head to wind and sea.
In a brief space of time the terrific gusts had raised quite a mountainous sea, with deep troughs and short, sharp crests which, torn by the blasts into clouds of spindrift, flew completely over the boat. So far she had ridden it out splendidly, the sea-anchor breaking the more dangerous waves in a manner that was quite astonishing. Yet the while the grass rope was snubbing wickedly in spite of its natural springiness. Through the clouds of spray Peter could see that the lascars for'ard were betraying considerable uneasiness lest the rope should part.
Mostyn too realized the danger. He regretted that he had not doubled the rope, but now nothing could be done beyond putting a temporary "parcelling" round it where it passed through the bow fairlead.
More than once the Wireless Officer gave a hurried glance at Miss Baird. Outwardly the girl seemed perfectly self-possessed, and, with her natural thoughtfulness, she was sitting on the stern-gratings and doing her best to keep the still delirious Preston from sliding from side to side with the erratic and disconcerting motion of the boat.
The squall lasted for perhaps five minutes. Then, after a lull, came another series of vicious blasts from a different point, that was almost at right angles to the direction of the initial squall. This had the effect of raising a nasty cross-sea, accompanied by a torrential downpour of rain.
Suddenly, at less than a couple of cable-lengths to windward, appeared the misty outlines of a tramp steamer. She was labouring badly, rolling almost rail under and throwing up showers of spray high above her bridge.
Standing up and keeping his feet with difficulty Mostyn frantically waved to the vessel. Mahmed followed his example and also hailed in his high-pitched key. Shouting was useless. No volume of sound short of that of a fog-horn could possibly have carried that distance in the face of the howling elements.
The next instant the temporary clearing of the downpour gave place to a blinding deluge. The steamer vanished as utterly as if she had suddenly plunged to the bed of the ocean.
"Has she seen us?" inquired Olive, raising her voice.
"'Fraid not," replied Peter, still staring in the direction where he had last seen the tramp. "Couldn't do much if she did in this dust-up. I'll risk a rocket, any old way."
Some time elapsed before a rocket could be taken from its airtight case, and the touch-paper ignited. Then with a hiss the detonating signal soared obliquely upwards, its intended course deflected by the terrific wind.
It burst at less than a hundred feet in the air, but the report was so faint and the flash so weak that Mostyn could only reiterate his doubts as to whether the tramp could see or hear anything.
"It's lucky she didn't run us down," he added. "I know those blighters. They think they've got the whole ocean to themselves and carry on at full speed. In fog it's often the same, the idea being to get into better weather as soon as possible."
For another ten minutes it blew hard, but, thanks to the improvised sea-anchor, the boat was making very little leeway and riding head to wind. Occasionally the crested tops of the cross-seas flopped in over the gunwale, and the two lascars were kept baling steadily. Olive and Mahmed were tending the still delirious Preston, the former holding him to prevent further injuries to his badly damaged head, while the boy kept a strip of painted canvas over the Acting Chief's body to shelter him from the rain and spray. Mrs. Shallop was the only idler. Refusing Peter's offer of his oilskin, she sat huddled up on the bottom-boards, with the water swirling over her feet and her clothing saturated with the torrential rain. Too dispirited to use her voice in complaint, she sat and shivered in morose silence, posing as a martyr and yet getting no sympathy from anyone.
At length the wind ceased, although the rain continued in violence. This had the effect of calming the water considerably, and Peter took the opportunity of ordering the lascars to spread out the square of painted canvas, and catch as much rain as possible to augment the precious store of fresh water.
Within an hour the sky cleared and the wind freshened into a one-reef breeze. The sea-anchor was taken in and sail again set; but there was the disquieting knowledge that the wind was dead in their teeth. Either the boat must be kept "full and bye", gaining little or nothing on each tack, or Mostyn must "up helm" and retrace his course on the chance of making the now far-distant Mozambique shore, which meant that the previous sixteen-hour run was utterly wasted.
"If only we had a motor!" he exclaimed.
Just before sunset the wind dropped to a flat calm. Peter took advantage of the practically motionless conditions to employ the fishing-lines that had been discovered in the after locker. The hooks were sharpened by means of the sandpaper fixed to the solitary box of matches in the boat. Small pieces of biscuit, soaked in water and rolled between the finger and thumb, served as bait. The lines were old and far from sound, but might be relied upon to bear a steady strain of about seven pounds.
"Do we fish on the bottom, Mr. Mostyn?" asked Olive facetiously.
"Yes, rather," replied Peter, entering into the jovial spirit. "That is, if your line is long enough. We're only about a mile from the nearest land, and that's immediately beneath us."
Olive lowered her line steadily. Before she had paid out half of it there was a perceptible jerk and the line slackened.
"I've struck soundings," she reported.
At first Mostyn thought that the girl was still joking, but an exclamation from one of the lascars, who was lowering one of the lines, convinced him that the lead weights had touched something of a solid nature.
Taking Miss Baird's line, Peter held it between his extended first and middle fingers. He could distinctly feel the lead trailing over a hard bottom, as the boat was carried along by a slight current.
"Strange," he ejaculated. "We're in less than five fathoms. I had no idea that there was a shoal hereabouts."
Steadying himself by the mast, Mostyn stood upon the gunwale and scanned the horizon. North, south, east, and west the aspect was much the same—an unbroken expanse of water, differing in colour according to the bearing. To the east it was sombre, to the west the sea was crimson, as it reflected the gorgeous tints of the setting sun.
"No land in sight," he reported.
The shoal proved to be a good fishing-ground, for, before the short tropical dusk had given place to night, a dozen fair-sized fish, somewhat resembling the herring of northern waters, had been hauled into the boat.
"What is the use of them after all?" inquired Olive. "We can't cook them, and raw fish are uneatable."
"Unpalatable, Miss Baird," corrected Peter. "It is just likely that we shall have to eat them. To-morrow we'll try curing them in the sun."
"Couldn't we fry them over the lamp?" asked the girl, who obviously had not taken kindly to the suggestion that the fish should be sun-cured. She was extremely practical on most points, but she drew the line at dried but otherwise raw herrings.
"You might try cooking for yourself, Miss Baird," said Peter dubiously. "You see, we have to economize in oil almost as much as with water; but I think we can stretch a point in your favour."
"In that case I'd rather not," rejoined the girl decidedly. "It wouldn't be fair to the rest, and there's the oil to be taken into consideration. I hadn't thought of that."
Having caught sufficient fish for their needs, the anglers hauled in their lines and stowed them away. Peter then shared out half a biscuit apiece and a small quantity of water. This time Mrs. Shallop was not too proud to accept the meagre fare. She ate her portion of biscuit, and even suggested to her companion that if Olive had more than she wanted she could give it to her.
Watches were then set for the night, Mahmed and one of the lascars taking from eight till two, and Peter and the other lascar from two till eight; the time being determined by Miss Baird's watch. This meant a long trick, but it was unavoidable. The three natives had been standing easy most of the day, while Peter had had no sound sleep for nearly thirty hours.
"I am not going to sleep in that tent, Mr. Mostyn," declared Olive, with an air of finality, speaking in a low voice. "I'd much rather curl up on the bottom-boards. It's not nearly so stuffy."
"Is it because Mrs. Shallop has been jawing?" asked Peter. "I'll tell you what; there's a square of spare canvas sufficient to rig you up a shelter between those two thwarts."
"Don't bother!" exclaimed Mrs. Shallop, who, when she wanted, was marvellously quick of hearing. "You can have the tent. I'll sleep outside."
And, before the astonished Peter and Olive could say anything, Mrs. Shallop snatched up the piece of canvas and went for'ard.
"She's ashamed of herself and is trying to make good, I think," suggested Mostyn. "Well, your pitch is queered, Miss Baird, but there's the tent."
Without a word Olive disappeared behind the flap.
Mostyn could rely upon Mahmed to keep his companion "up to scratch", so with an easy mind the Wireless Officer went for'ard, wrapped himself in his oilskin, and was soon sleeping soundly on the bottom-boards.
He was awakened by Mahmed at the stipulated hour. In his drowsiness it was some moments before he realized where he was, and it rather perplexed him to find his boy shaking him by the shoulder without the customary "Char, sahib".
It was a bright, starlit night. The wind was soft and steady, and the boat was rippling through the water at at least four knots.
Going aft, Mostyn peered at the compass. There was sufficient light to enable the helmsman to steer without having to use the candle-lamp of the binnacle. The course was still sou'-east, or four points south of the desired direction. It was as close as the boat could sail; even then she made a lot of leeway.
"Not'ing to report, sahib," declared Mahmed.
"All right," was the rejoinder. "Carry on."
The lascar told off to share Mostyn's watch came aft, rubbing his eyes and yawning.
"Me no well, sahib," he said. "Me tink me die."
"Take the wheel," ordered Peter, using the term instead of tiller, since the lascar was well acquainted with the word "wheel".
The man grasped the tiller without another word. His little ruse was a "wash-out", and, finding that his imaginary ailment received no sympathy, he carried on as if nothing had happened.
Mostyn then proceeded to attend to his injured brother-officer, washing his wounds and feeding him with biscuit.
Preston was still very weak, but quite rational in his speech. His prolonged sleep had restored his mental powers, but he was unable to move without assistance.
"What's happened, old man?" he inquired. "I've been racking my brains to find out how I got laid out. I remember lowering away the boat, and after that everything's a blank."
"You got a smack with the lower block swaying," replied Peter. "At least that's what I was told. They didn't pick me up for a couple of hours or more after the ship went down."
"And the Old Man?" asked Preston.
The Wireless Officer shook his head sadly.
"'Fraid he's done in," he answered. "When the ship disappeared he was with me on the bridge. I never set eyes on him after that."
"Rough luck," murmured Preston. "His last voyage before he went on the beach with a pension. Sound old chap too, although hard to get on with at times."
"One of the best," declared Mostyn.
There was silence for a few moments.
"Mostyn, old son," exclaimed Preston. "How about a cigarette?"
"Wish I could oblige you," replied Peter; "but there isn't a shred of tobacco in the boat. I had my case full in the wireless-room when she sank—a silver presentation case—and I quite forgot to ram it into my pocket."
The Acting Chief smiled wanly, and immediately regretted having done so. It was a painful process, with one side of his face battered.
"You ought to have known better than that," he remarked reprovingly. "Especially as you've been through much the same sort of thing before. Tobacco takes the edge off a fellow's hunger. I suppose your case was watertight?"
"I think so," replied Peter. "But since I haven't got it I don't see that it matters."
"Mostyn, dear old thing, you don't deserve pity," said Preston. "Just feel in the inside pocket of my coat. Luckily I haven't been in the ditch."
Peter did as requested, and drew out a cardboard box containing nearly a hundred Virginias.
"Lifted 'em from the Chief Steward's cabin," explained the Acting Chief. "They would have gone to Davy Jones if I hadn't. Take charge of them, old man. They'll last the pair of us for a fortnight, and by that time——"
"How about the lascars?" asked Pater.
"Mohammedans," rejoined Preston briefly. "They aren't allowed to smoke. At least," he added, "I don't think they do. Of course, they'll come in if they want any. We'll see. Light up for me, old fellow."
"We collared a box of matches from you," said Peter. "These are all we have on board. They are yours, of course, but——"
"Do they strike?" asked the Acting Chief. "I've had them for at least a twelvemonth. Sort of emergency issue, don't you know. Try my pockets, old son. I've a lighter somewhere, I'll stake my affidavit on that—— Gently, old man!"
"Sorry," exclaimed the Wireless Officer. "By Jove, Preston, you are a marvel."
"Rot!" ejaculated the other in self-depreciation. "Merely a case of looking after one's own interests."
Placing the end of a cigarette between Preston's lips Peter lit it. The Acting Chief grunted contentedly.
"There's a box of Turkish delight in my pocket," he continued. "Take it and hand it to the womenfolk. All the joy hasn't gone out of life yet, Sparks. Light up and get happy."
Mostyn did so. Never before had he so appreciated the soothing effect of a cigarette.
In this complaisant state of mind he was addressed by the lascar at the helm.
"Mahometan smoke, Sahib; Sikh, Mahometan, too: him not smoke."
Which resulted in the tip of another cigarette glowing in the darkness.
"I feel a jolly sight better for that," declared Preston gratefully, when the cigarette was finished. "Think I'll have another caulk. S'pose you don't mind?"
"Not at all," replied Peter. "Carry on. It will do you good. Are your bandages comfortable?"
In a few minutes the Acting Chief was slumbering more peacefully than he had done since his accident. Mostyn, left to commune with his own thoughts, squatted on the weather side of the stern-sheets so that he could give an occasional glance at the compass, and keep an eye on the lascar at the tiller.
It was a long trick. It seemed as if the eastern sky would never pale to herald the dawn of another day.
At 4 a.m. the boat was put on the starboard tack, the wind still heading her as before. Then, having trimmed sheets, Mostyn took the tiller and ordered the lascar into the bows.
At length the dawn broke—not a pale grey, as Peter had hoped for, but with far-flung lances of vivid scarlet. That indicated rain and wind before the day was done.
There was a movement of the canvas awning, and, somewhat to Peter's surprise, Miss Baird emerged cautiously, crawling, since there was no other means of negotiating the narrow gap that served as a door.
She was bareheaded, her hair trailing over her shoulders in two long plaits. The outward and visible signs of her costume consisted of a yellow oilskin. Silhouetted against the red glow of the sky she looked as if she were outlined in deep gold.
"Good morning, Miss Baird," observed Peter politely. "You're out early."
"I simply couldn't sleep any longer," replied the girl. "I hope you don't mind my intruding upon you? What a glorious sunrise."
"From an artistic point, yes," agreed Mostyn. "But I'm afraid we'll get it before very long."
"She's a safe boat," said Olive with conviction. "She isn't exactly a yacht, but, personally, I'm rather enjoying it."
"Even on short rations?" inquired Peter.
"Up to the present, yes," was the reply. "It's rather a novelty being served out with biscuits, but I'm not looking forward to the sun-dried herrings."
"Perhaps," said Peter, producing the box of Turkish delight, "these will prove a welcome substitute for the herrings. No, don't thank me. Preston's the fellow."
With her eyes sparkling, Olive proceeded to count the luscious squares. Mostyn looked on, wondering at the reason of her act.
"Sixty-three, sixty-four," concluded the girl. "That's thirty-two for Mrs. Shallop. You'll be witness, Mr. Mostyn, that it's a fair divide?"
The Wireless Officer had said nothing about sharing the sweetmeats. Olive's generosity and fairness were all the more apparent.
"I'm out of a post, Mr. Mostyn," she continued, with a light-hearted laugh. "Mrs. Shallop and I are not on speaking terms."
"That rather gives you a free hand. I'm very glad," said Peter gravely.
"Yes," admitted the girl. "She has certainly been a bit trying of late. Do have a piece of Turkish delight?"
Mostyn shook his head.
"No, thanks," he declined. "Your share won't go very far. Besides, I'm in luck too. Preston had a big box of cigarettes in his pocket. So you're pleased to be free of Mrs. Shallop?"
"Rather," replied the girl whole-heartedly. "The only thing that troubles me is how I am to get home again, if we come through this adventure safely."
"Don't worry about that, Miss Baird," declared Peter boldly. "I'll see you safely home. You can be quite independent of that woman."
"Thank you so much," said Olive gratefully, and almost unconsciously she laid her hand lightly upon Peter's arm.
A thrill of pleasure swept across the Wireless Officer's mind. Then, as if to seal the compact, the tropical sun in all its glory appeared above the rim of the horizon.
"I'm not a woman," exclaimed a strident voice from inside the tent. "I'm a lady. I am really. My father was a naval officer—a captain."
The man and the girl looked at each other. Olive's face was wreathed in smiles. Peter actually winked. In the Eden that he had created the presence of the Serpent was of no account.
The rest of the day until four in the afternoon passed almost uneventfully. The breeze still held, but blew steadily from the same quarter with hardly a point difference in eighteen hours. With one reef in the mainsail the boat had all she could carry with comfort, and, save for an occasional fleck of foam over the weather bow, was dry and fairly fast.
The disconcerting doubt in Peter's mind was whether the boat was making good to wind'ard. Apparently she was, but whether the leeway counter-balanced the distance made good, or whether the boat was actually losing on each tack remained at present an insolvable problem.
During the greater part of the day the heat of the sun was tempered by the cool breeze, but late in the afternoon more indigo-coloured clouds began to bank up to the east'ard. The roseate hues of early morn were about to vindicate themselves as harbingers of boisterous weather.
"Sea-anchor again, I suppose," soliloquized the skipper of the boat. "Beat and beat and beat again, then drift to lee'ard all we've made. We'll fetch somewhere some day, I expect."
He rather blamed himself for not having put the helm up directly the previous gale had blown itself out. Running before the easterly breeze would have brought the boat within sight of the Mozambique coast before now. On the other hand, how was he to know that the easterly breeze would hold for so many hours? It rarely did.
"It's a gamble," he thought philosophically. "I've backed the wrong horse. I've got to see this business through."
Once more the tent was struck. This time Mrs. Shallop, who had taken possession when Olive came out, made no audible protest. Possibly she was too busy eating Turkish delight. In that respect she acted upon the principle of "Never leave till to-morrow what you can eat to-day".
The sea-anchor was prepared ready to heave overboard. Loose gear was secured, and the baler placed in a convenient spot to commence operations should a particularly vicious sea break into the boat.
Darkness set in. No stars were visible to mitigate the intense blackness of the night. The candle-lamp of the boat-compass had to be lighted in order to enable the helmsman to keep the craft on her course. Its feeble rays faintly illuminated Peter's face as he steered. Beyond that it was impossible to distinguish anybody or anything in the boat, the bows of which were faintly silhouetted against the ghostly phosphorescence of the foam thrown aside by the stem.
So far there was no necessity to ride to the sea-anchor. The wind, slightly increasing in force, demanded another reef in the mainsail. No doubt the boat would have stood a whole mainsail, but Peter was too cautious and experienced to risk "cracking on" in a lightly trimmed craft unprovided with a centreboard or even a false keel.
The two lascars were told off to tend the halliards, Mahmed stood by the mainsheet, while Peter steered. The latter, his senses keenly on the alert, was listening intently for the unmistakable shriek that presages the sweeping down of a squall. In the utter darkness the sense of hearing was the only means of guarding against being surprised by a violent and overpowering blast of wind.
"It may not be so bad after all," he remarked to Olive, who had insisted on keeping by him at the tiller. "There's rain. I expected it. Luckily it's after the wind, so the chances are we've seen the worst of it."
It was now nearly ten o'clock. The boat had been footing it strongly, since Peter had eased her off a point. The seas were high—so high that between the crests the boat was momentarily becalmed. Yet, thanks to Mostyn's helmsmanship, she carried way splendidly, until the ascent of the on-coming crest enabled the wind-starved canvas to fill out again.
Very soon the few heavy drops gave place to the typical tropical downpour. Even had it been daylight it would have been a matter of difficulty to see a boat's length ahead. In the darkness it seemed like crouching under a waterfall. Breathing resulted in swallowing mouthfuls of moisture-laden air. In less than half a minute from the commencement of the downpour, there was an inch or more of water over the bottom-boards in spite of Mahmed's strenuous work with the baler.
Contrary to Peter's expectations, the strength of the wind did not appreciably diminish, but the rain had the effect of considerably beating down the crests of the waves.
It was now quite impossible to hear anything beyond the heavy patter of the big raindrops upon the boat. It was a continuous tattoo that outvied the roar of the wind. At this juncture the candle of the binnacle lamp blew out. To attempt to relight it was out of the question. Every part of the boat's interior was subject to a furious eddy of wind. A match would not burn a moment.
"Hardly good enough," decided Peter, wiping the moisture from his eyes. "I'll get canvas stowed and out sea-anchor till the worst of this is over."
With his disengaged hand Mostyn tapped Mahmed on the shoulder. Desisting from his task of baling, the boy looked into his master's face.
"Tell them to stow canvas," shouted Peter, indicating the invisible lascars crouching against the main thwart. "I'll tend the mainsheet. Look sharp!"
Mahmed raised himself and began to crawl over the thwarts on his way for'ard.
Suddenly there was a terrific shock. The boat seemed to jump a couple or three feet vertically, and then come to an abrupt stop with a jar that flung Peter from the tiller, and pitched Mahmed headlong until he was brought up by his head coming into contact with Mrs. Shallop's portly back. Olive, taken unawares, was jerked in a for'ard direction, until she saved herself from violent contact with stroke-bench by grasping Peter's arm. The pair subsided upon the gratings, narrowly missing what might have been a serious collision with the helpless Preston.
Mostyn regained his feet in double quick time, and made a grab at the tiller. The boat was aground, lifting to every wave that surged against her port-bow. That she was badly damaged there could be no doubt, since water was pouring in through a strained garboard.
Steadying himself by the now useless tiller, Peter peered anxiously into the darkness. Except for the phosphorescence of the breaking water alongside, there was nothing distinguishable. Sea and sky were blended into a uniform and impenetrable darkness.
Everyone on board the boat, although fully aware of the immediate danger, maintained silence. The grinding of the boat's planking upon the sharp rocks, the howling of the wind, and the swish of the breaking waves were the only audible sounds.
It seemed to Mostyn that, in his self-assumed position of skipper of the boat, he must do or say something. He did neither. He could form no sentence of encouragement; he was unable to take any action to further safeguard the lives and interests of his companions. He felt cool and collected, yet he had a suspicion that he "had the wind up". Try as he would his benumbed brain would not answer to his efforts.
It was Preston who broke the spell. Lying half-submerged in water, the Acting Chief was taking things calmly in spite of his physical disability.
"Sparks, old man," he exclaimed, "you look like losing your ticket. I do believe you've run us aground."
The silence was broken. Peter laughed at his companion's quip.
"We were making for land," he replied, "and now we've jolly well found it. Get out the rockets, Mahmed."
Mahmed had delivered Mostyn's order to the lascars. Already the sail had been hastily lowered. Its folds served as a screen to break the force of the wind, nevertheless, it was a difficult matter to keep a match alight sufficiently long to ignite the touch-paper of the rocket.
"Cheap and false economy, these things," thought Peter, as he wasted three matches in a vain attempt to kindle the touch-paper. "Why didn't the owners supply Verey pistols to all the boats?"
At length the fuse began to sizzle. An anxious fifteen seconds ensued. More than once the minute sparks looked as though they had given out, only to reappear with a healthier glow.
Then with a swish the rocket soared skywards, although with an erratic movement as it was caught and tossed about by the wind.
Mostyn made no attempt to follow its course with his eyes. Holding a hand to his brows he gazed in the direction in which he expected to see land.
A vivid glare overhead, as the rocket threw out a series of blue star-shells, revealed what he wanted to know. Eighty or a hundred yards ahead was a line of cliff, fronted by a gently shelving stretch of sand. The boat had struck on the apex of a reef. She was neither on a lee nor a weather shore, but rather on the dividing line of each.
"Good enough," shouted Peter encouragingly. "Light the lantern, Mahmed."
The boy succeeded in getting the lamp alight. Even its feeble glimmer put a different complexion upon things.
Beckoning the lascars aft, Mostyn sent one of them back again to bend the warp to the anchor and throw the latter overboard, in case the badly damaged boat should be washed off the reef.
This done, the question arose: how were the women and Preston to be taken ashore?
"Take Mr. Preston," said Olive. "I can walk."
"Easy enough if it's shoal water right up to the beach, Miss Baird," rejoined Peter, "That we'll have to find out. I think I'll rope you together."
Preparations for abandoning the boat having been completed, Peter led the way, holding aloft the lantern. Behind him came the two lascars, carrying the helpless Acting Chief. Olive followed, helping Mahmed to assist Mrs. Shallop, who was uttering unheeded complaints about everybody and everything. To guard against the possibility of any of the party being swept away by the undertow, the halliards had been unrove and were used as a life-line.
It was not an easy passage. The rocks were of coral and irregular in shape, with fairly deep fissures and sharp, jagged crags. Over these ledges the breakers surged, throwing clouds of spray twenty feet or more into the air.
Sounding with the boathook Peter proceeded warily. At frequent intervals he was waist-deep in water. Impeded by the drag of the life-line, half suffocated by the salt-laden spray, and constantly slipping on the kelp-covered rocks, he held on his way, wondering how the others fared, until he gained the dry sand.
The lascars had risen nobly to the occasion. Their solicitude towards their disabled officer was so great that Preston felt very little discomfort. Uncomplainingly they had endured torments from the sharp rocks, that had cut their light footwear almost to ribbons.
Olive Baird had made light of her part of the business, although both she and Mahmed had their work cut out to half drag, half carry the portly figure entrusted to their care. Mrs. Shallop seemed utterly indifferent to the danger and inconvenience of the passage ashore. Her chief anxiety, expressed in peevish accents, was regarding the loss of her "valuable" diamond, which might either be in the boat or else washed through the gaping seams into the trackless waste of sand.
With feelings of thankfulness Peter marshalled his flock under the lee of the cliffs. A hasty examination by means of the lantern resulted in the discovery that the beach was well above high-water mark, so that there was no necessity to undertake the hazardous task of scaling the cliffs in the darkness.
"Where are we, do you think, Peter?" asked Olive. She had dropped the "Mister" quite naturally, since Mostyn had declared his intention of seeing her home.
"Somewhere in Madagascar," replied Peter. "Where, exactly, I have no idea. We'll probably find out from the first natives we come across."
"Are they savages?"
"Hardly. They used to be half civilized only a few years ago, I believe," replied Peter. "Thanks to the beneficent efforts of the French Government, when Madagascar became a dependency of France, they are now orderly and well conducted. Excuse me, Miss Baird, but there are one or two things I have to see to."
Calling to the two lascars, and bidding Mahmed stay with the rest of the party, Peter took the lantern and walked to the water's edge. The tide was fast receding, and most of the ledge was above the water.
Satisfied on this score Mostyn made his way back to the boat, the lascars following. Apparently the stranding had occurred at the top of high water, and the wrecked craft was now perched upon a jagged ledge of coral. She had not altered her position, except for lying well over on her port bilge keel.
In a few minutes the boat was stripped of every piece of movable gear. Twice the salvage party returned to the boat, until nothing was left but the bare hull.
Work for the night was not yet over. By the aid of the masts, sails, and spars, four tents were rigged up under the lee of the cliffs, and a fire was made with the dry kelp and driftwood, augmented by a few detached planks from the boat. A double ration of biscuit and water was served all round, followed by cigarettes for the men and Turkish delight for Mrs. Shallop and Olive. The last commodity came entirely from the latter's share, since the naval officer's daughter had already eaten hers. Yet without the faintest compunction, and looking upon Olive's generosity as a right, the worthless woman had no hesitation in asking her former paid companion for more.
"I'll buy some at the first shop we see," she added, as if Africa's largest island was a hot-bed of up-to-date confectionery stores.
To this the girl made no reply. In fact, she had hardly heeded the fatuous remark. Gazing into the comforting glow of the fire, she was deep in thought as to what the future held in store for the handful of survivors from the S.S.West Barbican.