CHAPTER VIII
The Passengers
At high water that night the S.S. _West Barbican_, drawing eighteenfeet for'ard and twenty-four aft, left Brocklington Harbour, crossingthe bar with less than five feet of water under her keel.
Fortunately the weather had moderated, the wind flying round off theland, otherwise she might have been detained for days, owing to thecondition of the bar. The ship was now making for Gravesend to pick uppassengers and mails, and thence for East Africa according to her usualprogramme.
Peter went on watch at ten that night with the unalluring prospect ofremaining on duty till midday--perhaps longer--since Partridge andPlover, who had bucked up considerably during the vessel's stay inport, promptly showed signs of internal troubles the moment the bar wascrossed.
It was not a prearranged case of malingering. There was no doubt aboutit: they had been ill. Neither knew of the burning of the oil-tanker,and of the dangerous position of the _West Barbican_ when she proceededto the rescue, until late on the following morning, and even then theyreceived the news apathetically.
So Mostyn just carried on, pondering over the Company's doubtfuleconomy, since, in addition to his normal pay, he was already raking ina fair sum for overtime in excess of the Merchant Service eight hoursper day.
Gravesend was in its wonted late autumn state when the _West Barbican_dropped anchor. A thick fog entirely blotted out the shore. The airreverberated with the dismal hooting of sirens in every imaginable key;while bells clanging from vessels at anchor added to the din. Atintervals the sun shone feebly through the yellow pall, although it wasimpossible to see twenty feet along the deck. To add to the generaldiscomfort a raw, moist, west wind was blowing down London River,without having sufficient force to disperse the baffling fog.
The _West Barbican_ was two and a half hours late in arriving atGravesend. If she were to weigh at the scheduled hour the passengerswould have to be smart in getting on board with their personal cabineffects. Their heavy baggage had been sent down to the docks andplaced in a hold a week previously.
Peter Mostyn had turned in directly the ship dropped anchor. There wasa chance of two hours well-earned rest, if rest it could be called,since he lay down on his bunk fully clothed save for his rubberdeck-boots. It was one of those frequent occasions when he could notafford to waste precious minutes in dressing and undressing. He wasalmost too dog-tired to kick off his boots. He was dimly conscious ofthrowing himself on his bunk and pulling the collar of his greatcoat upover the back of his neck; then he passed into a state of oblivion,notwithstanding the discordant sonata within and without the ship.
He was awakened by the appearance of Mahmed with the inevitable char.The native boy was now in "full rig", a concession to the still-absentpassengers. He wore a white drill suit, similar to that worn byofficers in tropical climes, with the exception that there were noshoulder-straps. On his head he sported a round skull-cap ofastrakhan, with a scarlet top.
"No come yet, sahib," announced Mahmed, in response to Peter's inquiryas to whether the tender had come alongside with the passengers.
"All right," rejoined Peter, as he handed back the empty cup. "TellPartridge Sahib and Plover Sahib I want them in the wireless-cabin."
Going on deck, Peter found that the fog was as thick as ever. It wasnow nearly eight bells (4 p.m.), and the crew had been mustered forinspection. All the deck hands were now rigged out in uniforms.Instead of the motley garb, each man had a loose-fitting coat ofbutcher-blue, reaching to his knees and secured round the waist with ared scarf. His headdress was a scarlet, close-fitting cap, not unlikethe Egyptian "tarboosh". This was the uniform issued by the Companyfor "ceremonial", and the expected advent of passengers was a fittingoccasion for the display.
Three short blasts close alongside brought the officer of the watch tothe end of the bridge.
"Tender alongside, sir," he announced.
The Old Man, in his best uniform, loomed up through the fog,disappearing as he hastened to the gangway, where, at the foot of theaccommodation ladder, two lascars were stationed at the manropes toassist in the trans-embarkation of the passengers.
Gliding through the mist like a wraith the squat, snub-nosed tender ranalongside and was made fast. One by one the passengers began to ascendthe swaying accommodation ladder. In all they numbered forty-one,mostly of the male sex. A few were missionaries bound for Kenya andUganda; there were men taking up farming in the rich lands of theinterior of British East Africa; mining engineers for Rhodesia; andpeople who for various reasons had booked their passages to the Cape bythe _West Barbican_ rather than by the fast mail-boats. There was alsoa young man in the uniform of a Mercantile Marine Officer. He was theship's doctor, "signed on" for the voyage only, thus combining businesswith pleasure, being in ordinary conditions a hard-worked countrypractitioner. It was the first long holiday he had had for five years,and he meant to make the best of every minute of it.
There were seven lady passengers. The first one up the ladder was astout, middle-aged woman, dressed rather startlingly for a trip on atender in a fog. Her travelling-costume was certainly of good materialbut too vivid in colour for a woman of her age and build.
Mostyn, standing a few feet from the head of the accommodation ladder,watched her curiously. At one time she might have been good-looking.A perpetual sneer was on her face. She looked a woman who washabitually peevish and vile-tempered. Even as she came up the laddershe was complaining in a loud, high-pitched voice to someone followingher--her husband apparently.
"Bet she's a tartar," thought Peter, and turned his attention to thenext newcomer--a red-faced, sheepish-looking man, who, judging by hisobvious bewilderment, had set foot for the first time upon a craftlarger than a coastal pleasure steamer. Mostyn put him down as acountry innkeeper, since he bore a strong resemblance to the host ofthe "Blue Cow" at Trentham Regis.
After that the crowd on the gangway thickened, the swaying laddercreaking and groaning under the weight of this queue of humanity.There were old men, young men; prosperous-looking men, poor-lookingmen; men with jovial lightheartedness written large upon their faces;others looking woebegone and dejected, as if regretting the past anddreading the future. There were men who might have been chosen asmodels in the role of Adonis; others who outvied in features thedeepest Adelphi villain. Amongst the last of the arriving passengerscame a girl of about nineteen or twenty.
She was slim and _petite_. Although wearing a serviceable raincoat shecarried herself gracefully, holding but lightly to the handrail of theladder. Mostyn noticed that her moist hair was of a rich, brownishhue, her features finely modelled. Her eyes were of a deep grey hue,beneath a pair of evenly arched eyebrows.
In spite of the clammy fog her cheeks shone with the glow of youth--ahealthy glow that told unfailingly of an active, outdoor life.
"Jolly pretty girl, that," commented Peter, communing with his ownthoughts.
The very last passenger to come over the side--Peter paid no attentionto him--was a young, athletic man carrying a travel-worn leatherportmanteau. With the air of one accustomed to life on shipboard hestepped briskly off the end of the gangplank and made straight for thesaloon.
On the passenger list he appeared as William Porter, of Durban. Notone of the _West Barbican's_ officers realized what viper the good shipwas cherishing in her bosom; for in Berlin William Porter would haveanswered readily and truthfully to the name of Ludwig Schoeffer.
The Wireless Officer Page 8