the rest of the day until four in the afternoon passed almost uneventfully. the breeze still held, but blew steadily from the same quarter with hardly a point difference in eighteen hours. with one reef in the mainsail the boat had all she could carry with comfort, and, save for an occasional fleck of foam over the weather bow, was dry and fairly fast.
the disconcerting doubt in peter's mind was whether the boat was making good to wind'ard. apparently she was, but whether the leeway counter-balanced the distance made good, or whether the boat was actually losing on each tack remained at present an insolvable problem.
during the greater part of the day the heat of the sun was tempered by the cool breeze, but late in the afternoon more indigo-coloured clouds began to bank up to the east'ard. the roseate hues of early morn were about to vindicate themselves as harbingers of boisterous weather.
"sea-anchor again, i suppose," soliloquized the skipper of the boat. "beat and beat and beat again, then drift to lee'ard all we've made. we'll fetch somewhere some day, i expect."
he rather blamed himself for not having put the helm up directly the previous gale had blown itself out. running before the easterly breeze would have brought the boat within sight of the mozambique coast before now. on the other hand, how was he to know that the easterly breeze would hold for so many hours? it rarely did.
"it's a gamble," he thought philosophically. "i've backed the wrong horse. i've got to see this business through."
once more the tent was struck. this time mrs. shallop, who had taken possession when olive came out, made no audible protest. possibly she was too busy eating turkish delight. in that respect she acted upon the principle of "never leave till to-morrow what you can eat to-day".
the sea-anchor was prepared ready to heave overboard. loose gear was secured, and the baler placed in a convenient spot to commence operations should a particularly vicious sea break into the boat.
darkness set in. no stars were visible to mitigate the intense blackness of the night. the candle-lamp of the boat-compass had to be lighted in order to enable the helmsman to keep the craft on her course. its feeble rays faintly illuminated peter's face as he steered. beyond that it was impossible to distinguish anybody or anything in the boat, the bows of which were faintly silhouetted against the ghostly phosphorescence of the foam thrown aside by the stem.
so far there was no necessity to ride to the sea-anchor. the wind, slightly increasing in force, demanded another reef in the mainsail. no doubt the boat would have stood a whole mainsail, but peter was too cautious and experienced to risk "cracking on" in a lightly trimmed craft unprovided with a centreboard or even a false keel.
the two lascars were told off to tend the halliards, mahmed stood by the mainsheet, while peter steered. the latter, his senses keenly on the alert, was listening intently for the unmistakable shriek that presages the sweeping down of a squall. in the utter darkness the sense of hearing was the only means of guarding against being surprised by a violent and overpowering blast of wind.
"it may not be so bad after all," he remarked to olive, who had insisted on keeping by him at the tiller. "there's rain. i expected it. luckily it's after the wind, so the chances are we've seen the worst of it."
it was now nearly ten o'clock. the boat had been footing it strongly, since peter had eased her off a point. the seas were high—so high that between the crests the boat was momentarily becalmed. yet, thanks to mostyn's helmsmanship, she carried way splendidly, until the ascent of the on-coming crest enabled the wind-starved canvas to fill out again.
very soon the few heavy drops gave place to the typical tropical downpour. even had it been daylight it would have been a matter of difficulty to see a boat's length ahead. in the darkness it seemed like crouching under a waterfall. breathing resulted in swallowing mouthfuls of moisture-laden air. in less than half a minute from the commencement of the downpour, there was an inch or more of water over the bottom-boards in spite of mahmed's strenuous work with the baler.
contrary to peter's expectations, the strength of the wind did not appreciably diminish, but the rain had the effect of considerably beating down the crests of the waves.
it was now quite impossible to hear anything beyond the heavy patter of the big raindrops upon the boat. it was a continuous tattoo that outvied the roar of the wind. at this juncture the candle of the binnacle lamp blew out. to attempt to relight it was out of the question. every part of the boat's interior was subject to a furious eddy of wind. a match would not burn a moment.
"hardly good enough," decided peter, wiping the moisture from his eyes. "i'll get canvas stowed and out sea-anchor till the worst of this is over."
with his disengaged hand mostyn tapped mahmed on the shoulder. desisting from his task of baling, the boy looked into his master's face.
"tell them to stow canvas," shouted peter, indicating the invisible lascars crouching against the main thwart. "i'll tend the mainsheet. look sharp!"
mahmed raised himself and began to crawl over the thwarts on his way for'ard.
suddenly there was a terrific shock. the boat seemed to jump a couple or three feet vertically, and then come to an abrupt stop with a jar that flung peter from the tiller, and pitched mahmed headlong until he was brought up by his head coming into contact with mrs. shallop's portly back. olive, taken unawares, was jerked in a for'ard direction, until she saved herself from violent contact with stroke-bench by grasping peter's arm. the pair subsided upon the gratings, narrowly missing what might have been a serious collision with the helpless preston.
mostyn regained his feet in double quick time, and made a grab at the tiller. the boat was aground, lifting to every wave that surged against her port-bow. that she was badly damaged there could be no doubt, since water was pouring in through a strained garboard.
steadying himself by the now useless tiller, peter peered anxiously into the darkness. except for the phosphorescence of the breaking water alongside, there was nothing distinguishable. sea and sky were blended into a uniform and impenetrable darkness.
everyone on board the boat, although fully aware of the immediate danger, maintained silence. the grinding of the boat's planking upon the sharp rocks, the howling of the wind, and the swish of the breaking waves were the only audible sounds.
it seemed to mostyn that, in his self-assumed position of skipper of the boat, he must do or say something. he did neither. he could form no sentence of encouragement; he was unable to take any action to further safeguard the lives and interests of his companions. he felt cool and collected, yet he had a suspicion that he "had the wind up". try as he would his benumbed brain would not answer to his efforts.
it was preston who broke the spell. lying half-submerged in water, the acting chief was taking things calmly in spite of his physical disability.
"sparks, old man," he exclaimed, "you look like losing your ticket. i do believe you've run us aground."
the silence was broken. peter laughed at his companion's quip.
"we were making for land," he replied, "and now we've jolly well found it. get out the rockets, mahmed."
mahmed had delivered mostyn's order to the lascars. already the sail had been hastily lowered. its folds served as a screen to break the force of the wind, nevertheless, it was a difficult matter to keep a match alight sufficiently long to ignite the touch-paper of the rocket.
"cheap and false economy, these things," thought peter, as he wasted three matches in a vain attempt to kindle the touch-paper. "why didn't the owners supply verey pistols to all the boats?"
at length the fuse began to sizzle. an anxious fifteen seconds ensued. more than once the minute sparks looked as though they had given out, only to reappear with a healthier glow.
then with a swish the rocket soared skywards, although with an erratic movement as it was caught and tossed about by the wind.
mostyn made no attempt to follow its course with his eyes. holding a hand to his brows he gazed in the direction in which he expected to see land.
a vivid glare overhead, as the rocket threw out a series of blue star-shells, revealed what he wanted to know. eighty or a hundred yards ahead was a line of cliff, fronted by a gently shelving stretch of sand. the boat had struck on the apex of a reef. she was neither on a lee nor a weather shore, but rather on the dividing line of each.
"good enough," shouted peter encouragingly. "light the lantern, mahmed."
the boy succeeded in getting the lamp alight. even its feeble glimmer put a different complexion upon things.
beckoning the lascars aft, mostyn sent one of them back again to bend the warp to the anchor and throw the latter overboard, in case the badly damaged boat should be washed off the reef.
this done, the question arose: how were the women and preston to be taken ashore?
"take mr. preston," said olive. "i can walk."
"easy enough if it's shoal water right up to the beach, miss baird," rejoined peter, "that we'll have to find out. i think i'll rope you together."
preparations for abandoning the boat having been completed, peter led the way, holding aloft the lantern. behind him came the two lascars, carrying the helpless acting chief. olive followed, helping mahmed to assist mrs. shallop, who was uttering unheeded complaints about everybody and everything. to guard against the possibility of any of the party being swept away by the undertow, the halliards had been unrove and were used as a life-line.
it was not an easy passage. the rocks were of coral and irregular in shape, with fairly deep fissures and sharp, jagged crags. over these ledges the breakers surged, throwing clouds of spray twenty feet or more into the air.
sounding with the boathook peter proceeded warily. at frequent intervals he was waist-deep in water. impeded by the drag of the life-line, half suffocated by the salt-laden spray, and constantly slipping on the kelp-covered rocks, he held on his way, wondering how the others fared, until he gained the dry sand.
the lascars had risen nobly to the occasion. their solicitude towards their disabled officer was so great that preston felt very little discomfort. uncomplainingly they had endured torments from the sharp rocks, that had cut their light footwear almost to ribbons.
olive baird had made light of her part of the business, although both she and mahmed had their work cut out to half drag, half carry the portly figure entrusted to their care. mrs. shallop seemed utterly indifferent to the danger and inconvenience of the passage ashore. her chief anxiety, expressed in peevish accents, was regarding the loss of her "valuable" diamond, which might either be in the boat or else washed through the gaping seams into the trackless waste of sand.
with feelings of thankfulness peter marshalled his flock under the lee of the cliffs. a hasty examination by means of the lantern resulted in the discovery that the beach was well above high-water mark, so that there was no necessity to undertake the hazardous task of scaling the cliffs in the darkness.
"where are we, do you think, peter?" asked olive. she had dropped the "mister" quite naturally, since mostyn had declared his intention of seeing her home.
"somewhere in madagascar," replied peter. "where, exactly, i have no idea. we'll probably find out from the first natives we come across."
"are they savages?"
"hardly. they used to be half civilized only a few years ago, i believe," replied peter. "thanks to the beneficent efforts of the french government, when madagascar became a dependency of france, they are now orderly and well conducted. excuse me, miss baird, but there are one or two things i have to see to."
calling to the two lascars, and bidding mahmed stay with the rest of the party, peter took the lantern and walked to the water's edge. the tide was fast receding, and most of the ledge was above the water.
satisfied on this score mostyn made his way back to the boat, the lascars following. apparently the stranding had occurred at the top of high water, and the wrecked craft was now perched upon a jagged ledge of coral. she had not altered her position, except for lying well over on her port bilge keel.
in a few minutes the boat was stripped of every piece of movable gear. twice the salvage party returned to the boat, until nothing was left but the bare hull.
work for the night was not yet over. by the aid of the masts, sails, and spars, four tents were rigged up under the lee of the cliffs, and a fire was made with the dry kelp and driftwood, augmented by a few detached planks from the boat. a double ration of biscuit and water was served all round, followed by cigarettes for the men and turkish delight for mrs. shallop and olive. the last commodity came entirely from the latter's share, since the naval officer's daughter had already eaten hers. yet without the faintest compunction, and looking upon olive's generosity as a right, the worthless woman had no hesitation in asking her former paid companion for more.
"i'll buy some at the first shop we see," she added, as if africa's largest island was a hot-bed of up-to-date confectionery stores.
to this the girl made no reply. in fact, she had hardly heeded the fatuous remark. gazing into the comforting glow of the fire, she was deep in thought as to what the future held in store for the handful of survivors from the s.s. west barbican.
