A Night of Peril
Making his way to the chartroom the Third Officer "laid off" the
position of the mines. His rough guess proved to be remarkably
accurate. According to the position given, the source of danger was
only a few miles from the Outer Dowsing Lightship, and the _West
Barbican_ had to pass close to the Outer Dowsing on her course to
Brocklington.
Anstey's next step was to inform the Captain. The Old Man, a sailor to
the backbone, was in the chart-house in a trice, where, after a brief
but careful survey of tide-tables and current-drift charts, he was able
to determine the approximate position of the floating mines when the
ship would be in the immediate vicinity of the light-vessel. Allowing
for the set and strength of the tide and the drift caused by the wind,
between the time the mines were first sighted and the time when the
_West Barbican_ entered the danger-zone, he was able to assert that, if
the ship's original course were maintained, she would pass at least ten
miles to the east'ard of those most undesirable derelicts.
"I think we're O.K., Mr. Anstey," he remarked. "Besides, for all we
know the mines might have been exploded by this time. Those naval
Johnnies are pretty smart at that sort of thing. Well, carry on. Let
me know if there are any supplementary warnings."
The Old Man returned to his cabin, and was soon deep in the pages of a
novel; while Anstey resumed his trick, thanking his lucky stars that,
unlike Mostyn's, his watch was not indefinitely prolonged through the
shortcomings of two sea-sick "birds".
Just as darkness set in, the gale was at its height. Clouds of spray
flew over the bridge as the old hooker wallowed and nosed her way
through the steep, crested waves, for the wind had backed still more
and was now dead in her teeth.
Even in the wireless-cabin the noise was terrific. The boats in davits
were creaking and groaning, as they strained against their gripes with
each disconcerting jerk of the ship. Spray in sheets rattled upon the
tightly stretched boat-covers like volleys of small shot, while the
monotonous clank-clank of the steam steering-gear, as the _secuni_
(native quartermaster) strove to keep the ship within half a degree of
her course, added to the turmoil that penetrated the four steel walls
of the cabin.
Vainly Peter tried to concentrate his thoughts on a book. Yet, in
spite of the fact that he was wearing telephones clipped to his ears,
the hideous clamour refused to be suppressed. Reading under these
conditions was out of the question. He put away the book and remained
keeping his weary watch, valiantly combating an almost overwhelming
desire for sleep.
Suddenly, with a terrific crash, something hit the deck of the
flying-bridge immediately above the wireless-cabin. For a moment Peter
was under the impression that one of the foremost derricks had carried
away and crashed athwart the roof of the cabin.
Soon he discovered the actual cause. The stout wire halliard taking
the for'ard end of the aerial had parted, and the two wires, spreaders,
and insulators had fallen on the boat-deck.
Removing the now useless telephones and donning his pilot coat, Mostyn
went out into the open, glad of the slight protection from the cutting
wind afforded by the canvas bridge-screens and dodgers. Already
lascars, in obedience to the shrill shouts of the serang and _tindal_
(native petty officer), had swarmed upon the bridge ready to clear away
the debris.
Accompanied by the bos'un Mostyn made a hasty examination of the
damage. The aerials had fortunately fallen clear of the funnel, and,
although the for'ard insulators had been shattered, the drag of the
wires had kept the after ones from being dashed against the main
topmast.
It was "up to" the Wireless Officer to repair and set up the aerials as
soon as possible.
While the lascars were clearing away a spare halliard, Peter began to
replace the broken spreader and its insulators. Cut by the keen wind,
drenched with the rain and spray, and chilled to the bone in spite of
his heavy pilot coat, Mostyn struggled with refractory wires until his
benumbed hands were almost raw and hardly capable of getting a grip on
the pliers.
It was a hit-or-miss operation. In the circumstances he had no means
of testing the insularity of the aerial. He could only hope that, when
once more aloft, it would function properly.
With a sigh of relief he completed the final splice and turned to the
serang.
"Heave away!" he ordered.
The man gave a shrill order. Instantly the hitherto passive line of
lascars handling the slack of the rope broke into activity. Gradually
the aerial tautened, as a score of brown-faced, thin-limbed natives
tailed on to the hauling part of the wire halliard. Quickly at first,
then with gradually diminishing speed, the double line of wire rose
from the deck and disappeared from view in the spray-laden darkness of
the night, and presently the serang reported that the aerial was close
up.
Mostyn returned to his post. Glancing at the clock he noted with
astonishment that the task had taken him exactly an hour. Then,
replacing the telephones to his ears, he endeavoured to thaw his
benumbed fingers in front of the electric-light globe.
Hour after hour passed in monotonous inactivity. The appearance of the
devoted Mahmed with a cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches--most of the
tea was spilt, and the sandwiches were abundantly salted and moistened
in the process of mounting the bridge--proved a welcome diversion.
Just before midnight a second disaster occurred to the aerial. This
time the double wires parted, practically simultaneously, about midway
between the masts. This point, being almost immediately above the
funnel, is always a fruitful source of trouble, owing to the
comparatively rapid deterioration set up by the gases from the furnaces.
Repairs, even of a makeshift nature, were for the present out of the
question. It was impossible to send men aloft to assist in setting up
the wires. No human being could hold on in such a gale, far less
perform the intricate task of reeving fresh halliards and wires. All
Mostyn could do was to make all secure in the wireless-cabin. He was
then free to turn in and enjoy a few hours' rest, until the ship's
arrival at Brocklington Dock should afford an opportunity for repairing
the damage.
Peter was exchanging a few words with the officer of the watch when the
attention of both was attracted by a flash.
"Distress signal!" exclaimed Peter.
"Not vivid enough," rejoined his companion "Might be a rocket from one
of the Dowsings--the Inner, most likely. If----"
Another flash, faintly visible through the murk, interrupted Anstey's
words. For several seconds both men listened intently for the double
detonation. None was audible. Distance and the howling of the
elements had completely deadened the reports.
Even as they looked a steady pin-prick of reddish light appeared on
exactly the same bearing as the previous flashes. For perhaps fifteen
seconds it remained constant; then momentarily it grew in volume until
a trailing column of ruddy flame, fringed by a wind-torn cloud of
smoke, illuminated the distant horizon.
Bringing his night-glasses to bear upon the source of the flames the
Third Officer studied the scene. Then, replacing the binoculars, he
shouted to his companion:
"Vessel ablaze from end to end. Tanker, I guess. I'm off to call the
Old Man."
Captain Bullock was quickly out of his cabin. He had waited merely to
put on his bridge-coat over his pyjamas and thrust his bare feet into a
huge pair of sea-boots. He was one of those powerfully framed, tough
men for whom the sudden change of temperature had no terrors and few
discomforts.
Shouting a hoarse yet unmistakable order to the secum at the wheel, and
ringing down to the engine-room for increased speed, Captain Bullock
waited until the _West Barbican_ had steadied on her new course, then
he turned to the Third Officer.
"She's a tanker, right enough, Anstey. Got it properly in the neck.
See that the boats are cleared away, although I'm afraid there's
precious little chance of using them in this sea. I'm off to shift
into thicker togs."
In five minutes the Old Man returned. By this time the _West
Barbican_, making a good twelve and a half knots against the head wind
and sea, had got within a couple of miles of the doomed vessel.
Already she was well down by the head, and blazing furiously from stem
to stern. To windward of her the seas were breaking heavily against
the hull of the burning ship. Already she had lost way and was
drifting broadside on to the wind. Cascades of water pouring over her
listing deck had no effect in quenching the flames but merely raised
enormous clouds of steam to mingle with the flame-tinged, oily smoke.
To leeward the sea was calm for almost a mile, owing to the liberation
of the oil. And not only was it calm: it was a placid lake of fire, as
the floating, highly inflammable coating of petroleum burnt furiously
in half a dozen detached areas.
"See any signs of a boat?" demanded the Old Man.
"No, sir," replied Anstey.
"Thought not," was the rejoinder. "A boat would be swamped to
wind'ard, and burnt to a cinder to lee'ard. Doubt even whether the
poor fellows had a chance to lower away---- What's that on our port
bow? By heavens, Anstey, it's a boat!"
Both men levelled their binoculars. Mostyn, keeping discreetly in the
background, made use of the chartroom telescope.
Silhouetted against the glare was a ship's boat. There were people in
her, but they were making no apparent effort to draw away from the
danger zone. Rising and falling on the long, oily swell, the frail
craft was midway between two patches of fiercely burning oil that
threatened to converge and destroy the boat and its human freight.
"We'll have to risk it, Anstey," decided the Old Man, as he rang for
half speed. "I only hope the lascars'll stick it. I'm going to take
the old hooker between those patches of burning oil. We'll try towing
the boat clear. If that fails we'll have to lower one of our own
boats. Pass the word for the serang to stand by to heave a line, and
then give an eye to the _secuni_. If he runs the ship into either of
those patches it'll be a serious matter."
"Ay, ay, sir."
Ringing for stop, Captain Bullock knew that there was sufficient way
upon the ship to enable her to close the boat without the former being
out of control. Allowance had also to be made for the wind, which,
owing to the alteration of course, was now two points on the starboard
bow.
The heat was now quite perceptible, while at intervals wisps of black,
suffocating smoke swept to lee'ard, completely enveloping the _West
Barbican_. On either side of her were expanses of burning oil,
bubbling and popping in a series of miniature explosions, as the heated
water beneath the oil vapourized and blew out through the covering
layer of burning viscous liquid.
Right in the centre of the steadily decreasing avenue of unlighted oil
lay the boat. Two cables' lengths beyond, and now a glowing mass of
white-hot metal, lay the burning tanker, awash for'ard and with her
propeller showing clear above the agitated water.
Admirably manoeuvred and conned by the Old Man, the _West Barbican_
drew near the tanker's boat. Slowly she passed within heaving
distance. The now excited lascars heaved lines, several of which fell
short. Two at least dropped athwart the boat, but no attempt was made
on the part of her crew to secure them. The luckless men were either
dead or else rendered insensible by the hot, suffocating air.
The ship had now lost way. Her head was beginning to pay off. It was
necessary to go ahead in order to regain steerage way; but, at the same
time, if the work of rescue were to be consummated, it would be
necessary to make use of one of the _West Barbican's_ boats.
"Lower away!" roared the Old Man.
At that moment the tanker disappeared beneath the surface. The tower
of flame that enveloped her died down to a mere flicker, completely
outclassed by the glare of a dozen distinct patches of fiercely burning
oil.
The lascars manning the falls hesitated, while their comrades in the
boat showed signs of panic. In the confusion they noticed that,
unaccountably there was no officer on board the lifeboat.
Mostyn was one of those men who in moments of danger are prone to act
independently--they simply cannot remain passive spectators when there
is work to be done. It was no business of the Wireless Officer to go
away in the boats. His duty was to stay by the wireless gear. But in
this case Peter knew that he could do nothing in the cabin with the
aerial out of action. He could be of use in the boat, to take command
and steady the decidedly "jumpy" Asiatics.
The overwhelming instinct to bear a hand seized him in an instant.
Running aft to where the lifeboat swung outboard he leapt into the
stern-sheets, grasped the yoke lines, and shouted to the tindal to
lower away. The man, seeing that a sahib was in the boat but not
recognizing who he was, gave the word to the lascars manning the falls,
and the boat was lowered rapidly and evenly.
Mostyn had a momentary vision of the lighted scuttles slipping upwards
as the boat dropped down past the ship's side. Then with a sharp flop
the lifeboat struck the oily surface. Simultaneously the lower blocks
of the falls disengaged, and the boat began to drift astern.
"Give way!" ordered Peter.
The lascars, trained to obey commands issued in English, acted smartly.
With the presence of a sahib in the lifeboat their fears, if not
entirely banished, were cloaked by the sense of discipline.
"Pull starboard; back port."
The lifeboat turned in almost her own length.
Already the steadily converging patches of flames justified this order.
To turn under the use of the helm alone would bring the boat in contact
with the oil-fired water.
"Together--way 'nough--in bow."
In five minutes from the time Peter had taken his place in the
stern-sheets the two boats were gunwale to gunwale. In the tanker's
whaler were seven human forms huddled in weird postures, either on the
bottom-boards or across the thwarts.
Whether they were dead or alive Mostyn knew not. All he could do was
to have the seemingly inanimate bodies transhipped, and then return to
the _West Barbican_--if he could.
Working like men possessed, four of the lascars unceremoniously bundled
the bodies into the lifeboat. Then, pushing off, they resumed their
oars, pulling desperately for the ship, which was now gathering
sternway at a distance of a cable's length.
For the first time Mostyn realized the extreme gravity of the
situation. The ship was now gathering sternway, drifting rapidly to
lee'ard the while. The churning of her propeller had caused a large
patch of burning oil to still further contract the narrow fairway
between the ship and the boat.
Peter knew full well that he and the boat's crew stood less than a
dog's chance should the fiery sea cut them off. He was also aware of
the great difficulty of being picked up by the ship, since the latter
had herself to be constantly manoeuvring to avoid contact with the
fire. Even if the lifeboat escaped the flames, there arose the danger
of her being crushed by her parent. In that case there would be little
or no chance of swimming in the thick layer of oil that had not as yet
become ignited.
It was touch and go. Dazzled by the glare, partly stifled by the thick
smoke, and scorched by the hot, raging wind, Peter all but lost his
bearings. A momentary dispersal of the smoke showed him the hull of
the _West Barbican_ less than four boats' lengths away.
"Boat oars!"
The now thoroughly scared lascars obeyed very hurriedly. The bowman
grasped and engaged the for'ard falls, pulping one of his fingers in
the operation. Almost simultaneously the lower block of the after
falls was hooked on, and with a disconcerting jerk the lifeboat rose
clear of the water.
Only by a few seconds had she won through. Before the boat was hoisted
home the sea beneath her was covered with crackling, spluttering flames.