Mostyn to the Rescue
For a brief instant the danger and suddenness of the catastrophe were
hardly realized. Assembled for a pageant the passengers were horrified
into silence by the unexpected turn of events. Then a woman shrieked,
and the spell was broken. Almost every one of the occupants of the
deck-chairs stood up and rushed to the side, shouting as if noise would
help the two men struggling for their lives.
The lascars too seemed incapable of action. They flocked to the side
of the ship, and gazed seemingly without emotion into the deep-blue
water.
At the shout of "Man overboard!" raised by Anstey, the officer of the
watch, Captain Bullock unceremoniously dashed between the groups of
bewildered passengers and gained the bridge. Even in his haste his
brain was solving a ready problem. Who was to go away in the lifeboat?
The Acting Chief was struggling for dear life in the "ditch". He could
swim well, as the Old Man knew, but after his strenuous wrestling bout
had he sufficient strength to keep afloat until picked up? Anstey, as
officer on duty, could not leave the bridge. There was one executive
officer short of the ship's complement, and as far as Captain Bullock
was aware, none of the engineers off duty was capable of managing a
boat, while a bungler at the tiller meant not only delay but probably
failure.
Fortunately the _secuni_ in the wheelhouse had acted promptly, putting
the helm over to port in order to swing the ship's stern clear of the
men in the ditch, and thus avoid the danger of their being cut to
pieces by the propeller. They were now a good four hundred yards
astern, while between them and the ship was a line of lifebuoys thrown
with fine indiscrimination by the passengers. The nearest lifebuoy to
the two exhausted men was at least a hundred yards away.
During the interrupted revels the _West Barbican_ had reduced speed,
and already Anstey had rung down for "Stop".
"Let go the lifeboat--away lifeboat's crew," bawled the Old Man, as he
moved the telegraph indicator to full speed astern; then, leaning over
the bridge rails, he hailed a grotesquely garbed figure standing
motionless and alert on the temporary dais:
"Mr. Mostyn: take charge of the lifeboat."
With a feeling of elation Peter rushed to carry out the order. This
time there was no question of it. The Old Man had spoken. It was a
tribute to the Wireless Officer's capabilities in a province that was
not strictly his own.
Urged by the shrill cries of the serang and tindal of the watch the
lascars had now formed up on the boat-deck. Some had then their places
in the out-swung boat, while others stood by the falls ready to lower
away.
Although the engines had been going full speed astern the _West
Barbican_ was still forging ahead when Peter jumped into the
stern-sheets of the lifeboat. She was still carrying way when the
falls were disengaged and the boat pushed off from the ship's side.
"Soft job this," soliloquized Mostyn. "The sea's calm, the water's
warm, and old Preston and the other fellow have got hold of the
lifebuoy. Tumbling into the ditch under these conditions is a
picnic--Hello, though--is it?"
* * * * *
To say the least of it, Preston was both surprised and indignant when
he found himself hurtling through space in the vice-like grip of his
antagonist. It was poor consolation to know that there was someone
else in the same predicament. What was particularly galling was the
fact that he, a veteran officer of the Mercantile Marine, should be
such an ass as to skylark and then fall overboard in so doing.
These thoughts flashed through his mind during the time he dropped
through thirty odd feet of space between the deck of the ship and the
surface of the water. Then the terrific impact with the Atlantic Ocean
abruptly ended his reveries of self-reproach.
To a certain extent it was fortunate that the two men remained
interlocked during their fall. Hunched up after the manner of a diver
doing a "honey-pot" from a spring-board they got off comparatively
lightly, although the impact was fairly severe, and had the effect of
depriving them of most of the scanty breath left after their strenuous
encounter.
"The blighter will grip like grim death," thought Preston, as he sank
fathoms down; "I'll have a deuce of a job to shake him off."
But the sudden immersion had the unexpected result that the men
mutually released their grip. Perhaps it was that both were good
swimmers and realized that the quickest way to refill their lungs with
air was to strike out for the surface.
They emerged almost simultaneously, gasping and spluttering.
"Not that way!" exclaimed Preston breathlessly, as his companion in
misfortune began striking out for the ship's side. "Mind the prop."
The other realized the danger of being caught by the swiftly moving
blades of the screw, but even then it was only the prompt action of the
_secuni_ at the wheel that saved him from being drawn into the vortex.
"Nothing to worry about," spluttered Preston, as the two bobbed like
corks in the quartering wave. "We'll be picked up all right. My aunt!
Look at them! Well, they might have chucked them on our heads."
He referred to the injudicious volley of lifebuoys. Although the ship
was carrying way the passengers were still engaged in dumping the
Company's property into the sea.
His companion laughed. Regaining his breath he was also regaining his
boisterous spirits, although he had to admit that the struggle,
followed by a thirty-odd foot fall had severely taxed his splendid
brawn and muscle.
"You don't look in your element, Preston," he remarked, "even though
you are Father Neptune."
"Was," corrected the absentee Acting Chief Officer, proceeding to
relieve himself of the encumbrance of his scanty garb of trailing
seaweed and oyster-shells. "Come on; we may as well strike out for the
nearest of that line of lifebuoys. Breast stroke. There's no great
hurry, and it's less tiring."
Although the passenger had gone overboard wearing boxing-gloves, that
had remained on his hands despite his wrestling bout, one had
disappeared during his submergence. Preston remarked on it.
"Yes," rejoined the other. "Might just as well hang on to this one,
although one's not much use. Cost me a couple of Bradbury's just
before we left England. I say, do you mind telling me this: I declare
I've crossed the Line without being initiated. Is that so?"
"It is," replied Preston feelingly. "If you'd gone through the thing
tamely we wouldn't have been in the ditch. Why did you ask me?"
By this time both men had swum to the nearest of the far-flung line of
lifebuoys, and, glad of the support, were hanging on lightly at
opposite sides of the buoyant "Kisbie".
"'Cause I want corroboration. Last night Murgatroyd bet me a tenner I
wouldn't escape it. Have I won?"
"You have."
"Right-o, Preston!" was the delighted response. "I'll stand you a
dinner in the swankiest hotel in Adderley Street as soon as we arrive
at Cape Town. That's a deal. Hello! They're lowering a boat. What
are you looking at?"
The Acting Chief Officer had seen the boat being swung out, and was
calculating how long it would take to reach the spot where the lifebuoy
was--calculating whether the boat's crew would find only an unoccupied
lifebuoy floating in a patch of blood-stained sea--for less than fifty
yards away was the black, triangular dorsal fin of an enormous shark.
"Nothing much," replied Preston, as calmly as he could, although the
strained expression of his eyes was sufficient to attract his
companion's curiosity. "Kick as hard as you jolly well can. Make a
splash."
"Shark, eh?" exclaimed the co-partner of the life-buoy. "Right-o! I'm
having my money's worth this trip anyway."
"Splash, man, splash!" was Preston's only rejoinder.
* * * * *
"By Jove, I guess I look a sketch," thought Mostyn, as he steered the
lifeboat towards the two men clinging to the buoy.
He certainly did. Called away hurriedly, he still wore part of his
disguise as Amphitrite, Neptune's Queen. He had cast off his flowing
locks of tow, but his well-powdered face and a vivid patch of rouge on
either cheek looked absolutely grotesque. His costume of muslin (lent
by one of the lady passengers) had suffered horribly during his attempt
to squeeze through the hatch, while the trimmings of seashells and
seaweed added to the weird appearance of the young Wireless Officer.
To facilitate his movements Peter had "gathered in the slack" of his
trailing garments, since without assistance he could not tackle the
numerous safety-pins that his dresser had used in order to make sure
that "nothing would come adrift and carry away".
"Hello, though--is it!" he reiterated, shading his eyes with his left
hand.
Right in the glare reflected in the water his keen eyes had spotted a
tell-tale swirl. Then above the surface appeared an object that
settled his doubts. It was the dorsal fin of a shark.
One of the lascars, looking over his shoulder, saw the danger too. He
raised a shrill cry that had the effect of startling his fellow-oarsmen
and putting them off their stroke.
"_Chup rao!_" (Shut up), shouted Peter sternly. "Pull like blue
blazes."
"Blue blazes" was evidently a stranger to the lascars' vocabulary, but
they understood the word "pull" and guessed the significance of the
rest.
Redoubling their efforts, they made the heavy boat travel rapidly
through the calm water; but Peter realized that if the shark attacked
with any promptitude the rescuers would be too late. He saw that
Preston and his companion in distress were doing the best thing they
could in the circumstances--making a violent splash. Whether the shark
would be scared away was a matter for speculation.
Evidently the tiger of the deep was hungry. He was not devoid of
pluck, for he had begun to swim round and round the two men, the while
drawing nearer to the buoy. At any moment he might make a dart
straight for his victims.
Peter knew this. He had seen a shark seize a South Sea Islander from a
crowd of natives splashing and shouting in the surf. He had seen
another monster seize and devour a dog within ten yards of a boat
putting off to the animal's rescue.
There was no rifle in the lifeboat. In the Royal Navy they do things
differently from the Mercantile Marine. Peter had an automatic. It
was one of the things he took good care to provide himself with after
his experiences in S.S. _Donibristle_; but the weapon was locked up in
his cabin, and in the present circumstances it was like the Dutchman's
anchor.
The boat was now a hundred yards from the life-buoy--the shark ten.
The brute was still circling, sometimes diving, sometimes showing its
head; but up to the present it had shown no sign of preparing to seize
its prey by turning on its back.
A sudden inspiration flashed across Mostyn's mind. In the stern-sheets
of the lifeboat was a box containing amongst other things a Verey's
pistol. It was a weapon not of offence but for humane purposes. It
was fired by means of a cartridge, but, instead of a bullet, it sent up
a vivid coloured light to a height of about two hundred feet.
Peter stooped and opened the lid of the box. Thank Heaven! The pistol
and cartridges were there. Deftly he opened the breech and thrust home
the cardboard cylinder containing the detonator and explosive light;
then, standing on the stern bench and steadying the tiller with one
foot, he levelled the short-barrelled weapon.
For some seconds he waited. The shark in its orbit was immediately
between the lifebuoy and the boat. Preston and his companion were in
as much danger from the pistol as they were from the shark.
The huge fish dived and soon reappeared, this time well to the left of
the buoy. It had partly turned on its back, and its wide-open jaws,
triple lines of pointed teeth, and greenish-white belly were clearly
visible, for by this time the whaler was less than twenty-five yards
away.
It was now or never. The shark was preparing to make a dash for its
victims under the bows of the boat.
Deliberately Peter pressed the trigger. He had to guess for elevation,
knowing nothing of the trajectory of the missile. His aim was good.
The rocket must have disappeared down the capacious maw of the shark,
for there was no sign of the fiercely burning rocket sizzling on the
surface. The satisfactory part of the business was that the shark
disappeared and was seen no more.
Quickly the two men were hauled into the boat, both bordering on a
state of collapse. Then, ordering the lascars to give way, Mostyn
steered for the _West Barbican_, picking up the jettisoned lifebuoys on
the way. He was one who always finished a job properly.