"Logged"
Peter Mostyn's chief desire upon regaining the deck was to go below and
get something to drink. Now that the immediate danger was over, his
throat was burning like a lime-kiln, and his head was buzzing as if he
had taken an overdose of quinine.
Slipping off his lifebelt--he had donned it mechanically on rushing to
the boat, although in the circumstances the advantages of wearing a
lifebelt were of a negative order--Peter returned to the bridge,
keeping discreetly in the background.
The Old Man was fighting a tough battle. With Preston and Anstey he
was extricating his command from a perilous situation, where skilful
seamanship alone could regain control of the helm without allowing the
vessel to wallow helplessly in the fiery sea. Putting the ship ahead
and astern alternately the Old Man allowed her head to pay off under
the force of the wind until he saw a chance of turning. Then, with a
grunt of supreme satisfaction, he rang for full speed ahead. Five
minutes later the _West Barbican_, clear of the oil-calmed water, was
rolling in the tempestuous seas.
"Carry on, Mr. Anstey," he ordered. "Lay her on her old course."
He turned abruptly on his heel, intending to see how the survivors of
the tanker were faring. As he swung round he noticed Peter standing
under the lee of the wireless cabin.
"Mr. Mostyn!"
"Sir?"
"How many survivors?"
Peter told him.
"A smart bit of work of yours, Mr. Mostyn, but--oh, very well, go below
and turn in. I'll see you in the morning."
The Wireless Officer obeyed only too gladly. As he washed the grime
from his face he reflected that, thanks to the damaged aerial, he would
have an uninterrupted watch below.
For a long time he lay awake in his bunk. It was not the heavy rolling
that was responsible for his sleeplessness. The whole of the night's
adventure passed in review, its horrors intensified in retrospect. It
was not until dawn was breaking that he fell into a fitful slumber.
Meanwhile the skipper had his hands full. In the absence of a doctor
he and the purser were attending to the helpless survivors of the
tanker. Of the seven removed from the boat only two were conscious,
and one of the pair had a compound fracture of the right leg.
His companion was able to give an account of the disaster. The vessel
was the American-owned oil-tanker _Bivalve_ of and from New York for
Hull. She had struck the two drifting mines, concerning the presence
of which a general wireless message had been sent out. Both exploded
amidships, one on either side, about fifty feet for'ard of the
engine-room, which in vessels of the _Bivalve's_ type are well aft.
Within a few minutes the petroleum tanks exploded, and the sinking ship
became a raging furnace. Two boats were lowered, but of the fate of
the second the narrator had no knowledge. He remembered pulling
desperately at an oar until the smoke cloud overwhelmed the boat.
Then, gasping frantically for breath, he lost consciousness until he
found himself on board the _West Barbican_.
At eight bells (8 a.m.) Peter was roused from his slumbers. A glance
through the now open scuttle showed him that the ship was berthed
alongside a wharf, and that the stevedores were already getting busy.
A huge crane was transporting long, timber-protected pieces of
steelwork into the _West Barbican's_ No. 1 hold.
Peter regarded the steelwork with interest. It was the material on
which rested the reputation and success of the Brocklington Ironworks
Company, of which his father was managing director.
But other matters quickly demanded his attention. There was the
damaged aerial. That had to be replaced under the direction of the
Acting Chief Officer, but upon Mostyn's shoulders depended the
responsibility of the perfect insulating of the wires. Already the
necessary material had been "marked off", and the serang and his party
were engaged in making eye-splices in the wire rope. At the mast-head
of both fore and main, men were reeving fresh halliards for the purpose
of sending the aerials aloft.
Captain Bullock was standing on the bridge watching the cargo being
shipped, when he caught sight of the Wireless Officer. He beckoned
Peter to approach. The officer of the watch was at the other side of
the bridge superintending the securing of an additional spring;
otherwise the bridge was deserted.
"Mr. Mostyn," began the Old Man abruptly, "I want you to understand
clearly that there is only one captain on board this hooker, and he
alone gives permission for officers to leave the ship. Who, might I
ask, ordered you away in the lifeboat last night?"
"No one, sir," replied Peter.
"Then please remember that in future you are not to act on your own
initiative except in matters directly concerning your duties as
Wireless Officer. You were guilty of a grave breach of discipline.
Don't let it occur again."
Mostyn smarted under this unexpected rap over the knuckles. He
realized upon consideration that the rebuke was well merited. His
offence was a technical breach of discipline. It was of no use telling
this bluff old skipper his reasons. Yarns about "impulses of the
moment" would elicit little sympathy. So he kept silent.
"All the same," continued the Old Man, in a less gruff tone, "you did a
smart bit of work last night. Where did you learn to handle a boat?"
Mostyn flushed with pleasure.
"I've had three years in the Merchant Service, sir, and I've been in
yachts and sailing dinghies ever since I can remember."
"I knew you didn't learn seamanship as a wireless man," continued the
skipper. "Sorry I had to tick you off, my lad, but I simply had to.
I'd like to send in a recommendation on your behalf, but I don't see
how I can. Your Company would kick up the deuce of a shine if they
knew I employed a wireless officer on executive duties. It's not done;
or it's not supposed to be done--put it that way. And another thing:
supposing, and it was quite likely, you'd lost the number of your mess
over that business, what sort of yarn could I have pitched into the
Board of Trade people? And my employers too? A pretty fine skipper
they'd think I was, allowing a wireless officer to take away a
lifeboat. Likely as not I'd have got the push from the Company's
service and lost my ticket into the bargain. D'ye see my point?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then we'll cry quits. All the same it was a smart bit of work--a
jolly smart bit of work--but I'll have to make an entry in the log
recording the fact that you've been reprimanded and stating the reason.
I don't think it will adversely affect you, Mr. Mostyn; rather the
other way, I fancy."
Peter thanked the Captain and went about his duties, reflecting that
the Old Man wasn't at all a bad sort, and that his bark was certainly
worse than his bite.
Looking more like a blacksmith than a radio-operator, Peter completed
his part of the work and applied the necessary tests. Everything was
apparently in order in the wireless-cabin. With a grunt of
satisfaction he replaced the receivers and left the cabin. Until the
ship sailed--she was due to leave at ten that evening--he was at
leisure.
"Now for a bath, a shave, and a change," he soliloquized. "It would
never do to meet the pater in this state."
Somewhat to his surprise he found his father waiting in his son's cabin.
"Hello, Peter, my boy," was Captain Mostyn's greeting; "been
ratting--or sweeping flues?"
Peter certainly looked a bit of a wreck. His sleepless night,
following the perilous affair in the lifeboat, had given him a
washed-out appearance. He was dog-tired, physically and mentally. He
was dirty, unshaven, and rigged out in a very old uniform, with a scarf
knotted round his neck in place of the regulation collar and tie.
"No, Pater," replied Peter. "Neither ratting nor sweeping flues. I've
been choked off by the skipper."
"Easy job, judging by that running noose on your neck-gear," commented
Captain Mostyn jocularly. "What's happened?"
Peter told him, simply and straightforwardly. There was never a lack
of confidence between father and son. His parent listened attentively
to the bald narrative.
"Your skipper was quite right," he observed. "In my days in the
Service I wouldn't have thought of allowing a watch-keeping sub to go
down to the engine-room and play about with the gadgets in order to
slow down the ship. You did much the same sort of thing, chipping into
a department that wasn't yours. At the same time, I'm proud of you,
Peter. It shows you are not deficient in pluck. Right-o! carry on
with your ablutions. I want to have a few words with Captain Bullock
about the steelwork. While I'm about it I'll ask him to let you go
ashore to lunch with me."
Captain Antonius Bullock was rather astonished to find that the
managing director of the firm that had virtually chartered the _West
Barbican_ for three days was the father of his Wireless Officer.
"And I had to log him this morning," declared the Old Man.
"Yes, he told me about it," rejoined Captain Mostyn. "No, he didn't
grouse about it. He quite sees the force of your argument. In fact, I
told him practically the same thing."
"All the same," said Captain Bullock, "it was a smart piece of work.
At my age I'd think twice before taking on a job of that sort. If I
had to do it I'd do it, you'll understand, but these youngsters often
rush into danger when there's no particular call for it; not their
duty, in a manner of speaking. I'm rather curious to know what he did
when that pirate collared the _Donibristle_. He told a lot about the
affair, but precious little about his share in it."
"Peter had a pretty stiff time, judging from what he told me," observed
Captain Mostyn. "Amongst other things he still bears the scars of
eighteen wounds he received when the _Donibristle's_ wireless-cabin was
demolished by a shell."
"Eighteen, by Jove!" exclaimed Captain Bullock. "I had one--a
beauty--in the war. Splinter from a four-inch shell when Fritz
torpedoed the old _Harkaway_ and fired on the boats. But eighteen!"
"Yes," commented Captain Mostyn. "He's seen more adventures during his
short time in the Merchant Service than I did in thirty-seven years in
the navy. During the whole of my sea service I never saw a shot fired
in anger. Very good, I'll be on board at four o'clock to sign those
papers. Do you mind giving my boy leave till then?"
Captain Bullock readily gave the required permission, and father and
son had an enjoyable spell ashore.
By four o'clock most of the steelwork was safely stowed in the hold.
Only a few crates of small parts remained to complete the all-important
consignment for the Kilba Protectorate Government.
"That's all shipshape and Bristol-fashion, sir," remarked Captain
Bullock, as the necessary signatures were appended to the papers in
connection with the shipment. "If that precious lot isn't delivered
safe and sound in Pangawani Harbour by the first of February it won't
be the fault of Antonius Bullock."