RESCUED
"WHAT do you make of that, sir?"
The speaker was Paul Travers, the second mate of the s.s. _Polarity_.
Captain Stormleigh brought his binoculars to bear upon the indistinct
object his subordinate had indicated, road on the port beam.
"Wreckage, I should imagine," he observed.
"Worth while investigating, sir? I believe I can see a flag or
something of the sort hoisted on a pole."
"Certainly," replied Captain Stormleigh decisively, and, calling to
the steersman, ordered him to starboard his helm.
The s.s. _Polarity_ was not a graceful-looking craft by any stretch
of imagination. Of barely 1500 tons' displacement, her straight stem,
heavy short counter and wall sides were not objects of pleasing
nautical architecture. She had three stumpy masts. The foremast,
contrary to usual practice, was several feet taller than the main. A
short distance below the fore-truck was a large upright barrel,
fitted with a slightly conical roof. That alone would proclaim to
experienced mariners the role of s.s. _Polarity_, for the barrel
formed the crow's nest, and at once classed the vessel as one engaged
in work in Polar seas.
Her engine-room was well aft, a tall, black funnel rearing itself
between main and mizzen masts, while just abaft the mainmast, in
order to leave the 'midship portion clear for stowage of cargo, was
the bridge with the usual chart-room.
Just as the _Polarity_ altered her course, a tall, broadshouldered
man of about thirty years of age sprang up the bridge ladder.
"Why are you starboarding your helm, Captain Stormleigh?" he asked,
with a tinge of anxiety in his voice. "Not another breakdown, I
trust?"
"No, sir," replied the skipper. "We've just sighted some wreckage,
and we're standing in a bit to see what it actually is."
"But we really cannot afford the time; every moment is of vital
importance," expostulated the new arrival.
Captain Stormleigh drew himself up to the full extent of his five
feet two inches.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, "but I am in charge of this ship. Of that
there can be no question. I fully admit that I am in your employ, but
upon my judgment depends everything connected with her navigation. My
contract is to take the _Polarity_ to Desolation Inlet in Nova Cania
with the utmost dispatch, and subject to the exigencies of
navigation. This, Mr. Ranworth, is one of the exigencies; therefore I
have given orders for the ship's course to be changed."
For a few moments John Ranworth and Captain Stormleigh eyed each
other in silence, each trying to gauge the mental strength of the
other.
Finally Ranworth's features relaxed into a smile.
"Pardon, Captain!" he exclaimed. "I think I quite understand our
relative positions now. I totally withdraw my objections."
John Ranworth had reason to be impatient, for, as he had stated,
every moment was precious.
Nearly a twelvemonth previously, his brother, Claude Ranworth, had
set out on a scientific and geological expedition to Nova Cania, a
large island, hitherto but slightly explored, almost due north of
Franz Josef's Land, and within five degrees of the Pole.
Owing to the peculiarities of the Arctic drift current, approach to
Nova Cania is generally possible only during the latter part of
August and September. At other periods of the year an impassable
barrier of pack ice cuts off all possibility of direct communication.
Claude Ranworth's expedition had been equipped with a wireless
installation of a range of about three hundred miles. Thus it was
possible to communicate with the outside world for six months of the
year by means of the international station at Thorsden, on
Spitzbergen.
The expedition had been successful. Investigations resulted in the
discovery of vast quantities of platinum, sufficient to disturb the
commercial value of that hitherto highly precious metal.
Suddenly news was received that a disastrous blizzard had played
havoc with the stores of the expedition. Unless rescue were speedily
forthcoming, slow death by starvation stared them in the face.
At the same time reports from Danish whalers stated that the pack ice
to the northward of Spitzbergen was dispersing considerably earlier
than usual, and the experienced skippers expressed an opinion that it
was quite possible to approach Desolation Inlet--the only safe
harbour of Nova Cania--a fortnight or three weeks sooner than is
usually the case.
Already in anticipation of going to bring his brother's expedition
home, John Ranworth had chartered and fitted out the _Polarity_. The
news that Desolation Inlet might be accessible did not therefore
catch him napping. Within six hours of the momentous wireless news,
the _Polarity_ left Hull for the desolate Arctic.
Before the _Polarity_ had rounded Spurn Head, an engine-room defect
had caused her to put back for repairs, and twenty-four hours' delay
was the result.
Now, when once more the ex-whaler was on her way, another delay
chafed John Ranworth's highly-strung mind.
"By Jove, sir! It's a raft or something of the sort. There are two
people in it. I can see their heads as the thing lists this way,"
reported Travers.
"Very good," replied Captain Stormleigh calmly. He was too much of a
man to twit his employer with a galling "I told you so." "Get the
whaler ready for lowering, Mr. Travers. You might pass the word for
the cook to see that there's plenty of hot water under way."
At her utmost speed, which was a bare fourteen knots, the _Polarity_
approached the derelict object. Even John Ranworth temporarily forgot
his anxiety at the sight of the drifting box--for such it appeared to
be--with its human freight.
_Clang, clang!_ went the engine-room telegraph bell.
Before the way was off the ship, the whaler, with its crew and the
second mate in charge, was lowered from the out-swung davits.
Dexterously the falls were disengaged, and, bending to their oars,
the rowers gave way with a will.
"My goodness!" ejaculated Ranworth, as the whaler returned with two
additional and unconscious forms in her stern sheets. "They are two
youngsters. Are they alive?"
"Yes, sir," replied Travers. "But another six hours or so would have
settled them, I fancy."
"I'm glad you altered course, Captain Stormleigh," declared Ranworth
frankly, as the unconscious lads were passed below. "The question is,
what are we to do with them?"
"That's where you have me, sir," replied the captain, knitting his
shaggy brows. "Of course, I wouldn't suggest putting back. When it's
a case of fifteen men's lives against the personal comfort of a
couple of youngsters, the youngsters don't count. If we fall in with
a homeward-bound vessel engaged in the Norwegian or Baltic trade--and
we're just in the track of the latter--well, then, it's an easy
matter to tranship them. However, sir, time will tell. Meanwhile, we
must get the lads back to life. They've had a terrible doing."
Having been relieved by McMurdo, Captain Stormleigh quitted the
bridge, and, accompanied by Ranworth, went below to see how the two
rescued youths were progressing. As they were discussing the mystery
of their appearance, one of the lads opened his eyes and sat up, his
forehead narrowly missing the deck-beam.
"Hullo! Where am I?" he asked wonderingly.
"You're safe and sound on board the _Polarity_, my lad," announced
Ranworth soothingly.
"Where's my chum, Leslie?"
"In the bunk underneath yours," replied the charterer of the
_Polarity_. "He's still sound asleep. What's your name?"
"Guy Anderson."
"A smack's boy?"
Guy smiled, then winced, for the action caused his scorched face to
smart terribly.
"Hardly! We were on board the _Laughing Lassie_ for a holiday cruise,
and she was run down in a fog. I don't think anyone else was saved."
"What's your friend's name?" asked Ranworth.
"Leslie Ward; his people live at St. Albans."
"Surely he's not the son of Decimus Ward, the well-known electrical
engineer?"
"Yes, sir," replied Guy. "Mr. Ward is now spending his holidays at
Pilgrimswick--that's the port to which the _Laughing Lassie_
belonged."
"All right, my lad. We'll let your people know you're safe," declared
Ranworth. "Now you just swallow that soup and then go to sleep, and
you'll be all right in the morning."
Five minutes later a message was sent from the _Polarity_ to
Scarborough wireless station, reporting the rescue of Guy Anderson
and Leslie Ward, and requesting that the information should be
telephoned to Pilgrimswick.
"We must give those lads a shakedown in my cabin, Captain," said
Ranworth. "They'll be all right where they are to-night. It only
proves that one cannot judge by appearances."
"Just so, sir," agreed Captain Stormleigh. "They certainly did look
as if they had come aboard through the hawsepipe. But the sooner we
get them out of the ship the better. Every hour lessens our chances
of falling in with a homeward-bound ship, and the Arctic's no place
for a couple of inexperienced lads."
"It is not," agreed Ranworth. "I sincerely trust that we will soon be
able to shift the responsibility of them upon other shoulders."
The next day passed almost without incident. Leslie and Guy were
transferred to Mr. Ranworth's cabin, where, owing to the privations
they had undergone, they were kept in their bunks.
On the following morning they dressed and went on deck.
"Good morning," was Paul Travers' greeting. "I think I've met you
before."
"I don't remember you," said Leslie.
"I'm not surprised," rejoined the second mate with a breezy laugh.
"Considering I hauled you into the boat, and you were both as limp as
that coil of rope, it's not to be wondered it."
"Then we've to thank you for saving our lives?"
"No thanks required," declared Travers, shrugging his broad
shoulders. "It's a case of duty; that's what I'm on board for."
"A jolly fine ship," observed Leslie, as he took a survey of the
crowded deck. "I wish I were off to the Arctic in her."
"You stand a jolly good chance, anyway," announced the second mate.
"We are now out of the regular steamer tracks, and we are not putting
into any Norwegian ports, so it seems a case of have-to."