The End of S.S. "_West Barbican_"
Throughout the day the scantily clothed Bantu workmen had been busily
engaged in unloading the steelwork. The natives, unlike their
Portuguese masters, had to keep hard at it, with the result that by the
time "knock-off" was announced and the Bantus, resuming their calico
skirt-like garments, had trooped ashore, the S.S. _West Barbican_ drew
five feet less for'ard than when she crossed the bar. Captain
Bullock's interview with Senhor Jose Aguilla was of a mutually
satisfactory nature. The latter undertook to store and look after the
consignment of the Kilba Protectorate until such time as it was claimed
by the authorities. The terms were so many thousand milreis per month,
a sum that on paper looked truly formidable, but actually was equal to
about seven pounds of English money.
The Old Man was pleased to get the steelwork off his hands so
reasonably. Senhor Aguilla was pleased because he had the steelwork on
his hands. That was the difference.
The Portuguese knew that the longer the consignment remained unclaimed
the longer he would continue to draw a fairly substantial sum for
wharfage and storage; and, although he promised to forward a letter to
the Kilba Protectorate agent at Pangawani by the next weekly steamer,
he meant to take steps to prevent, for as long as he possibly could,
the information concerning the steelwork reaching the proper quarter.
Having, as he thought, satisfactorily settled with Senhor Aguilla
Captain Bullock sent for his Wireless Officer.
"That means a ticking off, I expect," thought Peter, when Mahmed
delivered the message. "The Old Man's rattled about his motor-launch."
Mostyn was only partly right in his surmise. Captain Bullock was
annoyed, which was natural enough. No boat-owner likes to have his
craft damaged, especially when he is not on board. He has a sort of
feeling that the accident, whatever it might be, would not have
occurred had he been present. It was an awkward mishap. Until the
_West Barbican_ returned to Durban, or some other large port, it would
be hopeless to expect to obtain a new propeller.
But the skipper, in spite of his bluntness, was a just man. He dealt
with cases impartially, and no one having been censured by him had good
reason to doubt his judgment.
Peter went to the skipper's cabin and reported the circumstances of the
accident. The Old Man listened attentively until the Wireless Officer
had finished his narrative; then he pointed to a chart of Bulonga
Harbour that was lying on the desk.
"Show me where the stranding occurred, Mr. Mostyn. What, there? On
the port-hand side of the channel?"
"Yes, sir."
Captain Bullock had no cause to doubt Peter's word, but he made up his
mind to question the two lascars who were in the boat, and also to see
if Miss Baird could throw any light upon the matter.
"H'm. I suppose the river has changed its bed," he remarked. "African
rivers have a nasty habit of doing that. It was unfortunate that you
struck a snag; otherwise it wouldn't have mattered very much. All
right, carry on."
Abdullah Bux and his compatriot could give no definite information.
Miss Baird, for the present, was not available. The strident tones of
Mrs. Shallop indicated pretty clearly that the lady was bullying the
girl for her prolonged and involuntary absence.
At sunrise next morning the _West Barbican_, drawing considerably less
water than she had done eighteen hours previously, recrossed the bar.
The Portuguese pilot was dropped, and a course steered to pass through
the broad Mozambique Channel. Without exception all on board were glad
to get away from the malodorous harbour of Bulonga.
On the afternoon of the seventh day after leaving Durban the weather
"came on dirty". A heavy wind from the east'ard raised a nasty sea,
which would have been angry but for the torrential downpour of rain
that had the effect of beating down the crested waves.
As darkness set in the sky was almost one continuous blaze of vivid
sheet lightning. The rain was still heavy but the wind piped down,
blowing softly from the nor'-east.
"We haven't seen the last of this yet," declared Preston. "The glass
is a bit jumpy. It'll blow like billy-ho before morning. How about
your aerial, Sparks? Aren't you going to disconnect it?"
The two officers, clad in oilskins and precious little else, were
keeping the first watch. There was nothing doing in the
wireless-cabin. Atmospherics were present, but, apart from these
disturbances, no sound had been audible in the telephones during the
best part of Peter's watch. Insufferably hot, he had put on an oilskin
and had gone out for a breather.
"No need," he replied. "At least not until we get forked lightning."
"I'm not sorry we've got shot of that steelwork," remarked the Acting
Chief after a pause. "It's awkward stuff to carry. But the trouble of
it is that removing it has altered our deviation. The compass cannot
possibly be the same with that enormous amount of metal taken out of
the ship. I suggested to the Old Man that we ought to have swung the
old hooker before we left Bulonga and adjusted compasses. But he was
in a hurry to get under way, and, apart from that, the harbour was so
shallow that we couldn't get a clear swing. She's not far out on this
bearing. I took a sight at the Southern Cross for that. Talking of
compasses: did you hear that yarn about the Flinder's bar?"
"About the candidate for Mate's certificate who told the examiner that:
'There ain't no pub o' that name in Gravesend'?" asked Peter.
"No, but that's not so dusty," replied Preston. "My yarn concerns an
old skipper in the Penguin Line. He was----"
But Mostyn was not to hear the anecdote.
A violent concussion, as if the ship had struck a rock, almost threw
the two men off their feet. A muffled report followed.
"Mined, by Jove!" exclaimed Preston, in the brief lull that succeeded
the detonation.
Then pandemonium was let loose. The lascars, yelling and shouting,
poured on deck, followed by a mob of native firemen. Capable enough in
ordinary circumstances, the Indians lacked the stolidity and grim
courage of British crews when disaster, sudden and unexpected, stared
them in the face.
Captain Bullock was quickly on the bridge. He could do little or
nothing to allay the panic, for the native petty officers were as
frantic as the rest. To add to the difficulties of the situation,
every light on board went out. Vast clouds of smoke and steam were
issuing through the engine-room fiddleys. The propeller was slowing
down. The engineer on watch had, on his own initiative, cut off steam
and opened the high-pressure gauges.
The Old Man shouted through the speaking-tube to the engine-room.
There was no response.
Just then, in the glare of the lightning, he caught sight of Anstey,
who, awakened by the explosion, had hurried to the bridge in his
pyjamas and uniform cap.
"Nip below, Mr. Anstey, and see the extent of the damage," he ordered.
Anstey turned to obey. At the head of the bridge-ladder he encountered
Crawford, the engineer of the watch.
"Nice sort of night to be in the ditch, laddie," exclaimed Crawford, as
he elbowed his way past the Third Officer. "How far is to land,
anyway?"
Crawford was on his way to report to the bridge. He had been flung
violently on the bed-plates when the explosion occurred. Upon
regaining his feet he found the engine-room in darkness save for the
feeble glimmer of an oil lamp. Water was pouring in like a sluice
through a rent in the after bulkhead that separated the engine-room
from No. 3 hold. The firemen, panic-stricken, were bolting on deck.
Neither by words nor action could Crawford stem the human tide of
affrighted Asiatics.
Quietly he made his way to the platform and awaited orders from the
bridge. The telegraph remained silent, the indicator on the dial still
pointing to "Full Ahead".
By this time the water in the stokeholds was damping the fires, and
Crawford deemed it prudent to shut off steam and open the escape valves
in order to avert an explosion of the boilers.
Knee deep in the oily water that slushed to and fro as the ship rolled,
the engineer of the watch groped his way through clouds of steam until
his self-appointed task was done. Then, after shouting in case anyone
else had remained below, he effected his retreat and at once made for
the bridge to report to the Old Man.
"She's going, Mr. Preston," declared Captain Bullock.
"She is, sir," agreed the Acting Chief. Experience had taught him the
now unmistakable symptoms of a foundering ship.
"Call away the boats," continued the Old Man "If you've trouble with
that mob use your revolver, Preston. Don't hesitate. Remember we've
women on board. Use your discretion as to what boat you stow 'em in."
The Acting Chief hurried off, pausing outside the wireless-room to give
Mostyn the last known position of the ship, which information was a
necessary adjunct to the SOS call.
Peter had not been idle. The moment the seriousness of the situation
became apparent he was back at his post in the wireless-cabin.
The shutting off of steam had automatically stopped the dynamo. In any
case, the explosion had severed the "leads". The main set was out of
action. Mostyn had to fall back upon the emergency gear.
For quite ten minutes he contrived to call up, but no reassuring reply
came through in reply to the urgent appeal for aid. There were ships
within range of the emergency set, that Peter knew. He had spoken them
earlier in the evening.
"Either atmospherics or else they've another Partridge and Plover on
board," he thought grimly. "Wonder where my birds are?"
The two Watchers ought to have been on the bridge by this time. In
case of distress it was their duty to "fall in" outside the
wireless-cabin and await instructions. Neither had done so.
The floor of the cabin had quite an acute list by this time. It was
only by propping his legs against the lee bulkhead that Mostyn could
keep seated. He realized perfectly well that the ship was sinking
rapidly, but it is part of an unwritten code of honour that a wireless
officer "stands by" until he is ordered away by his skipper or swept
from his post by the sea itself.
Even as he waited, still sending out the unacknowledged SOS, he thought
of Olive Baird, wondering how she was faring in the horrors of the
night. If he only knew--but perhaps for his peace of mind it was as
well that he did not.
Above the turmoil without came the report of two pistol shots in quick
succession. There was no mistaking the sharp cracks. They differed
completely from the detonations of the distress rockets that at
intervals were fired from the bridge, on the chance that a vessel in
the vicinity might proceed to the aid of the foundering ship.
The pistol shots reminded Peter of something that he might otherwise
have overlooked. Without removing the telephones from his ears he
groped and found his automatic and a box of cartridges.
"No knowing when it might come in useful," he soliloquized, as he
thrust the weapon into his hip pocket. "While I'm about it I might as
well get dressed."
With considerable difficulty, owing to the now terrific list of the
ship, he contrived to throw off his oilskin and don his white patrol
suit over his pyjamas. Then, putting on his oilskin once more, he
waited.
He had not much longer to wait.
"Any luck?" inquired the Old Man, who was gripping the doorway of the
wireless-cabin with both hands in order to prevent himself slipping
bodily to lee'ard.
"No, sir," replied Mostyn.
"Then chuck it," continued the skipper. "Look nippy. She's nearly
gone. Where's your life-belt?"
A slight recovery on the part of the stricken _West Barbican_ enabled
Peter and the skipper to gain the weather bridge rail, the former
securing a lifebelt from the chest by the side of the chartroom.
It was a weird and terrible sight that met Mostyn's eyes as he clung to
the rail. The vivid flashes of lightning threw the scene into strong
relief as the bluish glare illumined the night.
Not only was the ship listing to port. She was well down by the stern,
her poop being practically submerged. From the lee side of the
boat-deck a row of empty davits overhung the black water, the lower
blocks of the disengaged falls flogging the ship's side like a series
of blows with a sledge-hammer.
A cable's length away was one of the boats with only half a dozen
people in her. Another more laden was a little distance away, the
rowers laying on their oars. A third, deep in the water, was
laboriously putting away from the ship. A fourth, waterlogged, with
her bow and the top of the transom showing above the surface, was
drifting at some distance astern of the ship, while a fifth was
floating bottom upwards with five or six lascars struggling to clamber
upon the upturned keel.
"We'll have to shift for ourselves, Mostyn," said the Old Man calmly.
"The best of luck!"
The people in the sparely manned boat, noting the skipper and the
Wireless Officer on the bridge, began to back towards the foundering
ship.
"Avast there!" bawled Captain Bullock. "Stand off. Keep clear of the
suction. She's going!"
With a shudder like an animal in mortal pain the staunch old ship made
her final plunge. Amidst the rending of wood, as the enormous pressure
of confined air burst the decks asunder, and the crash of the funnel as
the guys carried away, she slid stern foremost beneath the waves.
Then a violent rush of water swept Peter off the shelving planking of
the bridge. He was conscious of being flung heavily against some solid
object, turned round and round like a slowly spinning top, and being
dragged down, down, down.
Vainly he tried to keep his breath. The pressure on his lungs became
intolerable. He was barely conscious of struggling madly in the
crushing embrace of the black water.
Then everything became a blank.