The Man they Rescued
The _Kestrel_ was in an unfavourable position to withstand the first of
the squall. She was running almost dead before the present breeze.
Should the blast come from even a slightly different direction there was
the great risk of an involuntary gybe. The main and mizzen booms would
swing over with terrific force and either carry away the runners or else
spring one or both masts.
Fortunately, Craddock kept his head. Shouting to Talbot to ease the
head-sheets, he put the helm down gently.
The squall came. In spite of the canvas shaking as the wind “spilled”
it, the ketch heeled till her lee rail was awash; then, recovering, she
leapt forward like a racehorse as Peter cautiously took a strain on the
mainsheet.
At a warning shout, Mr. Grant hurried up from below, saw what Craddock
had done, and nodded approval.
“She’s as stiff as a house,” he exclaimed reassuringly. “All the same,
we’ll have the mizzen sail off of her while it’s still light . . . and
the big jib as well. Bear a hand, Brandon, to get our patient below. He
may get knocked about if he remains here.”
The injured man was showing signs of returning consciousness. He moaned
as he was being lifted, opened his eyes, and gazed blankly into the
Scoutmaster’s face.
“You’re all right,” said Mr. Grant consolingly.
The patient closed his eyes and gave no further sign of movement. With
difficulty, owing to the erratic motion of the yacht, they carried him
down the narrow companion way and into the Scoutmaster’s cabin.
While this was being done Craddock put the _Kestrel_ into the wind and
hove-to, while canvas was being reduced. Stowing and furling the mizzen
sail was accomplished with little difficulty; but the task of taking in
the No. 1 jib and substituting the No. 3 took some doing. The yacht
pitched so violently in the rapidly rising sea that Heavitree and
Symington, on whom this task devolved, were frequently waist-deep in
water as they knelt on the fore-deck and struggled with out-haul and
jib-halliards and sought to muzzle the fiercely flapping canvas.
At last the business of reducing sail was accomplished, and the
_Kestrel_ put on her former course. With whole mainsail, staysail, and
baby-jib she made splendid weather of it. In fact, she could have stood
more canvas; but in view of night approaching it was prudent to keep her
well under control, especially as the now hard wind might increase in
force.
Meanwhile the side-lights had been placed in position. Both had been
tested during the process of fitting out, but now for some unaccountable
reason the starboard lamp refused to keep alight.
“This is no light matter on a dark night,” said Heavitree. “No joke
intended, Peter! Any good trying a handkerchief round the ventilation
holes?”
“Might do it,” replied Craddock. “It seems as if the thing isn’t getting
enough air as it is. However, see what you can do.”
Cautiously making his way for’ard, Heavitree grasped the shrouds with
one hand and with the other removed the lamp from the screen. He had to
take it into the saloon to relight it, and at the same time he wound his
handkerchief loosely round the lower part of the lamp. Almost as soon as
he regained the cockpit the light went out.
“You’re whacked, old son!” exclaimed Craddock.
“Am I—you see!” retorted Heavitree as he went below again with the
extinguished lamp.
In a few minutes he returned with the green light gleaming exceptionally
brightly. Curiously Peter watched his chum go for’ard, expecting every
second to see the light vanish. It didn’t.
Heavitree refixed the lamp and came aft. It gave no further trouble. The
resourceful Sea Scout had removed the oil reservoir and had substituted
his small electric flash lamp.
The _Kestrel_ was now maintaining quite a good speed. Peter took it to
be at least eight knots, but perhaps like most amateurs he was apt to
overestimate the vessel’s rate. In spite of the curling, crested waves,
she came through with hardly any water on her decks, and although at
times the following seas appeared high and menacing, she rode them in a
manner that gave everyone the greatest confidence in her seagoing
qualities.
“Light on the port bow, sir!” reported Wilson.
“Your eyes are sharper than mine, then,” rejoined the Scoutmaster, after
a prolonged look in the direction indicated.
“There it is again, sir,” declared the lad. “Two quick flashes!”
“I see them, too,” added Talbot.
“So do I,” agreed Mr. Grant. “Well, now we know where we are, more or
less. That’s the Eddystone.”
He took a rough compass bearing and went below to apply the reading to
the chart. The result rather surprised him. According to the
calculation, the _Kestrel_ ought to have been farther to the south’ard.
Either there was considerable deviation of the compass, or else the
yacht had been carried northwards by a tidal current. Leeway did not
enter into the problem, as the _Kestrel_ had been running free—except
for two brief intervals—from the time she picked up the breeze.
It was something to be able to pick up the Eddystone light, but the
knowledge alone could not determine the _Kestrel’s_ position. A second
bearing cutting the first as near as possible at right angles would fix
that.
By the aid of his night glasses, the Scoutmaster swept the horizon away
to the nor’ard, hoping to pick up St. Catherine’s light at the entrance
to Fowey Harbour. But the night was still hazy, and the light was
invisible.
A tramp steamer passed at about a cable’s length to port. The moon
emerging from a bank of scudding clouds showed her plunging heavily into
the head seas. Frequently showers of glistening spray completely hid her
bows and flew high over her bridge. Yet the _Kestrel_, flying before the
wind, was making easy weather of it.
Mr. Grant was now confronted with a difficult problem: whether to carry
on or to bear up and run for shelter into Plymouth Sound. On first
thoughts he favoured the latter alternative. With an injured man on
board, and having several hours before dawn to make for shelter, this
seemed the obvious thing to do. Then he considered the difficulties. He
had never been into Plymouth before. He was a stranger to the intricate
currents inside the breakwater. The Sound and Hamoaze were generally
crowded with shipping. The numerous navigation and riding-lamps were apt
to be particularly perplexing to a stranger, and there was no small risk
of disaster should an error of judgment occur.
On the other hand, the _Kestrel_ was proving herself to be a capital
sea-boat. Better then to hold on, keeping plenty of sea-room, and gain
the sheltered waters of Start Bay at daybreak.
Mr. Grant chose the latter alternative and stuck to it. Indecision he
held to be worse than incompetence. A person in charge of a vessel and
unable to make up his mind was a menace to his crew; an incompetent
skipper, although a despicable character, could be superseded in a
critical situation by a better man.
Keeping Craddock and Heavitree on deck, the Scoutmaster took the helm
and told the rest of the crew to turn in. The two hefty Sea Scouts were
sufficient to assist him in the management of the yacht in a stiff blow
at night. The others would only be in the way. In addition they would be
as limp as rags in the morning.
At 1 a.m. the Eddystone was abeam at a distance of about two miles. It
was still too hazy to pick up the powerful Start light, and there was no
object in “cracking on” and arriving off that dangerous headland before
dawn.
Accordingly a couple of reefs were taken in the mainsail, and the
staysail was lowered and “bonneted” to the bowsprit. Even then the
_Kestrel_ maintained a fair speed and rode the waves like a cork, with
the dinghy’s bows high in the air as she strained at the end of a double
length of stout 50-feet rope.
“Isn’t this top-hole, sir?” exclaimed Peter enthusiastically. “I’d
rather be in the _Kestrel_ than in that tramp which passed us some time
ago.”
Before the Scoutmaster could offer any remark Brandon came out of the
cabin.
“The man has come to,” he announced oracularly.
“How does he feel? Did he say?” asked Mr. Grant.
“Said he was thirsty, sir.”
Telling Craddock to take the helm, Mr. Grant went below.
He found the rescued man quite rational in spite of the serious injury
to his head. Reiterating the fact that he was thirsty, he continued by
asking where he was.
The Scoutmaster explained.
“You’re quite safe,” he continued. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to put up
with the limited accommodation on board until we can put you ashore.
I’ll give you something to drink; after that you must try all you can to
get to sleep.”
“It du seem queer loike tu wake up an’ find myself here,” said the man,
as he watched the preparation of the beverage. “Last I remember wur I
wur sittin’ in——”
“Don’t worry about that now,” interrupted Mr. Grant. “After you’ve slept
a few hours it will be interesting to hear your story. What’s your name,
by the by?”
“Marner—Dick Marner,” was the not altogether unexpected reply.