The Wireless Officer

by Percy F. Westerman

  Still puffing his cigar the Portuguese pilot came over the side andwaddled on to the bridge.

  "Vat you draw?" he inquired.

  The Old Man gave him the ship's draught.

  "Ver' mooch," rejoined the pilot, shrugging his shoulders. "Tide go.Why you no call me before?"

  But get her in he did, although the propeller was throwing up muddysand and the keel plates were slithering over the bottom.

  Half an hour later the _West Barbican_ was berthed alongside thequay--a dilapidated structure partly stone and partly timber, withrusty bollards that, judging by their appearance, had not made theacquaintance of mooring-ropes for months. Clearly the maritimeactivities of Bulonga were largely dormant.

  Presently--there was no hurry, everything at Bulonga being done on the"do it to-morrow" principle--the Customs officers came on board.

  They were bilious-looking rascals, whose broad hints for "palm-oil"were as plain as the fellaheen demanding baksheesh. To them the taskof searching for dutiable goods was of secondary importance.

  From one of them, who spoke English passably, Captain Bullock elicitedthe information that there was no British agent in the place; neitherwas there telegraphic, telephonic, nor railway communication withanywhere. Once a week a small steamer brought up outside the bar forthe purpose of collecting and delivering mails and parcels. When theweather was rough, or the bar impassable, the inhabitants of Bulongahad to wait another week, perhaps two, for news of the outside world.

  "We'll have to hand over the steelwork to some one, Preston," observedthe Old Man. "We can't dump it on the quay and leave it to rot. Nipashore and see if there's a fairly reliable storekeeper who will freezeon to the stuff till it's wanted. We'll need a covered store at leasta hundred and twenty feet in length."

  The Acting Chief returned on board with the information that there wasa suitable place, and only one. The owner, a timber exporter andimporter, had gone home, and no one knew when he was likely to return.He lived at a place called Duelha, about seven or eight miles up theriver that empties itself into the shallow Bulonga Harbour, and he wasin the habit of journeying to and fro by means of a motor-boat.

  "We'll have to rout him out," decided Captain Bullock. "I'll send mymotor-boat. Meanwhile we'll engage natives and start getting the stuffout of the hold. The question is: who am I going to send away with theboat? You'll be on duty on deck, Preston, and Anstey will be tallyingin the hold. I've got it. I'll get young Mostyn to go."

  He went to the end of the bridge and looked down. On thepromenade-deck were Peter and Olive watching the dreary harbour.

  Miss Baird had taken her great disappointment remarkably well. On theprinciple that there is no time like the present, she refused to dwellupon the prospects of returning home. She would have to, she supposed,in due course; meanwhile she was on board the _West Barbican_ withoutany immediate chance of returning even as far as Durban. And thelonger the voyage the better, she decided.

  "This doesn't look promising for our sail, Miss Baird," said Peter."The tide's ebbing like a millrace. Look at those trunks of treescoming down. They'd give a small boat a nasty biff if they fouled her."

  "And no wind," added the girl. "Mr. Preston was telling me that in theharbours on this coast it blows from the land from sunset till aboutten o'clock, and from the sea from a little after sunrise till ten inthe morning. Between times it's usually a flat calm."

  The harbour viewed from within looked far more uninviting than it didfrom the offing. The ebb was in full swing--a turgid, evil-smellingrush of coffee-coloured water. Already the mud-banks fringing themangrove-covered islands were uncovering and throwing out a noxiousmist under the powerful rays of the tropical sun, which was now almostimmediately overhead.

  Mostyn found himself comparing Bulonga Harbour most unfavourably withthe lovely lagoons and coral reefs of the Pacific islands.

  "It may be better later on in the afternoon," he remarked. "Say anhour before high water. If----"

  He broke off abruptly, for Captain Bullock was descending thebridge-ladder.

  "Hello, young lady!" exclaimed the skipper. "What do you say to a runin my launch? I'm sending her up-stream in a few minutes. You'll besnug enough under the double canopy over the stern-sheets."

  "It ought to be rather exciting, Captain Bullock," replied Olive,glancing at the surging ebb. "It would be very nice to see what it'slike."

  "Right-o!" rejoined the skipper. "Mr. Mostyn, will you take charge ofthe boat? You seem the best man for the job, considering that it'syour father's steelwork we are dealing with. Take this letter to aSenhor Jose Aguilla, who hangs out at a place called Duelha. I'll showyou it on a chart. Get him to come down as soon as possible. If he'slike the rest of these gentry that will be _manana_. In any case,bring back a written reply to this letter."

  "Very good, sir."

  "Carry on, then. Pass the word for the serang to have the motor-boathoisted out and the awnings and side-curtains spread. Miss Baird, canyou be ready in a quarter of an hour?"

  Mostyn hurried away to carry out his instructions.

  "Good sort, the Old Man," he soliloquized. "And at one time I thoughtI'd hate him like poison. It just shows a fellow that it's not wise tojudge by first impressions."

  Promptly the serang and half a dozen lascars came upon the scene andbegan to cast off the lashings that secured the motor-boat to No. 2hatch. The little craft was Captain Bullock's private property. Shewas about twenty-five feet in length, carvel-built of teak, and had a12-horse-power paraffin engine installed under the fore-deck.'Midships was a well, fitted with a wheel and motor controls, while thespacious cockpit aft was provided with a folding hood, as well asdouble awnings spread between tall brass stanchions.

  In less than ten minutes the boat had been swung out by means of aderrick, and was straining at her painter alongside the accommodationladder.

  With Senhor Aguilla's letter in the breast-pocket of his drill tunicand his automatic in his hip-pocket, Mostyn waited at the head of theladder until Olive appeared, wearing a light, linen skirt and coat anda topee with a gold-edged pugaree.

  It was "stand easy". Notwithstanding the tremendous heat the officerswere spending their leisure in a manner followed by Britons all theworld over. They were playing cricket, with the netted promenade-deckas the field, and stumps precariously supported by a small wooden base.Yet the thrill of deck-cricket paled into insignificance when OliveBaird appeared. One and all the players flocked to the side to watchher departure in the Old Man's motor-boat.

  From the top of the accommodation ladder Peter signed to the nativeengineer, and by the time Olive stepped agilely into the stern-sheets,without taking advantage of Mostyn's proffered hand, the motor waspurring gently.

  "Let go aft--let go for'ard!" ordered Peter. "Touch ahead."

  By a gentle movement of the wheel Mostyn got the boat clear of theship's side without the risk of hitting the propeller. He knew fromexperience that the effect of helm is to swing a boat's stern round andnot her bows. Then, with a sign to the native engineer to "let her allout", Peter steadied the boat on her course.

  The Old Man's private launch was no sluggard. She could do a good nineknots, but her progress against the formidable ebb seemed tediouslyslow. She was slipping through the coffee-coloured water quicklyenough, as her bow-wave and clear wake denoted; but she seemed to becrawling past the low river banks at less than a slow walking pace.

  Peter did not mind. He had no idea of wasting time in the execution ofhis orders, but, on the other hand, the relatively slow progress didnot worry him. He was perfectly happy. Olive, too, was obviouslyenjoying the run. The breeze set up by the motion of the boat throughthe still air was delightfully cooling after the enervating atmosphereon board the _West Barbican_ alongside the wharf.

  "Like to take her?" asked Peter, when a bend of the river hid them fromthe ship.

  "Rather," replied Miss Baird promptly, and, nimbly negotiating thebulkhead
between the stern-sheets and the steering-well, she mountedthe low, grating-fitted platform and grasped the wheel.

  Mostyn, who had relinquished the helm, stood just behind and a littleto the side, so that he could command a view ahead. Occasionally hehad to consult the chart in order to avoid the numerous sand-banks.

  "Look out for those floating logs, Miss Baird," he cautioned, as threeor four huge tree trunks, green with trailing weed, rolled lazily overand over in their aimless passage to the open sea.

  Olive avoided them easily. Peter's confidence in the helmswomanincreased by leaps and bounds. There was no hesitation on her part, nobungling as the swift, frail craft passed between two of the logs withless than six feet to spare on either side.

  "Give that log a wide berth, Miss Baird," observed her companion, aftera number of obstructions had been avoided. "Unless I'm much mistakenwe'll find that log has a motor of sorts. Yes, by Jove! it has!"

  The "log" was an enormous hippopotamus, floating motionless on thewater, with only its snout and a small portion of its back showingabove the surface.

  At this point the river had contracted considerably, the actualwaterway being less than twenty yards from bank to bank, although athalf tide these banks were submerged and the width of the streamincreased to nearly a quarter of a mile.

  Olive meant to give the brute as wide a berth as possible, while, onthe other hand, the hippo resolved on close quarters with themotor-boat.

  Instead of diving to the muddy bottom of the river the hippopotamusbegan to swim rapidly towards the launch, opening its huge jaws withevident relish at the prospect of biting out a few square feet ofgunwale and topside as an entree.

  Mostyn and the native coxswain, who had hitherto been "standing easy",were keenly on the alert. The latter, seizing an oar, made ready todeal a blow upon the brute's head, although the hippo would have paidno more attention to the blow than he would to being tickled with astraw.

  Olive showed no sign of nervousness. In fact, she acted so coolly andwith such excellent judgment that Peter made no attempt to grasp thewheel.

  Seeing the animal approach, the girl edged the boat well over to theport side of the narrow channel. In spite of the speed of the launchit was apparent that the hippo would cut it off if the same directionwere maintained.

  Not until the boat's stem was within twenty yards of the brute didOlive alter helm. Then, with a quick, even movement, she put the helmhard-a-port.

  Before the unwieldy animal could turn, the launch had literally scrapedthe hippo's submerged hindquarters. Then, swinging the boat back onher former course, the girl glanced at her companion.

  "Near thing, that," she remarked. "I wonder that would have happenedif we'd hit it?"

  "We would have come off worst," replied Peter, who, now the danger wasover, was beginning to realize what the consequences might have been.

  "Perhaps you wouldn't mind taking on," said Olive a little later.

  Mostyn took the helm. Although the girl had given no reason forwanting to relinquish the wheel, he felt pretty certain that theincident had shaken her up a bit.

  "You're all right?" he asked.

  "Quite," was the reply.

  Presently the river widened considerably. The launch was now withinhalf a mile of her destination, but, according to the chart, there wasa submerged bank on the starboard hand, and fairly deep water close tothe right bank.

  Without warning the impetus of the launch was arrested. Peter wasflung against the wheel; Olive, losing her balance, cannoned into him,and was saved from a violent concussion against the coaming by the factthat the native coxswain had got there first, and had been winded byhis impact with the woodwork. The engineer, who had crawled under thefore-deck to replenish the contents of a grease-cup, was flung alongthe narrow floor by the motor and finished up by butting the petroltank.

  "Aground!" exclaimed Mostyn, stating what was an obvious andaccomplished fact.

  The engine was racing furiously. Jerking the reverse lever into theastern position Peter hoped that the action of the powerful propellerwould release the launch from her predicament. It was in vain. Themotor was racing as fast as ever, but there was no flow of water pastthe boat's side to indicate that the propeller was going astern.

  "Blades stripped, by Jove!" ejaculated Mostyn.

  He switched off the ignition, and, in the relative quietude thatsucceeded the machine-gun-like explosions of the exhaust, took stock ofthe situation.

  "Quite all right, thank you," replied the girl, in answer to Peter'squestion. The reply set Mostyn wondering whether in any circumstancesOlive would say otherwise.

  By this time the native coxswain was sitting up. Although he was nottaking nourishment he was gently caressing the bruised part of hisanatomy, but otherwise betraying no interest in things.

  Then the engineer appeared, backing out of the motor-room, and moppingthe blood on his forehead with a silk scarf. Gaining the steering-wellhe drew himself up and salaamed.

  "Why sahib stop engine?" he inquired.

  "'Cause the propeller blades are gone," replied Mostyn. "Savvy?Blades--screw--no can do. Like this."

  He tried to convey the magnitude of the disaster by means of dumb show.The native failed to understand. Being aground mattered little to him;being slung about like a pea in a box he took more or less as a matterof course. The thing--the thing that counted--was the fact that thesahib had taken unto himself the duty of Abdullah Bux, engineer of theSahib Captain's launch, and had stopped the motor. Abdullah Bux feltthat on that account he had a grievance.

  The launch was lying well down by the head in about a couple of inchesof water. Her stem had struck a waterlogged tree trunk almost buriedin the soft mud. The impact had lifted her bows well clear of thewater, the greater portion of the keel passing over the obstructionuntil, the bows dropping and plunging into the mud, the boat came to astandstill. Then it was that the swiftly moving propeller had fouledthe log, with the result that the three blades were shorn off close tothe boss.

  "Tide still ebbing," remarked Peter. "We're properly on it, MissBaird."

  "Yes, unfortunately," was the rejoinder. "There's no way of gettingher off till the tide makes?"

  "Might try kedging her off," suggested Mostyn.

  "A kedge wouldn't hold in this slime," declared the practical MissBaird, "even if you were able to lay it out. But you can't. The mud'stoo soft."

  Peter sounded with an oar. The blade sank almost without resistance toa depth of three feet in the noxious slime.

  A tedious wait followed. There was no denying the fact that it wastedious. Peter and the girl sat under the after canopy, but a_tete-a-tete_ under these conditions was very different from one on thepromenade-deck of the _West Barbican_ on a tranquil, starlit night. Itwas hot--insufferably so. Not only did the sun pour fiercely down uponthe double awning. The mud, now "dry", was radiating heat--a clammy,evil-smelling heat, as the rotting vegetation left high and dry by thereceding tide lay sweltering in the sunshine. The heavy, motionlessair, for there was not the faintest suspicion of a breeze, reeked asonly the air of an African swamp can--an overpowering, nauseatingstench. Thrown in as a makeweight came the reek of hot oil from thebadly overheated engine.

  "Tide's turning," said Peter, breaking the long silence.

  There was no lull in the change from ebb to flood. At one moment thebrownish waters were foaming seawards; at the next a miniature "bore"was breaking over the fringe of the mud-flats, bringing with it acollection of flotsam in the form of branches and trunks of trees.

  "'Fraid I'm giving you a rotten time," continued Peter apologetically."Sailing with Preston and Anstey in Durban must have been a joycompared with this--and you told me you didn't like it a bit. You mustthink I'm a rotten pilot."

  "Nearly everyone gets aground some time or other," replied Olive. "Theawkward part is that this isn't exactly like the mud-banks of theTamar. And it's unfortunate about the propeller. What do you proposeto do wh
en we float?"

  "Row up to Duelha. It's less than half a mile. If we can't get aspare propeller we might ask Senhor Aguilla to tow us back in hismotor-boat."

  The flood-tide made with great rapidity. In less than half an hour thelaunch was afloat. The two lascars manned the oars, and the boat,borne rapidly by the tide, quickly covered the remainder of the way toDuelha.

  The Portuguese agent was overwhelmingly polite. He insisted onentertaining Olive and Peter to coffee, and promised to tow thedisabled launch back to the ship, at the same time regretting thatthere were no facilities at Duelha for repairs.

  "Eet is no trouvel, senhor," declared the Portuguese. "I myself villspeak to el capitano Bullock concerning de stores from de sheep. Eetis pleasair to do business vid de Englees all de time."

  It was sunset before Olive and Peter returned to the S.S. _WestBarbican_.