Читать книгу Midshipman Raxworthy - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 7

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Kenneth fully realized the dire peril that beset him and those under his orders. He was directly responsible for the safety of his men. In spite of his youth his training at Dartmouth, followed by a few months in the light cruiser, had taught him self-reliance.

The impassive-featured coxswain was waiting for the first sign of indecision on the midshipman’s features. The petty officer, who was old enough to be Raxworthy’s father, knew perfectly well that the situation would either prove the midshipman to be a leader of men or the reverse. Had the latter shown any sign of cracking under the ordeal then the coxswain would issue what orders he thought fit to safeguard the lives of his comrades. Should this step become necessary and the crew survived the ordeal, Raxworthy’s name would be Mud for the rest of his Service career.

But the coxswain was agreeably disappointed.

“Let go the anchor!” ordered the midshipman. “See that the forelock is properly secured,” he added, as a precautionary measure.

The bowman crept along the slippery waterways to the plunging fore-deck. Working deftly in the darkness, he assured himself that the anchor-stock was efficiently secured, and then toppled the “killick”—weighing more than a hundredweight—over the bows.

With a rush and a roar the chain ran out until the picket-boat snubbed violently and, held by the anchor, swung head to wind and tide.

“Holding, sir!” reported the bowman.

Reassured on that point, Kenneth ordered the man aft. He wasn’t going to run the risk of losing the seaman overboard as the picket-boat plunged her nose deeply into the hissing, surging seas.

Descending a short, vertical steel ladder, Kenneth gained the motor-room. For some seconds the temporary transition from the cold and darkness without to the heated and electrically lighted engine room virtually blinded him.

“What’s wrong now?” he inquired anxiously.

“Water in the fuel tank, sir,” replied the leading stoker, and to bear out his statement he extended a horny hand, in the palm of which he held a quantity of paraffin on which globules of water floated. “I’ll swear, sir, I put the paraffin through the strainer, and there wasn’t a drop of water showing on the gauge.”

The man’s anxiety to clear himself hardly interested Raxworthy at the moment. What was more to the point was how to get the motor running again.

“Clean your carburettor and change over to petrol,” he ordered. “Look lively, or we’ll be on the rocks if the anchor starts to drag.”

With that Kenneth went on deck to await developments.

“We’ll get her going in a brace of shakes, Wilson,” he remarked to the coxswain.

“Hope so, sir,” rejoined the petty officer. “Only, sir, pardon me saying, it seems to me that the killick’s dragging. Ten fathoms and a hard bottom doesn’t give a decent holding ground.”

The coxswain’s statement that the anchor was failing to hold put a different complexion on the situation.

Raxworthy peered into the snow-laden darkness, striving to pick up some light that might give him a chance either to verify or disprove the petty officer’s statement.

There was none. In that blinding snowstorm visibility was limited to about fifty yards.

“What makes you think we’re dragging?” he asked.

“Well, sir, while you were below I took the liberty of going for’ard and feeling the cable. Unless I’m much mistaken the fluke of the anchor’s rasping over the bottom. She mayn’t be dragging fast, but there it is—she ain’t where she was when we dropped the killick.”

This was disconcerting news. Even supposing the pinnace was drifting to lee’ard slowly, the danger of striking the reefs was none the less—it was merely a question of time, unless, in the meanwhile, the anchor obtained a firm hold.

That was supposing the leading stoker would be unable to restart the motor.

Raxworthy waited patiently for some minutes. The inaction gave him food for thought. He pictured the two officers pacing the pier head in the bitter snowstorm and uttering maledictions upon the picket-boat for not being there on time. Next morning the commander would want to know all about it, with the inevitable result that the already disgraced midshipman would be again hauled over the coals for neglecting to keep the boat in efficient working order.

“A merry Christmas for me—I don’t think!” muttered Kenneth for the umpteenth time.

At last the motor awoke into activity.

Kenneth sprang to the wheel. The bowman got to his feet and awaited the order to go for’ard and heave short the cable.

The midshipman was on the point of ordering a “touch ahead” when the engine spluttered and relapsed into silence.

He went below to interview the perspiring leading stoker.

“Can’t make nothing of it, sir,” confessed that worthy. “She won’t have it either on petrol or paraffin. I reckon the jet’s choked.”

“Then for goodness’ sake unship the thing and clean it!” rejoined Kenneth, and waited to see the operation performed.

Whether it was the midshipman’s presence that flurried the man or that his fingers were slippery with oil that was responsible for the mishap was immaterial. The fact remained that the jet fell from the leading stoker’s grasp, glanced from the crank-case and disappeared underneath the tray. Without unbolting and removing the engine—a task that in the circumstances was out of the question—the jet was irrecoverably lost.

Kenneth returned on deck feeling anything but happy. The loss of the jet was a pure accident and no good purpose would be served by slanging the man.

Other steps must be taken to extricate the picket-boat from her hazardous position—and again Kenneth rose to the occasion.

“Motor’s konked, Wilson,” he announced laconically. “I’m letting off some Verey lights and then the steam pinnace will be along to take us in tow.”

The coxswain, behind the midshipman’s back, shrugged his shoulders and thought it was about time that he kicked off his sea-boots.

Searching in one of the lockers, Kenneth found the Verey pistol. Inserting a cartridge he fired into the air.

Two hundred feet above the boat the rocket burst into a red glare, but so heavy was the fall of snow that only a faint glimmer was visible from the cockpit. Obviously, then, the signal of distress would be totally invisible from the Kirkham, which was now at least a mile and a half to wind’ard. Nor would the report be heard. Nothing short of wireless, which the picket-boat did not possess, would establish communication with the light cruiser on such a night.

Kenneth fired three more lights from the Verey pistol before giving up hope of aid by this means.

“Seems a bit of a wash-out, Wilson,” he remarked.

“ ‘Fraid so, sir,” agreed the coxswain. “Might be a jolly sight worse, though. It strikes me that killick’s got a firm hold now, so all we can do is to stand by till daylight or until this snowstorm blows over.”

“The officers waiting on Mautby jetty will be feeling pretty sick of it,” observed the midshipman.

Wilson snorted.

“If officers take it into their heads to go on the beach on a night like this—even though it’s Christmas Eve—it’s up to them to make the best of it. We’ve troubles of our own enough. Look here, sir, suppose you turn into the cabin for a spell. It’s pretty parky out here.”

It certainly was cold. Except for the fore-deck that was being continuously swept by the seas, the picket-boat was white with frozen snow. Even the side lights were blocked by a mixture of ice and snow. To go for’ard without hanging on tooth and nail was to risk slipping on the deck and pitching overboard.

Kenneth’s sou’wester and the front of his oilskin coat were white with frozen snow. His face smarted painfully under the onslaught of the sleet, while by contrast his gloved hands were numbed by the cold.

Undoubtedly it was a great temptation to take his coxswain’s advice and shelter in the little cabin immediately for’ard of the cockpit, but he resisted it. If the coxswain and bowman could stick it it was up to him to share the discomforts with his crew.

“I’m all right, really,” he protested, although his chattering teeth belied the statement. “I’d better hang on here just in case. I say: is there any grub on board?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” replied the coxswain. “Are you hungry, sir?”

“No,” replied Raxworthy. “But you fellows—you had supper at one bell and nothing since.”

“That’s a fact, sir,” agreed his coxswain.

The last official meal in a ship is late in the afternoon and is called supper. If a man requires a meal later in the evening he has to buy it in the canteen. Apparently the crew of the picket-boat had not eaten anything since half-past four. The midshipman was better off in that respect. He had had dinner and by now he was feeling decidedly peckish. He wondered how hungry the hands were.

“Then it’s a case of tightening our belts, Wilson,” he remarked. “Carry on smoking: that’ll take the edge off a bit.”

The time dragged with leaden feet. The storm showed no sign of abating. If anything the wind was increasing in strength, and the snow squalls were heavier than earlier in the night. No doubt the commander, alarmed by the non-return of the motor-picket-boat would have sent away the steam pinnace to search for the absentee, but on such a night it would be a case of looking for a needle in a bottle of hay. The pinnace might conceivably pass within half a cable’s length of the disabled picket-boat without being aware of her presence.

Suddenly the picket-boat swung broadside on to a huge wave. The crest swept completely over the boat, almost filling the cockpit and throwing Kenneth violently against the lee coaming.

Even as he struggled to regain his breath—for the force of the blow and a mouthful of icy water had rendered him almost speechless—the midshipman heard Wilson exclaim:

“That’s done it, sir! She’s parted her cable!”