The Last Lap
“We don’t want him,” declared Mr. Grant. “Why didn’t you signal to the
shore? The place is stiff with warders and other people searching for
him. Well, what happened?”
While Craddock was relating the somewhat alarming incident Brandon got
busy with his electric torch. It was not long before his “general call”
was acknowledged, and a message to the effect that the convict had been
recaptured and was on board was flashed for the information of the
search party.
Back came the reply: “Thanks. Will send boat to fetch him at once.”
“And what happened to you chaps?” asked Heavitree.
“We got stuck in the mud—properly,” admitted Brandon ruefully. “I never
saw such a place for mud. We tried to land at one place and couldn’t.
Then we went on and found an old wharf. Talbot remained as boat-keeper
for both dinghies while the rest of us tramped into Shalfleet. By the
time we had looked round and Mr. Pendennis had bought the petrol we
found both boats high and dry. Talbot did his best to keep them afloat,
but it was of no use. In fact, he stuck twenty yards from shore, and the
mud was so soft that he couldn’t get back. He’s been sitting in the
dinghy for hours. We had had some grub, and now we’re frightfully
hungry. Talbot hasn’t had anything to eat since we pushed off from the
_Kestrel_.”
Already the stove was lighted and preparations under way for a belated
meal. Presently, following a hail of “Yacht ahoy!” a large rowing boat
with two boatmen and four armed warders came alongside.
The convict, who was now conscious, was transhipped. The head warder
asked for particulars.
“Smart bit of work,” he declared admiringly, when Craddock had told his
plain, unvarnished tale. “He’s a desperate character with a black
record. Well, young man, you’ve jolly well earned the reward offered for
his apprehension.”
Peter shook his head.
“We don’t want it, do we, Heavitree?” he replied. “It’s too much like
blood-money.”
“Nonsense,” declared the warder. “You’re entitled to it. You’ve rendered
a public service.”
“S’pose that’s one way of looking at it,” admitted the lad. “All the
same, I don’t like the idea of touching the money. As a matter of fact,
Molly earned it as much as we did. Couldn’t we give the reward to that
Society for—you know what I mean, sir?”
“‘Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.’ Yes, that’s rather
a good wheeze, Peter,” agreed the Scoutmaster. “Well, now, it’s quite
about time this party broke up.”
Taking the hint, the warders removed their prisoner, who accepted the
situation philosophically, especially as Craddock and Heavitree had made
no mention to the authorities of the fact that he had used violence.
“He didn’t hurt our pup, so we simply felt we had to let him down
lightly,” explained Peter.
Very soon the crew of the _Kestrel_ were deep in slumber. They did not
turn out till late in the forenoon for two reasons. They wanted to
arrive at Chichester Harbour “as fresh as paint”; it was practically
useless to attempt to set sail until the west-going tide eased
considerably. By this time the Aberstour Sea Scouts had learnt to
respect the fierce tides of the Solent.
When the lads did turn out, Brandon went on deck to haul down the
riding-light. Then, to his surprise, he discovered that the _Merlin_ was
nowhere to be seen.
“She’s stolen a march on us on the last lap,” declared Heavitree when
the Patrol Leader announced the astonishing news.
“Well, she hasn’t got far,” added Carline. “Unless, of course, she’s
made use of her motor.”
“We would have heard it,” remarked Craddock. “Her exhaust is a very
noisy affair.”
“Perhaps they thought that we gave them the slip at Falmouth,” suggested
Talbot. “One or two of the fellows looked a bit doubtful, as if we were
pulling their legs, when we explained how it happened. So they’re taking
a rise out of us.”
“Stop arguing!” exclaimed Brandon. “Don’t go hanging on to the slack,
but get your breakfasts. The sooner we get under way the better.”
By the time the meal had been dispatched and everything below made
ship-shape the tide had slackened. There was a light southerly breeze
which would enable the _Kestrel_ to romp full and bye up the Solent,
and, unless the wind changed in direction, would take her to Chichester
Bar without having to tack. It was now nine o’clock. High water at
Spithead would occur at four, and if the _Kestrel_ were to make the
rendezvous that day, she must arrive off the bar not later than five.
All plain sail was set, the anchor was weighed, and then main and mizzen
topsails were sent aloft. Finally, the spinnaker was set with the tack
at the bowsprit-end. In fact, every stitch of canvas that could be set
was brought into use.
It was a delightful sail. On the starboard hand the crew could enjoy a
close view of the well-wooded Isle of Wight, while to port they could
discern an expanse of the New Forest and the entrance to Southampton
Water.
Through Cowes Roads the _Kestrel_ tore with wind and tide. Here they saw
for the first time the Mecca of the yachting world with its swarm of
pleasure craft of all sizes and types either anchored or under way.
Sailing yachts, motor craft, pleasure steamers thronged the Roads; while
further out liners, tramps, and warships added to this picture of
merchant activity. There were aeroplanes and flying boats manœuvring,
the latter “taking off” from the surface of the water with surprising
ease.
Just abreast of the Old Castle Point buoy, Brandon called attention to a
couple of cutters, both of which flew the burgee with the _fleur de
lys_. They were on a converging course to that of the _Kestrel_, and in
all probability they would soon come within hailing distance.
But Brandon did not wait for that. Producing a pair of hand flags, he
proceeded to semaphore the approaching craft.
“They are Sea Scouts making for the Jamboree, sir,” he announced. “One
is from Poole, the other from Weymouth. I’ll ask them if they’ve seen
the _Merlin_ pass, since they brought up in Cowes Harbour last night.”
The reply was in the negative; but, the Poole cutter’s signaller added,
a large motor yacht passed making for the east’ard with two Sea Scouts’
galleys in tow.
“It looks as if we’re going to be a merry party,” observed Symington.
“All roads lead to Chichester Harbour. . . . What’s that place, sir?”
He pointed to a large building flanked by two towers and standing on a
hill covered with grass of a remarkably vivid hue.
“That’s Osborne House,” replied the Scoutmaster. “It used to be a royal
residence. Queen Victoria died there. See that long pier ahead, Talbot?
That’s Ryde Pier. Steer to pass about a quarter of a mile from its head.
We’re moving, by Jove! At this rate we’ll soon make Chichester Harbour.”
The three yachts were now almost in line, the _Kestrel_ being to
wind’ard. They were keeping practically level. If anything, the
_Kestrel_ was gaining slightly.
“We’re showing them a clean pair of heels, sir!” remarked Talbot, with
no uncertain display of satisfaction.
“Yes, because this wind suits us,” replied Mr. Grant. “If it headed us,
and we had to beat to wind’ard, they’d whack us hollow. A ketch is no
match for a cutter at that game, so I wouldn’t chip those fellows if I
were you. They might have the laugh of us before very long.”
“There’s a rowing boat with a Scout flag over there, sir,” reported
Craddock.
Mr. Grant levelled his glasses. A double-sculler manned by three lads in
Sea Scouts’ rig was coming out of Wootton Creek. She had just drawn
clear of the outer beacon and was pointing towards Ryde.
“Surely those chaps aren’t going to the Jamboree,” remarked Peter. “Not
in that cockleshell.”
“They’ve a lot of gear in the boat,” declared Mr. Grant. “I shouldn’t be
at all surprised if they are making for Chichester Harbour.”
“It’s a long way to row,” added Brandon tentatively.
“Down helm a bit,” ordered Mr. Grant. “We’ll see if they are bound
there. If so, we’ll offer them a tow.”
Rapidly the _Kestrel_ overhauled the boat. The crew of the latter
continued to pull steadily.
“Where are you bound?” hailed the Patrol Leader, as the ketch drew near.
“Chichester.”
“Want a tow?”
“Yes, rather.”
The oarsmen boated their oars, the bowman coiling up the painter ready
to make a cast.
Brandon was too experienced to attempt to pick up the boat with the
_Kestrel_ going at such a speed. Making a wide sweep, he brought the
ketch head to wind within an oar’s length of the frail double-sculler.
“Hadn’t we better get them all on board, sir?” enquired the Patrol
Leader. “The skiff will tow lighter and easier if we do.”
In double quick time the three Sea Scouts boarded the _Kestrel_. Their
boat, with a double painter rove as a matter of precaution, was dropped
astern of the _Kestrel’s_ dinghy and the ketch was again put on her
former course. By this time the Weymouth and Pool cutters had drawn
ahead to a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile; but, sportsman-like,
they had backed their head-sails to enable the _Kestrel_ to recover her
lead.
“You fellows looked like having a long pull,” remarked Craddock to the
three youths whose jerseys bore the inscription, “Third Wootton Bridge
Sea Scouts.” “Bit risky, isn’t it?”
“We weren’t going to be out of it,” explained the Second. “Our Troop
left yesterday in the _Pixie_. We couldn’t get away. I work at a garage.
Jim, here, is at a baker’s; and Tim has a job at the yacht-yard. At the
last lap, so to speak, we got the time off, and Tim’s boss lent us this
double-sculler.”
“You might have found yourselves in difficulties off Chichester Bar,”
observed Mr. Grant. “There’s often a nasty sea running there, I
believe.”
“Yes, sir,” admitted the Second. “But we weren’t going to risk that in
that sort of boat. We were going to row as far as Ryde, where the
skipper of a motor tug promised to tow us across to Portsmouth.”
“I don’t see how that would help you very much,” commented the
Scoutmaster. “You would still have to get into Chichester Harbour.”
“Inland water all the way, sir,” declared the lad. “There’s a channel
between Portsmouth and Langston Harbour, and another between Langston
and Chichester. It’s all right for small boats, but you couldn’t do it
because of the bridges, unless you unship your masts.”
Past a couple of “scrapped” monitors, the unwieldy appearance and huge
guns of which afforded considerable interest to the _Kestrel’s_ crew,
the ketch tore through the water. Off Ryde they sighted two other
craft—a yawl and a converted lifeboat—both of which bore the
distinguishing flag of the Sea Scout brotherhood.
“Now, where do we make for, sir?” asked Brandon.
“Steer for that fort,” replied Mr. Grant, indicating a circular
structure painted in black and yellow squares and rising sheer out of
the sea.
“Is that a fort?” enquired Talbot. “It looks more like a gigantic
cheese. Why, there are two more!”
“Yes, and we have to pass between the pair,” continued the Scoutmaster.
“See that low-lying belt of trees? That’s Hayling. The entrance to
Chichester Harbour is just beyond.”
Presently half a dozen sailing craft were noticed on the port quarter.
These comprised the Portsmouth and Gosport contingent of Sea Scouts,
while astern a couple of motor launches each towing two whalers
announced their identity as part of Southampton’s representation at the
forthcoming Jamboree.
By this time there were nearly twenty yachts and boats within a radius
of half a mile all making for a common point—the entrance to Chichester
Harbour. Many Sea Scout craft had already arrived. Others were on the
way, not only from the West, but from the East Coast. Provided the
weather held, the success of the Jamboree seemed assured.
“Well, thank goodness we’re not leading the procession,” exclaimed Mr.
Grant. “I’ll gladly allow someone else to show us the way in. From all
accounts it’s a very tricky and badly marked entrance, so we must be
thankful we haven’t to grope and scrape over the Bar.”
“I can’t see any entrance,” said Craddock.
Viewed from seaward the coast-line appeared to consist of an unbroken
line of low-lying, sandy shore with a few houses and trees, extending
eastward as far as the eye could reach until only the tree-tops showed
above the horizon in the neighbourhood of Selsea Bill. Ahead, as the
_Kestrel_ was now pounding, were masses of white foam as the rollers
broke on the flat shoals of the dangerous Winners. Yet the leading craft
held unswervingly on their course, as if they meant to hurl themselves
to destruction upon those formidable surf-swept sandbanks.
Presently a small white motor boat was sighted ahead and quite a mile
from the beach. She, too, displayed the Scout burgee, and as each
approaching craft drew level with her a uniformed official shouted
directions to the newcomers.
“What yacht is that?” demanded the Commissioner as the _Kestrel_ drew
near. “Where are you from? Good. What’s your draught? Four feet; then
you’ve plenty of water. Keep close to the west shore inside the entrance
until you sight a buoy on your starboard hand. Then port helm and carry
on up the boomed channel.”
“Ay, ay, sir!” replied Mr. Grant, and the motor boat forged ahead to
interview the next arrival and to tell her to heave-to until the tide
made sufficiently for her draught to cross the bar.
“What a topping place!” exclaimed Craddock enthusiastically.
His appreciation was justifiable; for, although the approach to
Chichester Harbour presents a dreary aspect, the view when once within
its shelter is superb; while the spacious land-locked expanse with its
three principal arms afforded miles of safe yet entrancing sailing.
After following a well-marked channel for about three miles and making a
gentle bend to starboard, the leading craft began to reduce canvas.
The _Kestrel_ followed suit; then a regular forest of masts appeared to
occupy the whole width of the waterway, while ashore a small village of
tents accommodated those Sea Scouts whom circumstances had prevented
from living and sleeping afloat. Conspicuous amongst the floating
community was a large yacht flying the characteristic burgee of the
Chief Sea Scout, and displaying the International Code Signal:
KY—“Anchor as convenient.”
Five minutes later, the _Kestrel_ brought up on the fringe of the fleet
and well sheltered by the curving arms of a sandy bay. Eighty yards or
so away was a little pier fronting the lines of tents and affording
means of landing at any state of the tide. Canvas was then stowed and
ropes coiled away. Then for the first time the crew of the _Kestrel_
were at leisure to take in the animated scene.
Suddenly Heavitree turned and smacked Craddock on the shoulder.
“Peter, old son!” he exclaimed joyously, “aren’t you thunderingly glad
you’re a Sea Scout?”