The Wireless Officer Part 6

His companion was able to give an account of the disaster. The vessel was the American-owned oil-tanker _Bivalve_ of and from New York for Hull. She had struck the two drifting mines, concerning the presence of which a general wireless message had been sent out. Both exploded amids.h.i.+ps, one on either side, about fifty feet for'ard of the engine-room, which in vessels of the _Bivalve's_ type are well aft.

Within a few minutes the petroleum tanks exploded, and the sinking s.h.i.+p became a raging furnace. Two boats were lowered, but of the fate of the second the narrator had no knowledge. He remembered pulling desperately at an oar until the smoke cloud overwhelmed the boat.

Then, gasping frantically for breath, he lost consciousness until he found himself on board the _West Barbican_.

At eight bells (8 a.m.) Peter was roused from his slumbers. A glance through the now open scuttle showed him that the s.h.i.+p was berthed alongside a wharf, and that the stevedores were already getting busy.

A huge crane was transporting long, timber-protected pieces of steelwork into the _West Barbican's_ No. 1 hold.

Peter regarded the steelwork with interest. It was the material on which rested the reputation and success of the Brocklington Ironworks Company, of which his father was managing director.

But other matters quickly demanded his attention. There was the damaged aerial. That had to be replaced under the direction of the Acting Chief Officer, but upon Mostyn's shoulders depended the responsibility of the perfect insulating of the wires. Already the necessary material had been "marked off", and the serang and his party were engaged in making eye-splices in the wire rope. At the mast-head of both fore and main, men were reeving fresh halliards for the purpose of sending the aerials aloft.

Captain Bullock was standing on the bridge watching the cargo being s.h.i.+pped, when he caught sight of the Wireless Officer. He beckoned Peter to approach. The officer of the watch was at the other side of the bridge superintending the securing of an additional spring; otherwise the bridge was deserted.

"Mr. Mostyn," began the Old Man abruptly, "I want you to understand clearly that there is only one captain on board this hooker, and he alone gives permission for officers to leave the s.h.i.+p. Who, might I ask, ordered you away in the lifeboat last night?"

"No one, sir," replied Peter.

"Then please remember that in future you are not to act on your own initiative except in matters directly concerning your duties as Wireless Officer. You were guilty of a grave breach of discipline.

Don't let it occur again."

Mostyn smarted under this unexpected rap over the knuckles. He realized upon consideration that the rebuke was well merited. His offence was a technical breach of discipline. It was of no use telling this bluff old skipper his reasons. Yarns about "impulses of the moment" would elicit little sympathy. So he kept silent.

"All the same," continued the Old Man, in a less gruff tone, "you did a smart bit of work last night. Where did you learn to handle a boat?"

Mostyn flushed with pleasure.

"I've had three years in the Merchant Service, sir, and I've been in yachts and sailing dinghies ever since I can remember."

"I knew you didn't learn seamans.h.i.+p as a wireless man," continued the skipper. "Sorry I had to tick you off, my lad, but I simply had to.

I'd like to send in a recommendation on your behalf, but I don't see how I can. Your Company would kick up the deuce of a s.h.i.+ne if they knew I employed a wireless officer on executive duties. It's not done; or it's not supposed to be done--put it that way. And another thing: supposing, and it was quite likely, you'd lost the number of your mess over that business, what sort of yarn could I have pitched into the Board of Trade people? And my employers too? A pretty fine skipper they'd think I was, allowing a wireless officer to take away a lifeboat. Likely as not I'd have got the push from the Company's service and lost my ticket into the bargain. D'ye see my point?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then we'll cry quits. All the same it was a smart bit of work--a jolly smart bit of work--but I'll have to make an entry in the log recording the fact that you've been reprimanded and stating the reason.

I don't think it will adversely affect you, Mr. Mostyn; rather the other way, I fancy."

Peter thanked the Captain and went about his duties, reflecting that the Old Man wasn't at all a bad sort, and that his bark was certainly worse than his bite.

Looking more like a blacksmith than a radio-operator, Peter completed his part of the work and applied the necessary tests. Everything was apparently in order in the wireless-cabin. With a grunt of satisfaction he replaced the receivers and left the cabin. Until the s.h.i.+p sailed--she was due to leave at ten that evening--he was at leisure.

"Now for a bath, a shave, and a change," he soliloquized. "It would never do to meet the pater in this state."

Somewhat to his surprise he found his father waiting in his son's cabin.

"h.e.l.lo, Peter, my boy," was Captain Mostyn's greeting; "been ratting--or sweeping flues?"

Peter certainly looked a bit of a wreck. His sleepless night, following the perilous affair in the lifeboat, had given him a washed-out appearance. He was dog-tired, physically and mentally. He was dirty, unshaven, and rigged out in a very old uniform, with a scarf knotted round his neck in place of the regulation collar and tie.

"No, Pater," replied Peter. "Neither ratting nor sweeping flues. I've been choked off by the skipper."

"Easy job, judging by that running noose on your neck-gear," commented Captain Mostyn jocularly. "What's happened?"

Peter told him, simply and straightforwardly. There was never a lack of confidence between father and son. His parent listened attentively to the bald narrative.

"Your skipper was quite right," he observed. "In my days in the Service I wouldn't have thought of allowing a watch-keeping sub to go down to the engine-room and play about with the gadgets in order to slow down the s.h.i.+p. You did much the same sort of thing, chipping into a department that wasn't yours. At the same time, I'm proud of you, Peter. It shows you are not deficient in pluck. Right-o! carry on with your ablutions. I want to have a few words with Captain Bullock about the steelwork. While I'm about it I'll ask him to let you go ash.o.r.e to lunch with me."

Captain Antonius Bullock was rather astonished to find that the managing director of the firm that had virtually chartered the _West Barbican_ for three days was the father of his Wireless Officer.

"And I had to log him this morning," declared the Old Man.

"Yes, he told me about it," rejoined Captain Mostyn. "No, he didn't grouse about it. He quite sees the force of your argument. In fact, I told him practically the same thing."

"All the same," said Captain Bullock, "it was a smart piece of work.

At my age I'd think twice before taking on a job of that sort. If I had to do it I'd do it, you'll understand, but these youngsters often rush into danger when there's no particular call for it; not their duty, in a manner of speaking. I'm rather curious to know what he did when that pirate collared the _Donibristle_. He told a lot about the affair, but precious little about his share in it."

"Peter had a pretty stiff time, judging from what he told me," observed Captain Mostyn. "Amongst other things he still bears the scars of eighteen wounds he received when the _Donibristle's_ wireless-cabin was demolished by a sh.e.l.l."

"Eighteen, by Jove!" exclaimed Captain Bullock. "I had one--a beauty--in the war. Splinter from a four-inch sh.e.l.l when Fritz torpedoed the old _Harkaway_ and fired on the boats. But eighteen!"

"Yes," commented Captain Mostyn. "He's seen more adventures during his short time in the Merchant Service than I did in thirty-seven years in the navy. During the whole of my sea service I never saw a shot fired in anger. Very good, I'll be on board at four o'clock to sign those papers. Do you mind giving my boy leave till then?"

Captain Bullock readily gave the required permission, and father and son had an enjoyable spell ash.o.r.e.

By four o'clock most of the steelwork was safely stowed in the hold.

Only a few crates of small parts remained to complete the all-important consignment for the Kilba Protectorate Government.

"That's all s.h.i.+pshape and Bristol-fas.h.i.+on, sir," remarked Captain Bullock, as the necessary signatures were appended to the papers in connection with the s.h.i.+pment. "If that precious lot isn't delivered safe and sound in Pangawani Harbour by the first of February it won't be the fault of Antonius Bullock."

CHAPTER VIII

The Pa.s.sengers

At high water that night the S.S. _West Barbican_, drawing eighteen feet for'ard and twenty-four aft, left Brocklington Harbour, crossing the bar with less than five feet of water under her keel.

Fortunately the weather had moderated, the wind flying round off the land, otherwise she might have been detained for days, owing to the condition of the bar. The s.h.i.+p was now making for Gravesend to pick up pa.s.sengers and mails, and thence for East Africa according to her usual programme.

Peter went on watch at ten that night with the unalluring prospect of remaining on duty till midday--perhaps longer--since Partridge and Plover, who had bucked up considerably during the vessel's stay in port, promptly showed signs of internal troubles the moment the bar was crossed.

It was not a prearranged case of malingering. There was no doubt about it: they had been ill. Neither knew of the burning of the oil-tanker, and of the dangerous position of the _West Barbican_ when she proceeded to the rescue, until late on the following morning, and even then they received the news apathetically.

So Mostyn just carried on, pondering over the Company's doubtful economy, since, in addition to his normal pay, he was already raking in a fair sum for overtime in excess of the Merchant Service eight hours per day.

Gravesend was in its wonted late autumn state when the _West Barbican_ dropped anchor. A thick fog entirely blotted out the sh.o.r.e. The air reverberated with the dismal hooting of sirens in every imaginable key; while bells clanging from vessels at anchor added to the din. At intervals the sun shone feebly through the yellow pall, although it was impossible to see twenty feet along the deck. To add to the general discomfort a raw, moist, west wind was blowing down London River, without having sufficient force to disperse the baffling fog.

The _West Barbican_ was two and a half hours late in arriving at Gravesend. If she were to weigh at the scheduled hour the pa.s.sengers would have to be smart in getting on board with their personal cabin effects. Their heavy baggage had been sent down to the docks and placed in a hold a week previously.

Peter Mostyn had turned in directly the s.h.i.+p dropped anchor. There was a chance of two hours well-earned rest, if rest it could be called, since he lay down on his bunk fully clothed save for his rubber deck-boots. It was one of those frequent occasions when he could not afford to waste precious minutes in dressing and undressing. He was almost too dog-tired to kick off his boots. He was dimly conscious of throwing himself on his bunk and pulling the collar of his greatcoat up over the back of his neck; then he pa.s.sed into a state of oblivion, notwithstanding the discordant sonata within and without the s.h.i.+p.