Читать книгу Midshipman Raxworthy - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 6

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There was very little respite for Midshipman Raxworthy. His next duty—for the commander meant to keep him busy—was to take ashore the junior officers and midshipmen who had been given leave.

“Bung-ho, Rax!” was Jimmy Whitwell’s final greeting as the boat with its load of exuberant snotties ran alongside the jetty. “I’ll write and tell you what you’ve missed if I have time!”

That seemed about the limit—to bear the brunt of a running fire of more or less sympathetic remarks from his fortunate messmates, and then to watch their disappearing forms as they scampered up the steps of the jetty and hurried to the railway station with hardly a backward glance or a farewell to the luckless victim of the commander’s ire.

Christmas Eve came round—as depressing a day as one could imagine. A biting nor’-easterly wind accompanied by a flurry of snow had sprung up during the night. The glass was rising rapidly—a sure sign of a gale from some northerly point.

Almost as soon as Midshipman Raxworthy came on duty the officer-of-the-watch hailed him.

“Commander wishes that q.d. awnings and curtains be furled immediately,” he ordered. “Look lively, or something will carry away in a brace of shakes.”

The order was certainly necessary. Already the canvas was bellying upwards and flogging under the onslaught of the rising gale.

Turning out the duty sub-division of his watch the midshipman superintended the task, the while fearing the commander’s ire should the stubborn canvas “take charge and carry away”, through the careless handling of the men engaged upon the job.

At length the awnings were furled and the hands trooped for’ard, leaving the officer-of-the-watch and Midshipman Raxworthy in sole occupation of the wind-swept quarter-deck. Now that the curtains were removed there was nothing to shelter the two officers from the icy blast that swept unrestrainedly across the exposed deck.

Drifts of snow accumulated against hatchway coamings. Raxworthy was young enough to revel in a snowballing contest, but by virtue of the dignity of his minor authority such delights were denied him. Dejectedly he paced the deck in company with the distinctly morose officer-of-the-watch who, upon his own admission, was “fed up to the back teeth”, because duty held him back from Christmas festivities ashore.

There was nothing to do, no signals to be given or received. Everything beyond a radius of about a hundred yards was hidden in swirling flakes of snow. As it was between half ebb and low water the entrance to Junk Harbour was impassable and in consequence no vessel would be entering or leaving. According to custom look-outs were posted both on the bridge and in the eyes of the ship, but in the circumstances their task, like that of the watch-keeping officer was a mere matter of form.

“And this is a Merry Christmas—I don’t think!” thought Raxworthy, as the morning wore on in freezing inactivity.

His trick over, the midshipman ate a sorry meal in solitary state in the deserted gun-room. To make matters worse, the stove was behaving abominably, giving out hardly any heat and sending out clouds of smoke.

Ringing the bell the midshipman summoned the gun-room messman.

“See that that cowl is trimmed properly, Jones,” he ordered. “I’m being smoked out!”

“Very good, sir,” replied the messman, at the same time placing a book upon the table.

Raxworthy glared banefully at the unwanted gift. He knew perfectly well what it was—the commander’s night-order book.

As soon as the door closed, the midshipman opened the book, eager to know the latest blow that fate had dealt him. He was not mistaken in his forebodings. In the commander’s small and clear handwriting appeared:

“Motor-picket-boat will proceed to Mautby at 23.30 to bring officers off to the ship.”

Raxworthy glanced at the clock on the bulkhead. It was now 11.30 a.m. In twelve hours—thirty minutes before midnight—he would have to make another hateful run into Mautby to fetch the surgeon-commander and the engineer-lieutenant who apparently had found sufficient attraction ashore to spend an evening either in or on the outskirts of that desolate town.

“I believe the Bloke persuaded them to go so that he’d get the chance of sending me to bring them off,” ruminated the midshipman. “If this isn’t a dog’s life, what is?”

By ten in the evening the gale had moderated somewhat, although the sea ran high. Rigged out in oilskins and sea-boots, Raxworthy came on deck and went to the side.

The picket-boat was straining at the lower boom, shipping it green as the bow-rope took the strain. In the sickly gleam of the starboard navigation lamp the sea looked particularly forbidding and the boat herself a mere cockleshell.

“All correct, sir,” reported the coxswain.

“Plenty of fuel?”

“Paraffin tank full, sir, and a gallon of petrol for starting up.”

“Good!” ejaculated Raxworthy. “Lead on, coxswain!”

With an agility born of long practice, the petty officer made his way out along the lower boom and, watching his opportunity, dropped upon the fore-deck of the heaving motor-picket-boat.

The midshipman followed. Encumbered as he was with board-stiff oilskins and heavy sea-boots his movements were slower. He knew perfectly well that a slip would mean almost certain death—with the choice of being crushed between the boat’s and the ship’s side or of being carried down by the weight of his boots. Even if he found himself in the ditch and were able to kick off his boots, he could not keep himself afloat for more than a few seconds in the piercingly cold water.

At the end of the boom Raxworthy groped for the jacob’s ladder, descended three or four rungs and then hung on—waiting.

A dozen feet below him was a smooth triangular patch upon which the rays of the red, white and green navigation lamps blended in a weird colour scheme. That patch was the motor-picket-boat’s fore-deck, and upon it he must drop or pay the penalty for failure.

The midshipman waited. Up came the boat’s bows on the crest of a huge wave that threw showers of icy spray to right and left.

His feet were almost touching the slippery teak planks—yet he hesitated.

The opportunity was lost, for the next moment the bows dipped. Then with a jerk that shook the lower boom like a twanged bow-string the boat snubbed at her painter, shipped a few tons of water over her fore-deck and rose like a mastiff emerging from the sea, until once more the midshipman’s feet were almost touching the heaving planks.

“Let go, sir, I’ll steady you!” roared the coxswain, his voice barely audible above the noise of the elements.

Involuntarily shutting his eyes, Raxworthy relaxed his grip and dropped. Even as his rubber-shod soles slithered on the slippery deck he felt himself gripped by both arms.

“Right you are, sir!” exclaimed the petty officer reassuringly. “Hang on, sir, she’s going to snub something cruel!”

Gripping the handrail of the raised cover over the motor-room, Raxworthy waited. With a jerk that shook the boat from stem to stern the painter took up the sudden strain. A shower of icy spray flew inboard, a generous quantity finding its way inside the storm flap of the midshipman’s oilskins, and in spite of his thick muffler the icy liquid trickled down his chest, making him gasp for breath.

A moment later and Raxworthy gained his post at the wheel. The bowman crept for’ard ready to let go, while the coxswain stood behind his young officer to give advice and assistance should either be required.

But once at his post the midshipman’s confidence returned. The discomfort—even the sense of injustice under which he had rankled—was forgotten. He was in command of the boat, captain of his immediate destiny and likewise responsible for the lives of his men and for the safety of his command.

Spinning the wheel first to port and then to starboard in order to reassure himself that on this occasion it was functioning properly, Raxworthy gave the order to cast off and to the leading stoker—who was in charge of the motor—for a “touch ahead”.

Rolling and plunging, the motor-picket-boat gathered way and drew clear of her parent ship. In a few seconds the Kirkham was swallowed up in the darkness of the snow-laden night.

Except for the motor-picket-boat navigation lamps, and the feeble glimmer of the binnacle lamp, not a light was visible. Even the powerful rays of the lighthouse on the extremity of the Mutches were blotted out, although in normal conditions the light was visible for twenty-five miles.

Kenneth Raxworthy entertained no doubts concerning his ability to find the entrance of the inner harbour. Allowing for the set of the tide and the strength and direction of the wind, he knew the correct compass course. All that was necessary was to hold on to that course until the pier-head lights became visible through the mirk. He had made that trip so many times that he knew the course by heart—“west a half south”.

But in less than five minutes from the time of getting clear of the ship Raxworthy’s confidence received a shattering shock.

Almost without warning—for the noise of wind and sea drowned the expostulating splutter of the carburettor—the motor stopped.

The picket-boat, quickly losing way, hung head to wind for a brief space, then, pounded by a heavy wave, swung broadside on and helpless in the trough of the sea.

Less than a couple of miles and dead to lee’ard were the dreaded Mutches, the saw-like reefs of which were waiting for their prey!