Picked up at Sea
"I'll attend to the leak, Peter," volunteered Olive. "That will leave
you free to shorten sail."
"Topping!" exclaimed Mostyn. "Keep your foot on that pad of canvas.
Don't press too hard or the whole gadget may carry away."
Reefing was a difficult matter, for the boat was driving heavily and
the canvas was as stiff as a board. Mostyn dared not risk lowering the
sail. The little craft had to carry way to prevent her broaching-to
and being swamped. It seemed incredible that in the short space of
five or six minutes the hitherto calm sea should have worked up into a
cauldron of crested waves and flying spindrift.
In the contest with the elements Mostyn temporized. Putting the helm
up slightly and easing off the sheet, he released the pressure on the
canvas sufficiently to enable Mahmed and the two lascars to take in a
couple of reefs. At the same time the boat was travelling fast but was
well under control.
"Let's hope it won't blow any harder," thought Peter. "She won't stand
much more wind, and she'd break her back if she had to ride to a
sea-anchor."
One of the lascars came aft and reported that the reefing operation was
complete. Peter put the helm down to bring the boat back on her
course, when, with a report of a six-pounder quick-firing gun, the
tightly stretched canvas parted. Cloth after cloth was rent in rapid
succession until the severed sail streamed banner-wise before the
howling wind.
Somewhat to Mostyn's surprise and satisfaction the boat showed no
inclination to broach-to. Possibly the fluttering canvas offered
sufficient resistance to the wind to enable her to answer to the helm.
The next task was to set the jib as a trysail. It was almost useless
to expect the lascars to do that. Their knowledge of boat-sailing was
very elementary, having been gained in handling their native craft, and
occasionally the ship's boats under regulation rig and in charge of
their British officers.
Ordering Mahmed to take Miss Baird's place at the leaking patch, Peter
handed the tiller over to the girl. There was no need to caution her
as to what was to be done. She knew perfectly well that safety
depended upon her ability to keep the boat's stern end on to the
following seas.
Mostyn had no fears on that score. He knew the girl's capability in
that direction by this time. Thanking his lucky stars that he was not
dependent upon the indifferent seamanship of the lascars, he went
for'ard with the jib which Preston had to relinquish as a covering.
In almost total darkness Peter found the head and tack of the sail.
Fortunately the split mainsail was still held by the luff ropes, thus
enabling him to gather in the fiercely flogging fragments and secure
the lower block of the main halliards.
To the latter he bent the head of the jib. It was now a fairly easy
matter to hoist the diminutive triangle of canvas and sheet it home.
"She'll do," he exclaimed, as he relieved Olive at the helm.
The girl nodded in reply. She was too breathless to speak. Her brief
struggle with the strongly kicking tiller had required all the strength
at her command. There was, she discovered, a vast difference between
the long tiller of a well-balanced sailing dingy on the sheltered
waters of the Hamoaze, and the short "stick" of a heavy ship's boat on
the storm-tossed Indian Ocean.
Through the long hours till morning the boat ran before the storm.
Never was day more welcome. At dawn the wind piped down and the sea
moderated. The boat had made a fair amount of water, not only through
the leaking patch, but over the gunwale, and, in order to keep the leak
under, one of the lascars had to keep his hand down on the canvas
stopper while the other plied the baler. This they had to do turn and
turn about throughout the night, and by dawn they were both pretty well
done up.
By nine o'clock, when the sun had gathered considerable strength, the
wind had practically died away, and the sea had resumed a smooth aspect
save for a long, regular swell. Only a few ragged wisps of canvas and
the now almost idle and ridiculously inadequate trysail remained as a
reminder of the night of peril.
In vain Mostyn looked for signs of land. Nothing was in sight save sea
and sky. To make matters worse, the boat, which in that light breeze
would have made about three knots under her mainsail, was now barely
carrying steerage way. At that rate she might take weeks to fetch
land--if she ever did so at all.
Breakfast over--it was a more substantial meal than their previous ones
in the boat--Mostyn set the lascars to work to rig up jury canvas. The
damaged mizzen-sail, that had served as a tent, was pressed into
service, together with the tarpaulin. These were "bonnetted" together,
bent to the gaff, and sent aloft as a square sail, with the result that
the boat's speed increased perceptibly. Yet there was still a great
difference between her normal rate and that under the jury canvas.
Smoking a cigarette after the meal, Peter let his thoughts run riot.
He wondered what his parents were doing; whether they had had by this
time any report of the _West Barbican_. If so, were they mourning him
as dead?
"Rather rough luck on them," soliloquized the youthful optimist; "but
won't they be surprised when I roll up again?"
Then his thoughts went to the Brocklington steel contract. He wondered
whether the Kilba Protectorate officials had sent to Bulonga for the
consignment. It seemed to him rather an idiotic thing to do, to have
the stuff dumped down in that out-of-the-way hole, when the _West
Barbican_ might, with equal facility, have delivered it at Pangawani.
Perhaps, after all, it was for the best. The stuff might have gone
down in the ship, in which case Captain Mostyn would be a ruined man.
The mysterious loss of the _West Barbican_ had been a source of
frequent perplexity to Peter. He was thinking about it now, trying to
put forward a satisfactory theory as to the cause of the explosion. As
far as he was aware there were no explosives on board, a consignment of
gelignite, for use on the Rand, having been landed at Durban.
His reveries were interrupted by one of the lascars shouting: "Sail on
port bow, sahib!"
Peter sat up. The foot of the improvised square sail intercepted the
view for'ard. It was not until he made his way to the bows and stood
upon the mast thwart that he saw the craft which the lascar had
indicated.
She was still a long way off, only her canvas and the upper portions of
her hull showing above the sky line. At that distance it was
impossible, without the aid of a telescope or binoculars (neither of
which was on the boat), to distinguish her rig or in which direction
she was heading. As she was a sailing craft, and, taking for granted
that she carried the same wind as the boat, the chances were that she
would soon disappear from sight.
Nevertheless Mostyn meant to leave nothing undone that might attract
the stranger's attention. Rockets were fired in the hope that the loud
detonation might be audible at that distance. The light they gave out
would be unseen in the terrific glare of the sun.
At Preston's suggestion strips of canvas were soaked in lamp oil and
set alight at the end of the boat-hook. These flares gave out a dense
smoke that rose to an immense height in the now still and sultry air.
For the best part of half an hour these signals were repeated at
frequent intervals. Then, to everyone's disappointment, the strange
sail faded from view.
"It's not to be wondered at," remarked Preston. "You know what a
look-out at sea is like; and, in any case, they don't keep a fellow on
watch to see what's coming up astern."
"They ought to," declared Olive.
The Acting Chief was sitting up, his back supported by some spare
oilskins folded over the after thwart.
At the girl's retort he winked solemnly with the eye that was not
covered with bandages.
"Do we?" he asked. "Look astern now."
To the surprise of everyone else in the boat a large sailing craft was
bowling along dead in their wake. She was now a little less than a
mile away, and had evidently been attracted by the signals made to the
craft that had so recently been sighted in vain.
"A rum sort of packet, by Jove!" exclaimed Peter.
"A dhow, my sweet youth," explained Preston. "'Tisn't often you find
'em so far south, but you'll see shoals of them up along the coast from
Mozambique and Zanzibar right up to the Red Sea and Persian Gulf.
Clumsy-looking hookers, but they can shift."
It was Mostyn's first sight of an Arab dhow. He had seen plenty of
Chinese junks in Shanghai whilst he was on the Pacific trade. This
craft reminded him of them, only its rig was more in accord with
Western ideas. End-on it was impossible to see that the masts raked at
different angles, but the well-drawing lateen sails and the "bone in
her teeth" indicated that she was a swift craft ably managed. Even in
the light air she was moving at about six knots.
The Wireless Officer leant forward and whispered in Preston's ear.
"S'pose she's all jonnick, old man?" he asked.
"Sure," replied the Acting Chief. "The slave-dhow and the gun-runner
are as dead as the dodo in these parts. Probably she's a trader from
Reunion, blown out of her course by the late hurricane. Nothing to
worry about, old son."
"Right-o!" rejoined Mostyn, and ordered the lascars to lower the sail
and to stand by with the painter.
By this time the dhow, which was coming up "hand over fist", was about
a cable's length astern. From the boat it was impossible to see the
helmsman of the overtaking craft, owing to the foot of the lateen sail,
but in her low bows could be discovered three Arabs intently looking in
the direction of the now motionless little craft.
Presently a high-pitched voice called out an order. The hitherto
listless Arabs for'ard sprang into activity. With a smartness that
would have evoked admiration from the most exacting seaman, the lateen
yards were lowered and squared fore and aft, while the dhow, still
carrying way, ranged alongside the _West Barbican's_ boat.
"Any port in a storm," thought Peter, as the lascar for'ard threw the
painter into the hands of one of the Arab crew. "I wonder what we're
in for now?"