Becalmed
With all sail set, even the topsail and spinnaker, the _Kestrel_ tore
through the water, shaping a course to pass one mile to the south’ard of
Hengistbury Head, a bold promontory situated roughly midway between Old
Harry and the Needles.
The _Merlin_ was no longer in sight. In vain Brandon, with a pair of
binoculars, swung round his neck, went aloft, where, perched on the
cross-trees, he brought his glasses to bear upon a limited expanse of
horizon that showed between the straining canvas. He could see the brown
sails of half a dozen fishing boats and the smoke of a steamer, but of
the Cornish Sea Scouts’ craft not a sign.
“They’ve too good a pair of heels for us,” he remarked, when he regained
the deck.
“What’s that?” asked Heavitree, pointing slightly on the starboard bow.
“There’s something white. Isn’t that the _Merlin’s_ sails?”
“I believe you’re right,” said Carline. “Only she’s a long way out. Let
me have the glasses, Brandon.”
The Patrol Leader handed over the binoculars. Carline levelled them at
the supposed cloud of canvas.
“Why, it’s a white cliff rising out of the sea,” he exclaimed.
“Yes, the Isle of Wight,” explained Brandon. “It puzzled me at first.
From the cross-trees I could make out the Needles. If——”
A dull thud that shook the yacht from truck to keel interrupted the
Patrol Leader’s words. For a brief instant the _Kestrel_ seemed to stop
dead. It might have been only an illusion, but everyone on deck thought
so.
“We’re aground!” exclaimed Talbot.
Brandon glanced over the side. The yacht was still carrying way and
lifting easily to the waves.
“There’s plenty of water everywhere,” he replied. “We must have struck
something, though.”
The jar brought Mr. Grant on deck to see what was amiss.
“We struck something pretty heavy,” he remarked. “Nip below, Peter, and
look under the floorboards in the fo’c’sle. She may have strained a
plank.”
Craddock did so. He had not been gone more than a few seconds when the
reason of the alarm became evident. About a hundred yards on the
starboard quarter an enormous porpoise broke surface, followed by
another. Both animals were badly scared, for they promptly dived and
were not seen again.
Presently Peter returned with the information that the yacht was as
tight as a bottle. Thanks to her heavy build she had escaped damage,
although a vessel with slighter scantlings might easily have had her bow
planking stove in.
At length Hengistbury Head was brought abeam, and for ten minutes the
_Kestrel_ had a pretty stiff hammering over Christchurch Ledge. By this
time the Needles and the multi-coloured cliffs of Alum Bay were clearly
discernible, while right ahead rose the slender tower of Hurst Castle
lighthouse.
“Look!” exclaimed Talbot. “Isn’t that the _Merlin_?”
He pointed to a yacht about three miles dead ahead. Brandon brought the
binoculars into action.
“Yes, you’re right, Talbot,” he replied. “It is the _Merlin_. She’s
becalmed.”
“Then, we may overhaul her yet,” said Wilson.
“She’ll use her motor,” declared Craddock.
“If they can get the thing to go,” added Brandon. “But it’s rather
strange. Here we are busting along with every stitch of canvas drawing,
and they haven’t a breath of wind. The sea’s as smooth as glass a mile
ahead.”
As far as the _Kestrel_ was concerned the breeze held strong and true
until she drew within a hundred yards of the Cornish Sea Scouts’ craft.
Then the wind failed utterly. In the grip of the now adverse tide both
yachts began to lose ground. Ahead and only three miles away lay the
Solent—looking alluring and peaceful in the rays of the late afternoon
sun. Without the aid of a steady and favourable breeze or that of a
powerful motor the two yachts were not likely to gain their desired
harbour during the next six hours.
Keeping her now useless canvas set, the _Kestrel_ dropped anchor. The
_Merlin_ continued to drift until she came abreast of the Aberstour Sea
Scouts’ craft; then she, too, let go her anchor.
“You were lucky to carry a breeze so long,” shouted the Patrol Leader of
the _Merlin_. “We’ve been becalmed for quite two hours. We got within a
quarter of a mile of the lighthouse when the tide changed. Look where we
are now!”
“Why didn’t you use your motor?” asked Craddock.
“We haven’t been able to get the thing going,” was the reply. “We’ve
been trying all day, and we haven’t given up hope yet, although we do
feel a bit fed up.”
“Can I give you a hand?” asked Peter, who possessed a sound knowledge of
internal combustion engines.
“If you will,” replied the Cornish Patrol Leader.
Craddock jumped into the dinghy, cast off the painter, and rowed to the
_Merlin_. It required a considerable amount of hard rowing, for the tide
was now swirling past and the dinghy was large and heavy.
“What have you done?” he enquired, as he gained the _Merlin’s_ deck.
“Tried everything,” was the reply. “The mag.’s all right; there’s quite
a healthy spark, but she won’t even fire her dope.”
Peter made the usual preliminary tests. Pouring a few drops of petrol
into the plug and placing the latter on the cylinder, he found that the
spirit ignited readily enough; but, as the Patrol Leader had said, the
“dope” would not fire when the plug was in position.
“Tried a spare plug?” asked Craddock.
“Four—no good,” was the terse and emphatic reply.
Carefully overhauling the high-tension wire, Peter called attention to
the fact that the insulation was rather worn at a spot where the wire
crossed one of the bearers of the cockpit floor.
“Yes,” agreed the Cornish lad, “I noticed that; but if there is a short
there’d be no spark at all. As it is, the plug has quite a healthy
spark.”
“Well, try now,” suggested Craddock. “No; don’t replace the floorboards.
Stand astride of the gap.”
At the first swing of the starting handle the motor fired and continued
to do so, “ticking over” with the throttle only just open.
“Well, I’m dashed!” ejaculated the _Merlin’s_ engineer. “What did you
do?”
“Nothing,” replied Peter. “Now replace the floorboards.”
As soon as the rectangular-shaped woodwork was placed in position the
motor stopped.
“That beats me!” remarked the Patrol Leader.
“There’s your trouble,” declared Craddock, removing and overturning the
floorboard. “See that steel plate?”
He pointed to the double strip of metal forming the edge of a slot to
take the reversing lever.
“It’s bearing directly upon the high-tension wire, and the continual
vibration has damaged the insulation. The motor fired when the
floorboard was up, but when it was in position the metal touched the
wire and caused a short circuit. Wrap some insulating tape round the
wire—it would be as well to cut a notch in that beam to let the wire
bed itself better—and you won’t have any more bother.”
“My word! You’re a smart fellow!” exclaimed the other, with frank
admiration.
“Not at all,” protested Craddock. “You see, I had exactly the same
trouble once on board our old boat, the _Puffin_, and I had to get
another fellow to put it right.”
“’Tany rate, you’ve done a very Good Turn,” declared Mr. Pendennis.
“We’ll try and return it by giving the _Kestrel_ a tow. I don’t say that
we’ll succeed against this tide, but we’ll have a good shot at it.”
The Falmouth Scoutmaster hailed the _Kestrel_.
“I say, Grant!” he exclaimed. “We’re going to give you a tow. Do you
know your way in? I don’t, except for the directions in the ‘Channel
Pilot’; but which is Fort Victoria? Look here, do you mind coming on
board and piloting us?”
Mr. Grant accepted the invitation. Craddock returned to the _Kestrel_,
and preparations were made to pass a hawser from the _Merlin_ to the
other yacht. Both anchors were weighed simultaneously and the strenuous
effort began.
Slowly yet surely the two vessels approached Hurst Channel. Ahead could
be seen a confused turmoil of broken sea as the pent-up water of the
Solent forced its way through the narrow passage between Hurst Castle
and the Isle of Wight.
It was now that local knowledge came in most usefully. Except for one
point ominously named “The Trap,” the beach at Hurst Castle is steep-to,
the depth increasing to fifteen fathoms within a few yards of the shore.
By keeping close in, Mr. Grant knew that the full force of the tide
would not only be avoided, but that there would also be found a tidal
eddy in their favour.
“You can rely upon the motor, I hope?” he enquired. “If it should go
wrong, we’ll find ourselves in a very dangerous situation.”
Receiving an assurance on that point, Mr. Grant ordered the helm to be
starboarded a little.
Gradually the slow progress increased until, aided by the
counter-current, the _Merlin_ and the _Kestrel_ seemed to jump ahead.
They were now within their own length of the beach. Ahead lay “The
Trap,” and off it a broiling tide which, if it caught the _Merlin_ on
her port bow, would swing her out into the full strength of the ebb.
Edging cautiously, the _Merlin_ approached the crucial spot. She
appeared to stop dead. The strain on the towing hawser eased. The
_Kestrel_ continued to decrease her distance, making straight for the
dangerous ledge. To Brandon at the helm it seemed as if a titanic hand
was gripping the keel and shaking the whole boat. He could do nothing.
The rudder seemed useless, and yet the yacht was heading for
destruction.
Suddenly the _Merlin_ forged ahead. She had crawled past the dangerous
point and was now aided by a favourable eddy. With a staggering jerk the
hawser took up the strain. The _Kestrel_ leapt ahead, her keel missing
the steeply shelving ledge by inches.
In another five minutes both craft were stemming the relatively weak
tide off the mud-flats of the Hampshire shore.
“Near thing that,” remarked Heavitree. “I thought we should have had to
have jumped for it that time.”
“If we had, we should have stood as much chance as a mouse in a pail of
water,” rejoined Brandon, glancing at the maelstrom astern. “Next time I
think I’d rather wait till the tide turns.”