As Hassell watched, a huge swell came rolling forward. With the wind so much down, there was but little broken water on its crest. But still it was a pretty big sea. Fascinated, he watched it sweep down on them.
Normally the
Jane
Vosper
would have swung up her bows and crested it with ease. But now she hung in its path, as if uncertain, as if waiting for some order to make the required move.
It came on relentless, without haste, without delay. It struck the bows a crash that jarred the planks of the bridge like another explosion. It came on over the fo’c’sle as if the latter had not been there, and fell, hundreds of tons of it, on to the well-deck. It surged against the amidships fittings, sending a burst of green water up over the bridge.
Captain Hassell, clinging to the rail for dear life, could see nothing of his ship forward. There was in front of him only a white seethe of foaming water. The
Jane
Vosper
staggered as if she had received a mortal blow.
‘God!’ thought Hassell, ‘she’s gone! She’ll never come up again!’
For breathless seconds her fate seemed to hang in the balance. Then slowly her bow began to rise. The water forward began to pour away, and the fo’c’sle appeared, black and rugged against the creaming foam.
Hassell moved beside his second mate. ‘Go down and see what Arlow is doing,’ he said quietly. ‘If we can spare the men I should like to rig a sea anchor. Come up again and report.’
Blair hurried off, and Hassell went again to the engine-room tube. ‘Could you spare the time to come up and speak to me?’ he asked the chief.
‘We have oor hands full wi’ the stern being up in the air and her racing every ither minute,’ answered Mactavish, ‘but I’ll be able to run up for a moment.’
Hassell moved back to the rail. Thank heaven it was getting light at last. And the sea was falling quickly. Perhaps he was wrong about that sea anchor. Probably by the time they got it out it wouldn’t be needed. Probably the hands could be more usefully employed below. Well, he would hear what Mactavish and Arlow advised, and then he would have a look at the damage himself, and then he would decide.
‘She’s weel enough doon by the head,’ said a voice at his shoulder in broad Scotch.
‘She’s down as far as she’ll go,’ Hassell returned firmly. ‘I want a word with you, Mac. You still all right below?’
‘Aye, I canna complain so far as the engine room’s concerned.’
‘We’ll have to shore those bulkheads. The Lord knows how they’ve been weakened by the explosions. If they hold, we’re all right. If they go -’ He shrugged. ‘What about it?’
‘I was thinking it would come to that and I’ve been getting forward stuff. I canna promise much with the stuff we’ve got – only a few old beams. But we’ll do the best we can.’
Hassell knew the chief would never admit that any materials he had were suitable for the job he was given, nor that the work could be satisfactorily carried out. But he knew also that if Mactavish failed in it, no other man afloat would succeed.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Carry on, will you.’ Then he caught sight of the first officer coming along the deck. ‘Wait,’ he went on. ‘Let’s hear what Arlow has to say before you go. Well, Mr Mate?’
‘No. 2 hold’s full, sir. Right full up to sea level. And it came in so quickly that there’s no earthly use in pumping. She must have a hole as big as a ventilator in her bottom.’
‘No. 1 hold still dry?’
‘Still dry, sir.’
‘Well, Mr Arlow, I want that bulkhead shored. The glass is rising and we’ll have good weather presently, and I’m going to work her under her own steam into Funchal. All the same, the
Barmore’
s
bearing down on us, though I’d rather not stop her if I can help. Go ahead with that shoring, and I’ll come down to see you presently. Where’s Mr Blair?’
‘Carrying on in my place, sir.’
‘Right: send him up when you can.’
Neither of the two men he was speaking to required encouragement to do their best for the ship. And yet Hassell saw that his confident manner had reassured both of them. He had given them this reassurance because that was his job as their superior officer, but it was an assurance that he was far from feeling himself. That Mactavish should be able to make a job of the shoring, he had little doubt. But it was far otherwise in the case of No. 1 hold. There the mate would be hampered by the cargo. He couldn’t get it out to make room to work, because it would be impossible to lift most of it without a winch. And a winch could not be used, because, unless the sea fell very much farther, they dare not uncover the hatch. However, Arlow must just do his best. Here again it was fortunate the hold was not full. They would at least have a certain headroom.
As the mate and Mactavish went down the ladder, Crabbe appeared.
‘The
Barmore’
s
coming full speed, sir,’ he reported. ‘She expects to be here by midday or earlier.’
Hassell nodded. Midday! Would they do it! He knew the enormous stresses the bulkheads were bearing, stresses increased far beyond the normal by the pitching of the ship. He could picture only too well those stresses becoming strains, deformation taking place, an extra pull coming on some rivet, it sheering, and then – It wouldn’t then be long till a whole row of them went. And if a row went…Well, one of those plunges she was taking would simply be her last. She would plough into a wave as she was even then doing, but after it had passed, her bow wouldn’t come up. And the next wave would find it lower still. The stern would rise. The water would creep up the deck. And then…
Hassell sighed, then glanced around him. What a blessing the sea was falling! Though every wave was still sweeping over the fo’c’sle, they were doing so with less and less violence. The wind had practically died down and the hillocks of water were almost smooth and unbroken. Given good weather, she should be able to bear another knot or two, and make Funchal under her own steam without calling on anyone for help. At half-speed, which was the utmost he dare push her to, she should do it in less than three days.
It was now six o’clock and the sun was up. It made a difference, though Hassell didn’t realize it. Unconsciously as he looked at it, the outlook seemed to improve. Things grew more rosy, figuratively as well as literally. This was a nasty experience, but they were going to pull through it. His mind strayed towards the question of dry dock accommodation at Funchal…
Then he returned again to the question of that bulkhead in No. 1 hold. He didn’t think, no matter how much the sea fell, that with the bow as deep in the water as it was, it would be safe to open the hatch. If they did so and they got a wave over, it would probably send her straight to the bottom. They would have to work the cargo back from the face of the plates, get a beam across, put back the cargo, and then make a longitudinal channel or two for the struts. Difficult, but not impossible.
Blair interrupted his thoughts. ‘You want me, sir?’
‘Yes. Take over, will you. I’m going below.’
He turned away, but before he reached the ladder he was struck motionless by another terrible explosion. It came like the others, but worse – much worse. Not only was the sound louder, but the shock, coming up through the planking of the deck, was far more severe. The whole fabric of the ship seemed to stagger. She seemed to stop, as if dumbly protesting at this new calamity. Hassell gasped. For two seconds he stood motionless. Then he turned back to the engine-room tube. He whistled: without reply. At last he heard Mactavish’s voice.
‘Yon’s about done it, I’m thinking,’ the chief declared. ‘The bulkhead’s buckling. Some of the rivets are started, and she’s beginning to weep down the joints.’
‘You’re getting your pumps going, I take it? Better start them for No. 1 hold too. I’ll come down to see you when I hear what’s happened there.’ He turned to Blair. ‘See Arlow and find out how things are with him.’
While waiting for Blair to return, Hassell kept his eyes glued to the ship forward. No, she did not seem to be getting lower in the water. A little more flooding aboard would show; a very little. A very little would put her down altogether. As he had only too vividly pictured, one of those dips that she took would be the last; she just wouldn’t rise again. And all his crew were below. Not one of them would have a dog’s chance…
For a moment temptation assailed him. Was it not his duty to make sure of their lives while he could? After all, the ship and the cargo were insured. His owners wouldn’t be hard hit. The men trusted him. Was he justified in taking a risk with their lives?
Then Blair appeared, and Hassell became once again the master of his steamer and his soul.
‘Water’s leaking into No. 1 hold, sir, but only leaking. Mr Arlow thinks the pumps may keep it under.’
‘Good. Then you take over here. Watch her motion, and if you think she’s settling send for me. If you’re sure she’s going, don’t hesitate to sound Abandon Ship. But don’t do that,’ he smiled crookedly, ‘unless you are sure.’
Hassell passed down the bridge ladder, and entering the deckhouse below, made his way through the officers’ quarters and into the upper portion of the engine room. The air was heavy with pulsations, not of the engines, which were little more than moving, but with the clangs and suckings and thrusts of the pumps. As quickly as he could, without appearing to hurry, he climbed down the steel ladders, past the big low-pressure cylinder with its teak covering, secured by brass bands, past the great blocks of the cross-heads, moving slowly up and down in their slide bars, and so down to the cranks, burying themselves in pits in the floor and unearthing themselves again with a slow and dignified regularity. All around was the subsidiary machinery; the pumps clacking hard, the dynamo with its low hum, the reversing engine, the rows of dials and gauges. The engine room was deserted save for Peebles, the second engineer, who stood with his hand on the main throttle, ready to cut off steam should the screw lift out of the water and the engines race. He looked up and saw Hassell.
‘Chief’s in the stokehold, sir,’ he shouted, indicating the low door with a backward gesture of his head.
Hassell passed through. It had been hot in the engine room, and in here it was stifling. But the captain didn’t notice it. He pushed his way along the confined space between the two single-ended Scotch boilers which supplied the ship’s motive power, forward to the doubtful bulkhead. There he found Mactavish and as many of his staff as there was room for.
The chief had managed to bring forward a number of planks and baulks of wood and a couple of rolled steel joists, but he had not yet succeeded in getting these into place. Happening at that moment to swing round, he saw Hassell. He beckoned him over to the end of the bulkhead, against the ship’s side.
‘See yon?’ he pointed.
The captain gazed with sinking heart. Down the joint in the angle a little stream of water was trickling, very quietly, very silently. It was not large, not more than the size of a stout walking stick. It was impossible to say where it was coming from, but it began some three or four feet above Hassell’s head. By the time it had reached the floor, there was twice the volume.
‘You see?’ Mactavish repeated. ‘Yon joint’s weeping all the way down. And it’s the same at the ither side and along the bottom. And see.’ He pointed to the centre, above their heads. ‘See, the whole darned affair is bulged. It was the last shot did it.’
Hassell nodded. He forced himself to speak calmly. ‘I see that, Mac. But you’ve got to hold it. You can shore it to stand for seventy hours. Seventy hours with a falling sea. Then we’ll be in Funchal, and if we can’t get a dry dock we can beach her.’
‘It’s a’ very weel. The whole – business is started, and those rivets may sheer. At any minute one of those joints may rip, and then we’d have the whole – Atlantic in here.’ He spoke in a low tone, then swung away. ‘Come on, you —s,’ he cried, ‘get that joist round with the end butted on here!’
That was Mac all over. Many a time Hassell had smiled at his little idiosyncrasies, though now they only irritated. He would grumble about everything and call his men by the foulest epithets, and he would carry his job to a triumphant conclusion and his men would love him and give him of their best.
But bad as the situation was here, Captain Hassell felt that it would be worse in No. 1 hold. Here, confined as was the space, you could at least get at the plates you wanted to shore. You could see where you stood and know whether what you were doing was meeting the situation. But where Arlow was working none of these things would be possible. The bulkhead would be covered with cargo. And it would be difficult to remove that cargo, for the simple reason that, unless the hatch was opened, you couldn’t get power on it to lift it. He must go down into the hold and see how Arlow was faring.
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it, Mac,’ he said. ‘You’ll do it all right.’ He paused and was about to add that if the chief thought they ought to leave, he had only to say so. Then he thought better of it. That was well understood between them. If the chief had said, ‘This is dangerous: we’re going to throw away our lives: we’d better quit,’ Hassell would have said, ‘Right, come along,’ and well both men knew it.
The captain passed back between the boilers and into the engine room. There, save for the ominous downward tilt towards the bows, and the unusual noise of the pumps, everything seemed so normal and commonplace as to be definitely reassuring. Strange to think that their ship, and perhaps their lives, should be dependent on the staying power of a few overstressed rivets!
He climbed up the shining ladders out of the engine room, and watching his opportunity, crossed the well-deck, and entering the fo’c’sle, went down into No. 1 hold. There Arlow had rigged lights, and Hassell climbed across stacks of cargo to where he could see the moving forms of men. One of these with blackened face, and blood running from a cut on the cheek, revealed itself as the first officer.
‘’Fraid we’re not going to do it, sir,’ Arlow said when he saw the captain. ‘The water’s gaining on the pumps and we can’t get at the leak. It was that last explosion. The whole bulkhead’s shaken.’