"No, sir," replied Anstey.

"Thought not," was the rejoinder. "A boat would be swamped to wind'ard, and burnt to a cinder to lee'ard. Doubt even whether the poor fellows had a chance to lower away---- What's that on our port bow? By heavens, Anstey, it's a boat!"

Both men levelled their binoculars. Mostyn, keeping discreetly in the background, made use of the chartroom telescope.

Silhouetted against the glare was a ship's boat. There were people in her, but they were making no apparent effort to draw away from the danger zone. Rising and falling on the long, oily swell, the frail craft was midway between two patches of fiercely burning oil that threatened to converge and destroy the boat and its human freight.

"We'll have to risk it, Anstey," decided the Old Man, as he rang for half speed. "I only hope the lascars'll stick it. I'm going to take the old hooker between those patches of burning oil. We'll try towing the boat clear. If that fails we'll have to lower one of our own boats. Pa.s.s the word for the serang to stand by to heave a line, and then give an eye to the _secuni_. If he runs the ship into either of those patches it'll be a serious matter."

"Ay, ay, sir."

Ringing for stop, Captain Bullock knew that there was sufficient way upon the ship to enable her to close the boat without the former being out of control. Allowance had also to be made for the wind, which, owing to the alteration of course, was now two points on the starboard bow.

The heat was now quite perceptible, while at intervals wisps of black, suffocating smoke swept to lee'ard, completely enveloping the _West Barbican_. On either side of her were expanses of burning oil, bubbling and popping in a series of miniature explosions, as the heated water beneath the oil vapourized and blew out through the covering layer of burning viscous liquid.

Right in the centre of the steadily decreasing avenue of unlighted oil lay the boat. Two cables' lengths beyond, and now a glowing ma.s.s of white-hot metal, lay the burning tanker, awash for'ard and with her propeller showing clear above the agitated water.

Admirably manoeuvred and conned by the Old Man, the _West Barbican_ drew near the tanker's boat. Slowly she pa.s.sed within heaving distance. The now excited lascars heaved lines, several of which fell short. Two at least dropped athwart the boat, but no attempt was made on the part of her crew to secure them. The luckless men were either dead or else rendered insensible by the hot, suffocating air.

The ship had now lost way. Her head was beginning to pay off. It was necessary to go ahead in order to regain steerage way; but, at the same time, if the work of rescue were to be consummated, it would be necessary to make use of one of the _West Barbican's_ boats.

"Lower away!" roared the Old Man.

At that moment the tanker disappeared beneath the surface. The tower of flame that enveloped her died down to a mere flicker, completely outcla.s.sed by the glare of a dozen distinct patches of fiercely burning oil.

The lascars manning the falls hesitated, while their comrades in the boat showed signs of panic. In the confusion they noticed that, unaccountably there was no officer on board the lifeboat.

Mostyn was one of those men who in moments of danger are p.r.o.ne to act independently--they simply cannot remain pa.s.sive spectators when there is work to be done. It was no business of the Wireless Officer to go away in the boats. His duty was to stay by the wireless gear. But in this case Peter knew that he could do nothing in the cabin with the aerial out of action. He could be of use in the boat, to take command and steady the decidedly "jumpy" Asiatics.

The overwhelming instinct to bear a hand seized him in an instant.

Running aft to where the lifeboat swung outboard he leapt into the stern-sheets, grasped the yoke lines, and shouted to the tindal to lower away. The man, seeing that a sahib was in the boat but not recognizing who he was, gave the word to the lascars manning the falls, and the boat was lowered rapidly and evenly.

Mostyn had a momentary vision of the lighted scuttles slipping upwards as the boat dropped down past the ship's side. Then with a sharp flop the lifeboat struck the oily surface. Simultaneously the lower blocks of the falls disengaged, and the boat began to drift astern.

"Give way!" ordered Peter.

The lascars, trained to obey commands issued in English, acted smartly.

With the presence of a sahib in the lifeboat their fears, if not entirely banished, were cloaked by the sense of discipline.

"Pull starboard; back port."

The lifeboat turned in almost her own length.

Already the steadily converging patches of flames justified this order.

To turn under the use of the helm alone would bring the boat in contact with the oil-fired water.

"Together--way 'nough--in bow."

In five minutes from the time Peter had taken his place in the stern-sheets the two boats were gunwale to gunwale. In the tanker's whaler were seven human forms huddled in weird postures, either on the bottom-boards or across the thwarts.

Whether they were dead or alive Mostyn knew not. All he could do was to have the seemingly inanimate bodies transhipped, and then return to the _West Barbican_--if he could.

Working like men possessed, four of the lascars unceremoniously bundled the bodies into the lifeboat. Then, pushing off, they resumed their oars, pulling desperately for the ship, which was now gathering sternway at a distance of a cable's length.

For the first time Mostyn realized the extreme gravity of the situation. The ship was now gathering sternway, drifting rapidly to lee'ard the while. The churning of her propeller had caused a large patch of burning oil to still further contract the narrow fairway between the ship and the boat.

Peter knew full well that he and the boat's crew stood less than a dog's chance should the fiery sea cut them off. He was also aware of the great difficulty of being picked up by the ship, since the latter had herself to be constantly manoeuvring to avoid contact with the fire. Even if the lifeboat escaped the flames, there arose the danger of her being crushed by her parent. In that case there would be little or no chance of swimming in the thick layer of oil that had not as yet become ignited.

It was touch and go. Dazzled by the glare, partly stifled by the thick smoke, and scorched by the hot, raging wind, Peter all but lost his bearings. A momentary dispersal of the smoke showed him the hull of the _West Barbican_ less than four boats' lengths away.

"Boat oars!"

The now thoroughly scared lascars obeyed very hurriedly. The bowman grasped and engaged the for'ard falls, pulping one of his fingers in the operation. Almost simultaneously the lower block of the after falls was hooked on, and with a disconcerting jerk the lifeboat rose clear of the water.

Only by a few seconds had she won through. Before the boat was hoisted home the sea beneath her was covered with crackling, spluttering flames.

CHAPTER VII

"Logged"

Peter Mostyn's chief desire upon regaining the deck was to go below and get something to drink. Now that the immediate danger was over, his throat was burning like a lime-kiln, and his head was buzzing as if he had taken an overdose of quinine.

Slipping off his lifebelt--he had donned it mechanically on rushing to the boat, although in the circ.u.mstances the advantages of wearing a lifebelt were of a negative order--Peter returned to the bridge, keeping discreetly in the background.

The Old Man was fighting a tough battle. With Preston and Anstey he was extricating his command from a perilous situation, where skilful seamanship alone could regain control of the helm without allowing the vessel to wallow helplessly in the fiery sea. Putting the ship ahead and astern alternately the Old Man allowed her head to pay off under the force of the wind until he saw a chance of turning. Then, with a grunt of supreme satisfaction, he rang for full speed ahead. Five minutes later the _West Barbican_, clear of the oil-calmed water, was rolling in the tempestuous seas.

"Carry on, Mr. Anstey," he ordered. "Lay her on her old course."

He turned abruptly on his heel, intending to see how the survivors of the tanker were faring. As he swung round he noticed Peter standing under the lee of the wireless cabin.

"Mr. Mostyn!"

"Sir?"

"How many survivors?"

Peter told him.

"A smart bit of work of yours, Mr. Mostyn, but--oh, very well, go below and turn in. I'll see you in the morning."

The Wireless Officer obeyed only too gladly. As he washed the grime from his face he reflected that, thanks to the damaged aerial, he would have an uninterrupted watch below.

For a long time he lay awake in his bunk. It was not the heavy rolling that was responsible for his sleeplessness. The whole of the night's adventure pa.s.sed in review, its horrors intensified in retrospect. It was not until dawn was breaking that he fell into a fitful slumber.

Meanwhile the skipper had his hands full. In the absence of a doctor he and the purser were attending to the helpless survivors of the tanker. Of the seven removed from the boat only two were conscious, and one of the pair had a compound fracture of the right leg.