Tidings from the Sea
"It's about time we had a letter from Peter from Cape Town, isn't it?"
inquired Mrs. Mostyn.
Captain Mostyn deliberately lighted a cigarette while he worked out a
mental sum.
"Hardly," he replied. "Give the Royal Mail a chance, old lady. We
heard from the boy from Las Palmas. That ought to keep you satisfied
for another week or so. By that time we ought to see the announcement
of the _West Barbican's_ arrival at Pangawani. Let me see: it was ten
days ago when we saw the news of her departure from Durban. By Jove,
old lady, we'll have a jollification when we know that the steelwork is
handed over to the Kilba Protectorate Government."
There was no doubt about it. Captain Mostyn was worrying over the
contract. The actual manufacturing of the bridge material had caused
him very little anxiety. The keenness with which he had followed the
work, the personal attention he gave to all the details, and the
professional supervision of the whole process of manufacture had kept
him busy both mentally and physically. But from the time the
consignment was shipped on board the _West Barbican_ at Brocklington he
was metaphorically on pins and needles.
The contract was to include delivery at Pangawani. There were certain
risks in the long sea passage that were to be taken into account.
Unavoidable accidents might occur, that the most skilful master in the
Merchant Service could not avert. Pangawani Harbour, with its shifting
bar, had a sinister reputation in insurance company circles. That fact
had resulted in the refusal of every underwriter whom Captain Mostyn
approached to insure the steelwork to anything like its full value.
The best terms he could obtain were 75 per cent, while the _West
Barbican_ was between the United Kingdom and Table Bay, and 66-2/3 per
cent between Table Bay and Pangawani. That meant the bankruptcy of the
Brocklington Ironworks Company should the steelwork fail to reach its
destination, since every pound of available capital had been sunk in
Captain Mostyn's "great push".
Curiously enough, his anxiety was solely for the safety of the
steelwork. The knowledge that his son was on the very boat that was
taking out the consignment hardly entered into his calculations. An
indescribable faith in Peter caused him to regard the lad as being well
able to take care of himself, happen what might. The ship might be
lost, but Peter would be sure to come out all right.
Captain Mostyn and his wife were still discussing the movements of the
_West Barbican_, and speculating upon the date of her arrival at
Pangawani, when one of the maids brought in the evening paper, which
was regularly left at the house by a newsboy from the village.
The Captain's first consideration was given to the Shipping List. The
_West Barbican_ did not appear.
"I told you so, my dear," he remarked. "We'll have to wait a little
longer. Let me see; you want the serial page. Here you are."
Peter's father, always methodical, took a paper-knife from the
writing-bureau and carefully cut the newspaper in half. Handing the
back page to his wife, he settled down to read the news,
notwithstanding the fact that most of it was reproduced from the London
dailies, which he had already digested early that morning.
Mrs. Mostyn settled down for a comfortable evening. The fire was
burning brightly in the open well-grate, the arm-chair was most
comfortable. With the serial page and a half-finished jumper to work
at while she read, Mrs. Mostyn meant to have a quiet and restful
evening's amusement.
Presently she finished the instalment of the serial. She hardly knew
what to think of it. Its abrupt ending made her angry with the author,
or whoever was responsible for the conclusion, while the thrilling
curtain left her on thorns as to what was going to happen in the next
instalment. The rest of the page usually contained very little of
feminine interest, consisting mainly of sporting topics and lurid
testimonials to so-and-so's patent medicines.
Quite casually her eye caught sight of a badly printed paragraph in the
Stop Press column. She read it through without the full significance
of it coming home to her. Then she re-read it slowly and haltingly, as
if every word was burning into her brain.
"John!" she exclaimed.
"Half a moment, my dear," protested Captain Mostyn, deep in an article
dealing with the coal industry.
"John!" she said again.
Captain Mostyn glanced over the top of his half of the paper. He did
not like being disturbed. It usually meant that his wife had
discovered a stupendous bargain in the sales column, with the
inevitable result.
"Good Heavens, old lady!" he ejaculated, greatly alarmed at the grey,
drawn expression on his wife's face. "What is it?"
Mrs. Mostyn did not reply. With trembling hands she gave the paper to
her husband, and pointed to the grim announcement in the Stop Press
column:
"Lloyd's agent at East London telegraphs, 'S.S. _Marechal Foch_ arrived
here to-day with eighteen lascars, survivors of the S.S. _West
Barbican_, which foundered in the Mozambique Channel on the night of
the 22nd. No trace has been found of the ship's officers and the
remainder of the crew. Survivors cannot give any explanation of how
the disaster occurred.'"
"Peter!" gasped Mrs. Mostyn.
Her husband was thunderstruck. The gravity of the news had taken him
completely aback. He gave no thought to the precious steelwork. His
whole concern was for his son.
The bald announcement was serious enough in all conscience. Reading
between the lines it gave scant hope that there might be other
survivors. Was it possible that Peter had in his prime fallen a victim
to the remorseless sea?
"There's nothing very definite, my dear," he remarked as calmly as he
could. "Perhaps to-morrow we'll hear that some more boats have been
picked up. Strange things happen at sea."
Mrs. Mostyn shook her head. After Peter's almost miraculous return
when given up for dead, after the S.S. _Donibristle_ had been reported
"overdue, missing, and believed a total loss", she could hardly hope
for a second intervention of Providence.
"Tut, tut," said Captain Mostyn, his forced manner belying the doubts
that assailed him. "Why shouldn't he turn up trumps a second time?
Why, I know an old pensioner at Portsmouth who, during his twenty-one
years' sea life, was reported killed four times. And he's hale and
hearty to-day at eighty-five, or he was when I heard of him a fortnight
ago. I'll see my friend Parsons at Lloyd's to-morrow. He'll keep me
posted as to the latest news. Peter will be all right, never fear."
But Captain Mostyn had his doubts. He knew enough about the sea to
realize the possibility of his son going down with the ship. He argued
that the disaster must have been sudden, since there was no mention of
the ill-fated _West Barbican_ having sent out wireless messages for
aid. That pointed to the vessel foundering in a few minutes; in which
case there had not been time to lower all the boats. Quite likely the
one containing the eighteen lascars was the only one successfully
lowered. Again, the absence of an officer in the boat pointed to a
complete disorganization of discipline. On the face of Lloyd's
telegraphed report things looked very black indeed.
Captain Mostyn spent a sleepless night, but he hardly gave another
thought to his financial losses. Over and over again he tried to
reconstruct the scene on board the sinking liner, with the object of
convincing himself that his son had escaped with his life. Throughout
the long night he was building up suggestions and immediately
demolishing them on account of an incontestable flaw in the theory.
Next day Captain Mostyn went up to town by his usual train, but,
instead of proceeding to the offices of the Brocklington Ironworks
Company, he went straight to Lloyd's. Here he was informed that no
further news of the loss of the S.S. _West Barbican_ had been received,
but the detailed report of the Master of the S.S. _Marechal Foch_ was
expected by cable that day.
The same afternoon there was a hurriedly convened meeting of the
directors of the Company. None of them had noticed the announcement
concerning the _West Barbican_ in the papers, and Captain Mostyn's bald
statement came as a complete surprise. No definite steps could be
taken until the ship was officially reported lost, and then only would
the underwriters pay the 66-2/3 per cent of the value of the steel-work.
A fortnight or more passed, with nothing to break the silence that
seemed to be brooding over the loss of the _West Barbican_. For some
reason the report of the captain of the _Marechal Foch_ had not
materialized. It afterwards transpired that he was in hospital at East
London.
At last the silence was broken by the receipt of a Press Association
cablegram from Port Louis, Mauritius:
"Portuguese sailing ship _Balsamao_, Lorenzo Marques to Goa, arrived
here to-day with sixteen Europeans and eleven Indians, survivors of the
S.S. _West Barbican_. Names of the Europeans as follows: Anstey,
Crawford, M'Gee, Peterson, Fulwood, Selwyn, Wright, Scott, Palmer,
Partridge, Plover, Smith, Fostin, Applegarth, and Shallop (passenger)."
A ray of hope flashed across the minds of Peter's parents. The name
"Fostin": it was possible that it was a telegraphic error for "Mostyn".
The conviction grew until Captain and Mrs. Mostyn felt perfectly
convinced that the name in question was actually supposed to represent
that of their son.
But, alas! disillusionment came next day when Captain Mostyn paid a
visit to the offices of the Blue Crescent Line, and was given a list of
the names of the officers and crew of the ill-starred _West Barbican_.
Amongst them was: "Geo. Fostin, steward".
"We are afraid to have to admit that Captain Bullock is amongst the
missing," said the secretary of the Blue Crescent Line to Captain
Mostyn. "One of our senior and most experienced skippers, and on his
last voyage before retiring. The Chief Officer, Mr. Preston, is also
missing, also the Wireless Officer. It can only be surmised that they
stuck to the ship to the last and went down with her. The Wireless
Officer's name is--let me see."
The official referred to the list in front of him.
"The same as yours, sir," he continued. "A relation, perhaps?"
"My son," replied Captain Mostyn sadly yet proudly.