Riding it Out
"What is the time, please, Miss Baird?" inquired Peter.
"Nine o'clock," replied Olive, consulting her wristlet watch, the only
one of five in the boat that had survived.
"Too early for grub, then," continued Mostyn "We must economize. And
with water, too. It's going to be a scorching hot day."
He omitted to add that in all probability there would be a stiffish
wind before long, possibly increasing to hurricane force. The thundery
rain, coming before the wind, pointed to a severe blow before many
hours were past. Meanwhile the breeze had dropped until the boat was
making less than one knot.
Peter had practically shaken off the effects of his prolonged
immersion. He was feeling a bit stiff in the limbs, and had developed
a healthy hunger. The latter troubled him far more than the stiffness.
Work would relieve his cramped arms, but it would also increase the
pangs of the inner man.
In the light breeze he could safely entrust the helm to one of the
lascars, provided he kept his weather eye lifting in case a sudden
squall swept down upon the boat. The native might or might not be able
to handle a sailing craft, but Peter was resolved to take no risks on
that score. He would rather place Olive at the helm, although in the
event of danger he meant to stick to the tiller for hours if needs be.
"Due east, _mutli_," ordered Mostyn, having signed to the lascar to
come aft.
The man nodded and repeated the compass course. Since Peter had
displayed his automatic the pair of lascars had been remarkably
tractable.
The Wireless Officer's next step was to rig up a tent to shelter the
women from the blazing sun. Calling Mahmed to assist him, he lashed
the unshipped mizzen mast to the mainmast just below the goose-neck of
the latter, so that the boom could swing out in the event of a gybe
without fouling the almost horizontal ridge-pole. The after end of the
mizzen was propped up by a crutch made by lashing a couple of
boat-stretchers crosswise. Over this was spread the mizzen sail, the
ends of the ridge-tent being enclosed by means of the jib and a couple
of oilskin jackets.
"There you are," declared Peter, surveying the result of the joint
handiwork of Mahmed and himself. "You'll be sheltered under the sail.
I would advise you both to sleep during the heat of the day."
Olive declined, with a smile, adding that she preferred to be in the
open air. Mrs. Shallop hardly deigned to acknowledge the effort Mostyn
had made for her comfort as far as lay in the resources at his command.
She had not been under the tent for more than a minute, when she
reappeared holding up a ring-bedecked hand for inspection.
"I've lost a diamond out of this ring," she announced in a loud voice;
"and it's a valuable one. It cost a sovereign."
Peter could not help smiling.
"Whatever can one do with a female like that?" he soliloquized. "The
loss of a twopenny-halfpenny stone is of more consequence to her than
the chance of losing her life."
Contriving to conceal his amusement he replied: "It can't have gone
very far, Mrs. Shallop, if you had it in the boat. We'll probably find
it under the bottom-boards."
"Then make those blacks look at once," ordered the lady peremptorily.
Peter pretended not to have heard the strident, imperious command. It
would have been waste of breath to point out that the boat could not be
searched without disturbing Preston, and that the awkwardly placed
bottom-boards could not be removed while the boat was under way.
With a parting shot at the young officer for his incivility, Mrs.
Shallop retired to the tent and began to nag Miss Baird, who had shown
no disposition to assist in the search.
"Thanks, Mr. Mostyn," said the girl, when Peter warned her of the heat
of the sun. "I'm quite all right. You see, I took the precaution of
wearing a topee when we were ordered into the boat. May I steer?"
For a second time that morning Mostyn relinquished the helm. Then,
having seen that Preston was as comfortable as possible, he sat on one
of the side-benches and chatted to the helmswoman. Even then he was
not idle, for, on the principle that "you never know when it may be
wanted", he took his automatic pistol to pieces and carefully cleaned
the mechanism, sparingly oiling the working parts with a few drops of
oil from the lamp.
"Do you know how this thing works?" inquired Peter casually.
"Yes," replied the girl promptly. "You have to pull back the hammer
for the first shot, and as long as the trigger is pressed the pistol
goes on firing until the magazine is empty."
"I wonder how you know," thought Mostyn.
He shook his head.
"This pistol doesn't," he explained. "Some simply act automatically as
long as the trigger is pressed. That's rather a drawback if a fellow's
a bit jumpy. He's apt to let fly a hail of bullets indiscriminately.
No! This pistol of mine cocks itself after every shot, and it requires
another pull on the trigger to fire each of the succeeding cartridges."
"The one I saw was different," rejoined the girl. "It was my
brother's. He was killed at Ypres in '18."
Peter politely murmured regrets, but inwardly he felt relieved that the
fellow who had instructed Olive into the mysteries of automatic pistols
was only a brother.
Just then Preston roused slightly and asked for water.
"Better, old man?" asked Mostyn, as he poured a few precious drops into
the baler, and held the rim to the Acting Chief's dry lips.
"Hocussed an' sandbagged, that's what's happened to me," mumbled
Preston thickly. "Where the hooligan Harry am I?" And, with a sudden
movement, he jerked the baler out of Peter's hand.
The man was obviously still delirious. Before Mostyn could decide what
to reply, Preston shut his eyes and went to sleep again.
Mostyn picked up the baler from where it had fallen under the
stern-bench. A couple of spoonfuls of fresh water had been wasted.
"Is that land?" suddenly inquired Olive, pointing away on the port bow,
where a low, dark line was just visible on the horizon, looking very
much like a chain of serrated mountains.
"Cloud bank," replied Peter briefly. Then in explanation he added:
"There's wind behind that lot, Miss Baird; probably more than we want.
It may head us too."
Glancing into the compass hood to see that the girl was steering a
correct course, Mostyn rapped on the thwart immediately abaft the
canvas shelter in which Mrs. Shallop was either resting or brooding
over more or less imaginary grievances.
"We'll have to unrig the tent," he announced. "There's a stiff breeze
bearing down on us."
"I don't like stiff breezes," retorted the lady promptly. "I'd rather
have the tent up to keep the wind out."
"Sorry," replied the Wireless Officer. "It can't be done. In two
minutes the lascars will commence unrigging the tent."
Mostyn allowed a good three minutes to elapse before signing to Mahmed
and the lascars to take down the canvas. It was an absolutely
necessary step, in order to allow unimpeded access to the working
canvas, should it be required either to reef the sail or stow it
altogether.
Having seen the task carried out, Peter proceeded to rig up a
sea-anchor.
"It may come in jolly useful," he remarked to Miss Baird. "If we don't
want it I won't complain about useless work."
With the assistance of the three Indians Mostyn bent a rope span to the
yard and boom of the mizzen sail. Through the centre of each span he
secured a stout grass warp, weighting the yard with the grapnel, so
that, if it became necessary to ride to the improvised sea-anchor, the
grapnel would keep the sail taut and in a vertical plane.
By the time these preparations were completed the bank of ragged-edged
clouds had covered most of the sky to wind'ard. The sun was beginning
to become obscured, while there was an appreciable drop in the
temperature of the air. The wind had fallen away utterly, leaving the
sail hanging idly from the yard. The water no longer rippled under the
boat's forefoot. All was silent save for the creaking of the mast and
spars as the boat rolled sluggishly in the long, gentle swell.
Keenly on the alert, Peter had taken over the helm, and was keeping a
sharp look-out to wind'ard.
"Down sail!" he ordered.
The canvas was lowered and stowed. As a precautionary measure Mostyn
had the sea-anchor hove overboard, trusting that at the first squall
the high, freeboarded boat would drift rapidly until brought head to
wind by the drag of the improvised floating breakwater.
"It's coming," said Olive in a low voice, as a long-drawn shriek could
be faintly heard--the harbinger of a vicious squall.
By now it was almost dusk, so dense were the clouds overhead. The
tropical sun had no power to penetrate the sombre masses of vapour.
Less than half a mile to wind'ard the hitherto tranquil water was white
with wind-lashed foam; while, in strange contrast, the sea-anchor was
rubbing gently alongside the boat in the perfectly smooth sea.
Louder and louder grew the volume of sound, until with a vicious rush
the squall swept down upon the boat. For a few seconds, while she lay
broadside on, the boat heeled to such an extent, under the
wind-pressure upon her high sides, that the water was actually pouring
in over the lee gunwale. Then, spinning round as the grass rope
attached to the sea-anchor tautened, the boat rode head to wind and sea.
In a brief space of time the terrific gusts had raised quite a
mountainous sea, with deep troughs and short, sharp crests which, torn
by the blasts into clouds of spindrift, flew completely over the boat.
So far she had ridden it out splendidly, the sea-anchor breaking the
more dangerous waves in a manner that was quite astonishing. Yet the
while the grass rope was snubbing wickedly in spite of its natural
springiness. Through the clouds of spray Peter could see that the
lascars for'ard were betraying considerable uneasiness lest the rope
should part.
Mostyn too realized the danger. He regretted that he had not doubled
the rope, but now nothing could be done beyond putting a temporary
"parcelling" round it where it passed through the bow fairlead.
More than once the Wireless Officer gave a hurried glance at Miss
Baird. Outwardly the girl seemed perfectly self-possessed, and, with
her natural thoughtfulness, she was sitting on the stern-gratings and
doing her best to keep the still delirious Preston from sliding from
side to side with the erratic and disconcerting motion of the boat.
The squall lasted for perhaps five minutes. Then, after a lull, came
another series of vicious blasts from a different point, that was
almost at right angles to the direction of the initial squall. This
had the effect of raising a nasty cross-sea, accompanied by a
torrential downpour of rain.
Suddenly, at less than a couple of cable-lengths to windward, appeared
the misty outlines of a tramp steamer. She was labouring badly,
rolling almost rail under and throwing up showers of spray high above
her bridge.
Standing up and keeping his feet with difficulty Mostyn frantically
waved to the vessel. Mahmed followed his example and also hailed in
his high-pitched key. Shouting was useless. No volume of sound short
of that of a fog-horn could possibly have carried that distance in the
face of the howling elements.
The next instant the temporary clearing of the downpour gave place to a
blinding deluge. The steamer vanished as utterly as if she had
suddenly plunged to the bed of the ocean.
"Has she seen us?" inquired Olive, raising her voice.
"'Fraid not," replied Peter, still staring in the direction where he
had last seen the tramp. "Couldn't do much if she did in this dust-up.
I'll risk a rocket, any old way."
Some time elapsed before a rocket could be taken from its airtight
case, and the touch-paper ignited. Then with a hiss the detonating
signal soared obliquely upwards, its intended course deflected by the
terrific wind.
It burst at less than a hundred feet in the air, but the report was so
faint and the flash so weak that Mostyn could only reiterate his doubts
as to whether the tramp could see or hear anything.
"It's lucky she didn't run us down," he added. "I know those
blighters. They think they've got the whole ocean to themselves and
carry on at full speed. In fog it's often the same, the idea being to
get into better weather as soon as possible."
For another ten minutes it blew hard, but, thanks to the improvised
sea-anchor, the boat was making very little leeway and riding head to
wind. Occasionally the crested tops of the cross-seas flopped in over
the gunwale, and the two lascars were kept baling steadily. Olive and
Mahmed were tending the still delirious Preston, the former holding him
to prevent further injuries to his badly damaged head, while the boy
kept a strip of painted canvas over the Acting Chief's body to shelter
him from the rain and spray. Mrs. Shallop was the only idler.
Refusing Peter's offer of his oilskin, she sat huddled up on the
bottom-boards, with the water swirling over her feet and her clothing
saturated with the torrential rain. Too dispirited to use her voice in
complaint, she sat and shivered in morose silence, posing as a martyr
and yet getting no sympathy from anyone.
At length the wind ceased, although the rain continued in violence.
This had the effect of calming the water considerably, and Peter took
the opportunity of ordering the lascars to spread out the square of
painted canvas, and catch as much rain as possible to augment the
precious store of fresh water.
Within an hour the sky cleared and the wind freshened into a one-reef
breeze. The sea-anchor was taken in and sail again set; but there was
the disquieting knowledge that the wind was dead in their teeth.
Either the boat must be kept "full and bye", gaining little or nothing
on each tack, or Mostyn must "up helm" and retrace his course on the
chance of making the now far-distant Mozambique shore, which meant that
the previous sixteen-hour run was utterly wasted.
"If only we had a motor!" he exclaimed.