The Unheeded SOS
During the rest of the day the _West Barbican_ rolled before the
following wind, to the no small discomfort of the majority of the
passengers. It was a cold wind, too, and few of the passengers who had
withstood the attacks of _mal de mer_ ventured on deck.
"Have you found out who that loud-voiced female passenger is?" inquired
Peter of Anstey, as the two paced the almost deserted boat-deck.
He put the question with ulterior motives, masking the main point of
his curiosity.
"That queer specimen?" rejoined the Third Officer. "No, I haven't,
beyond the fact that she's a Mrs. Shallop, and her husband, that
red-faced man, is a horse-dealer, who made a pile in the war by
stopping at home and selling broken-down hacks to Government inspectors
who hardly knew the bow of a gee-gee from the stern. Yes, we're going
to have some fun out of Mrs. Shallop before long, old son. She's had a
row with the purser, two with the chief stewardess, and a few with the
stewards thrown in as make-weights."
"What about?' asked Mostyn.
"Goodness knows," replied Anstey. "The purser was talking to the Old
Man about it after breakfast. She's rather got on the poor chap's
nerves. Apparently she's an imaginary grievance that they don't treat
her like a 'lydy', so she's been ramming it down their throats that
she's a naval officer's daughter--a captain's daughter."
"Well, isn't she?" asked Peter.
The Third Officer sniffed scornfully. Evidently Mrs. Shallop had
fallen foul of him already.
"Naval captain's daughter!" he exclaimed. "Might be. Sub-lieutenants
become captains, or at least some of them do; and subs have been known
to do rash acts when they are young. But when a woman, whose accent,
manners, and grammar are decidedly rocky, goes out of her way to assert
that she's a naval officer's daughter, well then, snap goes the last
thread of your credulity. My dear old thing, we're going to have some
fun this trip, so get busy."
"Who is the girl--the girl who was almost the last on board?" asked
Mostyn, broaching the long-deferred question at last. "Has she no
friends on the ship?"
"Goodness only knows!" ejaculated the Third Officer fervently. "She's
a Miss Baird, and I think she's by herself. We'll find out in due
course. Hark! Yes, at it again! It's poor old Selwyn getting it this
time."
Through a partly open skylight came the now familiar voice of Mrs.
Shallop, almost ear-piercing in its intensity and raucous in its tone.
Mingled with the strident outbursts of the woman came short,
incompleted protests from the doctor, who apparently was not able to
hold his own.
"At it again," reiterated Anstey. "She's trying the naval captain
stunt on the doc. I guess--by Jove! Wait till she tackles the Old
Man."
Just then Dr. Selwyn appeared on the boat-deck. He was a dapper little
man with the reputation of being a skilful and rapid surgeon. He could
have commanded a large practice in town, but, preferring the country to
city life, was content with a moderate income and plenty of hard work
in congenial surroundings. In manner he was affable, and possessed an
old-world courtesy that made him extremely popular. He was mild in
speech, and rarely lost his temper; but when he came on deck it was
obvious to both Peter and Anstey that he was labouring under suppressed
anger.
"Morning, Doc," was the Third Officer's greeting. "Up for a breather?"
Selwyn braced his shoulders and gazed out to starboard. Nine miles to
the nor'ard the white cliffs of the Isle of Wight stood out clearly
against the dark grey clouds.
"Yes," he agreed. "A breather. Had a fairly stiff time with sundry
patients. Sort of thing one must expect in the early days of a voyage.
What's that land over there?"
"St. Catherine's," replied Anstey. "If it's clear enough we may sight
the Isle of Purbeck, but I doubt it. So take your last look at Old
England for a while, Doctor."
The three men remained in conversation for several minutes, but Anstey
failed hopelessly in his attempt to "draw" Selwyn with reference to his
encounter with the "tartar".
"I'd like to see your wireless-cabin," remarked the doctor.
"Certainly," agreed Mostyn. "As a matter of fact I'm about to take
over the watch."
Anstey, to whom the wireless-room was no novelty, "sheered off" and
shaped a course for the smoking-room, while Peter and the doctor made
their way for'ard to the former's post of duty.
Suddenly Peter stopped. From the open door of the wireless-cabin came
the deep bass voice of Captain Antonius Bullock. He was "letting rip"
vigorously, and there was anger in his tone. Then, trembling like a
leaf, Watcher Plover appeared.
The Old Man, paying an unexpected visit, had found the Watcher fast
asleep.
Already the skipper was "fed up to the back teeth" (to use his own
words) with the two birds. Coming on top of the disconcerting
incidents of the night, when both Watchers had severally dislocated the
electric-lighting service, Plover's delinquency, serious enough in any
circumstances, completely upset the Old Man's equilibrium.
By this time he was fully convinced that the Watcher system was rotten
to the core. On his previous voyage Captain Bullock had fallen foul of
his wireless officers, but that was over technical matters. Otherwise
he had had no cause for complaint, and, generally speaking, the
relations between skipper and radiographers were harmonious if not
exactly cordial. Now, thanks to a misguided attempt at economy, the
Old Man could put no dependence upon Mostyn's assistants, and, in fact,
he was inclined to blame Peter for not exercising more supervision over
his subordinates.
Which was rough on Peter. In Captain Bullock's present mood it was
useless to point out how many times during his "watch below" Mostyn had
been called to the wireless-cabin. The fact remained that Partridge
and Plover had been signed on for the trip. Even if the Old Man wished
he could not land them this side of Las Palmas, and so for the present
Peter must make the best of things, trusting that in due course the two
incompetents might be "licked into shape".
As soon as Captain Bullock had retired to his cabin, Peter took over
the watch, Selwyn standing by as the Wireless Officer made the usual
tests.
"Now you can listen in, Doctor," announced Mostyn, after he had
produced and connected up a supplementary pair of 'phones. "There's
not much doing, I fancy."
Selwyn adjusted the ear-pieces, while Peter, similarly equipped, stood
by pencil in hand in order to give his companion some inkling of any
stray message.
"There's something!" exclaimed the doctor. He was excited. As cool as
the proverbial cucumber when he was performing a deft and rapid
operation upon which human life depended, he was now as delighted as a
child with a new toy, when he heard the high-pitched buzzing sound that
indicated a message in transit.
"Niton," explained Peter. "Isle of Wight station. She's calling
up--no--half a minute."
Mostyn's pencil was moving rapidly as he recorded the message.
"Cut out o.m. SOS signals out: stop sending."
Then almost immediately after came a plaintive wail from a ship:
"Please repeat whole of preamble and words after 'overcoat'."
"Explain, please," asked Selwyn.
Mostyn, busy altering the wave length in an attempt to pick up the SOS,
did not reply. Explanations could come later.
A vessel fifty miles away was trying to obtain a repetition of a
message from Niton. Part of it she had received, but her operator was
doubtful about the preamble and the words following overcoat. It was a
purely private message, of no interest to anyone save the sender.
Niton was trying to make the operator stop sending, as there was an SOS
message coming from somewhere. The ship's operator for some reason was
persisting in his inquiries for the words following overcoat. In
addition a distant high-power station was chipping in, and there were
also "atmospherics" of high frequency.
Out of this chaotic "jam" Mostyn was trying to isolate the urgent
wireless call for aid.
Almost deafened by the exaggerated reverberations of the ear-pieces as
Mostyn pursued his efforts to tune in, Selwyn watched with unabated
interest the Wireless Officer's deft manipulations of the set. Greek
the doctor understood, but this was something far beyond his ken.
At last. Faintly, almost indistinguishable from the cackling of the
atmospherics, came the despairing SOS. It emanated from a vessel in
dire distress. Peter knew that she was using her comparatively low
emergency set. That indicated the fact that her ordinary sending
apparatus had broken down.
"SOS. S.S. _Passionflower_ 17 miles s. by w. of Owers. Boiler
explosion, ship making water rapidly; pumps inadequate."
"Message received," sent Mostyn, then handing Selwyn the paper on which
he had written the fateful message, "Captain, please," he said.
The doctor removed his telephones and departed on his errand.
Meanwhile Mostyn was listening in for other vessels in the vicinity
replying to the general and urgent call for aid.
In the chartroom the Old Man and Preston held a hasty conference. Only
an hour previously the _West Barbican_ must have crossed the track of
the disabled _Passionflower_, within a few miles of her. Now a
distance of between fifteen and twenty miles separated the two vessels,
and to render assistance the former vessel would have to retrace her
course. At fifteen or fifteen and a half knots it would take her more
than an hour to close with the _Passionflower_. If she did, would she
be the first on the scene?
Both the Old Man and the Acting Chief Officer doubted it. This part of
the Channel was a busy one. Not only was there the "up and down"
traffic, but a large number of vessels was plying between Southampton
and the Normandy ports. In addition, the _Passionflower_ was within an
hour's run of Portsmouth, where there were Government tugs and
destroyers ready to render aid.
The navigating officer's doubts were confirmed when Mostyn appeared
with a report that already five vessels were proceeding to the rescue
of the _Passionflower_. So the _West Barbican_ held on her course.
A little later Peter, who had contrived to "cut out" the plaintive and
persistent inquiry as to the words following overcoat, got into touch
with the P. & O. liner _Nowabunda_. From her he learnt that the
_Passionflower_ had been sending out her SOS for an hour before the
_West Barbican_ had picked up the distress call.
Either Watcher Plover had been asleep for some time before being
awakened by the skipper, or else his untrained ear had failed to detect
the low notes of the distressed vessel's emergency set. The actual
result was the same. The _West Barbican_, although nearest to the
_Passionflower_ when she first began the call for aid, had passed by
unheedingly. Had she proceeded to the spot she could have towed the
crippled vessel into Portsmouth or Southampton with very little
difficulty.
This is what the Portsmouth tug _Sampson_ did, the _Passionflower_
being dry-docked just in time to save her from foundering. In the
Admiralty courts the salvage earned the _Sampson_ L11,000, and this the
_West Barbican_ lost simply and solely through Watcher Plover's
incapacity.