“A merry Christmas for me—I don’t think!” muttered Kenneth for the umpteenth time.
At last the motor awoke into activity.
Kenneth sprang to the wheel. The bowman got to his feet and awaited the order to go for’ard and heave short the cable.
The midshipman was on the point of ordering a “touch ahead” when the engine spluttered and relapsed into silence.
He went below to interview the perspiring leading stoker.
“Can’t make nothing of it, sir,” confessed that worthy. “She won’t have it either on petrol or paraffin. I reckon the jet’s choked.”
“Then for goodness’ sake unship the thing and clean it!” rejoined Kenneth, and waited to see the operation performed.
Whether it was the midshipman’s presence that flurried the man or that his fingers were slippery with oil that was responsible for the mishap was immaterial. The fact remained that the jet fell from the leading stoker’s grasp, glanced from the crank-case and disappeared underneath the tray. Without unbolting and removing the engine—a task that in the circumstances was out of the question—the jet was irrecoverably lost.
Kenneth returned on deck feeling anything but happy. The loss of the jet was a pure accident and no good purpose would be served by slanging the man.
Other steps must be taken to extricate the picket-boat from her hazardous position—and again Kenneth rose to the occasion.
“Motor’s konked, Wilson,” he announced laconically. “I’m letting off some Verey lights and then the steam pinnace will be along to take us in tow.”
The coxswain, behind the midshipman’s back, shrugged his shoulders and thought it was about time that he kicked off his sea-boots.
Searching in one of the lockers, Kenneth found the Verey pistol. Inserting a cartridge he fired into the air.
Two hundred feet above the boat the rocket burst into a red glare, but so heavy was the fall of snow that only a faint glimmer was visible from the cockpit. Obviously, then, the signal of distress would be totally invisible from the Kirkham, which was now at least a mile and a half to wind’ard. Nor would the report be heard. Nothing short of wireless, which the picket-boat did not possess, would establish communication with the light cruiser on such a night.
Kenneth fired three more lights from the Verey pistol before giving up hope of aid by this means.
“Seems a bit of a wash-out, Wilson,” he remarked.
“ ‘Fraid so, sir,” agreed the coxswain. “Might be a jolly sight worse, though. It strikes me that killick’s got a firm hold now, so all we can do is to stand by till daylight or until this snowstorm blows over.”
“The officers waiting on Mautby jetty will be feeling pretty sick of it,” observed the midshipman.
Wilson snorted.
“If officers take it into their heads to go on the beach on a night like this—even though it’s Christmas Eve—it’s up to them to make the best of it. We’ve troubles of our own enough. Look here, sir, suppose you turn into the cabin for a spell. It’s pretty parky out here.”
It certainly was cold. Except for the fore-deck that was being continuously swept by the seas, the picket-boat was white with frozen snow. Even the side lights were blocked by a mixture of ice and snow. To go for’ard without hanging on tooth and nail was to risk slipping on the deck and pitching overboard.
Kenneth’s sou’wester and the front of his oilskin coat were white with frozen snow. His face smarted painfully under the onslaught of the sleet, while by contrast his gloved hands were numbed by the cold.
Undoubtedly it was a great temptation to take his coxswain’s advice and shelter in the little cabin immediately for’ard of the cockpit, but he resisted it. If the coxswain and bowman could stick it it was up to him to share the discomforts with his crew.
“I’m all right, really,” he protested, although his chattering teeth belied the statement. “I’d better hang on here just in case. I say: is there any grub on board?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” replied the coxswain. “Are you hungry, sir?”
“No,” replied Raxworthy. “But you fellows—you had supper at one bell and nothing since.”
“That’s a fact, sir,” agreed his coxswain.
The last official meal in a ship is late in the afternoon and is called supper. If a man requires a meal later in the evening he has to buy it in the canteen. Apparently the crew of the picket-boat had not eaten anything since half-past four. The midshipman was better off in that respect. He had had dinner and by now he was feeling decidedly peckish. He wondered how hungry the hands were.
“Then it’s a case of tightening our belts, Wilson,” he remarked. “Carry on smoking: that’ll take the edge off a bit.”
The time dragged with leaden feet. The storm showed no sign of abating. If anything the wind was increasing in strength, and the snow squalls were heavier than earlier in the night. No doubt the commander, alarmed by the non-return of the motor-picket-boat would have sent away the steam pinnace to search for the absentee, but on such a night it would be a case of looking for a needle in a bottle of hay. The pinnace might conceivably pass within half a cable’s length of the disabled picket-boat without being aware of her presence.
Suddenly the picket-boat swung broadside on to a huge wave. The crest swept completely over the boat, almost filling the cockpit and throwing Kenneth violently against the lee coaming.
Even as he struggled to regain his breath—for the force of the blow and a mouthful of icy water had rendered him almost speechless—the midshipman heard Wilson exclaim:
“That’s done it, sir! She’s parted her cable!”
Without waiting for orders the bowman fought his way for’ard, hanging on like grim death as wave after wave swept over the violently rolling boat.
Then he fought his way back with the information that the chain had parted at the fairlead. That meant that the anchor and all the chain outside the boat were lying useless on the bed of Junk Harbour, and that the picket-boat, if she did not founder in the meantime in spite of watertight bulkheads, would sooner or later be hurled against the dreaded Mutches unless something hardly less than a miracle intervened.
The leading stoker, realizing by the different motion of the boat that something was amiss, thrust head and shoulders out of the engine-room hatch only to disappear hurriedly as a wave-top gave him an icy shower bath.
Catching sight of the man, Kenneth had an inspiration. Since the leading stoker was now useless in his official capacity he might just as well be out of the engine-room. In the event of the picket-boat striking he would be drowned like a rat in a trap if he remained at his post. On deck he stood the same chance as the rest, which was about as poor as that of a man attempting to swim Niagara rapids.
“Pass the word for Brown to come on deck and bring an ash bucket,” shouted the midshipman.
In spite of the noise of wind and sea the bowman understood. He made his way to the engine-room hatch and communicated the midshipman’s orders to the leading stoker.
The ash bucket was a substantial affair, far stronger, heavier and larger than those for ordinary domestic use. It might serve for a makeshift sea-anchor.
Under Raxworthy’s directions the crew bent the sternfast—a stout rope used for making fast alongside a ship or a jetty—to the handle of the bucket and then threw the latter overboard. In order to obtain the best results and to allow the boat to ride head to wind, the improvised sea-anchor should have been led from the bows, but in the existing circumstances time was too precious and the risk of working on the fore-deck too great for that operation to be performed. The point was to bring the boat out of the trough of the sea, and since it was impracticable for her to lie bows on to the waves, the next best thing was to ride stern foremost to them.