How it Failed
“All clear for’ard?” shouted Patrol Leader Brandon. “Stand by to let
go!”
Fifty hours had elapsed since the _Kestrel_ found her way into Dartmouth
Harbour. The summer storm had blown itself out. The Sea Scouts, having
made up arrears of sleep, were in the best of spirits and keenly looking
forward to the long run across West Bay and round the famous Bill of
Portland.
It was almost a flat calm. The tide was still ebbing. The S.S.
_Lumberjack_ remained at anchor, repairs to her machinery being still in
progress.
According to his rule of letting the Sea Scouts work their craft as far
as possible entirely on their own responsibility, Mr. Grant was acting
in the rôle of passenger, Patrol Leader Frank Brandon being for the
present skipper of the _Kestrel_.
“Get an oar out, Heavitree,” continued the Patrol Leader. “We’ll have to
sweep her round in this light breeze, and probably tow her clear of the
harbour. She’ll shift easily enough when once we get way on her.”
Brandon was on the point of calling to Carline to cast off the mooring
when he noticed a small motor boat approaching, apparently with the
intention of crossing the _Kestrel’s_ bows. Instead, the owner of the
power-craft reversed, put her helm over, and ran alongside.
“Good morning!” he exclaimed. “I see you fellows are off. Perhaps you’d
like a tow? I’m off to the East Blockstone to try a bit of fishing, so
if you like I’ll take a line.”
“Thanks awfully, sir,” replied Brandon. “It’s jolly good of you.”
“Not at all,” rejoined the owner of the motor boat. “Matter of fact, I
used to be a Scoutmaster. Had to give it up, unfortunately. However, I
still stick to the practice of ‘One Good Turn a Day’—more if I have a
chance. . . . Sorry, I didn’t see you,” he added, addressing Mr. Grant,
who had just come out of the saloon. “Why! Surely your name’s Grant?”
“Quite right,” was the reply, “but somehow I can’t recall you.”
“Possibly not,” continued the other, with a laugh. “Do you remember
coming alongside a tramp on Christmas Day ’17? You were in a M.L. and
you got some bully beef and bread out of our old hooker. At the same
time you warned us that there were two U-boats off Bolt Head, and said
we’d better leg it back to Plymouth?”
Mr. Grant remembered the circumstance. It was during the war, when he
was in command of a M.L.
“But I can’t recall your features,” he reiterated.
“’Cause I am beautifully disguised with a beard,” explained the other.
“Matter of fact, we didn’t take your advice. We held on our course, and
bagged a Fritz a couple of hours later. We were a ‘Q’ ship, and you
didn’t spot us.”
“Heard about it later on,” said Mr. Grant. “Then your name’s Carter?”
“Just so; late Scoutmaster of the 9th Gosport Sea Scouts. Unfortunately,
‘owing to the War,’ I had to give up, much to my regret, and settle down
here at Kingswear. Come aboard, and we can yarn while I’m towing your
craft out of the harbour.”
Mr. Grant accepted the invitation, leaving Brandon actually in command
of the _Kestrel_.
The tow-rope was made fast, the moorings slipped. Very gently, by
skilful use of the reverse gear, Mr. Carter allowed the yacht to gather
way in the wake of the 4-h.p. motor boat.
During the run down the harbour, Brandon kept all hands busily employed
in casting loose mainsail and mizzen and hoisting the jib in stops ready
to be broken out directly the _Kestrel_ was cast off. Thus engaged they
failed to notice the relatively slow progress or the somewhat unusual
swirl under the yacht’s stern. Nor were they aware of the presence of a
highly exasperated deck-hand on board the S.S. _Lumberjack_, who
consoled himself for the preliminary failure of his plans by the thought
that perhaps the motor boat would not tow the _Kestrel_ right out to
sea, but only just clear of St. Petrox. In that case there was still
some hope that the yacht would pile herself up upon the tide-swept
Verticals or perhaps the rugged Mewstone.
“You’ve a lump of a craft there, Grant,” remarked Mr. Carter. “She’s
heavier to tow than I thought; although this packet is only a four-horse
motor boat.”
“Yet she’s moving her all right,” added Mr. Grant.
“Yes, with the tide. I doubt whether we are doing three knots. Has the
_Kestrel’s_ compo. been scrubbed recently?”
“Fresh on a week ago,” declared the Scoutmaster.
“H’m,” commented Mr. Carter, “strange we aren’t doing better. A few days
ago I gave a forty tonner a pluck in, and made quite easy work of it
once I got her going. There’s the East Blackstone”—pointing to an
isolated rock about half a mile away. “I’ll tow you inside the rock.
There’s plenty of water and less tide running. You’re early yet for the
up-Channel stream, but with the breeze you’ll stem the tide all right.”
At the East Blackstone the tow-rope was cast off. Mr. Grant regained the
_Kestrel_, and the crew gave a hearty cheer for the benefit of the
ex-Scoutmaster. Sail was quickly made, and under all plain canvas the
_Kestrel_ was steadied on her course for Portland Bill.
Half an hour passed. The anchored motor boat was still unaccountably
near. The _Kestrel_, in spite of the steady favourable breeze, was not
going anything like as fast as she had done in a lighter wind.
The Sea Scouts began to realise the fact and reluctantly they admitted
that it was so. Even the dinghy’s painter was slack, whereas in this
breeze the water ought to be foaming at her bows.
“We are going slowly, sir,” remarked Craddock.
“That’s what Mr. Carter said,” replied the Scoutmaster. “There’s no
reason why we should as far as I can see, unless we’ve fouled a few
lobster pots. Look over the bows and see.”
Peter went for’ard and “laid out” along the bowsprit. He could see the
yacht’s forefoot showing clearly through the pale green water.
“All clear there, sir,” he reported.
“I don’t see how anything could foul her rudder,” observed Mr. Grant.
“The keel band projects sufficiently to prevent that; however, just look
to make sure.”
Craddock did so.
“Why!” he exclaimed. “There’s something dragging astern. I can’t make
out what it is, ’cause the wake is bubbling so much. Pass me the
boat-hook, Talbot.”
Lying at full length on the stern deck, Peter probed with the iron-shod
boat-hook. Metal rasped on metal, and on attempting to withdraw the
boat-hook the Sea Scout found that it was hitched in a line of some
sort.
“Bear a hand, some of you fellows!” he called out breathlessly.
Talbot and Symington came to his assistance. All three hauled and
levered at the stout ash boat-hook stave.
“Can’t get in another inch,” declared Talbot.
“Sure you’re not foul of the rudder?” asked Mr. Grant.
“No, sir, it’s astern of the rudder, whatever it is.”
“Now, Brandon, you’re in charge,” said the Scoutmaster. “Carry on and
see what you can do.”
The Patrol Leader began throwing off his scanty clothing.
“Down helm!” he ordered. “Jib and staysail sheets a-weather!”
It took three attempts to get the _Kestrel_ to come up into the wind so
that she might be hove-to. As sluggish as a mule, she absolutely refused
to go about until Carline and Wilson got her round by means of a sweep.
Then Craddock prodded with the boat-hook, and this time found nothing
more resisting than water.
“Whatever it is it has slipped off,” he announced.
“I’ll make sure, in any case,” declared Brandon.
The Patrol Leader made a clean dive, broke surface, and swam to the
yacht’s stern. Then, taking a deep breath, he grasped the edge of the
rudder and lowered himself towards the _Kestrel’s_ heel.
He was under for nearly half a minute; then he reappeared, puffing and
blowing like a grampus.
“There’s a large iron bucket hanging from the lower pintle,” he
reported. “I tried to shake it clear, but it’s made fast by about a
couple of yards of wire rope.”
“See if you can work the free end of the wire past the stern-post,”
suggested Craddock. “I’ll put the helm hard over and see if that frees
it.”
“There is no free end,” was the astonishing reply. “Both ends are
tightly knotted round the handle of the bucket.”
All hands realised that the obstruction had not been placed there by
accident or natural causes. Human agency had been deliberately at work.
“No use arguing about it, lads!” called out Brandon. “Pass me the
hack-saw.”
“One minute, I’ll be with you, Frank,” said Craddock, proceeding to
strip. “It’s not much use sawing at a slack wire. Get a line, Talbot.
That’s right. Now, Frank, can you pass this under the handle of the
bucket? You can? Good. Now, you fellows, take a strain; put plenty of
beef into it and keep the rope taut.”
Craddock then went overboard and swam to give his chum a hand. They
found that the strain on the rope had brought the bucket within five or
six inches of the surface, and that the wire was as taut as a bar of
iron.
“Wouldn’t it be easier and quicker to saw through the handle?” asked
Craddock.
“Yes, but we won’t,” decided the Patrol Leader. “Why spoil what seems to
be a jolly decent bucket?”
“Well, I’ve kicked the bucket,” declared Peter feelingly.
A roar of laughter greeted this apparently innocent remark. Craddock,
failing to grasp the grim significance of the words, couldn’t imagine
why his chums should roar because he had stubbed his toe against the
submerged article.
Taking turns to use the hack-saw, the two lads set to work
energetically. True they broke a couple of blades—mishaps that, owing
to the erratic motion of the yacht and their unstable position, were not
to be wondered at—but at length the tautened wire parted. The bucket
was hauled in deck while Brandon, who believed in doing a good job
thoroughly, extricated the stranded wire rope from the narrow gap
between the rudder and the stern-post.
“Dirty dogs, whoever they are,” commented the Patrol Leader, after he
had hauled himself clear of the water.
“Here’s a clue, anyway,” exclaimed Heavitree.
He pointed to the somewhat dented side of the bucket. On it could be
traced the partly obliterated letters in black paint. . . . UM . . .
R.J. . . .K.
“_Lumberjack!_” announced Craddock. “That’s the name of the tramp lying
next to us at Dartmouth.”
“Why should any of her crew want to play a joke on us, I wonder?”
enquired Carline. “Couldn’t you write to the owners and find out the
names of the crew, sir? That might explain matters.”
“I am thinking seriously of doing so,” replied Mr. Grant. “There may be
more in this business than we know. It’s not merely a practical joke;
had we been compelled to tack out of harbour the result might easily
have been disastrous. Now, Brandon! Get way on her again. She ought to
slip along in a nice breeze like this; and Portland’s still a long way
off.”
With that the Scoutmaster went below.