The Derelict
“Down helm!” ordered Brandon, in his capacity of officer of the
starboard watch. “At that! Keep her so!”
The _Kestrel_, 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 the _Kestrel_ announced 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, the _Kestrel_ passed 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 the _Euterpe_.
“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!”
The _Kestrel_ went about slowly yet unhesitatingly and hove-to on the
starboard tack within fifty yards of the _Euterpe’s_ starboard 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 the _Kestrel_. 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 the _Kestrel_ before 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 the _Kestrel_ had 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 stricken _Euterpe_ disappeared
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 the _Kestrel_. 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 the _Kestrel_ was 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!”