A Night of Horror
Acting Chief Officer Dick Preston, on receiving the Old Man's order to
get the boats away, lost no time in getting to the scene of operations.
The frantic rush of the lascars to the boat-deck warned him of what to
expect. He had seen the panic-stricken clamour of a crew of
white-livered dagoes, had watched them tumble pell-mell into the sole
remaining boat, and had witnessed the result--a swamped whaler and
twenty men struggling for dear life, and struggling in vain in the icy
cold water off the Newfoundland Banks. That was many years ago, but
the lesson had not been lost on Dick Preston.
Hurriedly loading his revolver, the Acting Chief gained the boat-deck.
Already the native crew had swung out one of the boats, and a fierce
struggle was in progress between the lascars and the firemen as to who
should go away in her.
There was no love lost between the two classes. They were of different
races, the lascars hailing from Bombay while the firemen were recruited
from the Coromandel coast; they were of different faith, the former
being Mahommedans, the latter Buddhists. It needed little to cause a
row. When it came to a struggle for life the natives were in a state
bordering upon madness.
"Chup rao!" shouted Preston, levelling his revolver. "Belay there!
Stand fast!"
For a moment the lascars and firemen hesitated. Then, as the ship
shook and staggered as the bulkhead of No. 2 hold gave way, they surged
in a living torrent into the out-swung boat, regardless of the revolver
shots which the Acting Chief fired over their heads.
Preston made no further attempt to restore order on the boat-deck. If
the men disobeyed orders he was no longer responsible for their safety.
He passed along until he came to a knot of comparatively amenable
Madrasis, who had been gathered together by Anstey and two of the
engineers.
"Right-o, old man!" exclaimed the Acting Chief to the Third Officer.
"Lower away! You take command, and good luck to you."
Quickly, yet with good discipline, the boat was manned and
lowered--Anstey, the two engineers, and Mr. Shallop in the stern-sheets.
"Keep in company, Mr. Anstey," shouted Preston, as the falls swung free.
"Ay, ay, sir," was the reply, followed by the order: "give way."
Anstey's boat was barely clear of the side when the first boat to be
swung out was let go with a run. Greatly overcrowded, it struck the
water with tremendous force. The impact broke her back, and in a
moment she filled, leaving the frantic natives floundering in the
water. Some were crushed as the sea flung the waterlogged craft
against the ship's side. Others strove to clamber into the boat, only
to destroy her slight buoyancy. In the melee knives were used with
deadly effect, until only half a dozen men, who had swum clear of the
boat, were left out of the thirty odd who had crowded into her.
It had been both Preston's and Anstey's plan to get the women away
first; but each had quickly realized that this was out of the question.
For one thing, neither Mrs. Shallop nor Olive was on the boat-deck.
For another, it was useless to attempt to place them in the boats until
the panic-stricken mob was effectively dealt with.
Two more boats, each under the charge of an engineer, and with three or
four stewards, got away with difficulty. The crowd on the boat-deck
had thinned considerably.
"Now, then, where are the women?" demanded Preston. He was not
altogether certain whether they had already got away, for, save for the
less frequent flashes of lightning, the scene was in total darkness.
"Here you are, Preston!" shouted a voice that the Acting Chief
recognized as the Purser's.
A bluish glare, a prolonged flash, enabled Preston to see the missing
passengers. The Purser was literally dragging Mrs. Shallop along the
deck, while Olive was close behind.
For once Mrs. Shallop was silent. She was unconscious.
"I wondered why she wasn't complaining that she was not being treated
as a lady," thought Preston grimly. "That accounts for it."
Together, the Acting Chief and the Purser unceremoniously bundled the
insensible woman into the last boat but one on the port side. Those on
the starboard were useless, for, owing to the excessive heel, they
could not be lowered clear of the sloping side.
"Now, Miss Baird."
Guided by Preston the girl entered the boat, in which were three
lascars--one of them Mahmed, Peter's boy.
"Where's Mostyn?" shouted the Acting Chief. "Partridge! Plover!
Hurry up, now!"
He called in vain. The two Watchers had already got clear of the ship.
Mostyn was still vainly endeavouring to get the SOS message through.
Meanwhile the Purser, the Chief Steward, and the remaining natives had
lowered the last available boat. Preston was left alone on the
boat-deck--a fact that was revealed to him when the next
lightning-flash rent the sky.
"Where's the Captain?" he shouted, hailing the boats lying a short
distance away. "Anyone seen Captain Bullock?"
By this time the water was washing over the well-deck. At any moment
the _West Barbican_ might turn turtle.
A voice from one of the boats replied:
"Here!"
"What's that?" bawled Preston.
"All right," answered the voice.
The Acting Chief was puzzled. It was not the Old Man's voice, but
perhaps Captain Bullock had been injured. He had not seen the skipper
since he left him on the bridge. Apparently the bridge was deserted.
It looked untenable owing to the great list of the ship.
A muffled explosion, as yet another bulkhead gave way under the
pressure of water, warned Preston that it was time for him to go. It
was his duty to take charge of the boat in which were the two women
passengers.
Leaping into the boat, Preston signed to Mahmed to help him with the
after falls, at the same time shouting to the other two lascars to
lower away handsomely.
Although there was no one on deck to man the falls, it was a fairly
easy matter to lower away the comparatively light boat with only six
persons on board, the distance from the davit-heads to the water being
only about ten feet, so deep had the ship settled.
"Fend off!" ordered Preston, as he jerked the lever of the patent
disengaging gear.
Even as he spoke the heavy metal block of the lower after falls swung
violently outwards. In the darkness the Acting Chief did not see the
impending danger.
The next instant the swaying lump of metal struck Preston full on the
temple. Without a groan or a cry he pitched headlong upon the
stern-sheet gratings.
It was Mahmed who discovered the apparently lifeless form of the Chief
Officer. He communicated his discovery to his compatriots, and an
excited conversation ensued. Meanwhile the boat was drifting aimlessly
at less than ten yards from the _West Barbican's_ port quarter. Until
it occurred to the lascars--who were arguing on a question of
precedence as to who should now give orders--that there was imminent
danger of the boat being swamped by the suction of the foundering ship,
they made no effort to man the oars.
When about a hundred yards from the ship the lascars ceased rowing and
resumed their argument.
All this time Olive had done what lay in her power to render Mrs.
Shallop's plight less painful. She was in utter ignorance of the
accident that had befallen the luckless Acting Chief Officer, although
she was rather puzzled at the lack of discipline displayed by the
lascars, and the fact that the officer in charge of the boat made no
attempt to check the dispute.
Another vivid sheet of lightning illumined the scene, but Olive was not
looking into the boat. Her attention was attracted by the sight of two
men standing on the listing bridge of the ill-fated _West Barbican_.
The glare was of sufficient duration to enable her to distinguish
Captain Bullock and Mostyn. She saw the former raise his hand and
beckon the boat to pull clear. He was shouting something, but in the
turmoil the words were indistinguishable.
The long-drawn lightning flash ended, leaving the girl blinking in
Stygian darkness.
"There's Captain Bullock and Mostyn still on board, Mr. Preston," she
exclaimed, in anxious tones. "Can't we put back to fetch them?"
There was no reply.
In a louder tone Olive repeated the question of entreaty.
Still there was no answer.
The lascar bowman resumed his oar, pulling the boat's head round.
Finding his companion idle he prodded him in the back with his foot,
with the result that the man gave a few desultory strokes. In the
utter darkness the lascars had lost all sense of direction, and,
instead of pulling away from the ship, they were slightly closing with
her.
Suddenly a hissing sound rent the air. It was the ship plunging
beneath the waves. The boat, caught by the turmoil of the tempestuous
seas, was thrown about like a cork. One of the men was hurled off the
thwart by the loom of his oar striking him in the face. The oar was
swept from his grasp and lost overboard.
To Olive, crouching on the bottom-boards, it seemed as if the boat were
being lifted vertically. The movement reminded her of the sudden and
unexpected starting of a lift. Then, heeling terribly, the boat dipped
her gunwale under, and a cascade poured into her until Olive was
sitting waist deep in water.
Her first act was to raise Mrs. Shallop's head. The shock of the water
had caused that lady partly to recover consciousness. She was moaning
and coughing.
The violent motion lasted for quite a minute, then the maelstrom
subsided, and the partly waterlogged boat bobbed sluggishly on the
waves. The lascars, now roused to activity, were baling furiously with
their hands, since in the darkness it was impossible to find the baler
which was supposed to be in the boat.
"Mr. Preston!" exclaimed Olive once more.
"Preston Sahib he dead man," was Mahmed's startling announcement,
although the words were delivered with the imperturbability of the
Asiatic.
The horror of the situation gripped the plucky girl. Throughout the
period between the explosion and the foundering of the _West Barbican_
she had been perfectly self-possessed, her chief solicitude being for
her tyrannical employer. Now the full magnitude of the disaster became
apparent. She and the unconscious Mrs. Shallop were alone in the boat
with three apparently incapable lascars. Preston was, presumably,
dead; Mostyn she had seen standing on the bridge just before the ship
sank, keeping up the traditions of the Wireless Service to remain at
his post as long as the ship was afloat and the transmitting apparatus
was capable of being worked.
The other boats were neither to be seen nor heard. Whether they were
still standing by or whether they were making for the nearest land the
girl knew not.
She would have welcomed another lightning flash, out none came. The
electrical storm had passed. Rain was now falling heavily, and the
total absence of wind was ominous. It presaged a hard blow, possibly a
storm, at no distant date.
Olive was thinking deeply. It was "up to her" to show the lascars that
a British woman is not helpless in a tight corner.
"If only it were light," she thought.
Then she remembered that the boats usually carried an emergency
equipment, an oil lamp amongst other things.
"Mahmed," she ordered, "get the boat's lamp from the stern-locker and
light it."
She would have found it herself, but for the fact that Preston's body
lay on the stern-gratings. She frankly admitted to herself that
nothing could induce her to grope her way past that in the darkness.
The two lascars were still baling in the bows. They too were reluctant
to go aft, where, by removing the stern-sheet gratings, they could deal
more effectually with the water in the bilges.
Mahmed obeyed without protest. Olive could hear the search in
progress; first the clatter of the detached locker-cover, as it slipped
upon the stern-sheets, then the rasping of a metal-bound keg, and the
metallic clank of the lamp.
"No can do, memsahib," reported Mahmed. "No light, no match."
"Look again," commanded the girl. Unless some unprincipled person had
purloined them, there ought to be matches in a watertight box along
with the rest of the gear in the after locker.
A further search proved futile. The boats and their gear had been
inspected by the officer of the watch only that morning, and had been
reported as being in good condition and fully equipped in every
respect. Either Anstey, as inspecting officer, had shirked his whole
duty or else, which to Olive seemed unlikely, the matches had been
stolen in broad daylight.
"See if there are matches in Preston Sahib's pocket," said the girl.
But Mahmed drew the line at that. In his quaint English he explained,
giving several reasons that seemed puerile.
"I suppose it's hardly fair to get him to do what I daren't do myself,"
thought the girl. Then, summoning up her resolution, she leant over
the stroke-thwart, and shudderingly groped for the Acting Chief's
pockets.
To her delight she found a box of Swedish matches in the breast pocket
of Preston's drill patrol jacket. Before she could withdraw her hand
the supposedly dead man moved slightly, but none the less perceptibly.
That altered the situation. Olive was no longer dealing with a corpse,
but with a living person. Instinctively she placed her hand over
Preston's heart. It was beating very feebly.
"Here are matches, Mahmed!" she exclaimed. "Light the lamp quickly.
Preston Sahib is not dead."
It seemed an interminable delay before Mahmed succeeded in getting the
lamp lighted. The matches were damp, the wick wanted trimming, and the
colza oil was a long time before it gave out a flame.
At length the lamp was lighted, and there was quite a steady light, and
the transition from utter darkness imparted confidence.
Giving a hasty look at Mrs. Shallop, to see that she was still in the
recovering stage, Olive turned to the more important work in hand.
Preston looked a ghastly sight. One side of his face had been badly
injured, while the concussion had caused blood to ooze from his eyes,
nose, and mouth.
Olive's first step was to wash the injured man's face and moisten his
lips with water. She had the good sense to use salt water for the
washing process, knowing that the contents of the water-beaker were
likely to be more precious than gold before the adventure was over.
Then, pillowing the patient's head on a sail and covering him with a
piece of tarpaulin, she debated as to what was to be done next.
Clearly Preston's case required medical aid. Selwyn was in one of the
boats, but whether they were in company or not Olive had no idea.
"Hold up the lamp, Mahmed," she ordered. "High up."
The boy obeyed, while Olive, shading her eyes from the heavy rain,
peered around in case any of the other boats might be displaying a
light. It was a doubtful point. Even if they had, the torrential
downpour would tremendously curtail the range of visibility of the
low-powered light.
In fact, held high above Mahmed's head, the rays simply illuminated a
circular patch of rain-threshed water, a little more than a dozen yards
in radius, Beyond was an impenetrable wall of darkness.
An involuntary cry came from Olive Baird's lips. She could hardly
believe the evidence of her eyes, for floating inertly within an oar's
length of the boat was a man--Peter Mostyn.
Whether he was alive or dead Olive knew not. His usually tanned
features looked a ghastly greenish hue, his eyes were closed, and his
head was hanging sideways. His arms were moving slightly, but the
movement was purely automatic as the lifebelt-clad figure lifted to the
gentle undulations of the sea.
Startled by Olive's cry, Mahmed looked in the direction to which the
girl was pointing. His fright at seeing, as he thought, the dead body
of his master, was almost disastrous in its result. The upheld lamp
slipped from his nerveless fingers and fell clattering upon the
gunwale. For an instant it seemed uncertain whether it would drop into
the sea or not, but luckily a movement of the boat slid it inboard.
But the fall had extinguished the lamp. Mahmed was in too much of a
blue funk to relight it. Olive settled the question by taking the box
of matches from him and lighting it herself.
Neither of the two lascars for'ard would move a finger to row towards
the Wireless Officer. Superstition akin to panic held them in its
grip. They would not--they could not--use their oars. Every bit of
courage seemed to have oozed out of them.
Seizing one of the spare oars lying across the thwarts, Olive, using
the unwieldy ash paddle-wise, slowly brought the boat nearer and nearer
the seemingly inanimate man. Had there been any wind the task would
have been almost impossible, owing to the high freeboard of the lightly
laden boat; but in the absence of even a faint breeze Olive was able to
accomplish her aim.
With a sigh of relief she threw down the oar, and, leaning over the
gunwale, grasped Peter by one arm.