CHAPTER XXI
The End of S.S. "_West Barbican_"
Throughout the day the scantily clothed Bantu workmen had been busilyengaged in unloading the steelwork. The natives, unlike theirPortuguese masters, had to keep hard at it, with the result that by thetime "knock-off" was announced and the Bantus, resuming their calicoskirt-like garments, had trooped ashore, the S.S. _West Barbican_ drewfive feet less for'ard than when she crossed the bar. CaptainBullock's interview with Senhor Jose Aguilla was of a mutuallysatisfactory nature. The latter undertook to store and look after theconsignment of the Kilba Protectorate until such time as it was claimedby the authorities. The terms were so many thousand milreis per month,a sum that on paper looked truly formidable, but actually was equal toabout seven pounds of English money.
The Old Man was pleased to get the steelwork off his hands soreasonably. Senhor Aguilla was pleased because he had the steelwork onhis hands. That was the difference.
The Portuguese knew that the longer the consignment remained unclaimedthe longer he would continue to draw a fairly substantial sum forwharfage and storage; and, although he promised to forward a letter tothe Kilba Protectorate agent at Pangawani by the next weekly steamer,he meant to take steps to prevent, for as long as he possibly could,the information concerning the steelwork reaching the proper quarter.
Having, as he thought, satisfactorily settled with Senhor AguillaCaptain Bullock sent for his Wireless Officer.
"That means a ticking off, I expect," thought Peter, when Mahmeddelivered the message. "The Old Man's rattled about his motor-launch."
Mostyn was only partly right in his surmise. Captain Bullock wasannoyed, which was natural enough. No boat-owner likes to have hiscraft damaged, especially when he is not on board. He has a sort offeeling that the accident, whatever it might be, would not haveoccurred had he been present. It was an awkward mishap. Until the_West Barbican_ returned to Durban, or some other large port, it wouldbe hopeless to expect to obtain a new propeller.
But the skipper, in spite of his bluntness, was a just man. He dealtwith cases impartially, and no one having been censured by him had goodreason to doubt his judgment.
Peter went to the skipper's cabin and reported the circumstances of theaccident. The Old Man listened attentively until the Wireless Officerhad finished his narrative; then he pointed to a chart of BulongaHarbour that was lying on the desk.
"Show me where the stranding occurred, Mr. Mostyn. What, there? Onthe port-hand side of the channel?"
"Yes, sir."
Captain Bullock had no cause to doubt Peter's word, but he made up hismind to question the two lascars who were in the boat, and also to seeif Miss Baird could throw any light upon the matter.
"H'm. I suppose the river has changed its bed," he remarked. "Africanrivers have a nasty habit of doing that. It was unfortunate that youstruck a snag; otherwise it wouldn't have mattered very much. Allright, carry on."
Abdullah Bux and his compatriot could give no definite information.Miss Baird, for the present, was not available. The strident tones ofMrs. Shallop indicated pretty clearly that the lady was bullying thegirl for her prolonged and involuntary absence.
At sunrise next morning the _West Barbican_, drawing considerably lesswater than she had done eighteen hours previously, recrossed the bar.The Portuguese pilot was dropped, and a course steered to pass throughthe broad Mozambique Channel. Without exception all on board were gladto get away from the malodorous harbour of Bulonga.
On the afternoon of the seventh day after leaving Durban the weather"came on dirty". A heavy wind from the east'ard raised a nasty sea,which would have been angry but for the torrential downpour of rainthat had the effect of beating down the crested waves.
As darkness set in the sky was almost one continuous blaze of vividsheet lightning. The rain was still heavy but the wind piped down,blowing softly from the nor'-east.
"We haven't seen the last of this yet," declared Preston. "The glassis a bit jumpy. It'll blow like billy-ho before morning. How aboutyour aerial, Sparks? Aren't you going to disconnect it?"
The two officers, clad in oilskins and precious little else, werekeeping the first watch. There was nothing doing in thewireless-cabin. Atmospherics were present, but, apart from thesedisturbances, no sound had been audible in the telephones during thebest part of Peter's watch. Insufferably hot, he had put on an oilskinand had gone out for a breather.
"No need," he replied. "At least not until we get forked lightning."
"I'm not sorry we've got shot of that steelwork," remarked the ActingChief after a pause. "It's awkward stuff to carry. But the trouble ofit is that removing it has altered our deviation. The compass cannotpossibly be the same with that enormous amount of metal taken out ofthe ship. I suggested to the Old Man that we ought to have swung theold hooker before we left Bulonga and adjusted compasses. But he wasin a hurry to get under way, and, apart from that, the harbour was soshallow that we couldn't get a clear swing. She's not far out on thisbearing. I took a sight at the Southern Cross for that. Talking ofcompasses: did you hear that yarn about the Flinder's bar?"
"About the candidate for Mate's certificate who told the examiner that:'There ain't no pub o' that name in Gravesend'?" asked Peter.
"No, but that's not so dusty," replied Preston. "My yarn concerns anold skipper in the Penguin Line. He was----"
But Mostyn was not to hear the anecdote.
A violent concussion, as if the ship had struck a rock, almost threwthe two men off their feet. A muffled report followed.
"Mined, by Jove!" exclaimed Preston, in the brief lull that succeededthe detonation.
Then pandemonium was let loose. The lascars, yelling and shouting,poured on deck, followed by a mob of native firemen. Capable enough inordinary circumstances, the Indians lacked the stolidity and grimcourage of British crews when disaster, sudden and unexpected, staredthem in the face.
Captain Bullock was quickly on the bridge. He could do little ornothing to allay the panic, for the native petty officers were asfrantic as the rest. To add to the difficulties of the situation,every light on board went out. Vast clouds of smoke and steam wereissuing through the engine-room fiddleys. The propeller was slowingdown. The engineer on watch had, on his own initiative, cut off steamand opened the high-pressure gauges.
The Old Man shouted through the speaking-tube to the engine-room.There was no response.
Just then, in the glare of the lightning, he caught sight of Anstey,who, awakened by the explosion, had hurried to the bridge in hispyjamas and uniform cap.
"Nip below, Mr. Anstey, and see the extent of the damage," he ordered.
Anstey turned to obey. At the head of the bridge-ladder he encounteredCrawford, the engineer of the watch.
"Nice sort of night to be in the ditch, laddie," exclaimed Crawford, ashe elbowed his way past the Third Officer. "How far is to land,anyway?"
Crawford was on his way to report to the bridge. He had been flungviolently on the bed-plates when the explosion occurred. Uponregaining his feet he found the engine-room in darkness save for thefeeble glimmer of an oil lamp. Water was pouring in like a sluicethrough a rent in the after bulkhead that separated the engine-roomfrom No. 3 hold. The firemen, panic-stricken, were bolting on deck.Neither by words nor action could Crawford stem the human tide ofaffrighted Asiatics.
Quietly he made his way to the platform and awaited orders from thebridge. The telegraph remained silent, the indicator on the dial stillpointing to "Full Ahead".
By this time the water in the stokeholds was damping the fires, andCrawford deemed it prudent to shut off steam and open the escape valvesin order to avert an explosion of the boilers.
Knee deep in the oily water that slushed to and fro as the ship rolled,the engineer of the watch groped his way through clouds of steam untilhis self-appointed task was done. Then, after shouting in case anyoneelse had remained below, he effected his retreat and at once made fort
he bridge to report to the Old Man.
"She's going, Mr. Preston," declared Captain Bullock.
"She is, sir," agreed the Acting Chief. Experience had taught him thenow unmistakable symptoms of a foundering ship.
"Call away the boats," continued the Old Man "If you've trouble withthat mob use your revolver, Preston. Don't hesitate. Remember we'vewomen on board. Use your discretion as to what boat you stow 'em in."
The Acting Chief hurried off, pausing outside the wireless-room to giveMostyn the last known position of the ship, which information was anecessary adjunct to the SOS call.
Peter had not been idle. The moment the seriousness of the situationbecame apparent he was back at his post in the wireless-cabin.
The shutting off of steam had automatically stopped the dynamo. In anycase, the explosion had severed the "leads". The main set was out ofaction. Mostyn had to fall back upon the emergency gear.
For quite ten minutes he contrived to call up, but no reassuring replycame through in reply to the urgent appeal for aid. There were shipswithin range of the emergency set, that Peter knew. He had spoken themearlier in the evening.
"Either atmospherics or else they've another Partridge and Plover onboard," he thought grimly. "Wonder where my birds are?"
The two Watchers ought to have been on the bridge by this time. Incase of distress it was their duty to "fall in" outside thewireless-cabin and await instructions. Neither had done so.
The floor of the cabin had quite an acute list by this time. It wasonly by propping his legs against the lee bulkhead that Mostyn couldkeep seated. He realized perfectly well that the ship was sinkingrapidly, but it is part of an unwritten code of honour that a wirelessofficer "stands by" until he is ordered away by his skipper or sweptfrom his post by the sea itself.
Even as he waited, still sending out the unacknowledged SOS, he thoughtof Olive Baird, wondering how she was faring in the horrors of thenight. If he only knew--but perhaps for his peace of mind it was aswell that he did not.
Above the turmoil without came the report of two pistol shots in quicksuccession. There was no mistaking the sharp cracks. They differedcompletely from the detonations of the distress rockets that atintervals were fired from the bridge, on the chance that a vessel inthe vicinity might proceed to the aid of the foundering ship.
The pistol shots reminded Peter of something that he might otherwisehave overlooked. Without removing the telephones from his ears hegroped and found his automatic and a box of cartridges.
"No knowing when it might come in useful," he soliloquized, as hethrust the weapon into his hip pocket. "While I'm about it I might aswell get dressed."
With considerable difficulty, owing to the now terrific list of theship, he contrived to throw off his oilskin and don his white patrolsuit over his pyjamas. Then, putting on his oilskin once more, hewaited.
He had not much longer to wait.
"Any luck?" inquired the Old Man, who was gripping the doorway of thewireless-cabin with both hands in order to prevent himself slippingbodily to lee'ard.
"No, sir," replied Mostyn.
"Then chuck it," continued the skipper. "Look nippy. She's nearlygone. Where's your life-belt?"
A slight recovery on the part of the stricken _West Barbican_ enabledPeter and the skipper to gain the weather bridge rail, the formersecuring a lifebelt from the chest by the side of the chartroom.
It was a weird and terrible sight that met Mostyn's eyes as he clung tothe rail. The vivid flashes of lightning threw the scene into strongrelief as the bluish glare illumined the night.
Not only was the ship listing to port. She was well down by the stern,her poop being practically submerged. From the lee side of theboat-deck a row of empty davits overhung the black water, the lowerblocks of the disengaged falls flogging the ship's side like a seriesof blows with a sledge-hammer.
A cable's length away was one of the boats with only half a dozenpeople in her. Another more laden was a little distance away, therowers laying on their oars. A third, deep in the water, waslaboriously putting away from the ship. A fourth, waterlogged, withher bow and the top of the transom showing above the surface, wasdrifting at some distance astern of the ship, while a fifth wasfloating bottom upwards with five or six lascars struggling to clamberupon the upturned keel.
"We'll have to shift for ourselves, Mostyn," said the Old Man calmly."The best of luck!"
The people in the sparely manned boat, noting the skipper and theWireless Officer on the bridge, began to back towards the founderingship.
"Avast there!" bawled Captain Bullock. "Stand off. Keep clear of thesuction. She's going!"
With a shudder like an animal in mortal pain the staunch old ship madeher final plunge. Amidst the rending of wood, as the enormous pressureof confined air burst the decks asunder, and the crash of the funnel asthe guys carried away, she slid stern foremost beneath the waves.
Then a violent rush of water swept Peter off the shelving planking ofthe bridge. He was conscious of being flung heavily against some solidobject, turned round and round like a slowly spinning top, and beingdragged down, down, down.
Vainly he tried to keep his breath. The pressure on his lungs becameintolerable. He was barely conscious of struggling madly in thecrushing embrace of the black water.
Then everything became a blank.