CHAPTER XIIIThe Stowaway
Fora few moments, Peter Craddock could hardly believe his sense of hearing. Wilson and Symington were also too astonished for words. They could only abandon their efforts to teach the pup tricks and gaze blankly at Craddock’s face. The first conclusion they arrived at was that Peter was indulging in a little ventriloquism at their expense.
Craddock, too, tried to “fix” the owner of the voice. With the exception of Heavitree the others were on deck. Carline was for’ard, lying in luxurious ease and basking in the sunshine on the fore-deck. Brandon was still aloft; Talbot at the helm; Symington and Wilson in the cockpit.
“Kindly open the door!” exclaimed the voice again. This time there was a violent rapping on the panel of one of the side lockers in the cockpit.
The locker was a fairly spacious one, extending from the after bulkhead of the cabin on the starboard side to the bulkhead supporting the decked-in part of the stern. Usually it contained spare sails, canvas awnings, and warps not likely to be frequently required. It was secured by means of a detachable panel held in place by two projecting battens at one end and a stout wooden button at the other.
“Brandon!” sang out Peter.
“Coming,” replied the Patrol Leader. “What’s wrong?”
Swinging himself down by the throat halliards, Brandon gained the deck and came aft.
“Someone’s in there,” declared Craddock.
“Then hike him out,” rejoined Brandon in matter-of-fact tones. “This isn’t the First of April, me lad!”
“I quite agree,” boomed the voice from the locker.
Brandon gave a start, but quickly recovering himself, threw open the panel. Lying full length on the assortment of canvas gear and blinking in the strong sunlight was a boy of about twelve or fourteen.
“Come out!” ordered Brandon sternly.
“Precisely what I’ve been wanting to do for the last five minutes,” replied the youth, with astonishing coolness. “Just wait until I have collected my scanty belongings and your request will be complied with.”
“Well, I never——” ejaculated the Patrol Leader.
“Don’t distress yourself,” continued the boy. “Wait until I am in a position to offer an explanation. My limbs, I find, are somewhat cramped.”
With the utmost deliberation the stowaway emerged and stood upright in the cockpit with the Sea Scouts still too astonished to say much, hemming him in on three sides.
He was a pale-faced, sharp-featured lad of medium height and sparely built. The most noticeable feature about him was a high and prominent forehead. He was dressed in a tightly fitting suit of grey tweed and an Eton collar, his thin, bony wrists projecting quite three inches beyond his coat sleeves. Under one arm he held a schoolboy’s satchel, from which protruded a glass-stoppered bottle.
“You hid yourself on board?” began Brandon.
“Your surmise is a perfectly correct one,” agreed this remarkable youth, with a grave smile. “In the circumstances I had no option. Had I asked to be allowed to accompany you, my request would have been refused. As it is, I’m here.”
“A stowaway!” exclaimed the Patrol Leader. “You deserve a booting.”
The boy made a deprecatory movement with his hand.
“Believe me, it isn’t done,” he rejoined. “Personal violence to stowaways is, I take it, an obsolete practice that has shared the same fate as walking the plank and keel-hauling. At least, I hope I am not misinformed. . . . I say, what a jolly little pup!”
“Never mind the pup,” protested Brandon. “Tell me what you are doing on board.”
“Enjoying—or expecting to enjoy—a free journey to Chichester. The chances are I shall. You can’t very well go back to Dartmouth; you can’t put me overboard. So it seems as if I remain here a while, and I’ve brought my provisions!”
“I’ll see what Mr. Grant has to say,” decided Brandon, who had never before come in contact with such a self-possessed and precocious youngster.
“One minute,” interrupted Peter, drawing his chum aside. “Come for’ard.”
Craddock and Brandon made their way to the fore-deck, where Carline was slumbering in ignorance of what had occurred.
“Mr. Grant fainted just now,” reported Peter. “Heavitree’s with him. I fancy it’s his hand that made him go off. It’s a case of blood-poisoning, I’m afraid. I was boiling some water to make a poultice when this happened. I vote we say nothing to Mr. Grant until he’s had a good rest, but I leave it to you. You’re skipper.”
“Right-o!” agreed Brandon. “Where is he? In his cabin?”
“No, on one of the settees in the saloon.”
“Then carry on, old son. I’ll tell the others to keep clear a bit and not to disturb him. You can manage all right?”
Peter went below. He found that the Scoutmaster was nearly asleep and that the water was boiling. It seemed an unpleasant duty to have to rouse the patient, but it had to be done.
The poultice was made and applied. It was a very hot one, and Mr. Grant winced; but in a few minutes the warmth began to act soothingly upon the fiercely throbbing finger.
“That’s ever so much better, Peter,” remarked Mr. Grant gratefully.
“Good business, sir,” rejoined the Sea Scout. “Now, try and go to sleep.”
“Not much doubt about that,” said the patient. “I’ll try a couple of hours’ sleep. Tell Brandon to inform me when Portland Bill is in sight. It ought to show up one point on our port bow.”
“Very good, sir.”
As he was leaving the cabin, Peter signed to Heavitree.
“I’ll send Wilson down to relieve you,” he said. “There’ll have to be someone in the saloon in case Mr. Grant wants anything. Give an eye to the kettle before you come on deck, and bring some grub with you. We’ll have dinner on deck, then we won’t disturb him.”
Peter found the stowaway still hemmed in by the justifiably inquisitive Sea Scouts. The boy had dropped much of his stiffness of manner and seemed more at ease, although he retained his quaint method of speech. Possibly he had been nervous and had concealed his anxiety under a mask of forced self-assurance. Now, finding that the youthful crew of theKestrelwere not in any way antagonistic, he was becoming quite communicative.
His name, he told them, was Eric Little. He made the statement somewhat doubtfully, fearing, perhaps, that his audience would “pull his leg” over that once well-known book: “Eric, or Little by Little.” He had had quite enough of that already. Fortunately his fears in that respect were ill-founded, for the work in question had mercifully not been brought to the notice of the Aberstour Sea Scouts.
Eric’s parents were dead. He had been “brought up” by his grandparents who lived on the outskirts of Dartmouth. Apparently they had weird and misguided notions as to how their grandchild should be brought up. They had a strange antipathy to schoolmasters. They absolutely declined to let Eric go to school or to associate with other children. His education, if such it could be called, was imparted by a half-baked governess of uncertain age and of a frigid and ultra-prim manner. The natural result was that Eric, invariably in the company of grown-ups, had developed the pedantic manner of speech that had so greatly astonished Brandon and his companions. He was well versed in several serious subjects, but his knowledge of the ways of boys of his own age was lamentably weak. In spite of himself, he was fast developing into a little prig, and if compelled to run in the same rut he would be an object of derision and scorn when the time came for him to go out into the world.
Luckily for him, although he did not know it, his uninvited presence on board theKestrelwas to be the making of him.
He had no idea of running away from his overkind and misguided grandparents. He merely wanted a change. Somewhere in the neighbourhood of Chichester he had an aunt and uncle. He had never seen them, and beyond receiving presents from them at Christmas and on his birthday he was hardly aware of their existence. Yet he felt a vague longing to visit them, and although he had hinted of his wish in that direction, his grandparents had for some unexplained reason declined to allow him to do so.
Eric had exercised considerable intelligence in making a bid for a free journey to Chichester. Quite by chance he had been standing under the Butterwalk when Craddock and Talbot were talking with some members of a Dartmouth troop of Scouts. He gathered that the two former were going to Chichester Harbour in a yacht for the Jamboree. What the word “Jamboree” meant he knew not. It sounded like something jolly. At any rate, opportunity was knocking at the door of his warped little mind, and there and then he made up his mind to stow himself away on board theKestrel.
Acting upon his grandfather’s oft-repeated precept that “There is no time like the present,” Eric got busy. He had a few shillings with him. This he invested in a supply of food and a couple of bottles of ginger-beer. He knew that all the crew of theKestrelwere ashore; Craddock had mentioned that there were eight including a Scoutmaster, and eight had certainly landed at the steps close to the boat pond. For the sum of one shilling a weedy youth minding a yacht’s dinghy agreed to row him off to theKestrel, and there he hid himself in the locker, hoping that the yacht would put to sea that evening—which she did not.
“What did you do with yourself all night?” asked Brandon.
“Oh, when you were all asleep I emerged from my place of concealment for fresh air and in order to stretch my cramped limbs,” explained the stowaway. “Once that pup of yours growled, but I don’t think it was on my account. That was when a certain person swam off to the yacht from the large ship at anchor.”
“Someone swam off!” exclaimed Craddock. “What did he do? Why didn’t you raise the alarm?”
Eric turned reproachful eyes upon his questioner.
“My dear sir,” he replied. “It couldn’t be done! It couldn’t really. Consider my position. I really had no right to be on board. Neither, presumably, had the swimmer to climb up over the side. After all’s said and done, it wasn’t my affair, was it?”
“That was the chap who lashed the bucket to the rudder,” declared the Patrol Leader. “What sort of fellow was he?”
“I gathered that he did so from subsequent happenings,” rejoined Eric. “Regarding your question, I’m sorry to inform you that I had no opportunity of studying his features. Nocturnal conditions and a natural desire to efface myself combined to keep me in ignorance of the man’s appearance. But here I am,” he added briskly, “willing to acquire as much nautical knowledge as my mental appetite will digest. Which, by the by, is the main brace?”
He cocked his eye aloft at the expanse of tautened canvas, and then looked at Brandon enquiringly.
“No use, my lad,” replied the Patrol Leader. “You won’t find a brace aboard this craft. Sea Scouts favour belts, you know. Now, lads! Dinner! We’re behind time.”
The meal was duly relished and dispatched, the stowaway receiving a share as a matter of course. “Washing-up,” a distasteful yet necessary operation, was completed, the plates and other utensils being temporarily stowed in one of the cockpit lockers in order that Mr. Grant would not be disturbed had the gear been returned to its usual place.
By this time the wind had fallen light and was almost dead aft. Land was still visible; only an expanse of smooth sea rippled by erratic catspaws greeted the sight of the crew.
“Can’t we hoist the topsail?” asked Heavitree.
“No,” replied Brandon decidedly, “we can’t. Scoutmaster’s orders are that the topsail is not to be set without his permission. But we can hoist the spinnaker,” he added. “That’ll help us along.”
The spinnaker, a large triangular sail of light canvas, was spread by being hoisted by a halliard to the mainmast head, the tack being secured to the mast below the gooseneck, while the third corner of the sail was hauled out to the extremity of a horizontal spar known as the spinnaker boom. The latter was held by means of a sheet, but in order to prevent any tendency on the part of the boom to swing back, it was secured on the free side of the sail by means of a rope called a “guy.” The duty of “manning the guy” was deputed to Fred Heavitree.
“All ready, there?” sung out Brandon.
“Ay, ay, sir!” replied Craddock.
“Up with her, then! Out out-haul! Check your sheet!” ordered the Patrol Leader.
Craddock and Talbot at the halliard whipped the head of the canvas aloft. Simultaneously, Wilson tailed on to the out-haul. The spinnaker, distended by the light breeze, strained at the sheet; then, without warning, dropped from aloft in shivering folds. Unaccountably the halliard had parted, letting the spinnaker down with a run.
There was a heavy splash. Heavitree, enveloped by the canvas, had been jerked into the sea.
“Man overboard!” shouted Craddock. “Down helm, Carline!”
The helmsman put the tiller hard over. Peter, snatching up a life-buoy, prepared to throw it within easy reach of the Sea Scout in the ditch. The others, abandoning the spinnaker, rushed aft to bring the dinghy alongside to pick up their chum.
Alertly, Craddock watched the curving line of ripples astern as theKestrelcame up into the line. There was no sign of Heavitree. The lad was an excellent swimmer, but there was the likelihood that he had hit the rail as he fell and had been rendered insensible.
Full thirty long-drawn-out seconds passed, but still no sign of Heavitree. Peter looked at Brandon. The Patrol Leader shook his head.
He was outwardly cool and collected; yet the disappearance of Heavitree without a trace filled him with apprehension. Even a stunned man under water would be expelling air from his lungs and the bubbles would show on the surface. The difficulty was that already the yacht had covered fifty or more yards since the time the accident had occurred, and in consequence it was futile to attempt to dive after the lad. And yet it was agonising having to stand and watch and yet do nothing.
TheKestrelwas now hove-to on to the port tack, her head-sheets, which had not been eased, being taut to wind’ard. The folds of the spinnaker hung idly over the starboard side between the shrouds and the forestay.
With one exception everyone was looking astern. The exception was Eric Little. Unnoticed by the others he crept cautiously for’ard and began to gather in the trailing canvas. Hanging on to the rail was the missing Heavitree, breathless but otherwise none the worse for his immersion. He had managed to grasp the coaming as he fell, although he was immersed up to his waist. The spinnaker, completely enveloping him, had effectually hidden him from view.
Willing hands assisted Heavitree on deck. The Sea Scouts relieved their pent-up feelings with a rousing cheer, the noise of which brought Mr. Grant hurriedly on deck.
“What’s the matter, lads?” he demanded anxiously, as he blinked in the strong sunlight. Coming straight from the darkened saloon he could see little or nothing. “Why are we hove-to?”
“I fell into the ditch, sir,” replied Heavitree. “Or, nearly. How’s your hand, sir? Mind you don’t hit it against anything.”
“Better go below, sir,” suggested Brandon. “We haven’t sighted Portland Bill yet. I’ll report to you when we do.”
There was a decided streak of obstinacy in Mr. Grant’s nature and occasionally it asserted itself. It did now.
He sat down, still blinking. By this time his eyes were becoming more accustomed to the sunlight. He noticed the untidily stowed spinnaker, then he spotted Eric Little.
“Who’s that, Brandon?” he asked. “What is that lad doing here? How did he come aboard?”
“Our prize stowaway,” replied the Patrol Leader.
CHAPTER XIVThe Peril of the Race
Latein the afternoon the long-looked-for Portland Bill was sighted—not on the port bow, but dead ahead. Apparently in the light air theKestrelhad been carried by an indraught slightly to the nor’ard of her proper course. Progress had been slow, and in consequence she had lost her tide and was now making very little against the west-going stream.
“It will mean another night at sea, lads,” remarked Mr. Grant, when the Patrol Leader had reported land in sight. “It will be quite five hours before we pick up a fair tide, and then, unless the wind holds, we’ll have to be jolly careful we aren’t swept into Portland Race.”
“Let me know the course, sir, and I’ll see she keeps to it,” declared Brandon. “There’s no need for you to do anything. How’s your hand now, sir?”
“Better,” replied the Scoutmaster, although he knew perfectly well that it was far from being right. “I’ll turn out at sunset.”
“You oughtn’t to, really, sir,” protested Brandon. “Take it easy to-night. If anything unusual occurs we’ll give you a call.”
Mr. Grant capitulated. He was still feeling “a bit shaky.” The finger, thanks to action of numerous poultices, had swollen still more, but there were no indications of the poison discharging itself. In these circumstances, an accidental knock or blow might easily undo all the good that had been done by fomentation. In addition, the Scoutmaster “had a temperature,” although he kept this knowledge to himself, hoping that in a few hours’ time it would return to normal.
“What are we going to do with our stowaway, sir?” asked Brandon.
“Send him home from the first place we touch at,” replied Mr. Grant. “It’s unfortunate we cannot signal. His grandparents must be very anxious about him; but we can send a wire from Swanage.”
“He’s a queer sort of fellow, isn’t he?” remarked Brandon.
“Yes, but it’s hardly his fault. It’s the way he’s been brought up,” replied the Scoutmaster. “He uses those somewhat high-brow expressions quite naturally, because he’s lived in an atmosphere in which they are spoken. After all, it’s the same with everyone. A stable boy unconsciously uses racing slang because he hears it all around him. A sailor’s expressions are often unintelligible to landsmen, although his messmates haven’t the slightest difficulty in understanding what he says. Often we were at a loss to know what the Cornish fisherfolk were saying. Eric Little’s case is much the same, only in a very much smaller environment. Well, right-o, Brandon. Carry on, if you will. See that all hands get a decent meal, then pick your watch and let the rest turn in.”
Alive to his responsibilities, Brandon went on deck, ordered the spinnaker to be taken in, and set theKestrelon her new course. He, too, realised the dangers of being becalmed at night in the vicinity of that dangerous expanse of turbulent water known as Portland Race.
Night came on. The yacht, moving slowly through the calm water, was steadily losing ground. Although she was pointing seawards, the strong tide was sweeping her back. The Bill appeared to be receding, but there was no likelihood of losing sight of the powerful high light on that famous promontory. With the turn of the tide the leeway would be quickly made up, but there was the risk of theKestrelbeing carried through the Race before she could gain a sufficient offing to pass it to the south’ard.
At ten o’clock Mr. Grant came on deck to look round. It was a perfectly calm night and the shoreward lights showed up distinctly.
“We’re still rather close in,” he remarked. “Those are the lights of Lyme Regis, and more to the east’ard are those of Bridport. I wish we had had time to visit Bridport. It’s a picturesque little place. There used to be a quaint expression: ‘Struck with a Bridport dagger.’ Does anyone know what that means?”
There was silence for a few moments; but before Mr. Grant could explain, Eric Little replied:
“I believe I know: it is a colloquial expression signifying that a person has been hanged.”
“Quite right!” exclaimed Mr. Grant approvingly. “Bridport was noted for rope-making, and also for sailcloth. Now I’ll tell you something more, and I wonder if you can explain the reason for it. Years ago when the rope and sailcloth industry was at its height most of the flax was brought to Bridport in Russian vessels. They used to send the stuff up to the town in boats. On Saturday nights the Russians made a point of going into the town, which is some distance from the harbour. The road between the two places was lighted with oil lamps. Every time the Russians returned to their ships these lamps were afterwards found to be extinguished. Why?”
Several suggestions were forthcoming, but at each of them Mr. Grant shook his head.
“The Russian sailors drank the oil,” he explained. “In those days the lamps were filled with whale-oil, and that was evidently a liquid appreciated by the Muscovites. . . . Now, Brandon, send the watch below down. I’ll turn in, since the skipper insists; but call me at once, if necessary. Good night!”
Retaining Heavitree as a deck-hand, Brandon prepared for his long vigil. The wind showed no indication of appearing. The sea was as smooth as glass, save for the occasional ripples caused by a fish “breaking surface.” For the next two hours theKestrelwas left to her own devices, drifting idly, with the dinghy frequently ranging up alongside as she swung through all the points of the compass.
At midnight a faint haze obscured the bright light of Portland, which was now about twelve miles away. Before the light disappeared, Brandon took a compass-bearing and noted it in the log. Then he resumed his tedious watch.
“Four bells!” he announced at length, stirring the torpid Heavitree with his foot. “You turn in, now, old son, and tell Peter to come on watch.”
“Where are we?” asked Craddock, as he gained the cockpit.
Brandon told him, adding the information that the flood tide had now set in.
“Haven’t touched the tiller for the last four hours,” he remarked. “We’re just drifting. This is where a motor would come in handy. Well, thank goodness, this isn’t the Doldrums, and we ought to get a breeze soon.”
At length came that “darkest hour before the dawn,” when human vitality is supposed to be at its lowest ebb. Through the stillness of the night came a low rumble.
“What’s that?” asked Peter. “Thunder?”
“Don’t think so,” replied his chum. “It’s too prolonged.”
They listened. The sound continued and seemed to increase in volume until it reached a distinct rumbling roar.
“It must be the Race,” declared Brandon. “Of course it’s still a long way off, but we’re being carried into it.”
“What’s to be done?” asked Peter. “Anchor?”
“No use attempting to anchor in over twenty fathoms,” replied the Patrol Leader. “Let’s get the sweeps to work. It will be something to do, and we may get her well clear with an hour’s steady work. Gently with them; don’t disturb the other fellows.”
Carefully the long ash sweeps were placed in the rowlocks, and by means of steady strokes theKestrelwas brought round until the yacht’s bows pointed sou’-sou’-east. The dinghy’s painter no longer trailed in the water as the little boat followed sedately in the wake of her parent.
Again the beams of the high light of Portland pierced the darkness, this time broad on the port beam. The roar of the Race steadily increased.
“Don’t think we’ll clear it,” muttered Brandon breathlessly, for sweeping the yacht was heavy and tiring work.
“I wish it were day,” rejoined Peter. “Then we could see where we are. How far are we from the Race, do you think?”
“Quite near enough,” admitted the Patrol Leader. “You’d better inform Mr. Grant and turn out a couple of hands to man the dinghy. We might be able to tow the yacht as well as sweep her.”
Craddock found the Scoutmaster awake. In fact, Mr. Grant had hardly slept at all. Apart from the still painful state of his arm his anxiety as to what might happen on the turn of the tide had kept him awake. He realised the danger. All along that dangerous coast there is no harbour for which a vessel can make for shelter except at or about the time of high water. True, there is a smooth passage between the Race and the Bill, but even then a stranger is apt to get into difficulties and be swept into the dangerous overfalls unless he times the attempt at a favourable state of the tide.
Mr. Grant came on deck.
“You’ve done all you can, Brandon,” he remarked. “We may be able to tow her clear. Get the other fellows out and see that the forehatch and skylights are well secured. We’ll be having plenty of green water over our decks before very long, I fancy.”
Craddock was about to haul the dinghy alongside, when he caught sight of the steaming-lights of a vessel on the starboard quarter. She was, he judged, about a quarter of a mile away and heading straight for theKestrel. Above the distant roar of the Race could be distinguished the steady pulsations of a marine motor.
“Show a stern light,” ordered Brandon. “She won’t be able to see our starboard light.”
Talbot produced a torch and held it pointing in the direction of the oncoming vessel. Suddenly a succession of “E’s” in Morse flashed from the stranger; then, after a brief pause, came the question, “What ship is that?”
“Kestrel!” signalled Talbot in reply.
“I hope they’ll be the wiser for that,” remarked Carline.
Then, to the astonishment of all on board, the approaching craft announced her identity as theMerlin, and followed up by asking whether theKestrelwanted a tow.
“Yes, badly,” was the reply.
In a few minutes the Falmouth Sea Scouts’ yacht was alongside.
“So we’ve overhauled you,” remarked Scoutmaster Pendennis. “We wondered what had happened. What made you put to sea in a fog?”
“Didn’t you get our wire?” countered Mr. Grant. “But explanations can come later. You’ve arrived at a very opportune moment.”
“And how’s that?” asked Mr. Pendennis.
“We’re in danger of being swept through Portland Race, and it looks as if you are heading straight for it.”
“Are we, by Jove!” ejaculated the Cornishman. “Yes, I can hear the roar now. Our engine muffled the sound. Right-o! pass your line. Course, sou’east?”
“Sou’-sou’-east would be better,” remarked Mr. Grant. “ ’Tany rate, day’s breaking, and we’ll soon see if we’re giving the Race sufficient berth.”
“Right-o!” rejoined Scoutmaster Pendennis. “We’ll do our best, but we’ve only an eight horsepower engine.”
TheMerlinforged slowly ahead until she took up the strain of the tow; then, increasing power, she whisked theKestrelalong at a steady five knots.
“You fellows can turn in again,” said Brandon, addressing the Sea Scouts who had been routed out of their bunks.
But the lads showed no desire to go below. In the pale grey dawn they remained on deck, dividing their interest between theMerlinand a broad belt of white-foamed water barely a couple of miles on the port hand. Although the sea everywhere else was calm, the Race was one chaotic mass of broken water, roaring like a wild beast baulked of its prey.
“Good oldMerlin!” exclaimed Talbot. “She’s done the trick!”
Mr. Grant did not join in the chorus of appreciation. It was yet too soon to shout. He had his doubts on the ability of the little motor to carry out its heavy task; for, although both yachts were moving in a southerly direction at about five knots, the now strong flood tide was setting in a nor’-easterly direction at a good seven miles an hour. The question that arose was whether theMerlinand her tow could draw clear of the Race in time; although there was some consolation in the fact that the yachts were no longer in danger of being carried into the centre of that tempestuous waste of water.
Almost imperceptibly theKestrelbegan to feel the influence of the broken waves. Soon she began to pitch and roll. So did theMerlin, to the accompaniment of a series of heavy jerks on the towing hawser.
“Why, the Race is coming towards us!” remarked Symington.
“No, it isn’t,” rejoined Brandon drily. “We’re going towards it. Hang on to something solid, you fellows. We’ll be getting wet shirts in a brace of shakes. . . . You all right, sir? Mind that arm!”
The fellows on theMerlinhad by this time noticed the danger that threatened them. Two of her crew hurriedly paid out more hawser, an act that at first looked as if theMerlinwas about to cast off her well-nigh helpless consort. Some of the former’s crew who had been sitting comfortably on the fore-deck came aft hurriedly when they saw the wall of breaking water approaching.
A minute later and both yachts were in the thick of it. True, it was but the tail end of the dreaded Race, but the sight of the agitated mass of water was none the less awesome. At one moment theMerlinwas towing theKestrelthrough a calm sea; at the next both craft, pitching, heeling, and staggering, were being assailed by the furious waves.
Again and again theKestreldipped her bowsprit, flung her bows high as her stern dropped into the trough of the sea. Spars and solid gear rattled, canvas shook and flapped furiously as boom and gaff, bringing up with disconcerting jerks, threatened to shake the mast out of her, the while theMerlin, similarly assailed, was doing her best to win through. Suddenly a particularly vicious breaker surged over her quarter. The motor stopped. Both yachts were now helpless in the grip of the dreaded overfalls.
CHAPTER XV“To be Returned in Due Course”
Thesituation was desperate. TheMerlinwas now a source of peril to the yacht she had done her best to aid. There was no wind. The fiercely flapping canvas was useless; equally out of the question was it to attempt to make use of the oars, for at one moment the blades would be high in the air, at another buried by the rush of the irregular and foaming waves. Held by the towing hawser, the two yachts were in momentary danger of colliding as they swung round almost parallel to each other and with less than five yards of chaotic water between them.
In a trice, Brandon realised the danger, made up his mind, and acted. At the imminent risk of being either jerked or washed overboard he fought his way for’ard, hanging on desperately as he battled towards his goal. One moment thigh deep in water; at another sprawling on the ridge formed by the steeply heeling cabin-top, he progressed foot by foot. With bleeding knees and broken finger-nails, well-nigh breathless with his struggle, the Patrol Leader contrived to throw himself flat upon the heaving fore-deck. Then, hanging on with his left hand, he succeeded in casting off the rope that held theKestrelto theMerlin.
Then, obtaining a grip with both hands, Brandon waited to witness the fruits of his hazardous task. At first it seemed as if the act were in vain. The two craft showed no tendency to drift apart; on the contrary, it looked as if they would close. Had they done so, the fate of each would have been sealed, for the strongest yacht ever built would not be proof against the terrific hammering of the two hulls in that tumultuous sea.
After a few minutes of anxious suspense, the distance between the two vessels began to increase. TheMerlinswung round until her bows pointed in the opposite direction to her previous course. As she rolled, the crew of theKestrelcould see the Cornish Sea Scouts struggling desperately in a futile attempt to restart the motor.
For another five minutes the ordeal continued; then, almost as suddenly as she had entered the Race, theKestrelfound herself in comparatively calm water, with the final unwelcome gift of about fifty gallons of the English Channel being thrown in her cockpit.
TheMerlinwas not long in following her consort’s example, and, with the roar of the turbulent overfalls still dinning in their ears, the crews of both yachts set about repairing the damage done during their exciting quarter of an hour.
Owing to the fact that they had missed the most dangerous part of Portland Race both craft had come off comparatively lightly. Twenty minutes’ hard work at the pump freed theKestrelof the water that had found its way on board. Her mizzen-boom had been sprung close to the gooseneck; one of the panes of the skylight had been broken; while—worst of all—her dinghy’s top-strake had been badly smashed owing to the boat being thrown violently against theKestrel’squarter.
Three of the Sea Scouts had received minor injuries owing to the severe and erratic motion of the yacht; Eric Little was “down and out” with sea-sickness; while Molly, the pup, who had been locked in the saloon, was nearly frantic with joy when Peter went below to see how she had fared.
“What’s wrong with your engine?” enquired Mr. Grant, hailing theMerlin.
“Water on plug and in the carburetter,” replied Scoutmaster Pendennis. “We’ll get her going soon, I hope. I’ve heard a lot about Portland Race, but I never expected it to be like that on a calm day. Hello! what’s the matter with your hand?”
“Poisoned it,” explained Mr. Grant. “It’s getting better now. I say: what do you propose to do?”
“We’re carrying on,” replied Pendennis. “We want to make Yarmouth or Lymington to-day. We’ll tow you until a breeze springs up.”
“We’ll have to put into Swanage,” announced Mr. Grant. “We’ve a stowaway on board and we want to land him.”
“How interesting,” rejoined the Cornishman. “All right, Swanage it is for both of us. We want more petrol, although we may have enough to carry us on if the breeze does show up.”
Both yachts, now being propelled by sweeps, were now standing up Channel at a distance of about ten yards between them, so that the crews could keep up a running fire of conversation. The while the Cornish Sea Scouts were tackling the still refractory motor.
It was not until the two craft had practically drifted two miles to the east’ard of the Shambles Lightship that the long-hoped-for breeze sprang up—a steady sou’westerly one.
In grand style the two yachts cut through the water, heading for the still distant St. Alban’s Head. In point of speed there was little to choose, for although theMerlinhad a slightly greater displacement and carried more canvas, this advantage was countered by the drag of her now inactive propeller.
“We’ve got to go through another race, lads,” observed Mr. Grant at breakfast. “That’s the one off St. Alban’s, but it won’t be anything like the one off Portland.”
“What causes them, sir?” asked Carline.
“It’s a sort of submarine steeplechase,” explained the Scoutmaster. “A strong tidal water sweeping over a fairly deep and level bed of the sea suddenly encounters a submerged ledge of rocks. The whole of that mass of water has to find its way across in less than half the previous depth, and since the level of the water cannot be materially increased, the result is that the rate of the flow of water has to be greatly increased and causes a succession of overfalls. . . . Well, Eric: feeling better? Good! Make a decent meal, my lad, ’cause you’ve a long journey in front of you.”
“Is it very much further to Chichester?” asked the youth.
“We’re sending you home to Dartmouth.”
“I think you are labouring under a misapprehension, sir,” rejoined the precocious youth. “I’m on my way to visit my aunt and uncle at Chichester—and I won’t go back to Dartmouth! If you won’t take me, I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
“We’ll see,” remarked the Scoutmaster oracularly, and changed the topic of conversation.
An hour later theKestreland theMerlinrounded St. Alban’s Head, where, with the exception of a sullen swell, there was little to indicate the locality of the ofttimes dangerous Race. Followed a run along the rocky coast in full view of the famous caves where smugglers and wreckers once plied their infamous trade. Durlstone Head was left astern and a course shaped to clear the dangerous Peveril Ledge. Then the whole expanse of Swanage Bay opened into view.
Both yachts anchored in less than seven feet of water just inside the shelter of Swanage Pier. The Cornish lads went ashore in their quest for petrol and provisions, and with them went the Sea Scouts of theKestrelwith the exception of Craddock, who, with Mr. Grant and the stowaway, remained on board.
Brandon was the bearer of a telegraph form on which Mr. Grant had written: “Have found a stray grandson; please wire instructions.”
Having dispatched the wire, the Patrol Leader and Heavitree made their way towards Peveril Point in order to give Molly a run on a closely cropped turf.
Waiting until a reply might be forthcoming, Brandon called at the post-office. There was no answer. After another half-hour had elapsed he called again, still without success. From the beach he semaphored the news to Mr. Grant.
The delay was getting serious. TheMerlinwas ready to resume her voyage. There was a fair wind and tide, but if the start were delayed much longer a strong adverse tide would be encountered in the Needles channel, which meant that perhaps the Sea Scouts would be compelled to spend another anxious night afloat.
“You’d better push on, Pendennis,” suggested Mr. Grant. “We’ll follow and pick you up at Lymington.”
The Cornishman fell in with the idea. As a matter of fact, he particularly wanted to give his crew a good night’s rest in some sheltered harbour within The Wight; and, having the West of England yachtsman’s typical respect for the mudbanks and erratic tides of the Solent, he did not relish the possibility of having to navigate that intricate waterway in the hours of darkness.
So theMerlin“carried on.”
Craddock then semaphored a message to his chum telling him to remain ashore until one o’clock, but to keep the other Sea Scouts together in case they had to re-embark in a hurry.
It was not until five minutes to the hour that the expected telegram arrived. It read:
“Administer suitable chastisement. Return delinquent at your convenience.”
The Scoutmaster made a wry face when the telegram was handed him.
“That merely confirms my opinion, Brandon,” he remarked in a low voice. “The lad’s grandfather is not only very precise in his mannerisms; he is evidently a bit of a martinet. I’ll say this for Eric: he might be a queer little chap, but he’s not a sneak. It was only by quite an accident that I found out that he has been frequently thrashed for minor offences. ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’ might be all very well if carried out with fairness and moderation—although I very much doubt the wisdom of personal chastisement, except under very special circumstances. However, since Mr. Little gives me a tolerably free hand, I’ll return the delinquent at my convenience. That is: we’ll take him along with us, and hand him over to his uncle at Chichester.”
“That’s a topping idea, sir!” exclaimed the Patrol Leader. “We’ll do our best to give the lad a good time.”
“Then tell Eric the news,” continued Mr. Grant. “Or, better, send him down to me. Get under way as sharp as you can, Brandon. TheMerlinhas a good start, but with luck we ought to rejoin her before sunset.”
CHAPTER XVITheKestrelto the Rescue
The Sea Scoutsneeded no second bidding to get under way. The remote possibility of being able to overhaul theMerlinacted as a spur. By this time each lad knew his particular duty, and in very quick time main and mizzen sails were set, head-sails hoisted in stops, and the cable hove short.
Then, at the Patrol Leader’s word of command, the anchor was weighed and stowed in its customary place, the jib and staysail were broken out and trimmed to catch the favouring breeze, and within five minutes from the order to get under way theKestrelwas heading for the distant Solent.
Already theMerlinwas hull-down, only her canvas showing above the skyline. She was roughly eight miles ahead.
Outside Swanage Bay the wind freshened, coming offshore in irregular gusts that swept over the lofty chalk cliffs of Ballard Down. The tide was still running to the east’ard with considerable strength, but there was very little sea to speak of. Even a sailing dinghy could be out without any danger of shipping water.
Presently a craft under sail and motor overtook theKestrel. It was a flat-bottomed contraption measuring, perhaps, twenty feet in length, and was propelled by an outboard motor.
Brandon regarded the boat critically. It certainly looked a freak. Apparently the designer had originally intended to give her plenty of beam and a broad transom; but, changing his mind, had tapered the stern until it was about nine inches in width. Consequently, and owing to the weight of the heavy engine clamped on the stern, the boat had very little bearing surface aft and a small amount of freeboard.
In the stern-sheets sat a fat-faced, smug-looking individual rigged out in a peaked cap and blue reefer coat with brass buttons. His profile reminded Brandon of a parrot, for his nose was inclined to be hooked, while from underneath a pair of full lips an insignificant receding chin heightened the resemblance to a bird. The rest of the “crew” consisted of three women and two children. The sheet of the lugsail, Brandon noticed, was made fast.
As this freakish craft overhauled theKestrel, passing her at a distance of about twenty yards to wind’ard, the brass-buttoned helmsman favoured the Sea Scouts with a superior sort of smile.
“What a comic outfit!” exclaimed Craddock to his chum. “That chap evidently thinks he’s the goods.”
“He’s certainly pleased with himself at having overhauled us,” rejoined the Patrol Leader. “But wait a bit. There’s a patch of broken water ahead. Let’s see how that old orange-box will take it.”
Just then Mr. Grant came on deck. He had been writing in the cabin, and on hearing the noise of the motor had glanced through the scuttle. He, too, had not failed to notice the supercilious grin on the fellow’s flabby features.
“That man’s looking for trouble,” he observed. “There ought to be a ‘Society for the Protection of Guests of Half-Baked Amateur Marine Motorists.’ Up helm a little Peter; keep in his wake. Unless I’m much mistaken, that freak craft will be in difficulties before very long.”
TheKestrelwas now about four hundred yards to the sou’west of Old Harry, that well-known chalk pinnacle forming the eastern extremity of the Isle of Purbeck. The motor boat was by this time a couple of hundred yards ahead and making straight for a well-defined tide-rip caused by the tidal current flowing over a ledge of submerged rock running out from Standfast Point.
The greenhorn at the helm of the motor boat failed to notice the popple of disturbed water. His attention seemed to be centred upon theKestrel, as if he were still gloating over his superior speed.
Soon the boat began to pound heavily. Her narrow stern dipped. Spray flew over the engine, putting it out of action. The metal rudder was totally inadequate to keep the flat-bottomed craft on its course. A puff of wind filled the sail, causing the boat to pay off and heel.
Too late the brass-buttoned novice realised the danger. When he did, he could do nothing beyond attempting to restart the engine. His weight as he leant over the narrow stern made matters worse. A sea poured completely over the weather quarter. The boat still lived although half full of water.
Panic seized the man. He had lost his yachting cap—it was floating on the water that swirled over the bottom-boards—and abject fear was plainly written on his face, while his long hair streamed in the breeze.
The while the sail was taking the full force of the wind, for no attempt had been made to free the sheet.
Suddenly, as the boat shipped more water, the mast became unshipped and disappeared over the side, taking the sail with it. The boat, no longer making way, fell into the trough of the sea and took in water on both sides.
“Cut away your gear and ride to it!” shouted Brandon, for theKestrelwas now within hailing distance.
The advice, intelligible to anyone acquainted with even an elementary knowledge of seamanship, was lost as far as the bewildered and panic-stricken owner of the motor boat was concerned. He could only wave his arms wildly and shout for help. The women, although obviously badly scared, at least had the sense to keep still.
The Scoutmaster glanced at Brandon and nodded. The Patrol Leader understood. It was a silent intimation that he was to exercise his discretion in the operation of bringing theKestrelalongside the fast-foundering boat.
“Stand by to go about!” ordered Brandon.
Two of the Sea Scouts jumped to tend the head-sheets. Heavitree, boat-hook in hand, took up his station at the main-shrouds. Craddock was at the tiller. The others stood by ready to help the “crew” of the motor boat into safety.
“Up helm a bit . . . at that!” exclaimed Brandon.
TheKestrel, with the wind well abaft the beam, flew past the now almost waterlogged boat. Mistaking the nature of the manœuvre, the brass-buttoned man waved his arms in redoubled frenzy and literally howled when he thought the ketch was leaving him to his fate.
Brandon knew quite well what he was doing. To attempt to bring theKestrelalongside with a quartering wind would result in the boat being crushed, or at least it would have been impossible to get a hold and retain it. There was only one course practicable, and that was to run to lee’ard, go about, and shoot up into the wind, losing way within a few feet of the object for succour.
“Lee-o!” exclaimed Brandon, loudly and clearly.
Peter put the helm down. Talbot and Symington let fly the jib and foresail sheets; while Wilson hauled away at the slack of the mainsheet. Still keeping the tiller hard over, Craddock attended to the mizzen-sheet.
TheKestrelcame about as gracefully as her namesake, turning slowly and unfalteringly. Then, kept down in the eye of the wind, she forged ahead with gradually diminishing way until Heavitree could grip the gunwale of the motor boat with the boat-hook.
By this time the boat had been swamped. Her stern, weighted down by the outboard engine, was six feet beneath the surface, while the bows, kept afloat by the air under the fore-deck, were about a couple of feet above water. To the still floating portion the “crew” clung, while the owner, his face green with terror, abandoned his waterlogged craft and made a jump for theKestrel’sshrouds. Forgetting the difficulties of “taking off” from a submerged platform, he leapt short but continued to grip the rail. There he hung, submerged to his shoulders, puffing like a grampus as he struggled in vain to haul himself on board the yacht.
The sight of the selfish, cowardly man made Mr. Grant lose his temper—a thing he rarely did. He realised that with the fellow’s bulk between the yacht’s side and the sinking motor boat the difficulty of getting the rest of the party on board was enormously increased. Time, too, was precious, for theKestrelwould soon “pay off” and gather way, in which case the manœuvre of getting alongside the waterlogged craft would have to be repeated.
“Let go, you idiot!” roared the Scoutmaster. “Haven’t you heard of ‘women and children first’?”
The man refused to do so.
“Stamp on his fingers, Heavitree!” exclaimed Mr. Grant, realising that if a calamity likely to become a fatality were to be avoided, drastic measures were absolutely imperative.
Heavitree was unable to carry out these instructions. All his efforts were concentrated upon an attempt to retain a hold on the boat and to prevent it sinking still further as the women strove to raise themselves out of the water.
Just then the partly submerged boat surged against theKestrel’sside. The craven owner’s generous proportions acted as an animated fender, but the shock well-nigh winded him and caused him to relax his grip.
In a trice Talbot grasped him by his long hair and dragged him aft, where Craddock assisted in hauling the man on deck.
Meanwhile Brandon and Symington set to work like Trojans to tranship the badly scared women and children. They were not a moment too soon. TheKestrelwas forging ahead.
“I can’t hold her much longer, sir!” exclaimed Heavitree.
“Let her go,” replied Mr. Grant briefly.
Heavitree disengaged the boat-hook. The swamped motor boat drifted astern. Bubbles of air were escaping from the uptilted fore-deck.
“Shall we have a shot at salving her?” asked Brandon.
The Scoutmaster shook his head.
“Let her go,” he replied. “She won’t have another chance to drown anyone. . . . There she goes! Bon voyage!”
The freak craft disappeared from view. Mr. Grant glanced dispassionately at the late owner, who was still in an abject state.
“The yellow streak has shown itself, I notice,” remarked the Scoutmaster. “Well, it’s no use askinghimquestions. We’ll have to land the crew somewhere. I wonder where they came from?”
“Where shall we make for, sir?” asked Brandon.
“Studland,” replied Mr. Grant. “It’s just round the corner. Give that point a wide berth.”
With a fair tide and beam wind, theKestrelopened into the wide expanse of Studland Bay. It would have meant a tedious beat shorewards owing to the cliffs blanketing the wind, but fortunately a motor passenger-boat happened to be leaving the shore, and in response to a semaphored message she ran alongside the yacht.
Five minutes later the still considerably scared survivors of the sunken boat were transhipped to the passenger craft, and theKestrel, running before the wind, resumed her attempt to overhaul the far-distantMerlin.
By this time Mr. Grant had recovered his customary even temper.
“After all, perhaps the silly ass couldn’t help being in a fearful funk,” he remarked. “When all’s said and done, bravery largely consists of being afraid of being afraid. . . . What’s that, Wilson? They’ve made the saloon slopping wet? Well, mop it up. That’ll be another Good Turn to your credit.”