The Passengers
At high water that night the S.S. _West Barbican_, drawing eighteen
feet for'ard and twenty-four aft, left Brocklington Harbour, crossing
the bar with less than five feet of water under her keel.
Fortunately the weather had moderated, the wind flying round off the
land, otherwise she might have been detained for days, owing to the
condition of the bar. The ship was now making for Gravesend to pick up
passengers and mails, and thence for East Africa according to her usual
programme.
Peter went on watch at ten that night with the unalluring prospect of
remaining on duty till midday--perhaps longer--since Partridge and
Plover, who had bucked up considerably during the vessel's stay in
port, promptly showed signs of internal troubles the moment the bar was
crossed.
It was not a prearranged case of malingering. There was no doubt about
it: they had been ill. Neither knew of the burning of the oil-tanker,
and of the dangerous position of the _West Barbican_ when she proceeded
to the rescue, until late on the following morning, and even then they
received the news apathetically.
So Mostyn just carried on, pondering over the Company's doubtful
economy, since, in addition to his normal pay, he was already raking in
a fair sum for overtime in excess of the Merchant Service eight hours
per day.
Gravesend was in its wonted late autumn state when the _West Barbican_
dropped anchor. A thick fog entirely blotted out the shore. The air
reverberated with the dismal hooting of sirens in every imaginable key;
while bells clanging from vessels at anchor added to the din. At
intervals the sun shone feebly through the yellow pall, although it was
impossible to see twenty feet along the deck. To add to the general
discomfort a raw, moist, west wind was blowing down London River,
without having sufficient force to disperse the baffling fog.
The _West Barbican_ was two and a half hours late in arriving at
Gravesend. If she were to weigh at the scheduled hour the passengers
would have to be smart in getting on board with their personal cabin
effects. Their heavy baggage had been sent down to the docks and
placed in a hold a week previously.
Peter Mostyn had turned in directly the ship dropped anchor. There was
a chance of two hours well-earned rest, if rest it could be called,
since he lay down on his bunk fully clothed save for his rubber
deck-boots. It was one of those frequent occasions when he could not
afford to waste precious minutes in dressing and undressing. He was
almost too dog-tired to kick off his boots. He was dimly conscious of
throwing himself on his bunk and pulling the collar of his greatcoat up
over the back of his neck; then he passed into a state of oblivion,
notwithstanding the discordant sonata within and without the ship.
He was awakened by the appearance of Mahmed with the inevitable char.
The native boy was now in "full rig", a concession to the still-absent
passengers. He wore a white drill suit, similar to that worn by
officers in tropical climes, with the exception that there were no
shoulder-straps. On his head he sported a round skull-cap of
astrakhan, with a scarlet top.
"No come yet, sahib," announced Mahmed, in response to Peter's inquiry
as to whether the tender had come alongside with the passengers.
"All right," rejoined Peter, as he handed back the empty cup. "Tell
Partridge Sahib and Plover Sahib I want them in the wireless-cabin."
Going on deck, Peter found that the fog was as thick as ever. It was
now nearly eight bells (4 p.m.), and the crew had been mustered for
inspection. All the deck hands were now rigged out in uniforms.
Instead of the motley garb, each man had a loose-fitting coat of
butcher-blue, reaching to his knees and secured round the waist with a
red scarf. His headdress was a scarlet, close-fitting cap, not unlike
the Egyptian "tarboosh". This was the uniform issued by the Company
for "ceremonial", and the expected advent of passengers was a fitting
occasion for the display.
Three short blasts close alongside brought the officer of the watch to
the end of the bridge.
"Tender alongside, sir," he announced.
The Old Man, in his best uniform, loomed up through the fog,
disappearing as he hastened to the gangway, where, at the foot of the
accommodation ladder, two lascars were stationed at the manropes to
assist in the trans-embarkation of the passengers.
Gliding through the mist like a wraith the squat, snub-nosed tender ran
alongside and was made fast. One by one the passengers began to ascend
the swaying accommodation ladder. In all they numbered forty-one,
mostly of the male sex. A few were missionaries bound for Kenya and
Uganda; there were men taking up farming in the rich lands of the
interior of British East Africa; mining engineers for Rhodesia; and
people who for various reasons had booked their passages to the Cape by
the _West Barbican_ rather than by the fast mail-boats. There was also
a young man in the uniform of a Mercantile Marine Officer. He was the
ship's doctor, "signed on" for the voyage only, thus combining business
with pleasure, being in ordinary conditions a hard-worked country
practitioner. It was the first long holiday he had had for five years,
and he meant to make the best of every minute of it.
There were seven lady passengers. The first one up the ladder was a
stout, middle-aged woman, dressed rather startlingly for a trip on a
tender in a fog. Her travelling-costume was certainly of good material
but too vivid in colour for a woman of her age and build.
Mostyn, standing a few feet from the head of the accommodation ladder,
watched her curiously. At one time she might have been good-looking.
A perpetual sneer was on her face. She looked a woman who was
habitually peevish and vile-tempered. Even as she came up the ladder
she was complaining in a loud, high-pitched voice to someone following
her--her husband apparently.
"Bet she's a tartar," thought Peter, and turned his attention to the
next newcomer--a red-faced, sheepish-looking man, who, judging by his
obvious bewilderment, had set foot for the first time upon a craft
larger than a coastal pleasure steamer. Mostyn put him down as a
country innkeeper, since he bore a strong resemblance to the host of
the "Blue Cow" at Trentham Regis.
After that the crowd on the gangway thickened, the swaying ladder
creaking and groaning under the weight of this queue of humanity.
There were old men, young men; prosperous-looking men, poor-looking
men; men with jovial lightheartedness written large upon their faces;
others looking woebegone and dejected, as if regretting the past and
dreading the future. There were men who might have been chosen as
models in the role of Adonis; others who outvied in features the
deepest Adelphi villain. Amongst the last of the arriving passengers
came a girl of about nineteen or twenty.
She was slim and _petite_. Although wearing a serviceable raincoat she
carried herself gracefully, holding but lightly to the handrail of the
ladder. Mostyn noticed that her moist hair was of a rich, brownish
hue, her features finely modelled. Her eyes were of a deep grey hue,
beneath a pair of evenly arched eyebrows.
In spite of the clammy fog her cheeks shone with the glow of youth--a
healthy glow that told unfailingly of an active, outdoor life.
"Jolly pretty girl, that," commented Peter, communing with his own
thoughts.
The very last passenger to come over the side--Peter paid no attention
to him--was a young, athletic man carrying a travel-worn leather
portmanteau. With the air of one accustomed to life on shipboard he
stepped briskly off the end of the gangplank and made straight for the
saloon.
On the passenger list he appeared as William Porter, of Durban. Not
one of the _West Barbican's_ officers realized what viper the good ship
was cherishing in her bosom; for in Berlin William Porter would have
answered readily and truthfully to the name of Ludwig Schoeffer.