The hatches had gone overboard: but the tarpaulin, curiously, had not: it was pressed on the deck in a heap. Just as Buxton turned to creep away it leapt up, like a black wall. It hit him and knocked him down and covered him, flattening him to the deck under its stiff weight.
Then the sea came. It burst over the rail—God knows how many tons. It roared down the deck, a fathom deep: its weight nearly crushed Buxton, under the tarpaulin—the stiff tarred canvas suddenly fitting his body like a mould. Then away to leeward, over the other rail; and the ship staggered and rose. Buxton, under the tarpaulin, was not only saved alive; he was almost dry.
He crawled out, crushed and stupid, carelessly, so that the wind caught him. It was as if the climber on the cliff had slipped and fallen. The wind took him like gravity, and flung him to the centre-castle, where he crashed into the door from which he had started.
V
If nothing could be done on the fore-deck, still there were the after-hatches to consider. Some of them might have gone too. The after well-deck offered more shelter; so, if they had, it might be just possible to work there—if he got enough men for the job.
Mr. Buxton went first to the saloon; where he found Mr. Rabb, his clear blue eyes staring straight in front of him, as if the worst storm could not affect his serenity. He was a comforting sight, to one direly in need of help. Mr. Buxton called him.
In the corridor he met the boy Bennett, with the Chinese bosun only, for none of the other Chinamen would come. They sat in a huddle on the fo’c’sle floor, he said: not attempting to hold on to anything, but sliding about as she rolled, bleating faintly as they bumped.
Then the tall boy, Phillips, appeared.
That made five. Five might do something. They made their way aft: and from the shelter of the centre-castle they saw what needed to be done.
No. 6 hatch was stripped also. But the planks had not gone overboard. If even some of them could be replaced, they could be lashed down, and the water going below could be checked. Nor was the position so exposed. It ought to be possible.
Indeed, Mr. Foster was out there already—busy with the stretching-screw of one of the mast-stays, which in spite of its locking-device was threatening to work loose. However, he was plainly too busy on his own job to be able to come and help them.
They had better make a dash for it.
They had better make a dash for it, at once. But Mr. Buxton felt a curious unwillingness in his feet. All the top of him leant forward, but his feet seemed to creep backwards under him, like small rabbits looking for their holes.
This is not so bad as the foredeck, he said to himself; not half so bad. Safe as houses. “Come on!” he yelled, and flung himself forward.
Bennett and Phillips were after him like dogs off the leash. It never occured to them to be afraid, being new to it. They saw Mr. Buxton go, and they went: and landed on top of him, in a heap.
Buxton was out from under them in no time: beginning work before they knew which way up they were. One by one they got the hatches, dragging them up from the lee-scuppers. Then the mate and Phillips straddled the hatch-beams, the gaping hold under them, while Bennett worked from the deck. That was the hard part—lifting the hatches, without the wind getting under them. There was no sign of Mr. Rabb, nor the bosun. This was a big job for a man and two boys.
They got three in place, and lashed them. They were struggling with a fourth when a redoubled gust caught them. Mr. Buxton and Phillips clung under the beams they were straddling, like sloths. The hatch blew out of their hands, knocking poor young Bennett into the lee-scuppers, where he lay inert, washing about in the suds.
Mr. Buxton hoisted himself up, and was about to go after him, when Bennett, revived by the slapping water, sat up. The first thing he saw was his leg: it was bent sideways at a right angle, just above the ankle. My God, he thought: I’ve bust my leg: it will begin to hurt, soon, a lot. Best get out of this before it begins. He moved gingerly—and it came right off.
Sitting there in the water, he blushed right round to his neck for being such an ass. Fancy thinking he had bust his leg! For it was only his sea-boot, of course, which had worked half-off as he skiddered, and then, being empty, had doubled up.
He made a grab at it, and then waited his chance to scramble back to the hatch-coaming.
Meanwhile, Mr. Buxton debated. His feet were bold enough now; but his heart was uncomfortable. By rights of course they ought to stick there till the last hatch was secured. But he did not want to kill the boys. They were regular little lions. It would be a shame if these boys were killed and all those bloody bleating Chinamen were not. It was the merest chance Bennett had not gone, that time. Anyway, they had stopped most of the water going down No. 6. “Come on,” he yelled again: and all three made a dash for the poop. They crowded into the place where the steering-engine is housed.
It was lucky they did; for immediately the wind again began to blow with its greatest violence, and the open well-deck was impassable.
It is all very well while obeying orders with your whole strength; but sitting idle is different. Both boys, now they had leisure to notice, grew afraid, and thought the end was coming soon. The cold water in their clothes began slowly to explore their warm skins. No ship could stand it. Both inwardly began to say their prayers—each hoping the other would not guess. “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want,” said Bennett in the recesses of his head: “He shall feed me in green pastures, and lead me forth by the waters of comfort. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the Shadow of Death, I shall fear no evil: Thy rod and Thy staff shall comfort me.” He did not know any more; so he began again, “The Lord is my Shepherd....” It was childhood magic, used to fortify himself against the wild beasts of the dark, if he was sent upstairs alone. He had not used it since then.
But it was hard to keep his mind always on it now: and in between he would feel an agonising cold griping, in his stomach; a physical pang of regret. What a fool he had been to come to sea, when after all there was so much for him to do, in a long life, on the warm safe shore! All the infinite long years of childhood at last behind him; all to be wasted, no manhood to come after all.
Phillips, in a curious way, did not mind so much. He said the Lord’s Prayer once, and left it at that. His mind divided into two halves. One half was actually glad. For young Phillips, for the first time, loved a girl with his whole soul; and she over-looked him. If he were drowned at sea, she would be told: his death would sadden her a little, even if his life was indifferent to her. There was no true living for him, he felt, except in her thoughts: then his death alone could secure him life, even life for the few minutes she would give to thinking of him. Like many young lovers, he confused a girl with God: and he could almost imagine her now, watching him, out of the sky; watching him die, and pitying him.
And yet there was another half of his mind, which was unshakenly confident. It was a part of his mind that did not argue, did not even put things in words; it knew things to be true; but it knew itself also to be under a taboo, that if it spoke those things, they would cease to be true. That part of his mind knew, now, that he was not going to die. It knew he was unique: mankind was divided into him on the one hand, and everyone else on the other. Death was for other people: he would not die, he would not ever die. God had made him different in this point—that he was not mortal, and was meant for a superhuman purpose.
Yet this confidence, because of the taboo, must never be put into words, even in his own head. He must let that other part of his mind run on, with its pathetic pictures of his tragic end, unchecked—as indeed it continued to do.
To this extent he was right, that he did not die that afternoon. None of them did. Instead they crouched there, unable to get out, in the faint stink of oil, for over two hours: till half past six.
VI
When Mr. Buxton and the boys made their dash for number 6 hatch, Mr. Rabb had wisely hung back: because he knew, even if he accompanied them, he would not have been
much help, because he was too much afraid.
Fear often has the effect of making one over-exert oneself. If you are sent up aloft for the first time, and it frightens you, you will find yourself clinging on with every once of strength in your body, enough strength to hold up three men instead of one: this soon tires you, and leaves you no strength whatever to do what you were sent to do. If Mr. Rabb, afraid like that, had joined them at the hatches, he would have so grappled himself to the hatch-coaming as to be in a few minutes as weak as a new lamb with fatigue; and the first jolt would have shaken him off. There was no use in that. Only a wise man knows when he is too much afraid to take a risk successfully; just as only a wise man knows when he is too drunk to drive a car. But Mr. Rabb had had enough experience of fear, one time and another, to be able to look at himself when afraid clear-headedly from outside. Obviously, now, the thing to do was to take no grave risks until he had got used to the situation, and his fear had melted away of itself—as it surely would do, in a short while.
He therefore decided to make his way to the bridge. That was a proper place, after all, for an officer to be in an emergency.
But perhaps he might stop for a rest somewhere, on the way.
Chapter IV
(Wednesday)
It was shortly before seven when Mr. Buxton got back to the bridge, the boys being still unable to leave the poop. Perhaps it was the best place for them, at present.
Mr. Foster was in there with them.
Captain Edwardes had been on the bridge all day: now the Mate was there to relieve him, he felt it was time to see personally how things were getting on elsewhere. The barometer had fallen to 26.99. So low a reading had never before been recorded for certain at sea. The dynamics of such a depression were beyond computation. Precedents, book-knowledge, experience—they were no longer a guide. The air might now be expected to perform feats no living sailor had had to face before.
Leaving the Mate in charge on deck, he made his way to the engine-room.
It was dark, the engineers doing their work by flash-lamps. The broken skylight had been barricaded, but spray still swept through it. The machinery groaned, all its bearings lying at unaccustomed angles. Chinese greasers, themselves greased, slipped about among it like muddy fish. On a little iron platform beside the telegraph the captain found Mr. MacDonald, his wise old face and grey moustaches dripping with oil and water. He was bitter with complaints: his machinery was not designed to work at an angle like that, and the skylight should have been battened down while it was still possible.
The second engineer, a red-haired Scotsman with a pasty white face, was on an everlasting round, reading steam-pressures and gauges of all kinds.
The third—a perky, opinionated little chap with the fixed expression of a frog, and the fourth (Gaston) were by the chief. They agreed it was doubtful how much longer engines, and men, could work under those conditions. For God’s sake, couldn’t the Deck do something about it?
“You’re the only ones who can do anything about it,” said the captain. “Your first duty is to keep up main steam. Well, keep up main steam and don’t worry about the Deck. We must be near the centre now: in a few hours the worst will be over. That’s not long to hold out. If you keep up steam we’ll be all right—there’s no damage done. Keep the pumps going in No. 2 hold and No. 6: then she’ll right herself when the lull comes, and we can get her under control again and heave-to comfortable for the next blast. Fill No. 2 port ballast-tank—that’ll help to right her. You can’t steer and you can’t pump without steam—so keep up main steam, whatever happens. It’s not long now.”
Well, the Deck knew. If the central lull might really be expected any minute, there was a chance of the engines holding out. Gaston, moving away to get the ballast-tank filled, was heartened. Nothing desperate had happened yet; and they were good engines. They had been working, in spite of the list, for over four hours without anything smashing. He peered into the stokehold: no trouble with the fires. The wind was not interfering with the funnel-draught seriously: at least, not more than the revolving fans, with their forced draught from below, could cope with. The fuel-pumps were working smoothly.
Only Mr. MacDonald was not heartened. He was old—contest had no call for him. Doubt meant foreboding, not excitement. He was old, and he liked certainty, reasonable conditions under which to render reasonable service. Moreover, an engineer comes to feel the stresses in big engines as if those engines were his body. To someone else the grinding of those bearings was a thing outside; but Mr. MacDonald ached with it, as if in his own joints.
Captain Edwardes, in spite of his tubby shape, swerved about these strange places with all a seaman’s agility—that a seaman does not lose, at any age, till senility actually cripples him. He did not talk to the Chinese as he had talked to the officers; but they stole glances at him. He looked a very happy man: anyone could see, by looking at him, that everything was going all right. He entered the stokehold, and stood for a minute in the doorway, the light of the fires showing the immense secret pleasure in his face.
Then he left, to return on deck. It was as dark, by now, on deck, as it was below.
II
Coming out there into the blackness the blast hit him in the mouth, stopping his breath. He tried to gasp, but he could not: something pungent had filled his lungs, so that they retched and shuddered in the attempt to breathe. The wind was wrapping it round him in hot, greasy blasts. His unseeing eyes poured with water, smarted as in mustard-gas. He must be in a cloud of dense smoke: but he could not see it, of course—the night could be no darker than it was anyhow. He had no idea where it came from: possibly the fiddley. The thing to do now was to find his way to the Bridge—if his lungs held out. Keeping his head with an effort of will, he began to feel his way along, holding his breath (what little breath he had), resisting the dangerous temptation to hurry.
Down below, they had no more idea than the captain had, what had happened; though there too it was plain enough something was wrong. Just as he left, they heard a pop from the stokehold. A super-heat element had gone, thought Mr. MacDonald: nothing serious. But the next moment the firemen came out from the stokehold like bolted rabbits. Wisely, too: for steam was escaping, they said (steam at 200 lbs. pressure to the inch, heated to 600° Fahrenheit). No time to see where the leak was—only time to get out: for in thirty seconds the stokehold was uninhabitable.
Meanwhile, in the engine-room, you could see on the gauges the pressure of main steam dropping back, dropping back. What had gone? A mere super-heat element would not give an escape like that. Nor was there any way of finding out. A naked man can move without discomfort in air heated to temperatures above boiling-point, provided the air is perfectly dry, because the rapid evaporation of sweat keeps him cool. But if there is the slightest trace of moisture in the air, retarding that evaporation, it would kill him at once. Any considerable amount of steam would kill him at half the temperature of dry air. So imagine that stokehold, full of steam heated four hundred degrees above boiling-point! If you had ventured in, you would have been scalded to death at once; and then would probably have burst, after a few minutes.
Captain Edwardes found his way to the bridge, the smoke following him in eddies. Mr. Buxton was still there, of course. He had noticed the smoke; but could no more explain it than the captain could. Some trick of the wind, that blew it down on deck and perhaps ... but that could hardly account for so much. They strained their eyes into the darkness till their eyes ached. But their eyes could not help them.
The roar of the storm was now so dense, so uniform, as to be the equivalent of a deep silence, in the way it wiped out all ordinary sound. You could not tell whether it was outside or inside you, like the pain in a deaf man’s ears.
A message came up from the engine-room that something had gone: steam-pressure was dropping back.
As the pressure dropped back, of course, all the remaining apparatus that worked by steam began to fail. The pumps grew languid, st
opped. The dynamos slowed down. The fans, which supplied the forced draught to the furnaces, stopped. When the fans stopped, the fires began to blow back, with explosions that burst open the furnace doors, and lit the inky engine-room with flashes of flame like lightning. The escaping steam had by this time cooled enough for it to be possible to enter parts at least of the stokehold: but the flames from the furnaces had taken its place as prevention. At each blow-back a tongue of fire thirty feet long would shoot out of the open fire-door.
Captain Edwardes now received a message that main-steam had dropped to a point where the pumps had stopped, the fans had stopped, the dynamo was stopping: and the furnaces blowing back. It was eight o’clock.
But even if the fans had stopped, he considered, the funnel should at least give sufficient draught for the furnaces to function, though not efficiently. They ought not to be blowing back, just because the fans had stopped. Captain Edwardes and Mr. Buxton, through rifts in the spray, played electric torches on the smoke, trying to trace its origin. It must be coming from the base of the funnel.
It seemed to come from the base of the funnel, and must hide the whole length of the funnel within its cloud: for no funnel could be seen.
It was with a frightful sinking of the heart that Edwardes and Buxton together compelled themselves to believe what they were without doubt seeing. The smoke was rolling from a great oval hole in the boat-deck. The funnel was gone: must have gone overboard an hour before: yet such was the storm that Mr. Buxton, on the bridge, had neither seen nor heard it go!
Nor had it just crashed over the side: it had been lifted clear: for the life-boat to leeward of it was untouched.
That funnel, guyed to stand a lateral pressure of a hundred tons! A hurricane-wind, at 75 m.p.h., would exert a pressure on it of fifteen tons. But the pressure exerted by air (leaving humidity out of account) increases according to the square of its velocity: the pressure of a wind at 200 m.p.h. therefore, would be roughly seven times as great. And that would mean a total of ... but you can work that out for yourself, as Captain Edwardes did, in his head, while Mr. Buxton ran into the engine room yelling “The funnel’s gone! The funnel’s gone!” like a maniac.