CHAPTER VI

Man Overboard

"Party, fall in! Sergeant, march the men aft report to the Second Mate for boat drill. Until you are dismissed you will take your orders from him."

Sergeant Carr saluted, and then devoted his attention to the squad fallen in on the upper deck. They were a set of stalwarts, but without exception were up-country farmers and sheep-shearers before they left New Zealand for the still distant Front. Until they joined the S.S. _Awarua_ at Wellington, very few of them had ever seen a ship's boat.

Transport 99 was forging ahead at a modest 10 or 11 knots. The 21-knot cruiser, although steaming under natural draught, was cutting rings round her charge, as if reproaching her for her tardiness. The wind was abeam and fairly fresh, making the old _Awarua_ roll heavily.

Aft on the port side of the poop stood the Second Mate, a short, bull-necked, burly man, whose attitude, suggested a bored interest in the work in hand. He had the old salt's pitying contempt for "flat-footed landlubbers". Very many times since the outbreak of war had he been called upon to instruct troops in boat drill, and never had he seen any practical result of his labours. The monotony of imparting boat knowledge into the heads of men who possessed not the slightest inclination towards things nautical irritated him. Forgetting that his instruction classes were composed of men who were not seamen, he was apt to give orders without explaining the precise nature of the various terms he employed, and failure on the part of his audience to follow his deep-sea phrases reduced him to a state of profanity.

The boat selected for the drill was a "double-ender" life-boat hanging in the old-fashioned style of davits. The davits were swung inboard, the boat resting on "chocks" or hinged pieces of wood shaped to fit the lower strakes of the boat.

"Now then," began the Second Officer. "In the event of this craft being torpedoed, you men will form the crew of this boat. At a prolonged blast on the syren all hands will come to attention and await orders. At the bugle-call you will throw off coats and boots, put on life-belts--suppose you know by this time _how_ to put 'em on?--and fall in by numbers, facing outboard. We'll take the life-belts for granted."

The men received this part of the instruction without emotion. They had heard it many times before.

"You are bow, and you are stroke," continued the Second Mate, addressing two of the men.

"Stroke the bow-wow, Tommy," whispered a wag in an audible aside. "Now we are getting on. We'll finish up with a bloomin' menagerie."

"Silence, there!" snapped the instructor. "Bow and stroke will jump into the boat, see that the plug is inserted, and hook the falls--four hands to man each of the falls. You," addressing the would-be humorist, "will attend to the gripes----"

"Should have thought that was a job for the doctor," remarked the man _sotto voce_, at which several of the men within hearing began to laugh.

"This is no laughing matter, you pack of jackanapes," bawled the now infuriated ship's officer. "You'd feel a bit sick if you found yourselves in the ditch through not knowing how to lower away. Now, then, together."

Out swung the davits, the task rendered difficult by the roll of the ship, until the boat was ready for lowering.

The Second Mate looked at the surging water, and considered the erratic rolling motion of the lofty hull. To lower away with a practised crew manning the falls would entail a certain amount of risk should the boat surge against the ship's side; with a crowd of raw amateurs the danger was magnified threefold.

"Good enough!" he ordered. "We'll suppose the lowering and hoisting part is done. I'll put you through that another day when there's less sea. Now, stand by."

A shrill rasping of chain and an involuntary cry of mingled surprise and apprehension from the two in the boat interrupted the Second Officer's explanation. Accidentally the "stroke" had released the after disengaging-gear. The next instant the boat was hanging vertically, held only by the for'ard tackle.

The bowman, making a frantic grab at the upper block of the davit, hung on like grim death until his feet found a hold on the edge of the foremost thwart. The boat, swinging like a gigantic pendulum, was doing her best to stave in her quarter against the ship's side.

The "stroke" was not so fortunate. With the release of the gear the lower block dealt him a numbing blow on the shoulder. Unable to grasp any object that might afford security, he fell with considerable force into the sea.

"Man overboard!" shouted the Second Officer, and picking up a life-belt he hurled it close to the spot where the luckless fellow had disappeared. Almost at the same time the sentry let fall the patent life-buoy.

For some minutes the rest of the squad were too taken aback by the suddenness of the catastrophe to grasp the situation. The bowman, more scared than hurt, although considerably shaken, clambered out of the boat and gained the deck.

"Good heavens," ejaculated Malcolm, "the man overboard can't swim a stroke!" Heedless of the fact that of all the party he was the only one who had not removed his boots, Malcolm ran aft. With a bound he cleared the rail and dived overboard.

Fortunately for him, the _Awarua_ was moving at a comparatively low speed. As it was, in spite of the momentum of his leap, he struck the water obliquely, and with a thud that temporarily winded him.

Coming to the surface, he took in a deep breath of salt-laden air, rubbed the water from his eyes, and looked for the missing man.

On the crest of a roller he espied the rifleman's head and shoulders and outstretched arms. In the interval that had elapsed between the accident and Malcolm's dive the ship had travelled a good hundred yards. Midway between the would-be rescuer and the object of his attentions floated the life-buoy, its position clearly indicated by a cloud of calcium smoke. He could see no sign of the life-belt.

Using a powerful trudgeon stroke, Malcolm started and swam towards the spot where he had caught a momentary glimpse of the man. In less than two dozen strokes he found that his saturated sleeves hampered his arms. His boots, too, were acting as a drag, yet there was no time to tread water and kick them off.

On the crest of the third roller Malcolm again caught sight of the man. He had ceased to struggle and was floating without any apparent motion, his head and shoulders clear of the water.

Changing to breast stroke, Carr slid down the slope of the long roller. Then, as he rose on the succeeding crest, he found that he was within ten yards of the man.

"Hang it all!" thought Malcolm as he approached. "I might have saved myself a job. He's better off than I am. The bounder's wearing a life-saving waistcoat."

"Hallo, Sergeant!" gurgled the rifleman. "Did that rotten boat sling you out too? When are they going to pick us up? The water's none too warm. I'm feeling nipped already."

"Oh, it's you, Macready!" exclaimed Malcolm, recognizing a Canterbury farmer, a fellow of magnificent physique. "When are they going to pick us up, you ask? Can't say. I rather fancy they'll have to reverse engines and stop before they lower a boat. That will take some time."

He waited until he found himself on the crest of a long roller, and then looked in the direction of the _Awarua_. The transport was now nearly two miles away. Whether she had slowed down or was still steaming ahead he could not determine. As far as he could see there were no signs of a boat being lowered.

Macready was certainly right about the low temperature of the sea. Already Carr felt the numbing effect of the water. His fingers as he fumbled with the laces of his boots were practically devoid of feeling.

"I have one of those air waistcoats," explained the man. "It's only partly filled. Much as I could manage to do, that. I guess there's a tidy drop of water got in while I was blowing. If we can get more wind into the thing it'll support two; at least I hope so. The fellow at the stores said it would."

"Don't trouble on my account," said Malcolm. "I'll swim to the life-buoy and bring it back."

The patent life-saving device was still emitting dense clouds of calcium smoke. Provided the expected rescuing-boat made for that there was a good chance of Malcolm and the rifleman being picked up, unless in the meanwhile they were overcome by the acute coldness of the water.

"Any signs of a boat, Sergeant?" asked the man, as Malcolm, evidently exhausted by his exertions, pushed the life-buoy before him to within arm's length of his companion in peril.

Malcolm was reluctantly obliged to admit that the probability of rescue from that direction was of a diminishing nature. The _Awarua_ was still holding on her course.

"Suppose they think that as we were a pair of fools to be slung overboard we aren't worth picking up," continued Macready.

Malcolm did not reply. He did not attempt to enlighten the man as to the reason why there were two "in the ditch" instead of one. He was also at a loss to explain the apparent callousness of the responsible officer of Transport 99 in not promptly lowering a boat and effecting a speedy rescue.

The two men were too intent upon the disappearing _Awarua_ to notice the approach of the escorting cruiser. The latter was circling round the transport, and was on the point of turning at a distance of a mile astern, when the alert officer of the watch noticed the accident to the boat.

Bringing his telescope to bear upon the _Awarua_, he could see quite clearly the life-boat hanging by the bow tackle only. As he looked he was a distant witness of Sergeant Carr's leap into the sea.

Instinctively he grasped the situation and took prompt measures. At his orders a signalman on the fore bridge set the arms of the semaphore at "Attention". When the transport acknowledged the preparatory signal the semaphore began to spell out its message:

"Carry on; we'll pick up your man."

"Away sea-boat's crew," was the next order, and quickly the falls were manned, and the boat, containing her full complement, lowered until the keel was within a few feet of the water. Meanwhile the cruiser's engines had been reversed until her speed diminished five knots.

"Lower away!" was the next order.

With a resounding "smack" the boat "landed" on the crest of a wave. Dexterously the patent releasing-gear was operated, and, carried onward with the momentum imparted by the still-moving cruiser, the sea-boat shot away from the side of her parent.

The order, "Give way, lads, for all you're worth!" given by the midshipman in charge, was somewhat unnecessary. At the prospect of saving life every man was pulling his hardest. The sharp bows of the boat literally cleft the water.

"Way 'nough. In bow," ordered the midshipman, a youth of sixteen or seventeen with the assurance of a successful barrister.

As neatly as if he were bringing a picket-boat alongside the flagship under the super-critical eye of the admiral, the midshipman steered the boat close to the wellnigh exhausted men. Ready hands lifted Malcolm and Macready into the stern-sheets, and within seven minutes of the first order for the sea-boat to be manned, the two New Zealanders were standing upon the quarter-deck of H.M.S. _Gosport_.