Under Way
Mostyn awoke soon after daybreak, or rather was aroused by the
appearance of Mahmed with a cup of _char_ in one hand and a copper jug
full of hot water in the other.
It was a novel experience for Peter to watch the deft movements of his
servant, who seemed to possess an uncanny knowledge of where his
master's personal belongings were stowed. Mostyn's safety-razor,
strop, shaving-pot, and soap were placed ready for use; his boots were
shining with unusual brilliancy, even in the comparatively feeble rays
of the electric lamp. His clothes, folded and pressed, were placed
ready to put on. How and when Mahmed had contrived to make these
preparations without disturbing his master rather puzzled the Wireless
Officer, for he considered himself a light sleeper.
Breakfast was more or less a scrambled affair, many of the officers
having to gulp down a cup of hot tea and hurry off to their appointed
tasks, for the _West Barbican_ was sailing at noon, and there were
multitudinous duties to be seen to before the ship was actually under
way.
Directly after breakfast Peter hastened to the wireless cabin in order
to put in an hour's uninterrupted work before the appearance of his two
inefficient assistants. Not that they would have worried him by asking
questions, intelligent or otherwise. It was their wooden-faced
passivity that Peter found disturbing. He wondered by what manner of
means such a quaint pair of birds was taken into the Company's service.
At four bells--ten o'clock--Mostyn had got his set into working order,
and a quarter of an hour later the wireless inspector came on board to
receive the radio-officer's report, and to satisfy himself that the
installation was in every way efficient.
"I can give your little outfit a clean bill of health pretty quickly,
Mr. Mostyn," remarked the inspector. "Evidently your predecessor left
you very little to do. Once you've broken in your two Watchers you
ought to have a very soft time."
"I hope so," rejoined Peter guardedly, but he had grave doubts on the
subject. Not that he wanted a "very soft time"--he was far too
energetic for that--but because he felt convinced that his assistants
were not cut out for the job.
At length a blast on the siren announced that the _West Barbican_ was
about to leave the dock. Peter left the cabin to watch the now
familiar yet engrossing scene, familiar save for the fact that for the
first time he had shipped with a crew of lascars. It was a strange
sight to see the natives on the fo'c'sle, carrying out orders under the
_serang_, and to watch a barefooted lascar go aloft, gripping the
shrouds with hands and toes with equal facility.
Under the gentle yet firm persuasion of a couple of fussy tugs the
_West Barbican_ renewed her acquaintance with London River. There were
no demonstrations at her departure. None of the officers had any
relations or friends to wish them God-speed from the shore, and, since
the passengers had not yet embarked, the usual display of farewells was
not in evidence.
It was not until the ship entered Sea Reach that Peter called his
assistants.
"You, Partridge, will take on now," he said. "Plover, it's your watch
below. You'd better see that you get some sleep. Now, you know your
duties, Partridge?"
"Yes, sir."
"Right-o; carry on!"
Partridge sat down and clipped on the telephones. Peter left him, but
promised himself to visit the cabin pretty frequently, to see that the
Watcher was watching. Meanwhile he had plenty to do in the clerical
line, filling up forms and making reports upon various technical
matters.
Half an hour later Mostyn returned to the wireless-room. He was not
surprised to find that Master Partridge was lying on the floor, having
previously "mustered his bag" with the utmost impartiality. Watcher
No. 1 was down and out.
"The poor bounder can't help being sea-sick, but he ought to have been
a little more considerate," soliloquized Mostyn, after he had told the
unhappy Watcher to clear out and turn in. In fact, Partridge was so
bad that Peter had to assist him down the ladder until he handed him
over to the care of a lascar.
Although the ship had not yet passed the Nore she was rolling
considerably, for there was a fresh wind on the starboard beam.
Evidently she was doing her best to live up to her reputation. But
Peter made light of the motion. With the telephones clipped to his
head he sat in the open doorway of his "dog-box", watching the
ever-changing seascape so far as a couple of boats in davits permitted.
When the hour arrived for Watcher Plover to take over the watch, that
individual was not forthcoming. Peter waited a full ten minutes and
then told a _seedee-boy_ to warn the absentee.
Presently the Indian messenger returned with a faint trace of a smile
on his olivine features.
"No go, sahib," he announced. "He ill--very sick like to die."
Mostyn shrugged his shoulders and "carried on". Fortunately he had had
a fairly good night's rest. The treble trick he could endure with
equanimity, buoyed up by the hope that the indisposition of his two
inefficient assistants would be of short duration, especially as the
_West Barbican_ was due to berth in Brocklington Dock by six the next
morning.
Before long the weather began to get decidedly dirty. The haze that
had been hanging over the coast had vanished, but to the east'ard banks
of ragged-edged indigo-coloured clouds betokened a hard blow before
very long. The wind, too, had backed from sou'-sou'-east to
nor'-nor'-east, and was rapidly increasing in force.
The _West Barbican_ was not belying her reputation for rolling. In the
wireless cabin, between forty and fifty feet above the sea, everything
of a movable nature was slithering to and fro with each long-drawn
oscillation of the ship. More than once Peter had to grip the table to
prevent his chair sliding bodily across the deck. The wind was
thrumming through the shrouds, and whistling through the still open
scuttles, while the aerial vibrated like a tuning fork in the shrieking
blast.
It was one of those sudden gales that play havoc with small craft,
especially in the comparatively shallow waters of the North Sea; but,
although Peter kept a vigilant look out for SOS signals, the air was
remarkably free from radio calls. At intervals he could hear a
peculiar buzzing in the ear-pieces--a noise that he knew from previous
experience to be distant rain.
A shadow darkened the cabin. Peter turned his head and saw Anstey, the
Third Officer, standing in the doorway. He was prepared for the storm,
his head being partly concealed by a sou'wester, while a long oilskin
coat and a pair of india-rubber boots completed the visible portion of
his rig-out.
"Hello, Sparks!" he exclaimed. "How goes it? Anything doing?"
"Absolutely nothing," replied Mostyn. "Everything's as quiet as the
proverbial lamb. I suppose----"
He broke off suddenly.
Anstey made some remark, but the Wireless Officer took not the
slightest notice. Already he had snatched up a pencil and was
scribbling upon the ever-ready pad.
It was a TTT or urgent warning signal. Mostyn wrote it down
mechanically without knowing its import, but the Third Officer, looking
over Peter's shoulder, made a grimace as he deciphered the other's
scrawl:
"CQ de GNF--TTT--mine warning--S.S. two-step reports 1630 sighting two
mines, lat. 53 deg. 20' 15", long. 1 deg. 5' 30" east stop mines just awash
barnacle covered apparently connected by hawser--end of message."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Anstey. "Just our luck. Right in our course, an'
it's my blessed watch."