CHAPTER XVI
Hot Work in No. 1 Hold
The S.S. _West Barbican_ was within a couple of days of Cape Town. Theweather, although still warm, had lost much of the sweltering heat,thanks to the influence of the Trades.
The ship was rolling badly. For the last ten days she had been on herbest behaviour in that respect; but now she was making up for losttime. There was a high sea running, and the ship's alley-ways to thesaloon were ankle-deep in water.
With the glass falling rapidly the seas increased in violence. It wasevident that the _West Barbican_ would receive a heavy dusting withinthe next few hours.
"Hanged if I like the look of things, Preston," admitted CaptainBullock, sniffing the approaching storm from afar. "We're in forsomething."
"We are, sir," agreed the Acting Chief. "And I'm not altogethersatisfied with that steelwork. Bad enough cargo at any time, but I'vean idea something's working adrift in No. 1 hold. I'll get Anstey tohave a look at it."
The Old Man concurred.
"Tell the serang to warn the lascars," he added. "We don't want brokenlimbs and all that sort of thing."
At an order a party of lascars assembled for the purpose of securingany of the cargo that might have broken adrift. Presently Anstey,wearing sea-boots, made his way along the lurching deck. He was not atall keen on this particular job. Hounding about in the semi-darknessof the hold and in momentary danger of being crushed by a mass ofshifting metal was not a pleasing outlook. But it was duty, and Ansteywas not a shirker.
The lascars cast off a portion of the tarpaulin and removed theaftermost of the metal hatches, disclosing the rusty coaming and theupper portion of a vertical ladder of iron--or, to be more precise, aladder that was nominally vertical. In present conditions it wasswaying with the ship, and describing an erratic curve with a maximumheel of twenty degrees.
Steadying himself by the coaming, Anstey felt with his left foot forthe topmost rung. Then, gripping the sides of the ladder, he began thedescent.
Very little daylight found its way into the narrow space afforded bythe displaced hatch. In fact Anstey soon found himself in gloomapproaching total darkness. The air too, after being confined forweeks, was dank and distinctly unwholesome. There was an acute smellfrom the fumes given off from the red oxide with which the steelworkhad been coated.
With his rubber-soled boots slithering on the slippery rungs as thevessel rolled, and gripping strongly with both hands, the Third Officerdescended until at length his feet came in contact with the metal floorof the hold. The din was terrific. Without, the seas were hammeringon the comparatively thin hull-plating. Bilge-water was foaming andhissing in the cellular bottom, while the vibration of the engines--thenoise intensified in the confined space--added to the turmoil.
To these noises Anstey paid scant heed. He was listening intently to ametallic sound, which told him that Preston's precautions had not beentaken in vain. Somewhere in the for'ard part of the hold there was aregular metallic thud. It came from a mass of metal that had workedloose from the securing chains.
Anstey's first intention was to order a couple of lascars below.
"May as well do the jolly old job myself," he soliloquized, on secondthoughts.
Fumbling in his pocket he produced his electric torch. For someminutes he was dazzled by the blinding glare. Then, as his eyes grewaccustomed to the light, he could form a good idea of the difficultiesof his surroundings.
He was standing in a narrow fore-and-aft passage. The walls consistedof red-painted girders piled up to a height of ten feet on either sideof him. Although secured by chains and upright steel bars theypresented a formidable appearance, as alternately each wall toweredobliquely over his head, the whole mass straining and groaning at itslashings like a Titan striving to burst his bonds.
Staggering along the narrow passage, for the erratic movement of thehold was totally different from the heave and pitch to which Anstey wasaccustomed on deck, the Third Officer made his way cautiously forward,critically examining the metal gripes that secured the awkward cargo.
Suddenly he stopped. A cold perspiration stood out on his forehead.Danger, imminent danger, stared him in the face. Danger not only tohimself but to the ship and her passengers and crew.
Three feet above his head a huge girder was chattering and quivering.The chain that secured it to its fellows had at one time been set up bya massive bottle screw. Possibly the thread was an easy one, but, inany case, the constant working of the ship had caused the bottle screwto "run back". It was now holding by a couple of threads at the most,and momentarily the securing chain might fly asunder.
Anstey realized what that meant. The fifty-ton girder would crush andpulp him to a jelly. Not only that; it would to a certainty start thebottom plates of the hull and shatter the bulkheads of No. 1 hold aswell. That meant that the _West Barbican_ would plunge like a stone tothe bed of the Atlantic.
Thrusting the barrel of his torch under the strap of his peaked cap,Anstey replaced the headgear, jamming it on so that the peak was overhis right ear. That gave him a direct light to work with.
Then, pulling out the marline-spike of his knife, and holding itbetween his teeth, Anstey began to scale the precarious wall of steeluntil he could tackle the almost disjointed bottle screw.
It seemed an eternity climbing that five or six feet. To his agitatedmind it seemed as if the girders were already slipping bodily upon him.As his toes sought an insecure hold he could feel the steelworktrembling. With each lurch of the vessel to starboard the bottle screwstrained, until the young officer felt certain that the last twothreads had stripped and the last restraining bonds had been loosed.
At last he found himself in a position to tackle his task. With onefoot resting on a girder on one side of the passage, and the other onthe opposite side, and steadying himself as best he could with his lefthand, Anstey inserted the point of the marline-spike in the slot of thebottle screw.
Then he began to turn the locking device, slowly and firmly.
HE BEGAN TO TURN THE LOCKING DEVICE, SLOWLY AND FIRMLY]
At first he was seized with the terrifying idea that the threads werenot gripping. With the torch in his cap throwing its rays erraticallywith every movement of his head, Anstey felt convinced that his effortswere in vain.
He went on turning and turning, barking his knuckles as the taperingspike slipped again and again. Then, with a grunt of satisfaction, hesaw that the ends of the threaded bolts had reappeared.
Even as he looked, the torch slipped from his cap and clattered to themetal floor. The hold was plunged into darkness.
His first impulse was to make for the open air. In the darkness thedifficulties of working in the place were redoubled. It required adetermined effort to force himself to his incompleted task.
Solely by sense of touch he carried on, until he had the joy of feelingthe reunited ends of the threaded bars. That part of the business wasfinished until next time, he decided.
Regaining the floor, he felt his way between the piled-up girders untilhis hand came in contact with the ladder. Twenty-five feet above hishead he could see a rectangular patch of light, one edge broken by theheads and shoulders of half a dozen lascars.
Up the ladder Anstey swarmed, drinking in copious draughts of the pure,salt-laden air.
But his task was incomplete. He must make sure that everything in No.1 hold was secure.
"Thatcher, old son," he exclaimed, as he encountered one of the juniorengineers. "Lend me your torch, there's a good sort. I've scupperedmine."
Thatcher fumbled in the pocket of his dungarees.
"Here you are, you careless blighter," he replied. "Skylarking, Isuppose? Well, take care of my gadget, anyway."
Again Anstey descended the hold and completed his survey. The clang ofshifting steel had ceased.
When, after an hour's absence, he regained the bridge, Preston was notto be seen, but the skipper spotted the dishevelled youth and
sung outto him.
"Well?" queried the Old Man.
"All correct, sir," reported Anstey. "The----"
"Good," rejoined the Captain, without waiting for the Third'sexplanation. "Carry on."
Anstey turned away to "carry on". It was his watch below. The job inNo. 1 hold was merely an extra. He was still feeling the effects ofhis desperate efforts in the confined space, and the idea of turning inbefore he had had a "breather" did not appeal to him.
On the lee side of the bridge he encountered Mostyn.
"Hello, old thing," was Peter's greeting. "What have you been up to?You look a bit green about the gills."
"Nothing much," replied Anstey. "Just been giving an eye to yourfather's ironmongery. Yes, it's all right. Got a cigarette? My caseis down below. Thanks awfully."
The Wireless Officer Page 16
