The Peril of the Race
Late in the afternoon the long-looked-for Portland Bill was sighted—not
on the port bow, but dead ahead. Apparently in the light air the
_Kestrel_ had been carried by an indraught slightly to the nor’ard of
her proper course. Progress had been slow, and in consequence she had
lost her tide and was now making very little against the west-going
stream.
“It will mean another night at sea, lads,” remarked Mr. Grant, when the
Patrol Leader had reported land in sight. “It will be quite five hours
before we pick up a fair tide, and then, unless the wind holds, we’ll
have to be jolly careful we aren’t swept into Portland Race.”
“Let me know the course, sir, and I’ll see she keeps to it,” declared
Brandon. “There’s no need for you to do anything. How’s your hand now,
sir?”
“Better,” replied the Scoutmaster, although he knew perfectly well that
it was far from being right. “I’ll turn out at sunset.”
“You oughtn’t to, really, sir,” protested Brandon. “Take it easy
to-night. If anything unusual occurs we’ll give you a call.”
Mr. Grant capitulated. He was still feeling “a bit shaky.” The finger,
thanks to action of numerous poultices, had swollen still more, but
there were no indications of the poison discharging itself. In these
circumstances, an accidental knock or blow might easily undo all the
good that had been done by fomentation. In addition, the Scoutmaster
“had a temperature,” although he kept this knowledge to himself, hoping
that in a few hours’ time it would return to normal.
“What are we going to do with our stowaway, sir?” asked Brandon.
“Send him home from the first place we touch at,” replied Mr. Grant.
“It’s unfortunate we cannot signal. His grandparents must be very
anxious about him; but we can send a wire from Swanage.”
“He’s a queer sort of fellow, isn’t he?” remarked Brandon.
“Yes, but it’s hardly his fault. It’s the way he’s been brought up,”
replied the Scoutmaster. “He uses those somewhat high-brow expressions
quite naturally, because he’s lived in an atmosphere in which they are
spoken. After all, it’s the same with everyone. A stable boy
unconsciously uses racing slang because he hears it all around him. A
sailor’s expressions are often unintelligible to landsmen, although his
messmates haven’t the slightest difficulty in understanding what he
says. Often we were at a loss to know what the Cornish fisherfolk were
saying. Eric Little’s case is much the same, only in a very much smaller
environment. Well, right-o, Brandon. Carry on, if you will. See that all
hands get a decent meal, then pick your watch and let the rest turn in.”
Alive to his responsibilities, Brandon went on deck, ordered the
spinnaker to be taken in, and set the _Kestrel_ on her new course. He,
too, realised the dangers of being becalmed at night in the vicinity of
that dangerous expanse of turbulent water known as Portland Race.
Night came on. The yacht, moving slowly through the calm water, was
steadily losing ground. Although she was pointing seawards, the strong
tide was sweeping her back. The Bill appeared to be receding, but there
was no likelihood of losing sight of the powerful high light on that
famous promontory. With the turn of the tide the leeway would be quickly
made up, but there was the risk of the _Kestrel_ being carried through
the Race before she could gain a sufficient offing to pass it to the
south’ard.
At ten o’clock Mr. Grant came on deck to look round. It was a perfectly
calm night and the shoreward lights showed up distinctly.
“We’re still rather close in,” he remarked. “Those are the lights of
Lyme Regis, and more to the east’ard are those of Bridport. I wish we
had had time to visit Bridport. It’s a picturesque little place. There
used to be a quaint expression: ‘Struck with a Bridport dagger.’ Does
anyone know what that means?”
There was silence for a few moments; but before Mr. Grant could explain,
Eric Little replied:
“I believe I know: it is a colloquial expression signifying that a
person has been hanged.”
“Quite right!” exclaimed Mr. Grant approvingly. “Bridport was noted for
rope-making, and also for sailcloth. Now I’ll tell you something more,
and I wonder if you can explain the reason for it. Years ago when the
rope and sailcloth industry was at its height most of the flax was
brought to Bridport in Russian vessels. They used to send the stuff up
to the town in boats. On Saturday nights the Russians made a point of
going into the town, which is some distance from the harbour. The road
between the two places was lighted with oil lamps. Every time the
Russians returned to their ships these lamps were afterwards found to be
extinguished. Why?”
Several suggestions were forthcoming, but at each of them Mr. Grant
shook his head.
“The Russian sailors drank the oil,” he explained. “In those days the
lamps were filled with whale-oil, and that was evidently a liquid
appreciated by the Muscovites. . . . Now, Brandon, send the watch below
down. I’ll turn in, since the skipper insists; but call me at once, if
necessary. Good night!”
Retaining Heavitree as a deck-hand, Brandon prepared for his long vigil.
The wind showed no indication of appearing. The sea was as smooth as
glass, save for the occasional ripples caused by a fish “breaking
surface.” For the next two hours the _Kestrel_ was left to her own
devices, drifting idly, with the dinghy frequently ranging up alongside
as she swung through all the points of the compass.
At midnight a faint haze obscured the bright light of Portland, which
was now about twelve miles away. Before the light disappeared, Brandon
took a compass-bearing and noted it in the log. Then he resumed his
tedious watch.
“Four bells!” he announced at length, stirring the torpid Heavitree with
his foot. “You turn in, now, old son, and tell Peter to come on watch.”
“Where are we?” asked Craddock, as he gained the cockpit.
Brandon told him, adding the information that the flood tide had now set
in.
“Haven’t touched the tiller for the last four hours,” he remarked.
“We’re just drifting. This is where a motor would come in handy. Well,
thank goodness, this isn’t the Doldrums, and we ought to get a breeze
soon.”
At length came that “darkest hour before the dawn,” when human vitality
is supposed to be at its lowest ebb. Through the stillness of the night
came a low rumble.
“What’s that?” asked Peter. “Thunder?”
“Don’t think so,” replied his chum. “It’s too prolonged.”
They listened. The sound continued and seemed to increase in volume
until it reached a distinct rumbling roar.
“It must be the Race,” declared Brandon. “Of course it’s still a long
way off, but we’re being carried into it.”
“What’s to be done?” asked Peter. “Anchor?”
“No use attempting to anchor in over twenty fathoms,” replied the Patrol
Leader. “Let’s get the sweeps to work. It will be something to do, and
we may get her well clear with an hour’s steady work. Gently with them;
don’t disturb the other fellows.”
Carefully the long ash sweeps were placed in the rowlocks, and by means
of steady strokes the _Kestrel_ was brought round until the yacht’s bows
pointed sou’-sou’-east. The dinghy’s painter no longer trailed in the
water as the little boat followed sedately in the wake of her parent.
Again the beams of the high light of Portland pierced the darkness, this
time broad on the port beam. The roar of the Race steadily increased.
“Don’t think we’ll clear it,” muttered Brandon breathlessly, for
sweeping the yacht was heavy and tiring work.
“I wish it were day,” rejoined Peter. “Then we could see where we are.
How far are we from the Race, do you think?”
“Quite near enough,” admitted the Patrol Leader. “You’d better inform
Mr. Grant and turn out a couple of hands to man the dinghy. We might be
able to tow the yacht as well as sweep her.”
Craddock found the Scoutmaster awake. In fact, Mr. Grant had hardly
slept at all. Apart from the still painful state of his arm his anxiety
as to what might happen on the turn of the tide had kept him awake. He
realised the danger. All along that dangerous coast there is no harbour
for which a vessel can make for shelter except at or about the time of
high water. True, there is a smooth passage between the Race and the
Bill, but even then a stranger is apt to get into difficulties and be
swept into the dangerous overfalls unless he times the attempt at a
favourable state of the tide.
Mr. Grant came on deck.
“You’ve done all you can, Brandon,” he remarked. “We may be able to tow
her clear. Get the other fellows out and see that the forehatch and
skylights are well secured. We’ll be having plenty of green water over
our decks before very long, I fancy.”
Craddock was about to haul the dinghy alongside, when he caught sight of
the steaming-lights of a vessel on the starboard quarter. She was, he
judged, about a quarter of a mile away and heading straight for the
_Kestrel_. Above the distant roar of the Race could be distinguished the
steady pulsations of a marine motor.
“Show a stern light,” ordered Brandon. “She won’t be able to see our
starboard light.”
Talbot produced a torch and held it pointing in the direction of the
oncoming vessel. Suddenly a succession of “E’s” in Morse flashed from
the stranger; then, after a brief pause, came the question, “What ship
is that?”
“_Kestrel!_” signalled Talbot in reply.
“I hope they’ll be the wiser for that,” remarked Carline.
Then, to the astonishment of all on board, the approaching craft
announced her identity as the _Merlin_, and followed up by asking
whether the _Kestrel_ wanted a tow.
“Yes, badly,” was the reply.
In a few minutes the Falmouth Sea Scouts’ yacht was alongside.
“So we’ve overhauled you,” remarked Scoutmaster Pendennis. “We wondered
what had happened. What made you put to sea in a fog?”
“Didn’t you get our wire?” countered Mr. Grant. “But explanations can
come later. You’ve arrived at a very opportune moment.”
“And how’s that?” asked Mr. Pendennis.
“We’re in danger of being swept through Portland Race, and it looks as
if you are heading straight for it.”
“Are we, by Jove!” ejaculated the Cornishman. “Yes, I can hear the roar
now. Our engine muffled the sound. Right-o! pass your line. Course,
sou’east?”
“Sou’-sou’-east would be better,” remarked Mr. Grant. “’Tany rate, day’s
breaking, and we’ll soon see if we’re giving the Race sufficient berth.”
“Right-o!” rejoined Scoutmaster Pendennis. “We’ll do our best, but we’ve
only an eight horsepower engine.”
The _Merlin_ forged slowly ahead until she took up the strain of the
tow; then, increasing power, she whisked the _Kestrel_ along at a steady
five knots.
“You fellows can turn in again,” said Brandon, addressing the Sea Scouts
who had been routed out of their bunks.
But the lads showed no desire to go below. In the pale grey dawn they
remained on deck, dividing their interest between the _Merlin_ and a
broad belt of white-foamed water barely a couple of miles on the port
hand. Although the sea everywhere else was calm, the Race was one
chaotic mass of broken water, roaring like a wild beast baulked of its
prey.
“Good old _Merlin_!” exclaimed Talbot. “She’s done the trick!”
Mr. Grant did not join in the chorus of appreciation. It was yet too
soon to shout. He had his doubts on the ability of the little motor to
carry out its heavy task; for, although both yachts were moving in a
southerly direction at about five knots, the now strong flood tide was
setting in a nor’-easterly direction at a good seven miles an hour. The
question that arose was whether the _Merlin_ and her tow could draw
clear of the Race in time; although there was some consolation in the
fact that the yachts were no longer in danger of being carried into the
centre of that tempestuous waste of water.
Almost imperceptibly the _Kestrel_ began to feel the influence of the
broken waves. Soon she began to pitch and roll. So did the _Merlin_, to
the accompaniment of a series of heavy jerks on the towing hawser.
“Why, the Race is coming towards us!” remarked Symington.
“No, it isn’t,” rejoined Brandon drily. “We’re going towards it. Hang on
to something solid, you fellows. We’ll be getting wet shirts in a brace
of shakes. . . . You all right, sir? Mind that arm!”
The fellows on the _Merlin_ had by this time noticed the danger that
threatened them. Two of her crew hurriedly paid out more hawser, an act
that at first looked as if the _Merlin_ was about to cast off her
well-nigh helpless consort. Some of the former’s crew who had been
sitting comfortably on the fore-deck came aft hurriedly when they saw
the wall of breaking water approaching.
A minute later and both yachts were in the thick of it. True, it was but
the tail end of the dreaded Race, but the sight of the agitated mass of
water was none the less awesome. At one moment the _Merlin_ was towing
the _Kestrel_ through a calm sea; at the next both craft, pitching,
heeling, and staggering, were being assailed by the furious waves.
Again and again the _Kestrel_ dipped her bowsprit, flung her bows high
as her stern dropped into the trough of the sea. Spars and solid gear
rattled, canvas shook and flapped furiously as boom and gaff, bringing
up with disconcerting jerks, threatened to shake the mast out of her,
the while the _Merlin_, similarly assailed, was doing her best to win
through. Suddenly a particularly vicious breaker surged over her
quarter. The motor stopped. Both yachts were now helpless in the grip of
the dreaded overfalls.