As the ordered disorder proceeded of getting the fire-fighting appliances in operation, Chief Officer Arlow found time to run up on the bridge and make his report. The ship was dry. Whatever had gone wrong in No. 2 hold, her plates seemed to be undamaged.
‘Then have a look at this fire, and if it seems to have got a hold you may start to flood No. 2,’ Hassell decided, and he was about to add an order to keep a man testing the wells of adjoining holds when the words were struck from his lips.
There was a third explosion!
It felt and sounded just like the others, or perhaps even more muffled, as if deeper down in the ship’s bowels. Hassell and Arlow exchanged glances of horrified amazement. What could have happened? Something in the cargo, it seemed; but if so, what? And how many detonations might they expect? No ship’s hull would stand many repeated shocks such as these. What did it all mean? And would the trouble be confined to No. 2 hold?
Once again Hassell felt himself paralysed by the unexpectedness of the situation, but once again it was only for a moment.
‘Carry on,’ he said, ‘but before you begin to flood, sound those wells again and report what you find.’
Arlow hurried off and Hassell turned once again to the engine-room tube.
‘What about that one, Mac?’ he asked. ‘Still all right down there?’
‘Aye, so far as I can see,’ was the reply. ‘But yon was a bad one. I misdoubt me some of her plates are away. And now it sounds mighty like water running into her.’
‘Then get your pumps going and let me know if you see any water yourself,’ Hassell directed. He returned slowly to the rail of the bridge to await the result of the fresh sounding of the wells.
What under heaven could have taken place? Explosions in a ship’s cargo were by no means uncommon, but, and this was what was puzzling the captain so much, they only occurred with certain kinds of cargo. None of the dangerous substances in question were aboard the Jane Vosper. He was positive there was nothing explosive or inflammable in any of the holds. No: once again he felt confronted with a situation entirely outside his previous experience.
One thing that seemed faintly reassuring was that the fire must be slight. So far Hassell had himself seen no indications of it whatever. Of course, with the head wind they were still meeting, smoke and smell would be blown aft before reaching bridge level. At the same time, if there were a serious conflagration, smoke would be pouring out in such volumes that he couldn’t fail to see it, if only by the light of the deck lamps. He decided he had been right to hold back the flooding of the hold till he was absolutely sure that no more serious damage had been done.
Then suddenly his grip of the rail tightened and he stared forward with tense expectancy. In the dark and with all that swell running it was hard to be sure, but – yes, he was sure. Only too unhappily sure. Her bow was lower in the water.
He felt the motion now. It was heavier; more sluggish. She was not rising so lightly to the seas. Rather was she inclined to bury her nose in them. Yes, though the sea was falling, there was more water coming on deck. There could be no doubt. She had been holed by that last explosion, and she was settling down.
If it were only No. 2 hold that was leaking, she should pull through. Not in a gale, of course, but in this sea that was already dying down into a heavy swell, she should float all right. Provided always that the bulkheads held, and that neither of the adjoining holds were flooded. But if No. 2 filled up, would the bulkheads hold?
Normally, no doubt, yes. But Hassell reminded himself unhappily that the circumstances were not normal. Three heavy explosions had taken place in that hold. Could this have happened without damaging the bulkheads?
If they, or any part of them, had been started by the shocks, they would never bear the weight of water. And if they gave way, the ship would sink like a stone. Nothing could save her.
A man suddenly appeared running up the bridge ladder. Hassell recognized one of the deckhands.
‘Chief officer reports five feet of water in No. 2 hold, sir.’
‘What about No. 1?’
‘No. 1’s dry, sir.’
‘Very good. Tell Mr Arlow to keep me advised how he gets on.’
This at least settled the question of the fire. Grimly Hassell realized that the hold was being flooded, and much more quickly than Arlow could have done it. But to the captain the fire was now an inconsequent trifle. He almost forgot its existence. The question had become one of their lives and the safety of the ship.
As he realized the position, the second officer ran up on to the bridge. ‘Boats out and ready, sir.’
‘Right. Take charge till I come back. I want all pumps got on to No. 2 hold, and have men placed at the wells in No. 1 and the forepeak. Speak down to Mr Mactavish. I’ll be with Crabbe.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Hassell passed round the port side of the wheel-house to the cabin corresponding to his own. His was at the starboard side and between the two was the chart room. In this port cabin Crabbe sat bending over his desk and wearing his earphones. He pushed them up as the captain entered.
‘The nearest ship is the Barmore of the British Latin States Line. She’s 90 miles south of us and coming to meet us – bound for London. The next is the South African liner Scipio, 150 miles nor’-east, and northward bound. There’s nothing else very close, but the Para of the Portuguese American Line is in Funchal Harbour with steam up.’
Hassell nodded. The Scipio was out of the question, but the Barmore would appear to suit very well. Hassell knew her as the crack vessel of his owner’s rivals. She was a 7000–ton boat, and he believed could do 12 knots at a pinch. With the knot or two the Jane Vosper was making, the Barmore should be with them in about six and a half hours, say shortly before midday.
It shouldn’t cost his firm much, Hassell thought, to get the Barmore to hurry up a bit. Then if the bulkheads gave and they were able to get clear of the ship, they should be picked up all right.
On the other hand, Hassell wanted to bring his ship to port, and it might be better to try to get the Para to come out and stand by while they worked the 300 miles to Funchal.
Without speaking, Hassell turned on his heel and went into the chart room. There with the help of his charts he faced the position. It was a hell of a long way to Funchal, but it was a deal farther to any other port. Lisbon, Cadiz, Gibraltar, Casablanca; he considered them all. Funchal was by far the nearest. Moreover, it was on the line of his company’s boats. His cargo could be transshipped there with less disorganization of the service than elsewhere. Further, to go towards Funchal would be to meet the Barmore. In any other direction they mightn’t get help.
For two whole minutes Hassell weighed the matter. Then, his mind made up, he returned to the wireless room.
‘Tell the Barmore we’ve had an explosion and got No. 2 hold flooded, and ask her to come along as quickly as she can. Say we’re not in immediate danger, but that we should be if anything gave way.’
Crabbe said, ‘Right, sir,’ and began to call, while Hassell bent over the desk. He took a message form and wrote, slowly and with thought. Heading it with the code name and address of his firm, he went on:
‘SS Jane Vosper L 36º 19' N 14° 44' W Stop. Regret to state have had series of unexplained explosions in No. 2 hold, which has been pierced and is flooded. Stop. Expect to be able to reach Funchal but have asked Barmore to look out for us. Stop. No immediate danger. Stop. Hassell.’
‘Send that to Funchal to be cabled home when you’ve finished with the Barmore,’ he ordered, and turned to go back to the bridge.
As he looked out of the door of the wireless room, which, being on the port side of the ship, faced east, he saw that dawn was already breaking. The sky and horizon were lightening and he could dimly see the swells moving past, now almost smooth and free from white. Soon it would be daylight, and there would be one handicapping difficulty the less to meet.
But it was not on the sea and the horizon that his at
tention lingered. Turning from the consideration of their plans to the immediate present, he gave a gasp. The ship was tilted forward; unmistakably. God, but she was down by the head! A glance from the bridge horrified him. The forward end of the well-deck was down nearly level with the water, and the fo’c’sle was but little above it.
Hassell stared in dismay. Then he congratulated himself that the Jane Vosper was not fully loaded. She was not down to her Plimsoll marks. This had been regrettable from the point of view of the profits of the voyage, though it made her steadier and easier to manage than if deeper in the water. But now this matter had become of importance. This very buoyancy might prove her salvation. Every extra inch of freeboard she had would stand to her in her present state.
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 protestin
g 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.
The Loss of the Jane Vosper Page 2