A Dead Heat
The _Kestrel’s_ crew had only just finished their much-appreciated tea
when the _Merlin’s_ dinghy came alongside.
“Hello, Pendennis!” exclaimed Mr. Grant, going on deck to receive his
visitor. “What happened to you?”
“A slice of bad luck,” replied the Cornishman. “Our anchor tripped
during the night when we lay off Newtown. When we turned out we found
ourselves bumping on Warden Ledge. We must have drifted nearly seven
miles without knowing it. Then, in trying to get off, we strained one of
our propeller blades and had to put into Yarmouth to get it
straightened. After that we came on here.”
“And when did you arrive?”
“Early this morning,” replied Mr. Pendennis. “In fact, so early that you
lazy fellows were fast asleep. We felt tempted to give you a hail.
Heartiest congratulations, Grant, in getting second in that race.”
“Thanks. Sorry you didn’t compete.”
The Cornishman smiled.
“My lads were a bit fagged out,” he replied. “We’ve stood some long
tricks this trip. ’Sides, they’re keen on the ex-Service boats’ pulling
race and are conserving their strength for that event.”
“We’re entering, too, sir,” announced Talbot.
“The more the merrier,” rejoined Mr. Pendennis.
While the two Scoutmasters were chatting upon various subjects relating
to the Jamboree the rest of the _Kestrel’s_ crew went ashore to complete
their preparations.
The Portsmouth Sea Scouts were as good as their word, for quite a
serviceable gig was hauled up on the hard for the _Kestrel_ lads’ use.
More than a dozen other ex-Service boats were also out of the water,
their respective crews busily engaged in making ready for the fray or,
rather, contest.
“What’s that stuff you’re putting on?” enquired Craddock of a lad who
hailed from Pembroke.
“Black lead, look you,” replied the young Welshman. “Want some? We have
plenty, look you.”
Seeing that several of the competing boats were being treated in a
similar fashion, Peter accepted the generous offer and soon the bottom
of the borrowed gig was shining in a coat of black lead thinned down
with stale beer—a preparation which, although filthy to handle, is in
high favour amongst rowers of racing craft.
As soon as the _Kestrel’s_ crew had applied the “dope,” the gig was
uprighted and a thorough examination made of her oars and stretchers.
Craddock, as coxswain of the boat, meant to leave little to chance,
although he was quite aware of the disadvantage of racing in a strange
craft without even the opportunity of having a preliminary practice.
But, he reflected sagely, there were other crews similarly handicapped.
Just before six o’clock fourteen boats faced the starter. By this time
the ebb-tide was running strongly against a steady sou’westerly breeze,
with the result that farther down the main channel there was quite a sea
running.
“Back there, No. 5!” shouted the somewhat harassed starter through a
megaphone.
No. 5’s crew dropped their oars and obediently “toed the line.” They
were hefty, bronzed-featured lads from Margate. It was their first race,
and in consequence they were a bit excited.
“Tough lot, aren’t they?” remarked Heavitree, stroke of the _Kestrel’s_
gig, as he moistened the loom of his oar with salt water.
“Eyes on the boat,” cautioned Peter. “Stand by!”
The starting gun crashed. Fifty-six backs bent to the first stroke;
fifty-six oars dipped almost as one, and the fourteen competing boats
leapt forward, the coxswains shouting encouragement to their men.
For the first hundred yards the line retained its comparative
straightness, but already some of the rowers were splashing
unnecessarily, and they lost their “first wind,” and hadn’t begun to
find their second.
Then five of the boats shot ahead, amongst them the _Kestrel’s_ borrowed
gig. Her crew were working with a will and getting every ounce of power
out of their backs and legs. They had a style about them, and Peter, as
he watched their long, steady, and regular strokes, felt proud of his
chums.
Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Craddock noticed that the
Nottingham Sea Scouts’ boat was level on her starboard beam. Her crew,
admirably trained, were rowing with the regularity of clockwork.
Instinctively, Peter felt that here was a rival to be treated with
respect.
To port, No. 7—the Pembroke crowd—was forging ahead. The crew were
rowing a quicker stroke, but would they last? On the extreme left, No.
14, the Whitby boat, had already established a useful lead. Although
losing the advantage of the ebb-tide she was in smoother water close to
the bank, but at the first bend that advantage would be lost.
Yet, Peter knew, there was little to be judged by position at this
stage. It was the stayer, not the spurter, who seemed most likely to
lead the procession over the finishing line.
He looked at his crew. They were bearing up bravely. Talbot looked a
little flustered, but was still rowing strongly. None of them had
reached the gasping stage yet, although rivulets of perspiration
trickled unhindered down their faces.
At the first bend the competitors met the full force of the wind ’gainst
tide. The lean bows of the boat threw apart showers of spray, as the
knife-like stem cleft the curling waves.
It was here that the Nottingham lads found themselves handicapped. Used
to pulling in a river, they had never had the opportunity of rowing in a
fairly high seaway. Their style, admirable in smooth water, was at a
decided disadvantage in this “popple.” More than once “bow” missed his
stroke, his blade encountering nothing more resistant than air as the
boat rose on the crest of a short, steep wave.
“We’re overhauling her all right,” thought Peter.
Five lengths ahead the Portsmouth Sea Scouts were leading. Pulling
splendidly, they were steadily increasing their lead, when misfortune
descended upon them. “Stroke’s” oar broke just above the blade. The lad,
falling backwards, temporarily put No. 3 out of action. By the time the
latter had recovered and resumed his oar, the boat had dropped to the
seventh place. Nevertheless under extremely adverse conditions the lads
continued their gallant struggle, the oarless “stroke” sitting up and
moving with the rest to preserve the rhythm of the swing.
The mark buoy at last!
“Back, port! Pull, starboard!” ordered Peter. Round swung the gig,
rolling as she swung broadside to the weather-going tide.
“Together!”
Now came the strenuous part of the whole race—the last lap. The
_Kestrels_ were visibly tiring. Even Heavitree’s Adam’s apple was
working convulsively, while the veins in his bared arms stood out like
whipcord. Talbot, looking utterly blown, was pulling almost
mechanically, gasping through his wide open mouth in his efforts to fill
his painfully stifled lungs.
There was but one boat ahead. That was the Pembroke one. The Welshmen
were in a far worse plight than Craddock’s crew. They had let themselves
go at the start, and were reaping the consequences; yet they, too, were
“sticking it” with the fervid tenacity of their race.
For the present Peter dare not call upon his loyal crew for an extra
spurt. They were gaining all the time, yet without the final and
spectacular burst they would not be able to overlap their rivals. And,
of course, the Welshmen would almost certainly respond.
Three hundred yards from home the _Kestrel’s_ gig’s bows were level with
the Pembroke boat’s stern. The coxswain of the latter could be heard
calling to his men for the final effort. It was now Peter’s chance,
provided his jaded crew could respond to it.
“Whack her up, lads!” he shouted. “Last lap!”
Both boats were now in calmer waters. Nobly the _Kestrels_ responded to
their coxswain’s call. Blinded with perspiration, with bursting lungs
and violently throbbing hearts, aching muscles and blistered palms, they
were unconscious of everything but the desire to make that extra spurt.
Now they were dead level with the Welshmen.
“Keep it up, lads!” yelled Peter.
That was as much as they could do. To increase the number of strokes was
out of the question. They were perilously close to the breaking-point.
Could they stay the course?
The _Kestrel’s_ gig drew ahead. The Pembroke coxswain in a shrill
falsetto called upon his men for a final effort. They tried. There was a
sharp crack. One of their stretchers had broken.
“Hard lines on them,” thought Peter. “But we were winning, anyway.”
Then for the first time on the homeward run Craddock glanced over his
shoulder. He had a shock. The nearest of the remaining competitors was
quite five lengths astern. Nothing short of a disaster to the
_Kestrel’s_ gig would give any of the boats astern a chance to overtake
her now, for the finishing line was less than eighty yards ahead.
But—and that it was that gave Peter a most disconcerting jar—close to
the edge of the channel and out of the full force of the adverse tide
was the Nottingham boat.
By dint of sheer doggedness she had fought her way through the choppy
sea. Then, edging over towards the mud-flats, she found herself under
conditions very similar to that of her native Trent. The Nottingham Sea
Scouts, admirably trained and in the pink of condition, were not slow to
take advantage of the change of fortune. They were now almost level with
Craddock’s crew, although separated by about fifty yards of water.
“Pull, lads, pull!” shouted Peter. “For all you’re worth!”
The spirit was willing, but exhausted flesh was unable to respond to the
dictates of the brain. Gallantly the crew bent their aching backs,
tugging ferociously at the tough ash oars. Then Talbot missed a stroke,
the badly trimmed blade slithering ineffectually on the surface.
Before the lad could recover his stroke the gun went.
“Way ’nough!” gulped Peter, and the thoroughly exhausted rowers
collapsed, sobbing in their efforts to recharge their bursting lungs.
Completely bewildered, Peter looked in the direction of the Nottingham
boat. She was over the line, her crew paddling easily towards the
flagship. The _Kestrel’s_ gig was also across the line—but there had
been only one gun. What did it mean?
Everyone in the anchored yachts seemed to be cheering. So were the crowd
on the beach. Then another competing boat crossed the line with her crew
on the verge of utter exhaustion. They received a gun.
Still puzzled, Craddock was dimly aware of the _Kestrel’s_ dinghy coming
alongside and of Mr. Grant leaning over the gunwale and patting him on
the back.
“Well rowed!” exclaimed the Scoutmaster. “Well rowed! Dead heat with the
_Avalon_. Let’s have your painter; we’ll tow you to the beach. Yes, by
Jove! you’ve tied with that crack Nottingham crew, and honestly I never
expected you to have a look-in. Well done!”