The Admiral
“What’s that fellow staring at us for?” asked Talbot.
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Symington carelessly, as he stooped to put a
final polish on his shore-going boots. “It’s the thing to do afloat.
Everyone does, and it’s taken as a sort of compliment to the craft you
happen to be aboard.”
“But, just you look at him,” persisted Talbot.
It was the morning following the arrival of the _Kestrel_ and the
_Merlin_ in Lymington River. Both craft were brought up on Long Reach
and just above the second beacon. As the east-going tide would not run
before the afternoon, and as it was almost a hopeless proposition to
attempt to stem the adverse tide, the crews of both boats had arranged
to go ashore in the forenoon, and were consequently “smartening
themselves up” for the occasion.
Symington gave a casual glance. Then he looked a second time. Evidently
Talbot’s wonder was justifiable, for breasting the ebb-tide was an open,
centre-board sailing boat in the stern-sheets of which sat the only
occupant.
He was a bronzed-complexioned man of about forty, with iron-grey hair
and a white “torpedo” beard. His beetling brows were conspicuous by
their long, white hairs, overhanging dark and deep-set eyes. He wore a
blue reefer suit and a peaked cap cocked at a rakish angle over one eye.
As Talbot had remarked, he was staring—although it looked more like a
glare—straight at the _Kestrel_.
The _Kestrel_ had anchored about fifty yards lower down the stream than
the _Merlin_, and was in consequence nearer to the approaching boat.
Even as Symington looked the bearded man put his helm down with the
evident intention of coming alongside.
“Someone to see you, sir!” he announced, addressing Mr. Grant, who had
just finished shaving.
The rest of the crew of the _Kestrel_ came on deck. Talbot and Carline
stood by with fenders; Symington prepared to take the stranger’s
painter; while the others lined up behind Mr. Grant, standing smartly at
“alert.”
But instead of running alongside the man let his sheets fly, with the
result that the boat lost way and, only just stemming the tide, remained
practically level with the _Kestrel_.
Then he stood up, almost bursting blood-vessels in his unaccountable
anger.
“Confound you, sir!” he roared. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“’Fraid I don’t,” replied Mr. Grant mildly. “Unless,” he added
cheerfully, “unless you are the harbour master.”
“Insolence, sir! Rank insolence!” blared the man. “Why don’t you salute?
Why haven’t you dipped your ensign? I’m the Admiral commanding the
Atlantic Fleet!”
For a moment the Scoutmaster was nonplussed. Obviously the enraged
individual was a lunatic and possibly a dangerous one. The situation had
to be handled delicately. The best thing to do, he decided, was to
humour the man. Fortunately the crew had taken their cue from their
Scoutmaster and had refrained from roaring with laughter.
“I am sorry, sir,” said Mr. Grant. “I failed to recognise you.”
“That’s no excuse,” stormed the man. “You’ve failed to pay proper
respect to your commanding officer, sir! Consider yourself under
arrest!”
“Very good, sir,” replied the Scoutmaster.
The while he was working out a very difficult problem. If the intruder
were as fierce as he looked—and in spite of his age he was active and
muscular—he was a positive danger. Perhaps before the united efforts of
the Sea Scouts could place him under restraint he might inflict severe
injuries on some of them. Handicapped by his injured hand, Mr. Grant
realised that he could do little from a physical point of view.
On the other hand, he could not continue to temporise indefinitely. If
Mr. Pendennis could be communicated with, without exciting the man’s
suspicions, something might be done, for the Cornish Scoutmaster was a
huge, hefty fellow with no small reputation as a wrestler in a county
where wrestling as a sport holds a high position.
Just then the madman noticed that his boat was adrift. He had neglected
to make fast the painter, and owing to his strange behaviour the Sea
Scouts had not given the boat a thought. Already the little sailing
craft, with her sails still out, was drifting to lee’ard.
“Quartermaster of the Watch!” shouted the intruder. “Who gave you orders
to take my barge from the——”
He paused abruptly. In his disordered brain was a faint realisation that
there was no accommodation ladder to this craft. Its absence puzzled
him.
Suddenly he grasped Carline by the shoulder and hurled him overboard. It
was done so swiftly and unexpectedly that no one had time to raise even
a finger to attempt to prevent it; but the next instant Brandon and
Craddock threw themselves upon the madman.
There was little room on the waterway for a struggle—merely a space of
about thirty inches between the raised cabin-top and the side of the
yacht; but in spite of limited surroundings the affray was a strenuous
one.
To the credit of the two Sea Scouts it must be recorded that neither
lost his temper, in spite of the fact that they had seen Carline tossed
into the ditch.
The madman fought desperately, using his fists successfully. It was
evident that he had been a trained boxer; yet there was wanting the
necessary co-operation between the brain and his fists.
Contenting himself with parrying the man’s deliberate blows, the Patrol
Leader kept his opponent busy while Craddock contrived to get behind the
infuriated intruder. Then, gripping the man round his waist, Peter threw
him on his back upon the cabin-top.
The struggle was not yet over. Again and again the maniac sought to
regain his feet. Wrenching one arm free, he struck out. Brandon gripped
him by the wrist and held on. Still the man resisted; yet
notwithstanding his fury he made no effort to use his feet against his
youthful antagonists.
He was visibly tiring. So were Brandon and Craddock, but not to such an
extent. It was then that Heavitree joined in the fray. Deftly passing a
rope round the madman’s ankle and taking a turn with the end to one of
the runners, he soon had the man reduced to a state of helplessness;
while Brandon completed the business by securing the fellow’s arms
behind his back with his scarf.
Meanwhile one of the crew of the _Merlin_ who happened to be on deck had
raised the alarm, and the yacht’s dinghy, manned by four Sea Scouts,
with Mr. Pendennis in the stern-sheets, came at top speed towards the
_Kestrel_.
At the same time Carline was returning with the maniac’s boat. Finding
himself overboard, the Sea Scout thought that since he was in the water
he might just as well secure the drifting boat. This he did. Then,
lowering the centre-board and trimming the sheets, he sailed the little
craft alongside the _Kestrel_ just as the _Merlin’s_ dinghy arrived upon
the scene.
“Hello! What’s the trouble?” enquired Scoutmaster Pendennis.
Mr. Grant tapped his forehead significantly.
“Is that so?” continued the Cornishman. “Poor fellow! I wonder where he
came from. As a matter of fact, I thought you’d had a visit from the
escaped convict. Haven’t you heard? It’s in this morning’s paper. A
prisoner got away from Parkhurst yesterday afternoon. It is supposed
that he stole a boat and crossed to the mainland. There’s a boat missing
at Yarmouth. Any damage done?”
Brandon and Craddock, breathing heavily, shook their heads. Heavitree
had barked his knuckles in the struggle, but decided that “it was
nothing to write home about.” The madman, exhausted by his efforts, was
lying comparatively still, but apparently uninjured.
The rapid beats of a steamer’s paddles caused a general rush to fend off
the boats lying alongside the _Kestrel_. One of the passenger boats
plying between Yarmouth and Lymington was coming up the river and
throwing out a tremendous wash. Further down stream anchored yachts were
rolling heavily in the breaking swell, while tons of water were receding
from the mud-flats in advance of the quickly moving vessel.
As she passed, one of the passengers standing aft noticed the bound
figure on the _Kestrel’s_ deck and called his companions’ attention to
it. Then, raising his hands trumpet-wise to his mouth, he shouted:
“We’ll come for him as soon as we can.”
The steamer continued on her way to the pier, leaving the _Kestrel_
rolling so heavily in her swell that Heavitree had to steady the
helpless captive lest he should be jerked overboard.
Half an hour later a large rowing boat with a boatman and the two
passengers from the steamer came alongside.
“So you’ve got him, sir,” said one of the latter. “I hope he didn’t give
you much trouble.”
“Not much,” replied Mr. Grant. “Who is he?”
The attendant, for such he was, explained. The madman was an inmate of a
private mental hospital a few miles from Yarmouth. Usually he was quite
docile, but there were occasions when he became violent. More than once
by a display of considerable cunning he had broken out of the
establishment, and invariably he had made his way to the little seaport
and had taken possession of an unattended boat.
“We guessed he’d be making for Lymington,” continued the man. “When I
heard Mr. Lucas’s boat was missing, I said to my mate, ‘The Admiral’s up
to his old trick again.’ We call him The Admiral, because he’s always
under the delusion that he is one. Of course, the police must come to
the conclusion that the boat was taken by the fellow who got away from
Parkhurst yesterday, though I told them they were wrong. A desperate
chap, six foot one such as he is, wouldn’t risk showing himself in
Yarmouth, if he wanted to steal a boat. Glad we didn’t come across him
when we were looking for The Admiral last night. He’s serving a long
term for house-breaking with violence, and I don’t envy the policeman
who has to tackle him. Well, sir, we’ll take charge of The Admiral, if
you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind in the least,” replied Mr. Grant. “I suppose he won’t give
trouble?”
“Bless you, no, sir!” declared the attendant. “He’ll be as quiet as a
lamb. Come on, Admiral!” he continued, addressing the subject of his
search. “There’s a rehearsal this afternoon, and what will happen if the
first violin isn’t there?”
So saying, he removed the madman’s bonds and helped him to his feet. The
unfortunate man stepped into the waiting boat as quietly as any ordinary
individual.
“How about this?” enquired the Scoutmaster, pointing to the sailing
boat.
“I’ll be along to take charge of her, sir,” said the boatman. “You won’t
be getting under way afore the flood tide, I’ll allow?”
With the departure of the attendants and their charge, Mr. Pendennis
prepared to return to his own craft.
“We won’t be starting before two o’clock, I suppose,” he remarked.
“We’ll carry our tide right through to Chichester. Ought to get there by
eight with the breeze. By the way, how’s that hand of yours, Grant?
Oughtn’t you to see a doctor and get it lanced?”
“No need,” replied Mr. Grant. “The poison’s out and the wound is healing
nicely. It will be all right in a day or so. Now, lads! Who’s for the
shore?”