The midshipman waited. Up came the boat’s bows on the crest of a huge wave that threw showers of icy spray to right and left.
His feet were almost touching the slippery teak planks—yet he hesitated.
The opportunity was lost, for the next moment the bows dipped. Then with a jerk that shook the lower boom like a twanged bow-string the boat snubbed at her painter, shipped a few tons of water over her fore-deck and rose like a mastiff emerging from the sea, until once more the midshipman’s feet were almost touching the heaving planks.
“Let go, sir, I’ll steady you!” roared the coxswain, his voice barely audible above the noise of the elements.
Involuntarily shutting his eyes, Raxworthy relaxed his grip and dropped. Even as his rubber-shod soles slithered on the slippery deck he felt himself gripped by both arms.
“Right you are, sir!” exclaimed the petty officer reassuringly. “Hang on, sir, she’s going to snub something cruel!”
Gripping the handrail of the raised cover over the motor-room, Raxworthy waited. With a jerk that shook the boat from stem to stern the painter took up the sudden strain. A shower of icy spray flew inboard, a generous quantity finding its way inside the storm flap of the midshipman’s oilskins, and in spite of his thick muffler the icy liquid trickled down his chest, making him gasp for breath.
A moment later and Raxworthy gained his post at the wheel. The bowman crept for’ard ready to let go, while the coxswain stood behind his young officer to give advice and assistance should either be required.
But once at his post the midshipman’s confidence returned. The discomfort—even the sense of injustice under which he had rankled—was forgotten. He was in command of the boat, captain of his immediate destiny and likewise responsible for the lives of his men and for the safety of his command.
Spinning the wheel first to port and then to starboard in order to reassure himself that on this occasion it was functioning properly, Raxworthy gave the order to cast off and to the leading stoker—who was in charge of the motor—for a “touch ahead”.
Rolling and plunging, the motor-picket-boat gathered way and drew clear of her parent ship. In a few seconds the Kirkham was swallowed up in the darkness of the snow-laden night.
Except for the motor-picket-boat navigation lamps, and the feeble glimmer of the binnacle lamp, not a light was visible. Even the powerful rays of the lighthouse on the extremity of the Mutches were blotted out, although in normal conditions the light was visible for twenty-five miles.
Kenneth Raxworthy entertained no doubts concerning his ability to find the entrance of the inner harbour. Allowing for the set of the tide and the strength and direction of the wind, he knew the correct compass course. All that was necessary was to hold on to that course until the pier-head lights became visible through the mirk. He had made that trip so many times that he knew the course by heart—“west a half south”.
But in less than five minutes from the time of getting clear of the ship Raxworthy’s confidence received a shattering shock.
Almost without warning—for the noise of wind and sea drowned the expostulating splutter of the carburettor—the motor stopped.
The picket-boat, quickly losing way, hung head to wind for a brief space, then, pounded by a heavy wave, swung broadside on and helpless in the trough of the sea.
Less than a couple of miles and dead to lee’ard were the dreaded Mutches, the saw-like reefs of which were waiting for their prey!
Kenneth fully realized the dire peril that beset him and those under his orders. He was directly responsible for the safety of his men. In spite of his youth his training at Dartmouth, followed by a few months in the light cruiser, had taught him self-reliance.
The impassive-featured coxswain was waiting for the first sign of indecision on the midshipman’s features. The petty officer, who was old enough to be Raxworthy’s father, knew perfectly well that the situation would either prove the midshipman to be a leader of men or the reverse. Had the latter shown any sign of cracking under the ordeal then the coxswain would issue what orders he thought fit to safeguard the lives of his comrades. Should this step become necessary and the crew survived the ordeal, Raxworthy’s name would be Mud for the rest of his Service career.
But the coxswain was agreeably disappointed.
“Let go the anchor!” ordered the midshipman. “See that the forelock is properly secured,” he added, as a precautionary measure.
The bowman crept along the slippery waterways to the plunging fore-deck. Working deftly in the darkness, he assured himself that the anchor-stock was efficiently secured, and then toppled the “killick”—weighing more than a hundredweight—over the bows.
With a rush and a roar the chain ran out until the picket-boat snubbed violently and, held by the anchor, swung head to wind and tide.
“Holding, sir!” reported the bowman.
Reassured on that point, Kenneth ordered the man aft. He wasn’t going to run the risk of losing the seaman overboard as the picket-boat plunged her nose deeply into the hissing, surging seas.
Descending a short, vertical steel ladder, Kenneth gained the motor-room. For some seconds the temporary transition from the cold and darkness without to the heated and electrically lighted engine room virtually blinded him.
“What’s wrong now?” he inquired anxiously.
“Water in the fuel tank, sir,” replied the leading stoker, and to bear out his statement he extended a horny hand, in the palm of which he held a quantity of paraffin on which globules of water floated. “I’ll swear, sir, I put the paraffin through the strainer, and there wasn’t a drop of water showing on the gauge.”
The man’s anxiety to clear himself hardly interested Raxworthy at the moment. What was more to the point was how to get the motor running again.
“Clean your carburettor and change over to petrol,” he ordered. “Look lively, or we’ll be on the rocks if the anchor starts to drag.”
With that Kenneth went on deck to await developments.
“We’ll get her going in a brace of shakes, Wilson,” he remarked to the coxswain.
“Hope so, sir,” rejoined the petty officer. “Only, sir, pardon me saying, it seems to me that the killick’s dragging. Ten fathoms and a hard bottom doesn’t give a decent holding ground.”
The coxswain’s statement that the anchor was failing to hold put a different complexion on the situation.
Raxworthy peered into the snow-laden darkness, striving to pick up some light that might give him a chance either to verify or disprove the petty officer’s statement.
There was none. In that blinding snowstorm visibility was limited to about fifty yards.
“What makes you think we’re dragging?” he asked.
“Well, sir, while you were below I took the liberty of going for’ard and feeling the cable. Unless I’m much mistaken the fluke of the anchor’s rasping over the bottom. She mayn’t be dragging fast, but there it is—she ain’t where she was when we dropped the killick.”
This was disconcerting news. Even supposing the pinnace was drifting to lee’ard slowly, the danger of striking the reefs was none the less—it was merely a question of time, unless, in the meanwhile, the anchor obtained a firm hold.
That was supposing the leading stoker would be unable to restart the motor.
Raxworthy waited patiently for some minutes. The inaction gave him food for thought. He pictured the two officers pacing the pier head in the bitter snowstorm and uttering maledictions upon the picket-boat for not being there on time. Next morning the commander would want to know all about it, with the inevitable result that the already disgraced midshipman would be again hauled over the coals for neglecting to keep the boat in efficient working order.