The Loss of the Jane Vosper (4 page)

‘How much is there in her now?’

‘Getting on to two feet. I have the hand pumps going as well as the steam, and I’ve been trying to clear a way to drop some more emergency suction pipes, but we can’t get the darned stuff moved.’

‘What is it down there that you’re up against?’

‘Crates. Big crates weighing the Lord knows what, and all jammed together. We could scarcely get them out if they were empty. We’d want the hatch open and the derrick on to them.’

‘You can’t get that.’

‘Have a look, sir, for yourself.’

Hassell climbed down the sort of shaft which Arlow had succeeded in sinking against the face of the bulkhead. He had cleared about seven feet deep, and had come down to the crates he had spoken of. A glance showed Hassell that the mate had not exaggerated. Power would be required to shift those tightly packed crates.

‘We’ll try if the chief can’t get some more pumps on it,’ he said. ‘In the meantime can’t you get a beam across some of that cargo with a set of blocks that would lift the crates?’

‘I’m trying to do that, sir. Scholes and some men are getting a beam forward. But I doubt –’ He glanced quickly round. They were out of hearing of the men. ‘She’s pretty near her limit, James,’ he went on. ‘Another foot of water here, and I believe she’ll go.’ ‘You’ve a man at the well?’

‘Arkwright. He keeps on sounding and reporting.’

‘How quick is she making?’

‘Not very quickly. Couldn’t say exactly.’

‘Well, we’ve some time yet. Get your blocks on and try to get a sump down to the water and we’ll have some more hand pumps on. Don’t bother about the shoring in the meantime. I’ll go down again to Mac and see if he can help you.’

Hassell was almost in despair as he retraced his way from the hold and climbed once more down the engine-room ladders. It was beginning to look as if he were going to lose his ship. Momentarily he glanced back over his life. He had been in command for eighteen years. Eighteen years without a serious mishap, and now at the end of his career – to lose his ship! That it wouldn’t be his fault scarcely mattered. It would be ruin in his old age just the same as if he had deliberately sunk her. For a moment his thoughts grew bitter and he felt that he had spent his years for nought. Then he saw that at the present time he must not harbour such ideas. Resolutely he pulled himself together. He forced thoughts of himself from his mind and became once more the captain, whose job it was to encourage and protect his men.

Mactavish saw him as he emerged from between the boilers, and beckoned him once again into the corner between the bulkhead and the ship’s side.

‘See yon?’ he said again.

Hassell looked in the angle. The water was flowing down – much more strongly. The stream which had been as thick as a walking stick was now as thick as a man’s arm. Instead of flowing silently, it was now making a gurgling, loud enough to be heard against the murmur of the boilers, the scrape of a coal shovel, the noise of the pumps and engines, and all the creaks and groans of the hull, still pitching sluggishly in the swell.

‘You may give it up. Captain Hassell,’ Mactavish said shortly. ‘The bulkhead’s giving. We can’t do anything.’

‘The water’s gaining in No. 1 hold. I came to see whether you could get more pumps on it.’

‘I’ll soon not be able to keep the water under here.’

Hassell now wanted to abandon ship – desperately. He did not show it, but in his own private mind and heart he was afraid. Afraid not so much for his own skin, though even that was still precious to him. But afraid for his men. He couldn’t risk their lives too far.

But he had to be sure –
sure –
that nothing could really be done. A master must not give up his ship while there is a chance of saving it. But here there was no chance. Neither Arlow nor Mactavish would give up while there was hope. And both, independently, had done so. And he, Hassell, himself was no fool about ships. He knew their ways as well as anyone – none better. And he knew that it was a hopeless task. Both bulkheads were going. They might go at any minute.

For thirty seconds the captain stood in silence. Then with a quick sigh he turned again to the chief.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We’ll abandon. Get your fellows up.’

He turned, and not allowing himself to hurry, left the stokehold, and went forward once more to No. 1 hold. There he called Arlow.

‘I’m going to abandon,’ he repeated quietly. ‘Get the men up.’ Then again without haste he went up to the wireless room.

‘Get the
Barmore
again,’ he directed. ‘Send SOS and say that I am forced to abandon ship. Repeat the position and ask them to look out for us. Don’t be in a hurry. There’s time enough and we won’t go without you.’

As Hassell reached the bridge the men were already streaming up from below. He told Blair what was being done, and passed into the chart room and his cabin for the ship’s papers and the log and one or two private and cherished possessions. When he came out he moved to the rail of the bridge.

The fore part of the ship was markedly lower in the water, in fact the front portion of the well-deck was now continuously awash. He had been considering putting out some oil to ease the embarkation, but he saw that would be unnecessary. The wind had dropped completely, and the swells – also greatly down – were smooth and glassy. They should have no trouble.

He could see what was taking place on the deck behind him. Both lifeboats were being lowered. The men had donned lifebelts and were being counted. Everything was ready. He stepped over to the wireless room.

‘I’ve given the message and got it repeated, sir,’ Crabbe declared. ‘The
Barmore
expects to be here in between three and four hours.’

‘Good. Then get your belt and go.’

He turned back to the wheel-house. ‘Lash that wheel, Simmonds,’ he said to the helmsman, ‘and get away to the boats. Blair, get away.’

‘Aren’t you coming, sir?’ Blair asked.

‘Yes, I’m coming. Get a move on with those boats. She won’t last much longer.’

Blair and the helmsman ran down the ladder. The boats were lowered. First the port and then the starboard reached the water, the falls were unhooked, quickly, skilfully. The men began to climb down. In a couple of minutes the port boat had her complement and had pushed off from the swaying side. Then Hassell saw the starboard boat was also filled. With a last glance forward over the bows he had looked out over for so many years, Hassell walked, still slowly and with dignity, down the bridge ladder and climbed into the boat.

The
Jane
Vosper
was still forging slowly ahead, and the men, as soon as they had pulled far enough away from her to be safe from her suckage, turned with one consent and began rowing with her, determined to see the end. In silence they watched her, plunging a little deeper into each swell, recovering a little more slowly, the stern rising a little higher…Not a man but was heartily thankful to be out of her, and yet she was their home. All but a few of their possessions, such as they were, were aboard. In the case of the captain his hopes were aboard too.

For ten minutes they watched, then a cry broke out. She was going! At a distance of perhaps quarter of a mile they saw her stern slowly rise. It went up and up and up, with the screw racing, while her bow up to her bridge disappeared beneath the water. The stern hung poised – for hours, it seemed. Then very slowly it began to go down, more and more quickly, till at last it disappeared behind a smooth rolling swell.

Alone on the sea, the boats instinctively drew together.

In a private room in a suite of offices on the fourth floor of a large building in Mincing Lane three men sat talking.

The building was new. It was the last word in office design, with roomy landings and corridors, decorated with simple though slightly startling designs and lighted from unexpected places by glowing tubes. The floors were of rubber, coloured in the shapes conventionally assigned to lightning, though admittedly lightning in rather solid flashes. The four lifts had grilles of bronze, and fascinating little lights popped in and out as the cages rose and fell.

The fourth floor housed a firm whose plate read ‘The Land & Sea Insurance Co., Ltd.’ with below it the word ‘Enquiries’ and the representation of a hand pointing towards three o’clock.

The office in which the three men sat talking was at the end of the main corridor. It was the private room of the manager, Arnold Jeffrey, and he was discussing business with Wallace Crewe, his accountant, and Wilfred Leatherhead, his chief clerk.

For a private office, the room was large and ornate, providing ocular demonstration to the caller of the stability and prosperity of the company. It contained a large flat-topped desk, at which Mr Jeffrey was now seated, and two leather-covered armchairs, containing respectively his two assistants. All this furniture rested on a very thick, brightly coloured carpet, which also bore a table with glass top and curved steel legs, a file case, a wastepaper basket, and a nest of sectional bookcases, mostly containing books on law and insurance.

Jeffrey was a big man of about fifty, with a heavy jaw, thin, closely compressed lips, wide awake eyes, and a slightly unpleasant expression. He was an able manager, and if he was not greatly liked in a personal capacity he was respected as a sound businessman and an efficient chief.

Crewe and Leatherhead, except that one was tall and thin and the other small and stout, were alike in that they were typical heads of departments in a business of the kind. Both were good men – if they weren’t they wouldn’t have remained long under Jeffrey’s management, but neither was outstanding, and for the same reason.

They were discussing a message which had been received a short time previously from the Weaver Bannister Engineering Company Limited, of Watford, a firm with whom they had recently done business. That their information was serious was evident from the expression of all three. Indeed they looked as if they had just received the news of a disaster.

‘A hundred and five thousand, wasn’t it?’ Jeffrey was saying, and there was something approaching horror in his tones.

‘Yes,’ answered the chief clerk with equal emotion, glancing at a paper he held. ‘There were 350 sets and they were covered at £300 apiece: makes £105,000.’

For a moment there was silence, a brooding silence, and then Jeffrey spoke again with vicious emphasis. ‘
Damned
ill-luck its coming just now,’ he declared. ‘We were badly enough hit by that Chelsea fire, and to have to pay out another hundred thousand on the top of that, as well as having had a bad year generally, is something that won’t bear thinking about.’

‘It’s very unfortunate,’ Crewe answered somewhat inadequately, while Leatherhead murmured agreement.

‘I’ve rung up the chairman,’ went on Jeffrey. ‘I did it first thing when I got the message. He said he’d come across at once.’

‘He’ll be pretty badly hit,’ the accountant considered. ‘Last time he was speaking to me he wasn’t too happy about our position. This’ll about put the lid on it.’

‘Yes, he was talking to me, too,’ Leatherhead added. ‘He was worried about the dividend. Said there never had been such a year of losses since the company was formed.’

‘I don’t know how we’re going to meet another hundred thousand without something unpleasant happening, and that’s a fact,’ Jeffrey declared unhappily, and was going on to develop his theme when there was a knock at one of the two doors and a pretty girl looked in. ‘Mr Brangstrode’s here, Mr Jeffrey,’ she said.

‘Show him in,’ Jeffrey answered, while the other two got up from their chairs.

The young woman stood back and a tall man with aquiline features and greying hair entered the room. There was a suggestion of power in his strong chin and quiet though forceful movements. He was just sixty and looked ten years younger.

Rupert Brangstrode had been chairman of the Land and Sea for the past six years, though it was small beer to him, most of his energies having been put into larger corporations with which he was also connected. However, under the combined management of himself and Jeffrey, the Land and Sea had considerably increased its business. A prosperous business, too, it had been, at least up to the present year. Within recent months bad luck had seemed to dog it. There had been burglaries and accidents which had proved heavy losses, culminating in a fire in Chelsea in which valuable old pictures, insured with the company for the sum of £250,000, had been totally destroyed. The dividend prospects for the current period were therefore distinctly unpromising.

Brangstrode having nodded to the three men, laid his hat on the glass table and sat down in one of the armchairs.

‘What’s all this, Jeffrey?’ he asked in the words of a policeman investigating a street row.

‘More trouble, I’m afraid,’ the manager answered with a worried air. ‘About an hour ago I had a telephone from Bannister’s people of Watford, saying that they had heard that the steamer carrying their consignment of petrol sets to South America had been totally lost.’

The chairman moved impatiently. ‘So you said. I remember we accepted the policy, but except that they were large, I’ve forgotten the figures.’

‘Yes, sir, they were large,’ Jeffrey agreed gravely. ‘There were 350 sets and each was covered at £300. The total cover was £105,000.’

Brangstrode’s face fell. ‘£105,000! Good God!’ For a moment there was silence and then he went on: ‘Well, is it true, this report?’

‘Directly I received it I rang up the shipping company, the Southern Ocean Steam Navigation Company of Fenchurch Street, and asked them. They said it appeared to be true. They had had a cable via Madeira from the skipper of their steamer
Jane Vosper
, the ship in question, saying that there had been some unexplained explosions aboard, and that part of the ship was flooded. The message said that there was no immediate danger and that they hoped to make Funchal under their own steam. That, the Southern Ocean people said, was the only information they had received direct from the ship.

‘But later they had had a message from the British Latin States people in Gracechurch Street to say that the master of their ship, the
Barmore
,
homeward bound from Buenos Aires, reported that he had just received an SOS from the
Jane Vosper
,
which said that she was sinking rapidly and that they were abandoning ship. The master of the
Barmore
said the weather was good and that he expected to pick up the crew about midday, that is,’ Jeffrey glanced at the electric clock on the opposite wall, ‘just about an hour ago.’