CHAPTER XXIV
Tidings from the Sea
"It's about time we had a letter from Peter from Cape Town, isn't it?"inquired Mrs. Mostyn.
Captain Mostyn deliberately lighted a cigarette while he worked out amental sum.
"Hardly," he replied. "Give the Royal Mail a chance, old lady. Weheard from the boy from Las Palmas. That ought to keep you satisfiedfor another week or so. By that time we ought to see the announcementof the _West Barbican's_ arrival at Pangawani. Let me see: it was tendays ago when we saw the news of her departure from Durban. By Jove,old lady, we'll have a jollification when we know that the steelwork ishanded over to the Kilba Protectorate Government."
There was no doubt about it. Captain Mostyn was worrying over thecontract. The actual manufacturing of the bridge material had causedhim very little anxiety. The keenness with which he had followed thework, the personal attention he gave to all the details, and theprofessional supervision of the whole process of manufacture had kepthim busy both mentally and physically. But from the time theconsignment was shipped on board the _West Barbican_ at Brocklington hewas metaphorically on pins and needles.
The contract was to include delivery at Pangawani. There were certainrisks in the long sea passage that were to be taken into account.Unavoidable accidents might occur, that the most skilful master in theMerchant Service could not avert. Pangawani Harbour, with its shiftingbar, had a sinister reputation in insurance company circles. That facthad resulted in the refusal of every underwriter whom Captain Mostynapproached to insure the steelwork to anything like its full value.The best terms he could obtain were 75 per cent, while the _WestBarbican_ was between the United Kingdom and Table Bay, and 66-2/3 percent between Table Bay and Pangawani. That meant the bankruptcy of theBrocklington Ironworks Company should the steelwork fail to reach itsdestination, since every pound of available capital had been sunk inCaptain Mostyn's "great push".
Curiously enough, his anxiety was solely for the safety of thesteelwork. The knowledge that his son was on the very boat that wastaking out the consignment hardly entered into his calculations. Anindescribable faith in Peter caused him to regard the lad as being wellable to take care of himself, happen what might. The ship might belost, but Peter would be sure to come out all right.
Captain Mostyn and his wife were still discussing the movements of the_West Barbican_, and speculating upon the date of her arrival atPangawani, when one of the maids brought in the evening paper, whichwas regularly left at the house by a newsboy from the village.
The Captain's first consideration was given to the Shipping List. The_West Barbican_ did not appear.
"I told you so, my dear," he remarked. "We'll have to wait a littlelonger. Let me see; you want the serial page. Here you are."
Peter's father, always methodical, took a paper-knife from thewriting-bureau and carefully cut the newspaper in half. Handing theback page to his wife, he settled down to read the news,notwithstanding the fact that most of it was reproduced from the Londondailies, which he had already digested early that morning.
Mrs. Mostyn settled down for a comfortable evening. The fire wasburning brightly in the open well-grate, the arm-chair was mostcomfortable. With the serial page and a half-finished jumper to workat while she read, Mrs. Mostyn meant to have a quiet and restfulevening's amusement.
Presently she finished the instalment of the serial. She hardly knewwhat to think of it. Its abrupt ending made her angry with the author,or whoever was responsible for the conclusion, while the thrillingcurtain left her on thorns as to what was going to happen in the nextinstalment. The rest of the page usually contained very little offeminine interest, consisting mainly of sporting topics and luridtestimonials to so-and-so's patent medicines.
Quite casually her eye caught sight of a badly printed paragraph in theStop Press column. She read it through without the full significanceof it coming home to her. Then she re-read it slowly and haltingly, asif every word was burning into her brain.
"John!" she exclaimed.
"Half a moment, my dear," protested Captain Mostyn, deep in an articledealing with the coal industry.
"John!" she said again.
Captain Mostyn glanced over the top of his half of the paper. He didnot like being disturbed. It usually meant that his wife haddiscovered a stupendous bargain in the sales column, with theinevitable result.
"Good Heavens, old lady!" he ejaculated, greatly alarmed at the grey,drawn expression on his wife's face. "What is it?"
Mrs. Mostyn did not reply. With trembling hands she gave the paper toher husband, and pointed to the grim announcement in the Stop Presscolumn:
"Lloyd's agent at East London telegraphs, 'S.S. _Marechal Foch_ arrivedhere to-day with eighteen lascars, survivors of the S.S. _WestBarbican_, which foundered in the Mozambique Channel on the night ofthe 22nd. No trace has been found of the ship's officers and theremainder of the crew. Survivors cannot give any explanation of howthe disaster occurred.'"
"Peter!" gasped Mrs. Mostyn.
Her husband was thunderstruck. The gravity of the news had taken himcompletely aback. He gave no thought to the precious steelwork. Hiswhole concern was for his son.
The bald announcement was serious enough in all conscience. Readingbetween the lines it gave scant hope that there might be othersurvivors. Was it possible that Peter had in his prime fallen a victimto the remorseless sea?
"There's nothing very definite, my dear," he remarked as calmly as hecould. "Perhaps to-morrow we'll hear that some more boats have beenpicked up. Strange things happen at sea."
Mrs. Mostyn shook her head. After Peter's almost miraculous returnwhen given up for dead, after the S.S. _Donibristle_ had been reported"overdue, missing, and believed a total loss", she could hardly hopefor a second intervention of Providence.
"Tut, tut," said Captain Mostyn, his forced manner belying the doubtsthat assailed him. "Why shouldn't he turn up trumps a second time?Why, I know an old pensioner at Portsmouth who, during his twenty-oneyears' sea life, was reported killed four times. And he's hale andhearty to-day at eighty-five, or he was when I heard of him a fortnightago. I'll see my friend Parsons at Lloyd's to-morrow. He'll keep meposted as to the latest news. Peter will be all right, never fear."
But Captain Mostyn had his doubts. He knew enough about the sea torealize the possibility of his son going down with the ship. He arguedthat the disaster must have been sudden, since there was no mention ofthe ill-fated _West Barbican_ having sent out wireless messages foraid. That pointed to the vessel foundering in a few minutes; in whichcase there had not been time to lower all the boats. Quite likely theone containing the eighteen lascars was the only one successfullylowered. Again, the absence of an officer in the boat pointed to acomplete disorganization of discipline. On the face of Lloyd'stelegraphed report things looked very black indeed.
Captain Mostyn spent a sleepless night, but he hardly gave anotherthought to his financial losses. Over and over again he tried toreconstruct the scene on board the sinking liner, with the object ofconvincing himself that his son had escaped with his life. Throughoutthe long night he was building up suggestions and immediatelydemolishing them on account of an incontestable flaw in the theory.
Next day Captain Mostyn went up to town by his usual train, but,instead of proceeding to the offices of the Brocklington IronworksCompany, he went straight to Lloyd's. Here he was informed that nofurther news of the loss of the S.S. _West Barbican_ had been received,but the detailed report of the Master of the S.S. _Marechal Foch_ wasexpected by cable that day.
The same afternoon there was a hurriedly convened meeting of thedirectors of the Company. None of them had noticed the announcementconcerning the _West Barbican_ in the papers, and Captain Mostyn's baldstatement came as a complete surprise. No definite steps could betaken until the ship was officially reported lost, and then only wouldthe underwriters pay the 66-2/3 per cent of the value of the steel-work.
A fortnight or more passed, with nothing to break the silence thatseemed to be brooding over the loss of the _West Barbican_. For somereason the report of the captain of the _Marechal Foch_ had notmaterialized. It afterwards transpired that he was in hospital at EastLondon.
At last the silence was broken by the receipt of a Press Associationcablegram from Port Louis, Mauritius:
"Portuguese sailing ship _Balsamao_, Lorenzo Marques to Goa, arrivedhere to-day with sixteen Europeans and eleven Indians, survivors of theS.S. _West Barbican_. Names of the Europeans as follows: Anstey,Crawford, M'Gee, Peterson, Fulwood, Selwyn, Wright, Scott, Palmer,Partridge, Plover, Smith, Fostin, Applegarth, and Shallop (passenger)."
A ray of hope flashed across the minds of Peter's parents. The name"Fostin": it was possible that it was a telegraphic error for "Mostyn".The conviction grew until Captain and Mrs. Mostyn felt perfectlyconvinced that the name in question was actually supposed to representthat of their son.
But, alas! disillusionment came next day when Captain Mostyn paid avisit to the offices of the Blue Crescent Line, and was given a list ofthe names of the officers and crew of the ill-starred _West Barbican_.Amongst them was: "Geo. Fostin, steward".
"We are afraid to have to admit that Captain Bullock is amongst themissing," said the secretary of the Blue Crescent Line to CaptainMostyn. "One of our senior and most experienced skippers, and on hislast voyage before retiring. The Chief Officer, Mr. Preston, is alsomissing, also the Wireless Officer. It can only be surmised that theystuck to the ship to the last and went down with her. The WirelessOfficer's name is--let me see."
The official referred to the list in front of him.
"The same as yours, sir," he continued. "A relation, perhaps?"
"My son," replied Captain Mostyn sadly yet proudly.
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