Читать книгу Midshipman Raxworthy - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 8

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Without waiting for orders the bowman fought his way for’ard, hanging on like grim death as wave after wave swept over the violently rolling boat.

Then he fought his way back with the information that the chain had parted at the fairlead. That meant that the anchor and all the chain outside the boat were lying useless on the bed of Junk Harbour, and that the picket-boat, if she did not founder in the meantime in spite of watertight bulkheads, would sooner or later be hurled against the dreaded Mutches unless something hardly less than a miracle intervened.

The leading stoker, realizing by the different motion of the boat that something was amiss, thrust head and shoulders out of the engine-room hatch only to disappear hurriedly as a wave-top gave him an icy shower bath.

Catching sight of the man, Kenneth had an inspiration. Since the leading stoker was now useless in his official capacity he might just as well be out of the engine-room. In the event of the picket-boat striking he would be drowned like a rat in a trap if he remained at his post. On deck he stood the same chance as the rest, which was about as poor as that of a man attempting to swim Niagara rapids.

“Pass the word for Brown to come on deck and bring an ash bucket,” shouted the midshipman.

In spite of the noise of wind and sea the bowman understood. He made his way to the engine-room hatch and communicated the midshipman’s orders to the leading stoker.

The ash bucket was a substantial affair, far stronger, heavier and larger than those for ordinary domestic use. It might serve for a makeshift sea-anchor.

Under Raxworthy’s directions the crew bent the sternfast—a stout rope used for making fast alongside a ship or a jetty—to the handle of the bucket and then threw the latter overboard. In order to obtain the best results and to allow the boat to ride head to wind, the improvised sea-anchor should have been led from the bows, but in the existing circumstances time was too precious and the risk of working on the fore-deck too great for that operation to be performed. The point was to bring the boat out of the trough of the sea, and since it was impracticable for her to lie bows on to the waves, the next best thing was to ride stern foremost to them.

For some minutes—a period of anxious suspense—nothing happened beyond a slight jerking strain upon the sternfast. Then slowly but surely the boat’s bows paid off until she presented her stern to the direction of wind and waves.

Although the ash bucket was not so effective as a sea-anchor of the accepted type in that it was insufficient to check her drift to any considerable extent, it had a result that was even better. The picket-boat was driving steadily before the wind, and on that account was riding easier. Wave after wave, that otherwise would have poured over her transom, swept harmlessly by.

Apparently this was only hastening the seemingly inevitable end. Already above the whine of the wind could be heard the noise of the breakers as they hurled themselves with irresistible fury upon the Mutches, the rocks of which were still invisible in the blackness of the night.

Moved by a common impulse the ratings began to throw off their oilskins and sea-boots. As they did so, the leading stoker promptly scrambled into the oilskin coat discarded by the coxswain.

“What’s the idea, mate?” demanded the latter.

“May as well be warm and comfortable until I find myself in the blinkin’ ditch!” was Brown’s imperturbable explanation.

The roar of the breakers grew louder and louder. Surely, thought Kenneth, the end could not be long delayed. A thousand thoughts flashed across his mind. It seemed hard lines to have to be drowned at his age—just as he was enjoying life.... And on Christmas Eve, too.... No, by Jove! He was forgetting—it wasn’t Christmas Eve but Christmas Day.

Then a sort of strange fatalism gripped him. He was not going to show the white feather before his men if he could help it. He was feeling funky; there was no denying that; but although he knew he was afraid he feared still more that his crew would detect it.

Almost mechanically, Kenneth grasped the wheel. Until the boat struck he would be at his post. Aimlessly he turned the spokes and, somewhat to his surprise, he found that up to a certain point the picket-boat responded to the alteration in helm. She was driving so rapidly through the water that she answered to her rudder.

Suddenly Kenneth caught sight of a column of spray showing ghost-like through the darkness. It was the breakers on one of the outlying ledges of the Mutches.

Instinctively the midshipman put the wheel hard over. It was almost an involuntary act, like that of a man raising his arm to ward off a blow; but, almost providentially, the picket-boat turned decidedly to starboard.

Then, aided by the back-wash from the almost perpendicular rock for which she had been heading, the picket-boat was hurled almost broadside on through a gap in the line of cliffs—an entrance that was practically invisible.

A wall of storm-beaten rock disclosed itself to starboard. Again almost instinctively Kenneth attempted to put the wheel hard over—this time to starboard.

The wheel resisted his efforts to turn it. He wrenched at it, putting his whole weight into the attempt, but in vain.

Once more the wheel had jammed!

Even in the midst of peril Raxworthy found himself wishing that the commander were on board just to convince him that the gear was defective. It was solely owing to the Bloke’s pig-headedness that the picket-boat was in this desperate plight and that, instead of enjoying his Christmas leave, the victim of the commander’s undeserved displeasure was now face to face with death.

Again the boat was broadside-on. Apparently the strain had caused the sternfast to part, and the ash-bucket was no longer acting as a sort of brake. It was now keeping company with the lost anchor and cable on the bed of Junk Harbour.

In the circumstances the boat ought by this time to be pounding upon the rocks; but to the astonishment of the midshipman and crew, she was scudding rapidly through a sort of channel between lofty and almost perpendicular walls of rock.

Momentarily the crested breakers decreased in height until the picket-boat was rising and falling on a succession of sullen waves. The wind, too, had eased down owing to a bend in the channel bringing one side of the cliff wall to wind’ard.

Kenneth could hardly realize this huge slice of luck. It was a thousand to one chance, and the boat had happened upon the one and only hope of salvation.

She had been swept by wind and a strong flood tide through a passage—little wider than her own length—into a comparatively sheltered haven in one of the islands comprising the dreaded Mutches.