In the Fog
“Turn out, 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. The _Kestrel_ had 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—the _Kestrel_ had
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, the _Kestrel_ had
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, the _Kestrel_ was 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 the _Kestrel_ to 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 the _Merlin_ is 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 the _Kestrel_,
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 the _Kestrel_ had
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 the _Kestrel_ was 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 the _Kestrel’s_ position 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 the _Kestrel_ gathered
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 the _Kestrel_
must 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.