Adrift
For the next six or seven days the work of getting the _Kestrel_ ready
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, the
_Kestrel_ was 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 the _Kestrel’s_ mascot 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 the _Kestrel_ were to sail in company with the _Merlin_.
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.
The _Kestrel_, 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. “The _Kestrel_ is
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.”
The _Kestrel_ was to be taken from Polkebo Creek that evening and sailed
down to a berth off Greenbank at Falmouth, where the _Merlin_ was lying,
in order that both craft might start together.
Almost everyone in Polkebo turned out to see the _Kestrel_ start, 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!”
The _Kestrel_ held 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 the _Kestrel_, 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 the _Kestrel_ made 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 the _Kestrel_ hove-to within fifty yards of
the _Merlin_, 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 the _Kestrel’s_ going aboard the _Merlin_, while a part of the
latter’s complement came over to the _Kestrel_.
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. The _Kestrel_ was 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, the _Kestrel_ should 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.
The _Kestrel_ was adrift in a thick sea fog, and at the mercy of the
swirling tide.