Peter takes Charge of Things
Exerting every ounce of strength, Olive tried and tried in vain to haul
Mostyn into the boat. In normal conditions he was no light weight, and
now, in his waterlogged clothing and wearing a cumbersome lifebelt, he
was so heavy that the girl could do no more than lift his head and
shoulders clear of the water.
She called to the lascars for assistance, but the only reply she
received from the two men for'ard was: "No good; him dead man."
Mahmed, however, although he had no doubt that he was handling a
corpse, came to her aid, although he worked with an averted face. Even
with his assistance Olive had a hard task, but at length Peter was
unceremoniously bundled over the gunwale, and placed in the
stern-sheets close to the unconscious Preston.
Anxiously the girl gazed at his pallid face, hoping to detect some sign
of life. Then she began the operations as laid down in the
instructions for restoring the apparently drowned.
In her schooldays Olive had been taught this useful knowledge, but she
had never before had an opportunity of putting the knowledge to the
test. She felt none too sure of it. Once or twice she found herself
wondering whether she was doing the wrong thing.
For a full half-hour she kept up the respiratory exercises, until, in
the uncertain light of the lantern, she fancied that the colour was
stealing back to Peter's face.
"He is alive; your master isn't dead!" she exclaimed to the hitherto
apathetic Mahmed.
The announcement had an electrical effect upon the Indian boy. Peter
dead was nothing to him; Peter living was his master for whom he had
undoubted affection and devotion.
He began chafing Mostyn's hands, while Olive, now deadly tired,
doggedly continued her efforts.
Mostyn's heart was now beating. His nostrils were quivering. He was
breathing faintly, but with steadily increasing strength. Though
partially choked by the water he had involuntarily swallowed when
carried down by the ship, he had been saved from suffocation by his
lifebelt, which kept his head clear of the water after he had regained
the surface.
Restoring the circulation was the next step. Fortunately both the
water and air were warm, and the dangerous consequences of a prolonged
immersion were mitigated. Had the disaster occurred in other than
tropical waters, the comparatively low temperature would have been
fatal.
At length Peter opened his eyes. He was quite at a loss to grasp the
situation. The lamplight puzzled him. At first he was under the
impression that he was in his bunk, and that either Watcher Partridge
or Watcher Plover had roused him to take in a signal. Somehow that
didn't seem correct. Awkwardly he fumbled for the edge of the bunk
board. Instead, his fingers encountered the stern-grating. Then his
attention was wonderingly attracted by one of the knees of the after
thwart. It had been split, and the sight of it irritated him, although
he didn't know why, exactly.
He was beginning to realize that he was in a boat. How he got there,
and why he should be in it, was a perplexity. It might be the Old
Man's motor-launch--but no! Something was wrong somewhere.
A dozen fantastic theories flashed across his mind, only to be
dismissed so unsatisfactorily that the failure made him angry. One
thing he was certain of. Miss Baird was with him, but what she was
doing there was a baffling problem. He wanted to speak to her, but
hesitated lest that certainty should turn out to be an unreality.
He was still cudgelling his brain when he fell into a fitful and uneasy
sleep.
The short tropical dawn was breaking when Peter awoke. He was now
fully conscious of the events leading up to the foundering of the _West
Barbican_, but was still at a loss to account for his presence in the
boat. Stranger still it was to find that he had not been labouring
under a hallucination with regard to Olive Baird.
The girl was sleeping on the bottom-boards, her head pillowed on a
lifebelt. On the next thwart sat Mrs. Shallop, looking extremely
dishevelled, with her black hair streaming in the wind. For once she
was silent. On recovering consciousness she had grumbled considerably.
Now there was no one to listen to her complaints. Peter had been
asleep; Olive was still slumbering. Preston, although awake, was
decidedly light-headed. As for Mahmed and the two lascars, they were
huddled together in the bows awaiting the appearance of the sun with
its beneficent warmth.
Peter sat up wonderingly. His head swam a little, and he felt as weak
as the proverbial kitten. Some one had covered him with an oilskin.
He wondered who?
It came as a nasty shock to see poor old Preston stretched alongside,
with one half of his face looking as if it had been battered in. The
Acting Chief looked at Peter, but there was no recognition in the look.
"Hello, old man!" exclaimed Mostyn. "How goes it?"
The greeting was ignored. Preston made an effort to place his hand on
his head. The attempt failed. With a groan the Acting Chief rolled
over on his side.
"Water!" he gasped feebly.
Peter dragged the beaker from under the stern bench and moistened the
injured man's lips. His own throat felt dry and parched, but already
he realized the absolute necessity for husbanding the precious fluid.
Preston sighed and closed his eyes. For the time being Peter could do
nothing more for the badly injured Acting Chief.
The Wireless Officer was feeling far too "groggy on his pins" to stand.
Supporting himself by the gunwale, he knelt up and scanned the horizon.
The wind was fresh and the sea fairly high, though regular. The boat,
not under control, was driving broadside on to the wind, her high
freeboard and comparatively light load allowing her to scud at quite a
steady rate. Also, owing to the same circumstances, she rode the seas
well, only an occasional flick of spray finding its way inboard.
The rain had ceased during the night, but the bottom-boards were awash.
The masts and sails were still rolled up and stowed in a painted canvas
cover. Beside them was a bundle of oars, and on top of them a rudder.
The fact that the boat was not under control stirred Peter to action.
Having made sure that none of the rest of the _West Barbican's_ boats
was in sight, he aroused the inert lascars.
"Hai! hai!" he shouted. "Aft, you hands, and set sail."
The men showed no great haste to execute the command.
"Where go? India?" asked one.
"Lay aft, both of you," exclaimed Peter sternly, although in his weak
state he found himself asking how he could enforce obedience. He knew
enough of the native temperament to realize that if he gave a command
and failed to see it carried out, his authority over the lascars was as
good as gone for ever.
"Me tired," objected the other. "No _pani_, no _padi_."
Without another word Mostyn produced and ostentatiously displayed his
automatic. There were great odds against its efficacy, after being
submerged for several hours. The cartridges were supposed to be
watertight, and were well greased. He had little fear on that score.
The difficulty lay in the fact that the delicate mechanism of the
pistol might have been deranged through the action of the salt water.
He felt confident that he could rely upon Mahmed. The boy was a
devoted servant, and true to his salt. And Peter had no doubt about
Miss Baird's ability to aid him if the lascars proved openly mutinous.
For the present Preston was out of the running, while Mrs. Shallop was
literally and figuratively a "passenger".
Greatly to Mostyn's relief the sight of the automatic acted like an
electric shock upon the two lascars. With great agility and speed they
began casting off the sail-cover and setting up the heavy mast.
While they were hoisting the lug-sail Mahmed shipped the rudder, and
soon the boat was slipping along before the breeze.
Peter had been puzzling over the course for some considerable time.
Against the westerly breeze he knew that days might elapse before the
boat made the Mozambique coast. Being light and not provided with a
centre-board, she was unable to sail at all close to the wind. In
fact, it was doubtful whether she would make to windward at all. On
the other hand, she would run well, and, with the knowledge that the
island of Madagascar was somewhere under his lee--it might be anything
between two hundred and four hundred miles--Mostyn decided that the
best chance lay in making for it. There was, of course, a great
possibility of several vessels being in the vicinity. If the boat were
sighted, so much the better. If not--well, they would have to "stick
it out" on very short rations.
A thorough search in the after locker disclosed the fact that there was
an airtight tin containing fourteen pounds of biscuits, another lantern
and a pound of tallow candles, a lead-line, some rusty fishing hooks
and lines (relics of a long-forgotten fishing expedition), a hatchet,
grass rope, and half a dozen signal rockets. Elsewhere in the boat
were a small compass, a water-beaker about three-quarters full, spare
oars, baler, boat-hook, grapnel, and a jib and mizzen sails, besides
the lug that had already been set.
The baler had been nearly filled with rain-water during the night, but
the lascars had drunk every drop. Peter, of course, was ignorant of
this, and when he served out a small quantity all round the lascars
must have congratulated themselves on their astuteness.
The tin of biscuits was then broached, and one biscuit handed to each
person in the boat. Preston munched his ravenously, although every
movement of his jaw caused him intense agony. He was still
lightheaded, muttering incoherently about taking over the middle watch.
Olive was hungry and ate the "hard tack" with zest, but Mrs. Shallop
pettishly declined her share as being unfit for a lady to eat. She
even began her now well-known speech of self-advertisement, when Peter
cut her short.
"I can offer you nothing better," he said curtly. "I would advise you
to keep it, because you'll want it badly before long. And please
understand there must be no grumbling. It has a bad effect upon the
lascars."
"Surely I can talk if I want to?" protested the woman.
"Within limits, yes," replied Mostyn. "But I would point out that it
would be far better if you did something useful. There's Preston, for
instance, he requires pretty constant attention."
"Oh, Miss Baird can see to him," declared Mrs. Shallop. "She's younger
than I am."
"Considering Miss Baird had three cases on her hands during the
night--you, Preston, and myself--I think she's done more than her fair
share," said Peter, and, filled with disgust, he turned to the helm,
which Mahmed had temporarily taken.
He could see Olive's face flush under the selfish rudeness of the
parvenue, but the girl, repressing her impulse to reply heatedly,
remained silent.
A stiff glass of brandy, and the sound sleep resulting from it, had
kept Mrs. Shallop in ignorance of her narrow escape from death in the
disaster to the _West Barbican_. She was in the habit of consuming the
contents of a bottle of strong waters per week. "By Dr. Selwyn's
orders," she would explain. "He says I must have it, and it must be
the very best." And Selwyn was never more astonished than when he
heard of the prescription that was attributed to him. When the ship
shook under the explosion a steward had rushed to Mrs. Shallop's cabin,
and, unceremoniously dragging that lady from her bunk, had carried her
along the alleyway to the companion ladder. Here the lady promptly
collapsed. Meanwhile Mr. Shallop, who had been in the smoking-room,
had gone on deck. In the darkness he saw nothing of his wife, and
concluded that she was amongst the first to get away in the boats. At
which he congratulated himself. He was spared the ordeal of being
cooped up with Mrs. Shallop, who would to a certainty vent her anger
upon him for having taken the sea voyage, although it was entirely on
her suggestion that the ill-assorted couple booked passages on the S.S.
_West Barbican_.
"This isn't going to be a picnic, I can see," soliloquized Peter, as he
glanced to wind'ard. "It's up to me to do something now. I wonder if
the Old Man would have logged me for this? Decent old chap, Bullock.
I suppose he's gone."
Mostyn was steering due east by compass. He had no idea of the
magnetic variation in this part of the Indian Ocean, neither had he any
knowledge of the deviation of that particular compass. By steering due
east he was hoping to effect a landing between the north and south of
Madagascar--a fairly generous target of 1000 miles in length.
It was responsibility with a vengeance. Not only had the Wireless
Officer to take over executive duties; he had to navigate the boat,
regulate the supply of food and water, and maintain discipline until
such times as Preston recovered and was able to take command. Judging
by the injured man's appearance that day was still very remote.
Meanwhile Peter Mostyn, hiked by fate into the joys and difficulties of
command, accepted the situation with typical British grit.
"I'll just carry on and make the best of it," he decided. "It won't be
for want of trying if I don't get the boat safely to shore."