CHAPTER IVInvestigations
The Scoutmasterwas perfectly correct in his surmise. Progress as far as the work on theKestrelwas concerned was virtually at a standstill for that day. There were limits to the Sea Scouts’ powers of endurance. The loss of a night’s rest following upon an exciting day was not to be made up by a few hours’ sleep during the forenoon.
There was little rest for Mr. Grant. After breakfast his first visit was to the police station to report the case of attempted arson. The inspector listened with ill-concealed incredulity until somewhat reluctantly the Scoutmaster mentioned the name of Carlo Bone.
“I wish to goodness you were certain that was the fellow!” exclaimed the inspector. “We’ve been wanting to lay him by the heels for months past, but we can never fix him. He’s as slippery as an eel. You say he assaulted one of your lads and got knocked down in the process. Knowing the man, I’ve no doubt but what he will try to score off you.”
“Possibly,” agreed Mr. Grant. “We felt so sure that he was the fellow that we kept watch on his cottage all night. He didn’t go into the place. There were indisputable signs to show that neither of the doors had been open for some hours. At daybreak, or just after, he emerged from the cottage and went off.”
“H’m!” ejaculated the inspector. “On the face of it, Carlo Bone could easily establish an alibi. I know the cottage. The windows are as heavily barred as a prison. Yet, knowing Bone as I do, it wouldn’t surprise me to—— By the by, have you missed any gear? No? Well, that’s rather unfortunate in a way. Had you done so, we would examine the cottage inside and out on the strength of a search warrant.”
“Do you think he has had an accomplice?” asked the Scoutmaster.
The inspector shook his head.
“I don’t think so,” he replied. “At least, not at Polkebo and district. He’s not popular with his neighbours, and they’d welcome the news that he’s doing a stretch. You are quite sure that it was petrol that was squirted over your yacht? Did you test the stuff?”
“If you mean did we set light to it to see if it would burn—no,” answered Mr. Grant. “Apart from that the indications were unmistakable.”
“I’ll send a constable down to keep an eye on things,” decided the inspector. “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble when he’s about.”
Mr. Grant thanked the police official and set off back to the boat. He was not at all easy in his mind. The situation in a nutshell was this: Some person or persons unknown had been guilty of a dastardly attempt to injure the lads under his care. Blueskin might be, and probably was, innocent of any knowledge of the matter. The miscreant might be a homicidal lunatic or a person harbouring an imaginary grudge against the crew of theKestrel.
The Scoutmaster was within fifty yards of Carlo Bone’s cottage when the toe of his boot kicked against a metallic object hidden in the long grass by the side of the path. He stopped and pulled aside the shoots. There, with one end overhanging a shallow dry ditch, was a garden syringe. The brasswork was dull, but not tarnished. The rim of the jet-nozzle was fairly bright, showing that at no distant date someone had had to use considerable force to remove it from the threaded end of the barrel.
Cautiously Mr. Grant removed the plunger and smelt the inside of the barrel. There were no fumes of petrol, but—significant fact—the leather washer, which usually is well saturated with oil, was bone dry. Had the syringe been used for squirting water the leather would have retained its dampness.
Mr. Grant’s next step was to go to the “Dog and Gun,” and ask for Silas Pescold, the landlord. Silas was a respected man in the little village, and one who would be likely to identify the syringe.
He did without hesitation.
“Sure, zur,” he exclaimed. “Yes, Dick Marner’s. Many’s the time I’ve borried et of him.”
“Marner? That’s the man who walks lame, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, zur; ’e broke ’is thigh come twenty year agone aboard the oldSarah. Sin’ then, seeing as ’e’s no good in the boats, ’e’s been doin’ odd gardenin’ jobs for the quality hereabouts. Like as not you’ll find him up-along. ’E lives in t’end cottage past the quay.”
The end cottage past the quay! It was in this direction that the miscreant had made off when Peter Craddock interrupted his operations.
Marner was at home. It was one of his bad days. The easterly wind generally affected his damaged hip.
“Is this your property?” asked Mr. Grant, holding up the syringe for inspection.
“Sure, ’tes, zur,” assented the old chap without hesitation. “If you’m wishful tu borrer ut you’m kindly welcome.”
“I haven’t come to borrow it, Mr. Marner,” rejoined Mr. Grant. “I’m here to return it to you. I found it up the lane. Silas Pescold told me it was yours.”
The old man puckered up his eye in astonishment.
“Found ’ut up-along, did ’e, zur?” he exclaimed. “That be tur’ble queer, seein’ as I locked ut in the shed las’ night.”
“At about what time?”
“Afore it wur dark, zur.”
“Evidently someone has broken into the shed,” remarked Mr. Grant. “Have you been there to-day? Perhaps it would be as well if you did. I’ll come with you, if I may?”
The old man led the way up a steeply sloping garden. In a corner formed by the junction of two hedges was a tumble-down structure composed of boats’ planking, weatherboards, corrugated iron, and tarred felt. The lock was in position, but it was one of those cheap varieties which could easily be picked by means of a piece of bent wire.
Marner threw open the door. Within were a number of gardening tools, a pile of old sacks, a motor bicycle, and two tins of petrol.
“That’s where I kept un,” declared Marner. “It be gone, as ye see, zur. Nothin’ else be touched as far as I can see.”
“Evidently someone borrowed it and lost it,” said the Scoutmaster. “That’s a nice motor bike: you don’t ride it, do you, Mr. Marner?”
The old man chuckled wheezily.
“Not wi’ this leg, zur. Yes, tes my boy Richard’s; same name as mine ’e be called. ’E wur a Scout same as your lads.”
“Well, I hope Master Richard isn’t mixed up in this business,” thought the Scoutmaster; then, aloud: “He’s not a Scout now, is he?”
Marner chuckled again.
“ ’E’s mate aboard th’ tawps’l schoonerHuterpo’ Fowey,” he announced proudly. “She’s gone foreign wi’ a cargo o’ clay. Where eggsackly I can’t remember like. Reckon she’s about due back come a week or so; an’ if so happen you’m still hereabouts ye might see ’im.”
Mr. Grant gave a sigh of relief. It was with no slight degree of satisfaction that he realised the impossibility of Dick Marner, ex-Scout and the apple of the father’s eye, being implicated in this unpleasant business.
The while he was conversing with the old man, Mr. Grant kept his eyes wide open. There was nothing of the nature of a clue as far as the shed was concerned. The floor was of hard trodden clay. No tell-tale footprints had left their mark. Both petrol cans, judging by the undisturbed dust on them, had not been touched since Richard Marner, junior, had shipped on board the topsail schoonerEuterpeof Fowey. But obviously the fellow who had broken into the shed knew his bearings. He was aware that there was a syringe; he wanted it, so he went to work to take it without disturbing anything else.
“Do you know of any of your neighbours who would borrow the syringe without asking you if they might?” enquired the Scoutmaster.
“No, zur,” replied Marner. “But why’m you so askifying? You’m questionin’ me same as if I wur a pickpocket at Bodmin Fair.”
It was a perfectly reasonable request. In the circumstances, Mr. Grant realised that it was only fair to old Marner to explain the facts that led up to his visit.
“An’ you’m come here thinkin’ as ’ow my son Dick had a-set fire to your boat?” demanded old Marner angrily.
Mr. Grant hastened to pour uninflammable oil upon troubled waters. In this he ultimately succeeded, and, taking leave of the old man, he returned to theKestrel. So far his investigation had drawn blank; but, he reflected, his task was to prevent a repetition of the dastardly attempt. The detection of the offender might well be left in the hands of the police.
CHAPTER VAdrift
Forthe next six or seven days the work of getting theKestrelready for sea proceeded apace. The final coat of paint had been applied and was now dry. Sails had been bent; running rigging overhauled and rove; extra ballast in the form of iron pigs had been stowed under the floor. Fresh water and provisions had been brought on board, and although there remained a considerable amount of “finishing off” work to be done, theKestrelwas in a fit and seaworthy condition to attempt her voyage up Channel.
No other disquieting incident had occurred during the period, while to add to the serenity of the situation definite information had been received that Blueskin Bone had shipped on board a tramp steamer at Falmouth and was now on his way to Rotterdam.
Meanwhile theKestrel’smascot had been making steady progress. After much deliberation the Sea Scouts had decided to bestow the name of Molly upon the little animal. She was no longer the terrified, half-drowned puppy that Peter had rescued from the dark waters of the creek. Her coat, carefully combed and brushed, had acquired a gloss; her ribs were no longer painfully in evidence. Already she realised that a human hand could be something else than a means of imparting pain, although it was some time before she ceased to cringe in fear of a possible unwarranted thrashing.
“I wish Molly would be a little bit livelier,” remarked Peter. “I’ve never seen such a sedate pup.”
“Don’t you worry, old son,” rejoined Brandon. “She’s all right. P’raps before long she’ll be too lively, even for you. How about a collar for her?”
“Later on,” decided Craddock. “If she had one now she’d grow out of it in a week or so. I’ll make one when we’re under way. As it is, we haven’t a minute to spare.”
That was a fact. Time was getting on, and there was still much to be done if theKestrelwere to sail in company with theMerlin.
At length the eve of the eventful day arrived. To-morrow at the hour of ten in the morning the voyage up Channel was timed to commence, that hour being fixed to enable both yachts to take advantage of the first of the east-going tide.
TheKestrel, glistening in her new coat of paint, looked very different from the half-completed craft the Sea Scouts had taken over only a short while ago. She was now a ketch-rigged yacht with a spacious cockpit and ample accommodation under her cabin-top. Her original sails had been altered to form a serviceable and yet moderate spread of canvas. The only thing wanting was a motor; but, as Craddock observed, “Drake hadn’t a motor when he sailed round the world; so we ought to manage to find our way up Channel without one.”
“All the same I wish we had an engine,” said Carline. “TheKestrelis a whopping lump of a craft to move in a dead calm.”
“We may get a motor some day,” added Mr. Grant. “When we’ve been shipmates with one the lack of an engine seems a serious matter. We must cut our coat according to our cloth, you know. Now, lads, the tide’s making well. We’re nearly afloat, so get busy.”
TheKestrelwas to be taken from Polkebo Creek that evening and sailed down to a berth off Greenbank at Falmouth, where theMerlinwas lying, in order that both craft might start together.
Almost everyone in Polkebo turned out to see theKestrelstart, for with one exception (and he, it was to be hoped, was far away) the inhabitants of the hamlet were on excellent terms with the Aberstour Sea Scouts. There was also much speculation on the part of the professional seafaring folk as to how the amateur-altered ex-Service launch, manned chiefly by lads in their teens, would be handled.
Although there was a steady leading wind the houses and trees blanketed most of it; so without difficulty canvas was set, sheets overrun, and all preparation made before the rising tide floated the yacht off.
“She’ll do it now, lads,” exclaimed Mr. Grant. “Head-sheet to wind’ard, then! Cast off for’ard!”
TheKestrelheld only by the stern-warp, swung slowly on her heel. She was afloat all right.
“Let go aft!” ordered the Scoutmaster. “Trim your fore and jib sheets.”
Almost imperceptibly theKestrel, steady as a rock, gathered way. The crowd ashore cheered. The Sea Scouts responded lustily. The gap between the yacht and the quay widened. The water began to ripple under the yacht’s forefoot. She heeled to the strengthening breeze.
“Take her, Brandon,” said Mr. Grant, relinquishing the tiller. “She’ll do.”
Against the still flowing tide theKestrelmade steady progress. She was “as stiff as a house,” and showed a decided tendency to carry weather-helm—a qualification that all craft under sail must possess if they are to be accounted seaworthy.
In less than half an hour theKestrelhove-to within fifty yards of theMerlin, on which Scoutmaster Pendennis and his crew of hefty Cornish Sea Scouts were awaiting their approach.
“Sorry there are no moorings for you!” hailed Mr. Pendennis. “Let go your anchor. Tide’s slackening. She’ll ride head to wind all right.”
The anchor was dropped, sails stowed, riding light trimmed ready to be hoisted at sunset. For the rest of the evening the crews “palled up,” some of theKestrel’sgoing aboard theMerlin, while a part of the latter’s complement came over to theKestrel.
At sunset the Sea Scouts returned to their respective craft, had supper, and turned in. Giving a final look round and satisfying himself that the riding-light was burning clearly, Mr. Grant followed the example of his crew.
“No need to turn out before seven,” he announced. “Get in a good night’s rest while you’ve the chance. You never know when you’ll get another when we’re under way.”
Peter Craddock was the first to awake. A pale grey light was filtering through the skylight. TheKestrelwas rolling slightly, and the dinghy had just commenced to bump alongside.
“Turn of the tide, I expect,” thought the lad drowsily. “It can’t be much more than five o’clock. Too soon to turn out.”
Casually he glanced at his watch; looked again and then held it to his ear. It was ticking merrily. The hands pointed to twenty minutes past seven. By that time it ought to be broad daylight. It wasn’t.
Somewhat mystified, Peter rolled out of his bunk and went on deck. To his surprise a thick fog enveloped everything. From the companion ladder it was only just possible to discern the lower part of the mizzen-mast looking grotesquely distorted in the watery haze. An uncanny silence prevailed. No sounds came from the near-by town. Then the distant wail of a syren came through the mist.
According to the state of the tide, theKestrelshould be riding to the last of the ebb. How came it then that the dinghy, instead of straining at her painter, was rubbing alongside the yacht’s quarter?
“Something wrong,” muttered Peter, and making his way for’ard along the damp and clammy waterway, he gained the bows. Then he felt the cable. The chain came up easily, and no wonder; for instead of there being ten fathoms of it, terminating in a seventy-pound anchor, only a dozen links or so were trailing uselessly through the hawse-pipe.
TheKestrelwas adrift in a thick sea fog, and at the mercy of the swirling tide.
CHAPTER VIIn the Fog
“Turnout, you fellows!” shouted Craddock. “All hands on deck! We’ve parted our cable, and there’s a heavy fog on.”
The rest of the crew tumbled out of their bunks and hammocks and hurried into their clothes. They accepted Peter’s statement without any hesitation, for it was one of the few hard-and-fast rules on board that on no account was a false alarm to be knowingly raised. Skylarking in its proper place was encouraged and harmless practical joking permitted; but each Sea Scout had been impressed with the seriousness of the harm that might occur by raising the nautical equivalent to the shout of “ ’Ware Wolf!” when there was not one.
In various stages of “undress uniform,” Scoutmaster and Sea Scouts gained the deck. The lads remained silent, waiting for Mr. Grant’s orders. He was frankly puzzled. TheKestrelhad been anchored surrounded by yachts and boats in the crowded anchorage of Greenbank. It seemed incredible that she should have drifted any distance without fouling some of the craft in the tideway.
Craddock had reported that the cable had parted. Mr. Grant hoped that such was not the case. He had known of anchors being dropped with one of the flukes caught in the bobstay and with only the bight of the chain resting on the bottom. He rather wished such was the case now.
“Get the fog-horn, Wilson,” he ordered. “Two blasts about every minute, please. And, Craddock, you might heave the lead. The others prepare to make sail.”
Groping his way for’ard, for the fog was so thick that even the still burning riding-lamp ten feet above the deck was invisible, Mr. Grant grasped the cable and hauled in the slack. One look was sufficient. The last of the remaining links had been deliberately cut through with a hack-saw. The rest of the chain, together with the anchor, was lying on the bed of Falmouth Harbour—miles away, probably.
It was no time for feelings of resentment and anger. The Scoutmaster came aft.
“What water have we?” he asked.
“No bottom, sir,” reported Peter.
Mr. Grant gave an involuntary gasp of astonishment. The lead-line, 25 fathoms, or 150 feet, in length, was insufficient to touch the bed of the sea.
“Bend another line to it,” he continued.
“I’m doing it already, sir,” announced Craddock.
“Good! . . . Now, how much?”
“Another four fathoms, sir,” reported the leadsman.
The Scoutmaster was on the point of going below, when Wilson stopped him.
“Why are we to give two blasts, sir?” he enquired. “Oughtn’t we to sound a bell or something like that? We’re supposed to be at anchor.”
Even in his worried state of mind, Mr. Grant did not hesitate to reply.
“It puzzled me what signal to make at first,” he answered. “Although we were anchored—that is to say, I thought we were—theKestrelhad obviously moved. In that case we are under way, and although we haven’t yet made sail, what wind there is is on our port beam. Consequently it is assumed that we are on the port tack; therefore, two blasts.”
“Where are we, sir?” asked Carline.
“That’s what I want to find out,” replied Mr. Grant. “I’m going below to look at the chart.”
Within the saloon the light was so dim that the lamp had to be lighted before it was possible to read the minute figures on the chart. Very soon the Scoutmaster’s worst fears were confirmed. Nowhere within Falmouth Harbour is a depth of twenty-nine fathoms to be obtained, even at the top of high-water springs. Obviously, then, theKestrelhad drifted with the tide right out of the harbour without colliding with any other craft and fortunately clearing the dangerous Black Rock that lies in the mouth of the harbour and approximately midway between the projecting arms of Pendennis and St. Anthony. According to the soundings, theKestrelwas somewhere on a line extending from the dreaded Manacles to the Dodman, and might be anywhere between those points, a distance of approximately fifteen sea-miles.
It was not an envious position for theKestrelto be in. There was no wind, but a very heavy fog. She might or might not be in the way of vessels making for or leaving Falmouth Harbour. If she drifted northwards she would sooner or later pile herself up upon the iron-bound coast. The same condition would apply if she drifted west’ard. Provided a breeze sprung up, the best course was to make for the open Channel, but even then there was a risk of being run down in the busy steamer track that passed a few miles to the south’ard of the Lizard. To attempt to grope their way back to Falmouth, starting from an absolutely unknown position, was out of the question.
Effectually concealing his anxiety, Mr. Grant returned on deck. By this time the Sea Scouts, under Patrol Leader Brandon’s direction, had set all plain sail. Fortunately Frank had remembered the invisible riding-light on the forestay.
In the flat calm, although there was a light swell on, the canvas hung idly. From the cockpit only a part of the mainsail as far as the upper line of reef-points and a small portion of the mizzen were visible. The rest was swallowed up in the fog.
“This is the worst fog we’ve struck,” remarked Craddock, as he coiled up the lead-line for another cast.
“It is,” agreed the Scoutmaster. “Luckily we’ve plenty of sea-room.”
“Plenty of sea-room, sir?” echoed Peter. “Where are we?”
“That, exactly, I don’t know,” confessed Mr. Grant frankly. “What I do know is that we’ve drifted right out of Falmouth Harbour and are in the English Channel. As a rule fogs don’t last very long at this time of year. When the sun is well up there’ll be a breeze and the mist will disperse. Meanwhile we must take things as we find them and be thankful they are no worse.”
“I wonder what theMerlinis doing,” remarked Brandon.
“Still on her moorings, I expect,” hazarded Heavitree. “They’ll think we’ve given them the slip.”
“If the fog’s anything like it is here they won’t know we’ve gone,” rejoined the Patrol Leader. “Unless they hail us,” he added as an afterthought. “Wonder why the cable parted? We tested it carefully when we stowed it aboard the first time.”
“This is the reason,” announced Mr. Grant, producing the cut link from his pocket. “Someone has been monkeying about with the chain. It has been deliberately cut through with a hack-saw. When and by whom remains a question.”
“Blueskin?” enquired Symington and Talbot simultaneously.
“Perhaps, but unlikely,” replied the Scoutmaster. “I’m basing my idea upon the assumption that Carlo Bone has had a sea training. Some miscreant, probably the fellow who squirted petrol over theKestrel, has an imaginary grievance against us. He’s been trying to destroy the yacht by the most underhanded methods imaginable. Failing to set her on fire, he cut through this link, knowing that it would still bear any ordinary strain, but not a heavy one. He was counting upon the cable parting while we were riding at anchor in some harbour during a stiff gale. Now, a seaman wouldn’t cut a link in that fashion—with the cut away from the yacht’s bows. He would saw through the other end of the link so that when it did part it would go with the outboard portion of the cable, and thus cover up all trace of his underhand work.”
“But it might have been Blueskin,” remarked Wilson.
“Yes, it might,” agreed Mr. Grant, “but having misjudged him once I don’t feel justified in laying the blame upon him. Not that we are likely to discover the culprit. Now I think we might see about a somewhat belated breakfast.”
While Talbot and Wilson, “the cooks of the day,” went below to prepare the meal, the others set about various tasks on deck. Craddock continued to heave the lead at about five minutes’ intervals, the soundings remaining fairly regular. Carline took over the manipulation of the fog-horn, standing by the now useless tiller in case a puff of wind should bear down through the barrier of fog.
Brandon and Heavitree assisted the Scoutmaster to bend the cable to the kedge. Fortunately there still remained between fifteen and twenty fathoms of the former, but in the absence of a long link there was no means of shackling it direct to the kedge—a small anchor of about twenty-five pounds in weight. Consequently the chain had to be made fast to the ring in the kedge by a “fisherman’s bend,” the end being stopped with wire to guard against any possibility of the knot slipping.
“Brekker nearly ready?” enquired Brandon, calling through the open skylight.
“It is,” replied Talbot, “but you won’t get any till you’ve cleared up below.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed the Patrol Leader, “I’d forgotten that! Come on, lads; let’s square up and make all ship-shape below.”
The saloon was in a bit of an untidy state. The Sea Scouts on their hurried exit for the deck had tumbled out of bunks and hammocks, leaving the former littered with blankets and the latter swaying to and fro from the deck-beams. The bedding was passed out, shaken, and folded; the hammocks unshipped and stowed in their accustomed places when not in use. Quickly the disordered saloon assumed a semblance of tidiness.
“Where’s Molly?” enquired Brandon.
No one knew. She had been last seen asleep in a box under Craddock’s bunk.
All hands below joined in the search. They called the pup by name, hunted high and low, but without success.
“S’pose she wasn’t in one of the blankets when we shook them overboard?” suggested Heavitree.
“Now you mention it, I think I did hear a sort of splash,” said Symington. “It was too thick to see.”
“Let’s hope not,” continued Heavitree. “She’s not big enough to climb the companion ladder.”
“What’s the matter, lads?” enquired Mr. Grant, entering the cabin and removing his dripping cap.
“We’ve lost Molly, sir,” announced Brandon dolefully.
The Scoutmaster sat down on one of the settees. As he did so a growl of protest came from the neighbourhood of his back. Turning, he raised one of the side-cushions. There, in a small recess formed between the two cushions, was the missing pup together with about nine-tenths of a shoe.
“Peter, old man!” sang out the Patrol Leader, “Molly’s been lost. We’ve found her making a meal of your shoe. Jolly careless of you to leave your gear all over the place.”
Craddock, from whom the news of his special pet’s disappearance had been hitherto kept, temporarily abandoned his sounding operations and came below.
“Naughty pup!” he said reprovingly.
Molly, no wise daunted, looked fearlessly up into her master’s face and struggled to give him a lick of devotion and affection.
“She wouldn’t be so brave a week ago,” remarked Brandon. “Don’t hit her, Peter.”
“No fear,” replied his chum. Then he critically examined the damaged footgear.
“Strikes me, old son, you’ve made a slight mistake,” he continued, addressing Brandon. “It’s not my shoe; it’s yours.”
The others roared at the Patrol Leader’s discomfiture, but Brandon took it in good part.
“That shows Molly’s sense of discrimination,” he retorted, taking the shoe from Peter’s hand. “It’s one of my second best. Where’s the other one, I wonder?”
He searched and discovered it in his kit-bag, together with one of his best shore-going pair. A further hunt failed to find the other. Molly, with her sense of discrimination, had taken two odd ones from the Patrol Leader’s kit-bag, and of these one had been thrown overboard by Symington when he had shaken out his blankets. To make matters worse the odd shoes were both lefts.
Breakfast was dispatched in grand style. The Sea Scouts were in high spirits. The fact that they were surrounded by fog hardly troubled them. They were afloat in one of the soundest craft imaginable for her size, and, what was more, they were bound for the Jamboree. If necessary they had sufficient provisions and fresh water for a week.
Nor was Mr. Grant perturbed. Now that he realised theKestrelhad plenty of sea-room, he had little to worry about. On a still day such as this, sounds could be heard for quite a long distance, and since the continual roar of the Channel swell against the iron-bound coast was inaudible he knew that any danger of the yacht being cast ashore by the strong and intricate currents of the district was a remote one.
Noon came, bringing with it no breeze to disperse the dense pall of mist. At times the fog lifted sufficiently to enable the bowsprit-end to be seen; at others it was a matter of difficulty to distinguish objects six feet away.
The while theKestrelwas underlying in the game of “chasing her own tail.” Absolutely drifting in a dead calm, she was powerless to answer to her helm. Her bows swung round very slowly through every point of the compass and continued to do so. Yet the while, judging by the drag of the lead-line when allowed to remain in the bottom, she was being swept in an easterly direction by the two-knot tide. Well away to the south’ard came an almost continual braying of many sirens. The steamer track was as yet a safe distance off.
By two in the afternoon the crew began to find time hang heavily on their hands. The reaction of having nothing definite to do following upon days of strenuous activity from morn to night was telling. They could see nothing beyond the limits of their floating home, and hardly that. There was plenty to be done by way of “finishing off” various jobs below, but the light was too dim to enable anything in that line to be attempted. They coiled down or “flemished” every rope on deck, spun yarns, tried to teach their overfed and decidedly sleepy mascot various tricks—all without success.
“Wish the fog would lift,” remarked Carline.
“And a breeze spring up,” added Heavitree, looking wistfully at the idle canvas.
The Scoutmaster, too, was puzzled, not only by the persistency of the fog, but by the absence of sound from any of the shore signal stations. In vain he kept listening for the fog signals from the Lizard. That dangerous headland might be only a few miles away and yet the sound be inaudible. Fog, he knew, plays strange tricks with sound. Frequently there are zones of silence over which sounds leap to be distinctly audible at a long distance beyond the source of emission. All he knew concerning theKestrel’sposition was that she was drifting slowly in a south-easterly direction, but that on the turn of the Channel tide—which by no means coincided with the time of high and low water on the shore—the yacht would be swept in the reverse direction and possibly be driven aground on the dangerous coast between the Lizard and the Manacles.
No wonder he wished fervently for the fog to lift.
The hours passed slowly. It was not until nearly eight o’clock that a faint breeze ruffled the water and the wall of vapour began to disperse.
“Hurrah! a breeze!” exclaimed Brandon, as the hitherto idly-playing main boom swung out and tugged gently at the mainsheet.
“What course, sir?” asked the Patrol Leader, as theKestrelgathered way.
“Sou’-sou’-east,” replied Mr. Grant. “It’ll mean a night afloat, lads.”
“Good egg!” ejaculated Heavitree.
The Scoutmaster wasn’t so sure about it. Possibly there would be half a gale of wind when the fog did disperse; and until it did theKestrelmust have plenty of sea-room. To attempt to make a strange harbour in a mist and with only a few remaining hours of daylight was asking for trouble.
The breeze held; but the mist, although diminishing in density, continued to hang about in irregular patches.
“Keep your eyes skinned, lads!” continued Mr. Grant. “We ought to be seeing land on our port quarter.”
“Sail ahead!” sang out Craddock.
CHAPTER VIIThe Derelict
“Downhelm!” ordered Brandon, in his capacity of officer of the starboard watch. “At that! Keep her so!”
TheKestrel, answering readily to a slight pressure on the tiller, changed her course to bring the other craft on her port bow.
“If we pass within hailing distance they might be able to give us our position,” remarked the Patrol Leader.
Quickly the stranger loomed up in the dispersing mist, for by this time visibility extended to nearly a quarter of a mile. She turned out to be a schooner. Her topsails were furled, but her fore and aft canvas was set, the head-sails being to wind’ard. Under these conditions she was “hove-to” with a decided list to port.
As a precautionary measure theKestrelannounced her approach by three blasts of her fog-horn, for the wind was well abaft the beam. No reply came from the schooner.
“Careless look-out, what?” observed Peter.
“I fancy there’s something amiss,” replied Brandon. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone on board. What shall we do, sir?”
Mr. Grant, thus appealed to, shook his head.
“You’re standing your trick, Brandon,” he replied. “Officially I’m not on duty. Use your own discretion.”
The Patrol Leader warmed at the implied compliment. He knew the Scoutmaster’s views. As far as prudence dictated, Mr. Grant left the seamanship entirely to his youthful crew. It was the best way to enable them to gain confidence in themselves. He was merely a sort of referee, ready to assist by advice and deed should the Sea Scouts commit any serious error. Not that they often did. He had great confidence in the skill and resourcefulness of his crew.
“Stand by to go about!” ordered Brandon. “We’ll run under her lee and see if anything is wrong with her.”
Full and bye, theKestrelpassed a full hundred yards to lee’ard of the schooner, and then the mystery was in part solved. The vessel had been in collision. Most of her counter had been carried away, the damage extending almost, if not quite, to the water line. She was well down by the stern—possibly not far short of foundering. There was no sign of a boat. Apparently the crew had abandoned her and had either made for the shore or else had been picked up by the craft that had run the schooner down. Owing to the severe damage to the stern, her name and port of registry were not to be seen, but by the yellow letters on her bow the derelict proclaimed herself to be theEuterpe.
“That name seems familiar,” thought Mr. Grant. “Where have I heard that? I remember. Old Richard Marner told me his son was on her—Huterp, he pronounced the name.”
“Lee-o!” ordered Brandon. “Head sheets to wind’ard! Gather in your mainsheet roundly!”
TheKestrelwent about slowly yet unhesitatingly and hove-to on the starboard tack within fifty yards of theEuterpe’sstarboard quarter.
“I’ll send the dinghy off to her, sir,” said the Patrol Leader. “There might be someone on board.”
“Do so,” agreed Mr. Grant. “I’ll take charge of the dinghy. We must be very careful how we go alongside. She won’t last very much longer, I fancy.”
The boat was hauled up alongside theKestrel. Into her jumped the Scoutmaster and Craddock and Heavitree.
A few strokes brought the dinghy to the abandoned schooner. She was so low aft that it was quite an easy matter to board her by the main chains. The Scoutmaster did so, bidding the two lads hang on, but to be ready to push off should the vessel show a tendency to hasten her departure to Davy Jones’ locker.
Almost as soon as he gained the deck, Mr. Grant caught sight of a black cat sitting close to the companion leading to the cabin.
“There’s a cat aboard, lads!” he announced, going to the rail and addressing the crew of the dinghy. “I’ll hand it down to you.”
“At this rate we’ll have a regular menagerie on theKestrelbefore we reach Chichester Harbour,” remarked Peter to his companion. “Hope the animal will make friends with Molly.”
The Scoutmaster walked slowly towards the cat, calling “Puss, puss!” in a coaxing tone. The animal, however, showed no enthusiasm at the prospect of being rescued. In fact, it evinced a decided reluctance to do so; and, waiting until Mr. Grant was within a couple of yards or so, it turned and bolted down the ladder.
Mr. Grant followed. It was a risky business going below, with the schooner in danger of making a sudden plunge.
At the foot of the companion ladder was a small lobby with two doors. The starboard door was shut; the other one ajar. Obviously the cat had taken refuge in the cabin on the port side.
Before pursuing the animal, the Scoutmaster opened the door of the starboard or captain’s cabin. Everything was in order. The skipper must have been on deck when the collision occurred and had not waited to save his personal belongings before taking to the boat.
Closing the door, Mr. Grant stepped into the other cabin. At the after end pale daylight showed through the jagged gap in the counter. Water gurgled sullenly under the floor, a portion of which had been violently up-heaved by the compact, causing the swing table to be capsized together with a quantity of splintered woodwork.
“Puss! puss!” he called again. “Bother the animal! Where’s it got to?”
Suddenly the Scoutmaster caught sight of a man’s legs protruding from the pile of debris. The occupant of the cabin had been caught and pinned down—crushed more than likely—by the sudden and unexpected blow of the colliding vessel’s bows.
A few minutes’ desperate work enabled Mr. Grant to remove most of the tightly wedged woodwork and disentangle the motionless form of the luckless man. Then, without waiting to see whether he were alive or dead, the Scoutmaster dragged him out of the cabin, up the steep and narrow ladder, and across the deck.
“Stand by, Peter!” he exclaimed breathlessly, and passing a bowline round the unconscious form, he unceremoniously lowered him into the dinghy.
“I’ll have a look into the forepeak in case there’s anyone else!” he announced.
“Where’s the cat, sir?” shouted Craddock, after the retreating form of his Scoutmaster.
The question was answered by the animal itself. Springing on the bulwarks, the cat leapt fearlessly into the boat and proceeded to curl itself upon the chest of the motionless figure in the stern-sheets.
Presently Mr. Grant returned.
“No one else is aboard,” he reported. “Hello! You’ve got the cat, I see!”
Cautiously he lowered himself into the dinghy and crouched in the bows. There was no room aft.
“Push off, and give way, lads!” he exclaimed.
By this time theKestrelhad forged ahead and had increased her distance to about a cable’s length. The dinghy had not covered more than two-thirds of the distance when the strickenEuterpedisappeared beneath the surface.
She went with very little fuss. There was a slight explosion of compressed air, followed by a swirling movement of the water. There appeared to be very little suction and hardly any commotion in the form of breaking waves; but—and Mr. Grant gave an inward prayer of thanks—the schooner had heeled to starboard as she disappeared. Had the dinghy been close alongside she would have been crushed by the vessel’s mainmast or else entangled in the still set canvas as the schooner capsized.
The rowers rested on their oars and watched the vessel’s disappearance with awestruck faces.
“That was a close shave for us,” said Heavitree, breaking the silence.
“It was,” agreed Mr. Grant. “Give way; another dozen strokes will do the trick.”
The dinghy ranged up alongside theKestrel. Craddock and Heavitree held on while the Scoutmaster handed the heavy burden of the motionless man to the ready arms of Brandon and his companions.
The dinghy was made fast by the painter, but theKestrelwas still kept hove-to while the crew attended to the rescued man.
“He’s still alive,” declared Mr. Grant. “That’s what stunned him.”
He pointed to a nasty gash in the man’s temple from which the blood was flowing slowly. In fact, it had almost ceased to do so, indicating that the injury had been done at least two hours ago. In addition, his right foot was badly nipped, with a superficial but nasty graze extending the whole length of the shin-bone.
“No fracture,” pronounced Mr. Grant after a careful examination of the limbs. “First aid dressings, please, Brandon. We’ll leave him in the cockpit till he recovers consciousness, but keep his body and limbs warm with blankets. He’d better have my bunk to-night.”
“Why, your hand’s bleeding, sir,” exclaimed Carline.
The Scoutmaster glanced at his right hand. There was a small scratch extending from the base of the middle finger almost to the centre of the palm.
“Nothing much,” he remarked. “I expect I caught the business end of a piece of splintered wood. I didn’t even feel it. . . . Get way on her, Peter! Same course, please; we can’t do better than that.”
Presently, judging by sounds emanating from the saloon, Molly and the cat were “having a few words.” The pup was barking shrilly, while the other animal, with arched back, was replying in no uncertain voice.
“Let them alone, and they’ll make friends,” remarked Peter to Talbot, who had expressed his intention of going below and separating the “menagerie.” “The more you jolly well interfere the worse they’ll be—sort of showing off.”
“I wonder if the sea superstition will hold good in our case,” asked Carline. “They say a black cat on board a ship always brings a gale of wind.”
Craddock glanced astern. Twilight was stealing over the misty sea. Through the gathering gloom came a dismal whine—the sound that often heralds the approach of a squall.
“We haven’t long to wait for it, lads!” he exclaimed, making a spring for the cleated mainsheet. “It’s here now!”