The Wireless Officer Read online

  CHAPTER VII

  "Logged"

  Peter Mostyn's chief desire upon regaining the deck was to go below andget something to drink. Now that the immediate danger was over, histhroat was burning like a lime-kiln, and his head was buzzing as if hehad taken an overdose of quinine.

  Slipping off his lifebelt--he had donned it mechanically on rushing tothe boat, although in the circumstances the advantages of wearing alifebelt were of a negative order--Peter returned to the bridge,keeping discreetly in the background.

  The Old Man was fighting a tough battle. With Preston and Anstey hewas extricating his command from a perilous situation, where skilfulseamanship alone could regain control of the helm without allowing thevessel to wallow helplessly in the fiery sea. Putting the ship aheadand astern alternately the Old Man allowed her head to pay off underthe force of the wind until he saw a chance of turning. Then, with agrunt of supreme satisfaction, he rang for full speed ahead. Fiveminutes later the _West Barbican_, clear of the oil-calmed water, wasrolling in the tempestuous seas.

  "Carry on, Mr. Anstey," he ordered. "Lay her on her old course."

  He turned abruptly on his heel, intending to see how the survivors ofthe tanker were faring. As he swung round he noticed Peter standingunder the lee of the wireless cabin.

  "Mr. Mostyn!"

  "Sir?"

  "How many survivors?"

  Peter told him.

  "A smart bit of work of yours, Mr. Mostyn, but--oh, very well, go belowand turn in. I'll see you in the morning."

  The Wireless Officer obeyed only too gladly. As he washed the grimefrom his face he reflected that, thanks to the damaged aerial, he wouldhave an uninterrupted watch below.

  For a long time he lay awake in his bunk. It was not the heavy rollingthat was responsible for his sleeplessness. The whole of the night'sadventure passed in review, its horrors intensified in retrospect. Itwas not until dawn was breaking that he fell into a fitful slumber.

  Meanwhile the skipper had his hands full. In the absence of a doctorhe and the purser were attending to the helpless survivors of thetanker. Of the seven removed from the boat only two were conscious,and one of the pair had a compound fracture of the right leg.

  His companion was able to give an account of the disaster. The vesselwas the American-owned oil-tanker _Bivalve_ of and from New York forHull. She had struck the two drifting mines, concerning the presenceof which a general wireless message had been sent out. Both explodedamidships, one on either side, about fifty feet for'ard of theengine-room, which in vessels of the _Bivalve's_ type are well aft.Within a few minutes the petroleum tanks exploded, and the sinking shipbecame a raging furnace. Two boats were lowered, but of the fate ofthe second the narrator had no knowledge. He remembered pullingdesperately at an oar until the smoke cloud overwhelmed the boat.Then, gasping frantically for breath, he lost consciousness until hefound himself on board the _West Barbican_.

  At eight bells (8 a.m.) Peter was roused from his slumbers. A glancethrough the now open scuttle showed him that the ship was berthedalongside a wharf, and that the stevedores were already getting busy.A huge crane was transporting long, timber-protected pieces ofsteelwork into the _West Barbican's_ No. 1 hold.

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

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

  Captain Bullock was standing on the bridge watching the cargo beingshipped, when he caught sight of the Wireless Officer. He beckonedPeter to approach. The officer of the watch was at the other side ofthe bridge superintending the securing of an additional spring;otherwise the bridge was deserted.

  "Mr. Mostyn," began the Old Man abruptly, "I want you to understandclearly that there is only one captain on board this hooker, and healone gives permission for officers to leave the ship. Who, might Iask, 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 owninitiative except in matters directly concerning your duties asWireless 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. Herealized upon consideration that the rebuke was well merited. Hisoffence was a technical breach of discipline. It was of no use tellingthis bluff old skipper his reasons. Yarns about "impulses of themoment" would elicit little sympathy. So he kept silent.

  "All the same," continued the Old Man, in a less gruff tone, "you did asmart 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 inyachts and sailing dinghies ever since I can remember."

  "I knew you didn't learn seamanship as a wireless man," continued theskipper. "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 seehow I can. Your Company would kick up the deuce of a shine if theyknew 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 messover that business, what sort of yarn could I have pitched into theBoard of Trade people? And my employers too? A pretty fine skipperthey'd think I was, allowing a wireless officer to take away alifeboat. Likely as not I'd have got the push from the Company'sservice 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--ajolly smart bit of work--but I'll have to make an entry in the logrecording the fact that you've been reprimanded and stating the reason.I don't think it will adversely affect you, Mr. Mostyn; rather theother way, I fancy."

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

  Looking more like a blacksmith than a radio-operator, Peter completedhis part of the work and applied the necessary tests. Everything wasapparently in order in the wireless-cabin. With a grunt ofsatisfaction he replaced the receivers and left the cabin. Until theship sailed--she was due to leave at ten that evening--he was atleisure.

  "Now for a bath, a shave, and a change," he soliloquized. "It wouldnever do to meet the pater in this state."

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

  "Hello, Peter, my boy," was Captain Mostyn's greeting; "beenratting--or sweeping flues?"

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

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

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

  Peter told him, simply and straightforwardly. There was never a lackof confidence between father and son. His parent listened attentivelyto the bald narrative.

  "Your skipper was quite right," he observed. "In my days in theService I wouldn't have thought of allowing a watch-keeping sub to godown to the engine-room and play about with the gadgets in order toslow down the shi
p. You did much the same sort of thing, chipping intoa 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 onwith your ablutions. I want to have a few words with Captain Bullockabout the steelwork. While I'm about it I'll ask him to let you goashore to lunch with me."

  Captain Antonius Bullock was rather astonished to find that themanaging director of the firm that had virtually chartered the _WestBarbican_ 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'tgrouse about it. He quite sees the force of your argument. In fact, Itold 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 Ihad to do it I'd do it, you'll understand, but these youngsters oftenrush into danger when there's no particular call for it; not theirduty, in a manner of speaking. I'm rather curious to know what he didwhen that pirate collared the _Donibristle_. He told a lot about theaffair, but precious little about his share in it."

  "Peter had a pretty stiff time, judging from what he told me," observedCaptain Mostyn. "Amongst other things he still bears the scars ofeighteen wounds he received when the _Donibristle's_ wireless-cabin wasdemolished by a shell."

  "Eighteen, by Jove!" exclaimed Captain Bullock. "I had one--abeauty--in the war. Splinter from a four-inch shell when Fritztorpedoed the old _Harkaway_ and fired on the boats. But eighteen!"

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

  Captain Bullock readily gave the required permission, and father andson had an enjoyable spell ashore.

  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-importantconsignment for the Kilba Protectorate Government.

  "That's all shipshape and Bristol-fashion, sir," remarked CaptainBullock, as the necessary signatures were appended to the papers inconnection with the shipment. "If that precious lot isn't deliveredsafe and sound in Pangawani Harbour by the first of February it won'tbe the fault of Antonius Bullock."