The Race for the Cup
Punctually at 1.45 on the following afternoon the eventful race for the
Silver Cup started. Nine yachts, each measuring thirty feet or more on
the water-line, were towed into position and anchored. There they swung
to the weak flood tide with canvas stowed just as if they had
“brought-up” for the rest of the day.
On board the _Kestrel_, the third from the starboard end of the line,
four very serious Sea Scouts, with Mr. Grant in command, sat
breathlessly waiting for the starting gun. Although the conditions
governing the race were new to them—in the old _Puffin_ they had always
had a flying start following a five-minute gun—they realised they had a
fighting chance provided they did their very best and did not bungle;
for not until after the races were completed would the name of the
winning yacht be known. That was one of the surprises of racing under a
sealed handicap.
“Fifty seconds!” announced Mr. Grant calmly. “Stand by! Fifty-five . . .
fifty-six . . . fifty-seven . . . fifty-eight . . . fifty-nine. . . .”
“Bang!”
Simultaneously with the flash of the starting gun the hitherto
practically motionless crews of the competing craft were figuratively
galvanised into activity. In as short a time as possible, the bare poles
would be hidden by the towering canvas, anchors would be weighed, and
the vessels would leap forward on the determined contest.
On board the _Kestrel_, although her crew had had plenty of practice in
getting under way, they had not had to take into consideration the fact
that at a few yards’ distance on either side other crews were doing the
same thing. Besides, they were short-handed, five being the maximum
number allowed. The rest of the _Kestrel’s_ complement were ashore,
where, in common with several hundred Sea Scouts and other spectators,
they were yelling themselves hoarse with excitement.
Brandon and Craddock, casting off the tyers, hauled away at main and
peak halliards. Heavitree and Carline ran for’ard to attach the foresail
to the forestay by means of the hanks, and to run the jib out on the
bowsprit ready to hoist. By the time the mainsail was set Heavitree, who
was chosen for this particular work by reason of his strength, broke out
the anchor and got it inboard.
Simultaneously with the racing of the anchor, Mr. Grant put the helm
hard-a-starboard, Brandon tended the mainsheet, while the two hands
for’ard set both jib and staysail.
As soon as the _Kestrel_ forged ahead, Peter and the Patrol Leader set
and trimmed the mizzen. This done, all hands went quietly to their
racing station and awaited orders.
Now for the first time since the starting gun Peter was able to take
notice of what the other competing yachts were doing. Smart though the
_Kestrel’s_ crew had been in getting under way, there were two craft
which had executed the manœuvre in quicker time and already had
established a useful lead. One was a centre-board cutter from the
Humber, a wholesome looking craft; the other, also a cutter, belonging
to a Plymouth Troop. Slightly to lee’ard, and with her hands still
engaged in sheeting home their canvas, was a Poole ex-fishing boat
rather noted for her speed and weatherly qualities. A few yards astern
was a deep-draughted Bristol pilot cutter. Apparently she had trouble
with her peak-halliard blocks, and a couple of Sea Scouts were swarming
aloft to set things right.
All these craft were close-hauled on the starboard tack. The rest of the
competitors, including two who had collided at the start, were heading
towards the Bosham side of the channel.
So far so well. Peter had never known the _Kestrel_ to move so fast in
such a light wind. For one thing, she was no longer hampered by her
dinghy. That impediment was for the present unnecessary and had been
left ashore.
But clean-heeled though the _Kestrel_ was, there were others who were
faster. Although Mr. Grant, by keeping her “full,” got the very best out
of the yacht, she could neither point so high nor travel as fast as two
of the cutters.
On the fore-deck of the _Kestrel_, Heavitree lay motionless, keeping
well down to minimise wind-resistance. The rest of the crew stationed
aft were as silent and immobile as statues. They realised that the race
was not a game. It was something that required every effort of mind and
body on the part of each member of the crew. Even to move about
unnecessarily might mean the loss of the race, for even in a craft of
the size of the _Kestrel_ it would be adversely sensitive to the
alteration of “trim” should any of the crew begin “jumping about.”
Now the leading yacht on the starboard tack was nearing the edge of the
deep-water channel. She drew more than the _Kestrel_, and the problem
that confronted Mr. Grant was whether to put the helm down at once, or,
taking advantage of the _Kestrel’s_ smaller draught, carry on and pass
astern and consequently to wind’ard of his antagonist. He had to make up
his mind quickly. He realised, too, that against the flood tide he might
find slack water, or even a counter-eddy close to the hidden mud-flat.
He chose the latter alternative.
“Stand by to go about!” he ordered; then “Lee-o!”
Quickly yet deliberately Brandon let the head-sheets fly. Round came the
_Kestrel_ slowly yet surely, shooting ahead in the slack water and
actually overlapping the leading cutter. But the advantage was only
temporary, although it counted in the long run. Unable to point as high
as his rival, the _Kestrel’s_ speed diminished. The only possible course
was to up-helm slightly and to romp under the Humber yacht’s lee.
Meanwhile the Plymouth vessel had gone about and was making short but
useful tacks; while the Bristol yacht, holding on too long, was aground
with her crew feverishly working in an attempt to get her off.
Half-way across the Channel, the _Kestrel_, now on the port tack, met
the competing craft, which had made for the northern side of the
fairway. By the “rules of the road” she had to give way. Now came the
test of the helmsman’s skill and sound judgment. The slightest error
might result in disaster, for which the _Kestrel_ would be blamed. Even
the faintest contact between her and one of the yachts on the starboard
tack would disqualify her. In addition there were two boats abeam of her
and two more astern. No need to worry about the last two. They had to
avoid those ahead as well as those converging on the opposite tack.
The _Kestrel_ passed the first of the starboard-tack boats at less than
a couple of yards to lee’ard. For a brief instant, as the lowering
canvas of the latter blanketed the wind, the _Kestrel_ recovered from
her heel; her sails shivered, the mainsheet sagged. Then at the next
moment she staggered as she felt the full force of the breeze, and,
luffing, shot magnificently across the bows of the next competitor.
It was exhilarating work. Even in that land-locked harbour, the dead
beat to wind’ard with a weather-going tide sent the spindrift flying
over the bows. Yet the disconcerting fact was now apparent. The
_Kestrel_, owing to her rig and generous amount of deadwood fore and
aft, was hopelessly out of it against the performance of most of her
competitors in the thrash to wind’ard. She could only hold on gamely.
Even the Bristol boat was afloat once more and was tearing along in
grand style. Astern a Dover yacht was in difficulties with a torn jib;
while a Newhaven yawl and a Grimsby cutter, both under-canvassed, were
indulging in a ding-dong race on their own account.
At twenty minutes from the start the two leading competitors were
rounding the mark buoy. The _Kestrel_ was still a good two hundred yards
from it. Four other boats, bunched together, were bearing down on the
port tack for the turning-point.
As luck would have it the second boat’s bowsprit was almost level with
the leader’s counter as they prepared to go about at the mark buoy. This
is what is termed “establishing an overlap,” and the second craft has
the right to hail the other to give her more room. If, however, there is
no overlap the leading craft can carry on, leaving the other to get out
of her way and pass outside her.
At this critical moment a collision occurred. The leading yacht, with
her mainsail ripped, fell away, leaving the second with her bowsprit
smashed off close to the stem-head and her jib trailing in the water.
“Rough luck!” commented the sportsman-like Craddock. “They’re out of
it.”
But Peter was wrong. The yacht with the damaged bowsprit was
automatically disqualified; but the other, in spite of the sorry
condition of her mainsail, bore away and continued to race.
Presently it was the _Kestrel’s_ turn to round the mark buoy. She had it
all to herself, for the bunch of four were already on the homeward run,
while the remaining two competitors were well astern.
“Stand by!” cautioned Mr. Grant. “Ready with the spinnaker!”
Moving as softly as cats, Carline and Heavitree prepared the halliards
and out-haul of the spinnaker. Round swept the _Kestrel_, making the
mark buoy curtsey in her wash. Over flew the boom in a deliberate gybe.
“Up spinnaker!” ordered the Scoutmaster.
In double quick time the huge but light triangular sail was set and
sheeted home. Now the _Kestrel_ was at her best. Running was her strong
point. The foam frothed at her cut-water and trailed astern in an
ever-diverging double wake. In five minutes she had overtaken the partly
crippled Plymouth cutter, the crew of which, far from being dismayed,
had also set spinnaker. She was making a gallant fight against long
odds, and the _Kestrel’s_ crew broke a prolonged silence by giving the
West Country Sea Scouts a rousing cheer.
A stern chase is proverbially a long one, but slowly yet surely the
_Kestrel_ was decreasing the distance between the now straggling
procession of leading boats. The task entailed ceaseless vigilance on
the part of the Scoutmaster. An accidental gybe at this state of the
proceedings would be disastrous. In all probability the _Kestrel’s_
mainmast would be carried away, but in any case the mainsail would mask
the spinnaker and deprive it of its pulling power.
At the last bend, which was so gentle that there was no necessity to
gybe and reset the spinnaker, the _Kestrel_ was fourth. A Poole boat,
staggering under a press of bellying sail, was leading. Following her
came the centre-keeled Humber cutter, the crew of which had set a large
square sail in addition to their working canvas. Next the Bristol boat,
which, having made good following her temporary grounding, had failed to
maintain her advantage while running.
Less than a quarter of a mile ahead could be seen the anchored boat that
marked one end of the finishing line. The distance was too short to
enable the _Kestrel_ to overhaul the remaining three ahead. True, she
drew level with the Bristol cutter; but, impeded by the far-flung bow
wave of the latter, she was unable to continue her advantage. Yet the
pace was terrific. Peter found himself wondering what would happen when
the competing yacht crossed the line. There seemed no room to turn owing
to the crowd of anchored yachts and boats beyond.
“Stand by!” cautioned Mr. Grant crisply.
Bang! went the gun for the foremost yacht. Five seconds later another
report greeted the arrival of the second. Then, almost simultaneously,
the gun fired twice.
“Down spinnaker!”
No need for cautious movements now. Down came the clouds of light
canvas. The spinnaker boom was topped up in double quick time. Over went
the helm. Brandon and Craddock hauled away on the mainsheet. Heeling,
the _Kestrel_ turned into the wind, shot clear of the course, and
dropped anchor almost in her former berth.
“It’s been a thundering good race,” declared Mr. Grant, moistening his
parched lips; for now that the ordeal was over his tongue felt
unpleasantly dry. “Signal to Talbot and the others and tell them to come
aboard. We’ll get tea. Hello! There’s the _Merlin_. When did she arrive,
I wonder?”
The Falmouth Sea Scouts had brought up about a hundred yards from the
_Kestrel_, and several other craft lay at anchor between them. Without a
dinghy, Mr. Grant could not pay her a visit, although all on board the
_Kestrel_ were naturally curious to know what had happened to her.
Presently Symington, Talbot and Wilson, and Eric Little, together with
the pup, came alongside.
“I say, sir!” exclaimed Talbot eagerly. “Can we enter for the ex-service
boats’ rowing match? We’ve been talking to some Portsmouth Sea Scouts.
They say they’ll lend us a gig, if we like to have a shot.”
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Grant, although he knew that his lads,
unaccustomed to pulling a heavy four-oared boat and a strange one at
that, stood a poor chance of securing a win. “Row ashore and accept the
offer, and then hurry back for tea. What time does the race start? Six?
Good!”
Talbot had been gone only a few minutes when Craddock reported that the
flagship was making a general signal.
“They’re about to announce the result of the race,” he added. “I’ve
hoisted our answering pennant, sir.”
Already a number of red and white pennants hoisted “at the dip”—that
is, half-way up—indicated that the various craft concerned were ready
to receive the impending signal.
“Code flag over M, sir,” reported Craddock. “They going to give the
winning numbers.”
The first number—represented by the code letter G—indicated that No. 7
was the winner of the cup. That showed that the coveted trophy had been
carried off by the Poole Sea Scouts, who had not only actually come in
first, but were first also on handicap.
When the second number went up, Craddock gave a whoop of delight, while
the rest of the crew almost fell over themselves with excitement.
The _Kestrel_ had won the second prize, but only by the narrow margin of
five seconds.