THE LAST OF THE _IBEX_
"I MUST hand her over to her new owner before the end of the present
month, Gerald," declared Rollo Vyse, owner of the thirty-five-feet
motor-yacht _Ibex_, to his chum Gerald Broadmayne. "If the worst comes
to the worst, I must get professional assistance. You know what that
means. Never could stick a paid hand. Be a sport and bear a hand."
"When do you expect to be back?" inquired Broadmayne.
His chum felt this was a decidedly encouraging question,
notwithstanding the fact that the other had used the second person
plural instead of the first.
"Saturday evening, for an absolute cert," replied Vyse. "Glass is
steady, sea calm. We'd make Southampton hands down by Friday
morning, hand over the yacht and check the inventory, and catch the
first train home on the following day."
Gerald Broadmayne was a strapping fellow of six feet two inches. In
point of age he was "rising twenty-one." By profession, he was a
sub-lieutenant R.N., and having just completed a two years'
commission on the East Indian Station, was already beginning to be
"bored stiff" with his "little drop o' leaf," to quote the lower
deck vernacular for the sailor's equivalent for furlough.
Existence in Fowey, even with its mild climate, was apt to be a bit
tedious in November, after a prolonged spell under the tropical sun.
Yachting was his hobby, although circumstances prevented him from
having a small craft of his own. Almost without exception his pals
in Fowey had laid their yachts up, and there was not much fun
knocking about in the harbour or spending comfortless hours in the
Channel in an open or half-decked boat.
The exception was Rollo Vyse, a lad two years his junior, two inches
shorter than the Sub, but with a decided excess of girth. His arms
and legs were massive and muscular. In spite of his ponderous frame
he carried not an ounce of superfluous flesh. His big frame,
hardened by almost unlimited physical exercise, was destitute of
fat. He would sprint well and run a mile without undue physical
distress; swim like a South Sea Islander and dive like a duck. At
school he was a terror with the gloves on. Twice in succession he
was the champion athlete of the year of his school. Yet with all
these accomplishments, he was far from being brilliant in
educational subjects.
Fortunately, or unfortunately (that depended upon the future), Rollo
had little to worry about. It was not necessary for him to earn his
own living. He had an ample allowance, provided he kept within the
bounds of prudence--which he generally did. In due course, Rollo
Vyse would become head of a huge coal combine, when his sole
responsibility consisted in affixing his signature to the Annual
Report.
Nineteen fellows out of twenty so situated would have gone to the
dogs. Not so Rollo Vyse. A thorough sportsman, he had no use for
companions whose chief aim was to "sow their wild oats." He meant to
enjoy himself--to make the very best out of his youth--and he did.
His favourite pastime was yachting. He did not take it up as a
sport. Yacht racing did not appeal to him. It was the lure of the
sea that held him. The greatest of the few outstanding
disappointments of his early youth was his father's refusal to let
him go to sea, either in the Royal Navy through Dartmouth College,
or in the Mercantile Marine through that strictly-disciplined yet
withal happily-run training-ship, the _Conway_.
Vyse was a yachtsman of the modern school. He knew little about
cutters, yawls, and ketches. Seamanship in such he was ignorant of.
He never had to handle a craft under sail alone. He had never
experienced the thrills of a short thresh to wind'ard with a
weather-going tide.
His first craft was the _Ibex_, an out-and-out power boat. Thirty-five
feet over all, with a beam of six feet and a maximum draught of
three-feet-eight, the _Ibex_ was propelled with a pair of petrol
motors giving her a speed of about eleven knots.
Her accommodation consisted of a spacious fo'c'sle with two
"pipe-rail" cots; a saloon with settees on either side and a
swinging table on the centre line; abaft a small galley, separated
from the engine-room by a steel bulkhead with a sliding door that
was supposed to be water-tight. The engine-room was large in
proportion to the size of the boat, being nearly nine feet in
length, with a narrow, railed-off gangway between the twin motors.
Abaft the motor-room was a "sunk" deckhouse, containing the wheel
and the engine-room controls. Right aft a large open cockpit with a
short deck and coamings.
For nearly a twelvemonth the _Ibex_ was Rollo Vyse's pride and
delight. She was a good sea-boat, her engines had never once let her
owner down. "Vyse's luck" was almost proverbial in Fowey. If he said
he would return to harbour on a certain day, he always did so,
although on some occasions the Polruan fishermen shook their heads
as they climbed the hill and gazed towards the surf-swept Gribben.
"That there motyboat'll drown 'un sure as sure," they would declare;
but the sight of the _Ibex_ pounding the heavy seas as she passed the
rocky ledges around Punch's Cross, and entered the land-locked
harbour, compelled them to admit that for the present their cheerful
prognostications were somewhat adrift.
But into Rollo Vyse's Eden had arrived the serpent under the name of
one Jim Vardo--a good fellow and all that sort of thing, according
to Rollo's admission. Vardo without the _Spitfire_ was quite all
right. It was Vardo with the _Spitfire_ that upset Rollo.
Why? Simply because the _Spitfire_ did twelve and a half knots to the
_Ibex's_ eleven.
Vyse was not a racing man as far as marine motoring went, but when
the _Spitfire_ seemed to make a point of going almost everywhere the
_Ibex_ went, and overhauled her every time, there was a supercilious,
self-satisfied look upon Vardo's face that made even easy-going
Rollo Vyse squirm.
"Wait till I get him out in a stiff sou'wester," muttered Rollo.
"I'll knock spots off his old orange-box."
But that opportunity never came, for the simple reason that Vardo
hadn't the real love of the sea. He himself admitted that he was
cautious; Rollo with characteristic bluntness declared that Vardo
was "white-livered." At any rate, the _Spitfire_ never showed her nose
beyond the mouth of Ready Money Cove when there were white horses in
the Channel.
The fact that in smooth water the _Spitfire_ could show her heels to
the _Ibex_ decided the latter's fate. Vyse decided to sell her and
purchase another motor-cruiser, larger, more powerfully-engined and
capable of developing fifteen and a half knots. Then Jim Vardo's
loose-lipped, mealy-mouthed features wouldn't wear that fatuous
grin.
Accordingly, the _Ibex_ was sold to a Southampton yachtsman, subject
to delivery at that port; and now arose the problem how Vyse was to
get her round.
It was late in the year. His chums rather jibbed at the suggestion
that they should form a crew. Had it been Cowes week they would have
clamoured for the vacant berth; for although the _Ibex_ was arranged
as a single-hander, and Rollo often had taken her out alone, the
passage between Fowey and the Wight was rather too long for a
one-man show.
Rollo was getting jumpy. November was well advanced. No amateur help
was forthcoming. He was about to take the unwelcome step of engaging
a professional hand when a _deus ex machina_ in the person of
Sub-Lieutenant Gerald Broadmayne appeared upon the scene.
It did not take Broadmayne long to make up his mind. The ability to
make a quick decision on points that require unerring judgment is a
characteristic of the naval man who hopes to make a name for himself
in his profession.
"Right-o; I'll come," he replied. "When do you get under way?"
"In an hour's time," said Vyse promptly, lest too prolonged an
interval might afford his new shipmate an opportunity to change his
mind. "Provisions and petrol are on board. I'll have to lay in some
fresh tack, though. Heaps of bedding, too. All you'll want is your
kit."
"I'll be at Whitehouse Steps in half an hour," declared the Sub.
"Must slip off on my motorbike and tell my people that Little Gerry
is off on the high seas and pack up a few things."
"And I'll do the same," added Rollo; "although my governor's been
expecting to hear that I've actually cleared every day for the last
fortnight. You're a real pal, old man. Thanks awfully."
Prompt to time, the chums met at the prearranged spot. The Sub was
rigged out in white sweater, grey flannel "bags" and rubber shoes.
Across his shoulder was thrown a black pegamoid oilskin. A suit-case
containing clothes of sufficient respectability to enable him to
return by train lay at his feet.
Vyse appeared in a thick blue sweater, pilot coat and trousers, the
bottoms of the latter garment being rolled over a pair of
india-rubber sea-boots.
"Rest of my gear's already on board," he remarked as they descended
the steps to the dinghy. "We're going to have a topping run if this
weather holds. How about making an all-night run? We'd be inside the
Wight before morning."
"I'm game," replied Broadmayne, dumping his suit-case in the stern
sheets of the dinghy.
It was a short distance to row out to the moorings on which the _Ibex_
lay. The motor yacht, riding to the first of the young flood, looked
smart and seamanlike in the afternoon sunlight. From the short,
slender mast fluttered the club burgee, hoisted for the last time on
that particular craft. A loose-footed lugsail and small foresail
formed the sum-total of the yacht's canvas. Vyse rarely made use of
the sails, since the motors never gave trouble. In the event of a
mechanical breakdown, the _Ibex_ might do four miles an hour with the
wind abaft the beam; but with her light draught she would sag to
lee'ard like a barrel.
Rollo disappeared into the motor-room, leaving his chum to stow his
gear and make the dinghy fast alongside. Bitter experience in the
shape of a painter getting hopelessly foul of one of the propellers
had prompted this course. Not until the yacht was forging ahead
would the dinghy be allowed to tow astern.
First one, then both of the motors began to purr rhythmically. Vyse
appeared on deck, gave a perfunctory glance over the side to see
that the circulating pumps were working, and nodded to his
companion.
"Let go!" he exclaimed.
With a splash and a rattle of chain, the mooring buoy was dropped.
Slowly the _Ibex_ drifted upstream until Vyse from his post in the
wheelhouse could see the buoy bobbing twenty feet from the bows.
Putting the helm over, Rollo pulled both levers into the ahead
position. Instantly the little craft shot forward, cleared her buoy
and headed for the open sea.
"Dinghy on deck?" queried the Sub coming aft.
"No, she'll tow astern," was the reply. "There's no sea to speak of
outside. Give her plenty of painter."
Broadmayne did so. This done, he lighted a cigarette and took up a
position slightly in the wake of the helmsman.
Neither spoke much. Both enjoyed the lift of the following waves as
the keen bows of the _Ibex_ cleft the dancing waters. They were afloat
with a definite object in view. For the present, nothing else
mattered.
Rollo Vyse was too good an engineer to attempt to run the motors all
out. For one thing, it was bad for the bearings if the engines were
run "all out" for any length of time, and he wasn't anxious to
deliver the _Ibex_ to her new owner with her anatomy resembling a box
of chattering scrap iron. For another, he did not wish to cover the
one hundred and thirty miles between Fowey and the Wight at such a
speed that the _Ibex_ would be in the narrow waters of the Solent
before sunrise. What he aimed for, was to reach Southampton before
noon, thus giving ample time to perform the necessary formalities
connected with the handing over of the yacht.
The Start was abeam just as the sun was setting. The _Ibex_ gave that
dangerous headland with its treacherous overfalls a wide berth, and
shaped a course to pass seven miles to the south'ard of that
nightmare to cautious mariners--Portland Bill.
It was a warm, almost balmy night. The thick clouds, acting as a
blanket, totally obscured the stars, but kept the temperature
remarkably high for the time of year. All the same, after having
shared a meal on deck, the two chums were glad to don oilskins and
mufflers before undertaking their long vigil.
"Aren't you funky of going into the motor-room with that?" inquired
Broadmayne, as Rollo appeared from an examination of the oil gauges
of the automatic lubricators, his features glowing in the glare of a
lighted cigarette.
"Goodness--no," replied the other, with a laugh. "Haven't you ever
seen a fellow shove a lighted cigarette into a full tin of petrol?"
"Haven't and don't want to," replied the cautious Sub.
"Well, it's not the petrol; it's the petrol fumes that are the
danger," continued Vyse. "There's far more danger from the fumes in
an empty petrol can than there is in a full one. The motor-room is
well ventilated and there are trays to catch any drops from the
carburettors, so you see I am careful.... Aren't the engines going
beautifully? Eight hundred revs., and hardly any vibration."
For the next two hours the two sat perched on the low bulkhead on
the after side of the wheelhouse, Vyse occasionally touching the
wheel to correct the vessel's slight tendency to fall off to
starboard.
"We ought to spot Portland Light very soon," he remarked. "That is,
unless there's local fog about."
"I'll look," said Broadmayne, unstrapping his binoculars.
Steadying himself with legs set widely apart, the Sub stood erect
upon the roof of the wheelhouse.
"Nothing in sight yet," he announced.
The next instant the _Ibex_ trembled under a violent shock. For the
moment she seemed to lose way. Broadmayne, thrown off his balance,
pitched forward, falling at full length upon the coach-roof over the
motor-room. There he lay, grabbing at the low brass railing, until,
feeling a bit dazed and shaken, he made his way aft.
"What's up?" he inquired breathlessly.
"Hit a bit of wreckage, I think," replied Rollo. "Gave her a bit of
a biff. You're not hurt? Good, I thought you'd stove-in your
deadlights, old man, by the way you fell."
His anxiety relieved concerning his chum, Rollo Vyse's next thoughts
were for the yacht. As far as he knew, the _Ibex_ had not fouled
either of her propellers. Evidently her forefoot had thrust down the
submerged object sufficiently to enable the cut-away stern to clear.
"Hang on to the wheel a jiffy while I go below and have a look
round," he said; and, picking up an electric torch from a rack in
the wheelhouse, he dived below.
He was gone some time--nearly a quarter of an hour. When he
reappeared, he reported that the boat was not making any water
beyond a slight trickle through the stern gland of the starboard
propeller.
"I think she must have given her prop. a bash," he added. "There's
an unusual noise as if the shaft isn't running true. You can't hear
it from here."
"There's Portland Light!" exclaimed Broadmayne, as four pin-pricks
of white appeared on the port bow. "Rather close in, aren't we?"
"Indraught, perhaps," replied his chum. "We'll stand out a bit.
South eighty east will do."
The Sub made the necessary alteration in helm. Midnight passed.
Portland Light was drawing abeam. According to Vyse's calculations,
it ought to have been passed a couple of hours earlier.
"Guess there's a hot tide against us," he remarked. "Or, perhaps we
aren't doing nine knots. It's all right so far; we've an ample
margin."
The sea had now grown distinctly agitated, although there was little
or no wind. Rollo put it down to the backwash from Portland Race,
the roar of which was distinctly audible--a disconcerting noise on a
dark night. "Now we're closing the Shambles Lightship. We ought soon
to pick up Anvil Point. I'll have another look round below and then
I'll bring up some hot drinks."
Instead of going down the engine-room hatchway, as before, Vyse made
his way for'ard, gaining the saloon direct by means of another
hatch. Above the gentle purr of the motors the loud buzzing of a
Primus stove was borne to the Sub's ears, a grateful and comforting
sound that gave promise of something piping hot within the next ten
minutes.
Glancing at his watch, Broadmayne was rather surprised to find that
it was nearly two o'clock. By means of rough compass bearings he
calculated that the _Ibex_ was about eight miles S.W. by W. of St.
Albans. A few minutes later the two powerful lights ashore were
blotted out.
About that time a vessel showing white and green navigation lamps
passed at not less than a mile away. It was too dark to see what she
was like, but the muffled pulsations of an internal combustion
engine were distinctly audible.
A dazzling light from the _Ibex's_ motor-room suddenly attracted the
Sub's attention. Peering down the half-open hatchway he expected to
see Vyse doing inspection work with his electric torch.
To his surprise, he saw that the light came from under the port
engine--a steady flare of yellow light that was already licking the
sides of the cylinders.
Before Broadmayne could utter a warning shout the steady flame
developed into a sheet of fire. A blast of hot air tinged with
tongues of ruddy flame shot up through the open hatchway. Yet Vyse
gave no indication that he was aware of the peril.
Quitting the wheel, the Sub dashed for'ard. He could see his chum,
sublimely unconscious of the inferno raging the other side of the
steel bulkhead, crouching over the sizzling frying-pan on the Primus
stove.
"Fire in the motor-room!" shouted Broadmayne. "Where are the
Pyrenes?"
Even then Rollo showed no great haste until looking up he caught a
glimpse of the Sub's startled face.
"All right!" he bawled--shouting was the only means of making
himself heard with the roar of the atmospheric gas stove. "All
right. They're in there. I'll get them."
With that he shot back the sliding door in the metal bulkhead. A
blast of hot air and flames sent him backwards, half-dazed.
Involuntarily he raised one hand to protect his eyes; then backing
through the compartment next the seat of the fire, he gained the
saloon.
He had left the bulkhead door open. A tongue of fire licked the
panelled ceiling of the saloon. Madly he turned, swarmed up the
ladder and gained the open air.
Seeing his chum safe, the Sub did the best possible thing.
Descending into the saloon, he fought his way to the bulkhead and
closed the door. Then emerging by the same way he had entered, he
ran aft over the already excessively hot cabin top and closed the
engine-room hatchway. There was a chance--a hundred to one
chance--that the flames might die out through lack of oxygen.
"Come aft!" shouted Broadmayne.
Vyse, now gaining more control over himself, obeyed. By now the
motors had ceased to function. The flames, igniting the petrol in
the carburettors, had melted the unions of the petrol-pipes. Instead
of the inflammable spirit mixing with air and exploding within the
cylinders--as it ought to do, two steady streams were pouring direct
from the tanks, to add fresh fuel to the flames.
"Thirty gallons in the tanks!" shouted Rollo in reply to his
companion's unspoken question. "I'll go for'ard and turn off the
taps. We'll be blown sky-high if we don't."
He placed one foot on the coaming before hoisting himself over the
roof of the wheel-house. As he did so, the motor-room skylight blew
out with a loud report, sending a pillar of flame-tinged smoke a
full thirty feet into the air, and throwing every part of the deck
into bold relief by reason of the dazzling light.
"That's done it!" shouted Rollo. "We can't save her now. The dinghy,
old man!"
At first the Sub could see no sign of the tender. He fully expected
to see her trailing astern, but as the burning _Ibex_ had lost all way
the dinghy had ranged up alongside the starboard side.
There was no time to save anything. Casting off the painter,
Broadmayne shouted to his companion to look alive. Vyse leapt into
the dinghy, the Sub followed, giving a vigorous push as he sat down
and sending the little cockleshell clear of the floating inferno.
"Where's the other scull?" demanded Broadmayne anxiously.
There was only one in the dinghy. By some means one had been lost
overboard. How or when, they knew not; nor could they waste time in
forming conjectures; and since there was no sculling-notch in the
transom, the only way to propel the little craft was by paddling
with alternate strokes on either side.
It was slow work; but not before the dinghy was fifty yards away
from the burning _Ibex_ did the Sub boat his oar.
"Now what's to be done?" he inquired.
"Wait and see the last of her," replied Vyse. "Luckily, she's fully
insured."
"You'll be lucky if you are alive to draw the money," thought
Broadmayne, for it was a most unenviable position to be in. Ten
miles from land, and almost every foot of that land a frowning,
surf-swept cliff, Portland Race to the west'ard and St. Albans Race
waiting for them if they attempted to close the land. Although the
wind was light, almost a flat calm, there was a steady swell,
indicating a strong breeze, perhaps a gale, before very long.
Overhead, save for the ruddy glare from the fiercely burning yacht,
it was as black as pitch. Not a star was visible. It was only by
remembering that the faint breeze came from the west'ard (and it
might back or veer at any time) could any sense of direction be
maintained.
In silence the two chums watched the passing of the _Ibex_. Amidships,
flames were pouring fifty feet into the air. The coach-roof and part
of the top strikes had gone to feed the flames, the cracking of
woodwork adding to the roar of the burning petrol. Sizzling embers
were falling like sparks from a dying squib, hissing as they dropped
into the water. It was a question as to what would happen first:
whether the hull, burned to the water's edge, would founder before
the fire reached the fuel tanks.
Suddenly there was a terrific flash that, compared with the raging
flames, was like an arc-lamp and a candle. Almost immediately after
came a stupendous roar, like the discharge of a warship's broadside.
In the midst of the up-flung volcano of flame appeared the whole of
the forepart of the cabin top. With apparent slowness it turned over
and over until it fell with a loud splash within twenty yards of the
dinghy. Then, with a hiss like the last defiant note of a dying
viper, the last of the burning wreckage disappeared from view,
leaving the dinghy tossing aimlessly on the heavy waters, surrounded
by a pall of darkness that was rendered all the more opaque by the
sudden transition from the blazing light.
"What's the time?" inquired Vyse, breaking the silence.
The Sub consulted the face of his luminous watch.
"Half-past two."
"And daylight's not till about seven--four and a half hours. Well,
what's the programme? What's the coast like hereabouts?"
"Precious few landing-places," replied the Sub. "Lulworth Cove,
Chapman Pool and perhaps Warborough Bay. Might make one of 'em; but
the chances are we'd fetch up on Kimmeridge Ledges. The closer
inshore we get, the more likely we are to encounter short steep
seas. Best keep well out till dawn."
"Perishing cold job," grumbled Rollo, who, before going below for
the last time had discarded his oilskin coat. Fortunately for him,
the Sub still wore his pegamoid. "And it's not much use talking
about getting ashore. We can't row ten miles with one scull."
"That's so," agreed Broadmayne soberly. "I vote we paddle. Take
quarter of an hour spells. That'll keep us warm. The fellow who
isn't paddling can wear my oilskin coat. Wish we'd had our grub
before we started on this little cruise in a tub."
"Luckily we have plenty to smoke," remarked Vyse. "Have a
cigarette?"
The word cigarette brought the Sub's thoughts back to the disaster.
"Wonder how the fire started?" he asked. "You weren't in the
motor-room at all, were you?"
"No," replied Rollo. "Not the last time. I meant to go directly we'd
had something to eat. It's just possible that when we bumped against
that lump of wreckage the jar might have started one of the petrol
pipes. And then it might be anything: short circuit of one of the
high tension wires, for example."
Slowly--painfully slowly--the hours sped. In spite of frequent
spells at the scull Vyse felt the cold acutely; more so than did his
companion, for he had been rather badly scorched about the face, and
the night air irritated rather than soothed the sting.
Once, when a gentle breeze sprang up, they thrust a stretcher
through the arms of the pegamoid coat and lashed it to the oar,
stepping the latter as a mast. For about twenty minutes the dinghy
maintained a steady rate of progress. Broadmayne entertained hopes
of making either Swanage Bay or the sandy shore of Bournemouth Bay.
Then the wind died utterly away.
"What's the time?" inquired Vyse, for the thirtieth time at least.
"Quarter-past six," replied the Sub, without making the least effort
to stifle a prodigious yawn.
"Another three-quarters of an hour before dawn," muttered Rollo.
"There's a light astern."
Broadmayne looked.
"Shambles Lightship," he declared. "It's clearing a bit. We haven't
made much progress. The tide must be setting to the west'ard. Hello,
what's that?"
"What's what?" asked Vyse, following the direction of' his
companion's outstretched arm. "Can't see anything."
"There, about a hundred yards off. By Jove, it's a ship."
"It is, by smoke!" admitted Rollo.
"No lights. She's not making way," continued the Sub, speaking more
to himself than to his chum. "Strange--decidedly so. Abandoned,
perhaps."
"Listen!" exclaimed Vyse. "Voices."
Without replying, Broadmayne seized the paddle and commenced to
propel the dinghy in the direction of the mysterious vessel. For
mysterious she undoubtedly was. No ordinary craft would be lying
without way and showing no riding-light. Smugglers, perhaps, but to
Gerald Broadmayne it meant shelter--any port in a storm.
It was slow work. Ten minutes' frantic work with the scull brought
the dinghy close under the strange vessel's starboard quarter.
"Nothing in sight, sir!" exclaimed a deep voice.
"By Jove! she'll be forging ahead in half a shake," thought the Sub,
and, throwing down his oar, he hailed the unknown craft: "Ship ahoy!
Throw us a line!"