Hot Work in No. 1 Hold
The S.S. _West Barbican_ was within a couple of days of Cape Town. The
weather, although still warm, had lost much of the sweltering heat,
thanks to the influence of the Trades.
The ship was rolling badly. For the last ten days she had been on her
best behaviour in that respect; but now she was making up for lost
time. There was a high sea running, and the ship's alley-ways to the
saloon were ankle-deep in water.
With the glass falling rapidly the seas increased in violence. It was
evident that the _West Barbican_ would receive a heavy dusting within
the next few hours.
"Hanged if I like the look of things, Preston," admitted Captain
Bullock, sniffing the approaching storm from afar. "We're in for
something."
"We are, sir," agreed the Acting Chief. "And I'm not altogether
satisfied with that steelwork. Bad enough cargo at any time, but I've
an idea something's working adrift in No. 1 hold. I'll get Anstey to
have a look at it."
The Old Man concurred.
"Tell the serang to warn the lascars," he added. "We don't want broken
limbs and all that sort of thing."
At an order a party of lascars assembled for the purpose of securing
any of the cargo that might have broken adrift. Presently Anstey,
wearing sea-boots, made his way along the lurching deck. He was not at
all keen on this particular job. Hounding about in the semi-darkness
of the hold and in momentary danger of being crushed by a mass of
shifting metal was not a pleasing outlook. But it was duty, and Anstey
was not a shirker.
The lascars cast off a portion of the tarpaulin and removed the
aftermost of the metal hatches, disclosing the rusty coaming and the
upper portion of a vertical ladder of iron--or, to be more precise, a
ladder that was nominally vertical. In present conditions it was
swaying with the ship, and describing an erratic curve with a maximum
heel of twenty degrees.
Steadying himself by the coaming, Anstey felt with his left foot for
the topmost rung. Then, gripping the sides of the ladder, he began the
descent.
Very little daylight found its way into the narrow space afforded by
the displaced hatch. In fact Anstey soon found himself in gloom
approaching total darkness. The air too, after being confined for
weeks, was dank and distinctly unwholesome. There was an acute smell
from the fumes given off from the red oxide with which the steelwork
had been coated.
With his rubber-soled boots slithering on the slippery rungs as the
vessel rolled, and gripping strongly with both hands, the Third Officer
descended until at length his feet came in contact with the metal floor
of the hold. The din was terrific. Without, the seas were hammering
on the comparatively thin hull-plating. Bilge-water was foaming and
hissing in the cellular bottom, while the vibration of the engines--the
noise intensified in the confined space--added to the turmoil.
To these noises Anstey paid scant heed. He was listening intently to a
metallic sound, which told him that Preston's precautions had not been
taken in vain. Somewhere in the for'ard part of the hold there was a
regular metallic thud. It came from a mass of metal that had worked
loose from the securing chains.
Anstey's first intention was to order a couple of lascars below.
"May as well do the jolly old job myself," he soliloquized, on second
thoughts.
Fumbling in his pocket he produced his electric torch. For some
minutes he was dazzled by the blinding glare. Then, as his eyes grew
accustomed to the light, he could form a good idea of the difficulties
of his surroundings.
He was standing in a narrow fore-and-aft passage. The walls consisted
of red-painted girders piled up to a height of ten feet on either side
of him. Although secured by chains and upright steel bars they
presented a formidable appearance, as alternately each wall towered
obliquely over his head, the whole mass straining and groaning at its
lashings like a Titan striving to burst his bonds.
Staggering along the narrow passage, for the erratic movement of the
hold was totally different from the heave and pitch to which Anstey was
accustomed on deck, the Third Officer made his way cautiously forward,
critically examining the metal gripes that secured the awkward cargo.
Suddenly he stopped. A cold perspiration stood out on his forehead.
Danger, imminent danger, stared him in the face. Danger not only to
himself but to the ship and her passengers and crew.
Three feet above his head a huge girder was chattering and quivering.
The chain that secured it to its fellows had at one time been set up by
a massive bottle screw. Possibly the thread was an easy one, but, in
any case, the constant working of the ship had caused the bottle screw
to "run back". It was now holding by a couple of threads at the most,
and momentarily the securing chain might fly asunder.
Anstey realized what that meant. The fifty-ton girder would crush and
pulp him to a jelly. Not only that; it would to a certainty start the
bottom plates of the hull and shatter the bulkheads of No. 1 hold as
well. That meant that the _West Barbican_ would plunge like a stone to
the bed of the Atlantic.
Thrusting the barrel of his torch under the strap of his peaked cap,
Anstey replaced the headgear, jamming it on so that the peak was over
his right ear. That gave him a direct light to work with.
Then, pulling out the marline-spike of his knife, and holding it
between his teeth, Anstey began to scale the precarious wall of steel
until he could tackle the almost disjointed bottle screw.
It seemed an eternity climbing that five or six feet. To his agitated
mind it seemed as if the girders were already slipping bodily upon him.
As his toes sought an insecure hold he could feel the steelwork
trembling. With each lurch of the vessel to starboard the bottle screw
strained, until the young officer felt certain that the last two
threads had stripped and the last restraining bonds had been loosed.
At last he found himself in a position to tackle his task. With one
foot resting on a girder on one side of the passage, and the other on
the opposite side, and steadying himself as best he could with his left
hand, Anstey inserted the point of the marline-spike in the slot of the
bottle screw.
Then he began to turn the locking device, slowly and firmly.
[Illustration: HE BEGAN TO TURN THE LOCKING DEVICE, SLOWLY AND FIRMLY]
At first he was seized with the terrifying idea that the threads were
not gripping. With the torch in his cap throwing its rays erratically
with every movement of his head, Anstey felt convinced that his efforts
were in vain.
He went on turning and turning, barking his knuckles as the tapering
spike slipped again and again. Then, with a grunt of satisfaction, he
saw that the ends of the threaded bolts had reappeared.
Even as he looked, the torch slipped from his cap and clattered to the
metal floor. The hold was plunged into darkness.
His first impulse was to make for the open air. In the darkness the
difficulties of working in the place were redoubled. It required a
determined effort to force himself to his incompleted task.
Solely by sense of touch he carried on, until he had the joy of feeling
the reunited ends of the threaded bars. That part of the business was
finished until next time, he decided.
Regaining the floor, he felt his way between the piled-up girders until
his hand came in contact with the ladder. Twenty-five feet above his
head he could see a rectangular patch of light, one edge broken by the
heads and shoulders of half a dozen lascars.
Up the ladder Anstey swarmed, drinking in copious draughts of the pure,
salt-laden air.
But his task was incomplete. He must make sure that everything in No.
1 hold was secure.
"Thatcher, old son," he exclaimed, as he encountered one of the junior
engineers. "Lend me your torch, there's a good sort. I've scuppered
mine."
Thatcher fumbled in the pocket of his dungarees.
"Here you are, you careless blighter," he replied. "Skylarking, I
suppose? Well, take care of my gadget, anyway."
Again Anstey descended the hold and completed his survey. The clang of
shifting steel had ceased.
When, after an hour's absence, he regained the bridge, Preston was not
to be seen, but the skipper spotted the dishevelled youth and sung out
to him.
"Well?" queried the Old Man.
"All correct, sir," reported Anstey. "The----"
"Good," rejoined the Captain, without waiting for the Third's
explanation. "Carry on."
Anstey turned away to "carry on". It was his watch below. The job in
No. 1 hold was merely an extra. He was still feeling the effects of
his desperate efforts in the confined space, and the idea of turning in
before he had had a "breather" did not appeal to him.
On the lee side of the bridge he encountered Mostyn.
"Hello, old thing," was Peter's greeting. "What have you been up to?
You look a bit green about the gills."
"Nothing much," replied Anstey. "Just been giving an eye to your
father's ironmongery. Yes, it's all right. Got a cigarette? My case
is down below. Thanks awfully."