In Hazard by Richard Hughes Page B

them at the hatches, he would have so grappled himself to the hatch-coaming as to be in a few minutes as weak as a new lamb with fatigue; and the first jolt would have shaken him off. There was no use in that. Only a wise man knows when he is too much afraid to take a risk successfully; just as only a wise man knows when he is too drunk to drive a car. But Mr. Rabb had had enough experience of fear, one time and another, to be able to look at himself when afraid clear-headedly from outside. Obviously, now, the thing to do was to take no grave risks until he had got used to the situation, and his fear had melted away of itself—as it surely would do, in a short while.
    He therefore decided to make his way to the bridge. That was a proper place, after all, for an officer to be in an emergency.
    But perhaps he might stop for a rest somewhere, on the way.

Chapter IV
(Wednesday)
    It was shortly before seven when Mr. Buxton got back to the bridge, the boys being still unable to leave the poop. Perhaps it was the best place for them, at present.
    Mr. Foster was in there with them.
    Captain Edwardes had been on the bridge all day: now the Mate was there to relieve him, he felt it was time to see personally how things were getting on elsewhere. The barometer had fallen to 26.99. So low a reading had never before been recorded for certain at sea. The dynamics of such a depression were beyond computation. Precedents, book-knowledge, experience—they were no longer a guide. The air might now be expected to perform feats no living sailor had had to face before.
    Leaving the Mate in charge on deck, he made his way to the engine-room.
    It was dark, the engineers doing their work by flash-lamps. The broken skylight had been barricaded, but spray still swept through it. The machinery groaned, all its bearings lying at unaccustomed angles. Chinese greasers, themselves greased, slipped about among it like muddy fish. On a little iron platform beside the telegraph the captain found Mr. MacDonald, his wise old face and grey moustaches dripping with oil and water. He was bitter with complaints: his machinery was not designed to work at an angle like that, and the skylight should have been battened down while it was still possible.
    The second engineer, a red-haired Scotsman with a pasty white face, was on an everlasting round, reading steam-pressures and gauges of all kinds.
    The third—a perky, opinionated little chap with the fixed expression of a frog, and the fourth (Gaston) were by the chief. They agreed it was doubtful how much longer engines, and men, could work under those conditions. For God’s sake, couldn’t the Deck do something about it?
    â€œYou’re the only ones who can do anything about it,” said the captain. “Your first duty is to keep up main steam. Well, keep up main steam and don’t worry about the Deck. We must be near the centre now: in a few hours the worst will be over. That’s not long to hold out. If you keep up steam we’ll be all right—there’s no damage done. Keep the pumps going in No. 2 hold and No. 6: then she’ll right herself when the lull comes, and we can get her under control again and heave-to comfortable for the next blast. Fill No. 2 port ballast-tank—that’ll help to right her. You can’t steer and you can’t pump without steam—so keep up main steam, whatever happens. It’s not long now.”
    Well, the Deck knew. If the central lull might really be expected any minute, there was a chance of the engines holding out. Gaston, moving away to get the ballast-tank filled, was heartened. Nothing desperate had happened yet; and they were good engines. They had been working, in spite of the list, for over four hours without anything smashing. He peered into the stokehold: no trouble with the fires. The wind was not interfering with the funnel-draught seriously: at least, not more than the revolving fans, with their forced