Snatched from the Deep
For three consecutive days the weather remained bright and with very
little wind. It was ideal conditions for almost every event except
sailing. The Sea Scouts held greasy pole competitions, swimming races,
diving contests, and a great water tournament.
The latter event was great fun and turned out to be a huge success.
There were forty competitors a side, most of them in fancy dress. Each
member of the opposing teams was “mounted” on a barrel to which was
affixed a rough representation of a horse’s head, the cask being
ballasted sufficiently to enable the rider to keep his balance if he
used the utmost caution. The offensive weapons consisted of poles ten
feet in length terminating in a well-padded ball of rags or oakum, and
also of short sticks to which were attached blown-up bladders.
Every evening almost every member of the numerous crews went ashore for
a camp-fire sing-song, while at various times there were competitions in
making bends and splices and other nautical accomplishments.
At the close of the fourth day’s sing-song and after most of the
audience had dispersed, Mr. Grant sent Craddock to the wireless tent
with a message for the Scoutmaster in charge.
Arriving at the tent, which was merely for the purpose of keeping the
four-valve receiving set in the dry—for when a broadcast concert was
on, the sides of the tent were rolled up and the loud speaker brought
into the open—Peter found that the Scoutmaster he sought had gone
across to the electrician’s quarter in order to arrange about recharging
some batteries.
“He won’t be long,” added his informant, a King’s Scout belonging to a
Berwick Troop. “Try one of these phones while you’re waiting and see
what you can pick up. It will only be Morse on the lower wave-lengths, I
fancy. Can you read Morse?”
“Rather,” replied Peter.
“Guess you won’t make head or tail of this lot unless you’ve been
trained to it,” continued the Berwick lad. “We had a skilled postal
telegraphist in last night, and he was whacked. But you can try.”
Craddock put on the head-phones, listened for about twenty seconds, and
then turned to his companion.
“There’s an S.O.S.,” he declared.
“Nonsense!” retorted the other incredulously. “It will be Niton calling
CQ. You’re not the first to imagine an S.O.S.”
Nevertheless the Berwick Sea Scout took up another pair of phones. He
listened and his smile of incredulity vanished. Snatching up a pencil,
he wrote rapidly.
Peter, too, tried to follow the bewildering succession of perplexing
sounds and could not make head or tail of it. He had to wait until his
companion had taken down the message and a reply to it.
The S.O.S. was to the effect that the S.S. _Lumberjack_ was badly
grounded in a thick fog, position approximately six miles north-west of
Selsea Bill, and that she was rapidly breaking up in the heavy ground
swell.
The reply was: “Hayling Island and Bembridge lifeboats proceeding to
your assistance. Have requested Government tugs to be sent from
Portsmouth.”
The _Lumberjack_ then wirelessed: “Must take to boats.” Followed by a
warning from the shore station: “Do not attempt to land in your boats.”
Then came the distressed vessel’s final and uncompleted appeal: “Send
help quickly. We are——”
Craddock did not wait for the Scoutmaster’s return. In fact, he rather
surprised the Berwick lad by his abrupt and hasty departure. He took to
his heels and ran as fast as he could to Mr. Grant and told him the
news.
“The _Lumberjack_ is the tramp we were lying close to at Dartmouth,” he
added.
“Yes,” replied Mr. Grant. “And judging by her reported position she’s
aground not far from the mouth of this harbour. I don’t suppose we’ll be
of much use, but we’ll see what’s to be done. Get the patrol together,
Brandon. See that we’ve first aid outfits, and bring a coil of two-inch
rope along. Warn any Scoutmasters you pass on your way to the store, but
I think most of them will have heard of it already.”
It was now nearly half-past ten. The heavy sea fog had held all the
evening and was now spreading inland, promising to get thicker before
very long. Overhead the stars were rapidly disappearing from view. The
air was perfectly still, yet even at that distance the muffled roar of
the surf on Chichester Bar and the adjoining Pole Sand could be
distinctly heard.
In remarkably quick time the _Kestrel’s_ crew assembled. Most of them
had electric torches. Heavitree had brought a lifebelt, while Brandon
had got hold of not only a long length of two-inch rope, but also a
useful coil of heaving line.
“Couldn’t we run the dinghy over on a trek-cart, sir?” asked Talbot.
Mr. Grant shook his head.
“It would be useless,” he decided. “You’ve seen the breakers on that
flat, sandy shore. No boat could possibly be launched in that turmoil.
All ready?”
The crew set out. They were not alone, for already various Scoutmasters
had called out their Troops in order to patrol the beach in case any of
the _Lumberjack’s_ people were cast ashore.
By this time the fog over the land had thickened considerably. It was
hardly possible to see the outlines of the hedges on either side of the
narrow lanes, and in the darkness the only way to find the right road
was for a Sea Scout to swarm up the various sign-posts and flash his
torch upon the painted directions. Unfortunately all the would-be
rescuers took the same route, with the result that when they arrived on
the beach they were all bunched together, instead of being spread out
over a wide front.
They could see-nothing; hear nothing but the thunder of the breakers in
the still air. Mr. Grant realised the difficulty. Each Scoutmaster had
control over his own Troop, but there was no one to exercise authority
over the whole.
“Isn’t there any District Commissioner here?” he enquired of another
Scoutmaster. “If so, he ought to take charge. We’re doing little good
huddled together. Survivors might be thrown ashore anywhere between the
mouth of the harbour and Selsea Bill.”
“That’s a fact,” agreed the other Scoutmaster. “Hello! Here’s a car.
Perhaps——”
The rays of the headlights seemed to stop short within a few yards of
the car, which had stopped almost at the extreme edge of the hard
ground. Another four or five feet and the wheels would have sunk in the
soft sand above high-water mark.
Mr. Grant went to the side of the car. He saw with feelings of
satisfaction that one of the occupants wore the distinctive rig of a
District Commissioner.
“Glad you’ve come, sir,” he began. “We want someone to straighten things
out.”
He explained. The Commissioner, a retired Army officer, grasped the
situation at once. His powerful voice pierced the fog. In five minutes,
discipline had remedied the defect of individual initiative, and from a
fixed point patrols were extending right and left with an interval of
ten paces between each Sea Scout. Even at that short distance each
watcher was invisible to his nearest neighbour, but they were within
easy hailing distance, so that communication throughout the whole
line—there were about 250 Sea Scouts spread over a front of nearly one
and a half miles—could be maintained without difficulty.
The crew of the _Kestrel_ found themselves in patrol formation stepping
out briskly over the board-hard sand just above low-water mark. There
were Troops ahead of them and behind them. At every half-minute came
crisp orders from the Scoutmasters of the rearmost parties; until,
glancing over his shoulder, Mr. Grant discovered that the patrol
immediately behind the _Kestrel’s_ crew had extended and halted.
It was now the turn of the Aberstour Sea Scouts. Talbot halted and faced
seawards; the rest continued their march, Symington halting at the tenth
pace and so on, until the Patrol Leader found himself on the right of
his section of the line.
It was an awesome business standing still and peering through the fog at
the misty white surf as it broke and receded almost within a couple of
yards of the watchers. All of them were already drenched with the flying
spray, and although the salt water felt quite warm at first, a
succession of shower baths soon became not only monotonous but extremely
unpleasant. What was happening out to sea they knew not. They could only
conjure up mental pictures of the struggle for life on the part of the
shipwrecked crew as their crazy, ill-conditioned craft was being rapidly
battered into scrap-iron somewhere within a mile of one section of that
far-flung line of would-be lifesavers.
Presently Brandon hailed his chum.
“Have you got Molly?” he enquired.
“Yes,” replied Peter, who was holding the pup in his arms. “She’s with
me, but she’s got the wind up frightfully.”
“We ought to have left her on board,” continued the Patrol Leader.
“There wasn’t time,” rejoined Craddock.
“’Sides, she’d be far more terrified if she’d been left by herself.”
Another ten minutes passed. Then the Scoutmaster of the Troop on the
_Kestrel’s_ right came up to Mr. Grant.
“There’s a boat come ashore,” he reported. “She was full of water and
capsized as she was thrown on the beach. The Weymouth Troop have found
eight of the crew. Two of them are dead. There are a lot more to be
accounted for. Pass the information along, please.”
Presently from the left came the order, “Increase interval by four
paces.”
This was to fill up the gap left by the Weymouth Sea Scouts, who, being
engaged in the task of restoring to life the apparently drowned members
of the _Lumberjack’s_ crew, had left their section of the shore
unwatched. Already they were carrying some of the survivors away in
hastily constructed stretchers to the shelter of an isolated farm-house.
“Well, that looks like business, lads,” commented Mr. Grant, as he
passed behind the line. “There are others still to come ashore. Keep a
smart look-out.”
It was easier said than done, so thick was the fog, although the stars
were beginning to show overhead through the low-lying bank of salt-laden
vapour.
Suddenly, Molly began to bark furiously and struggled so fiercely that
Peter placed him on the sand. Instantly she darted towards the water’s
edge, and although she retreated when the next breaker swept forward,
she followed up the receding wave and continued to bark.
Simultaneously Brandon and Craddock rushed forward. They were within ten
feet of each other before they discovered each other’s presence.
“What is it?” asked the Patrol Leader.
“Molly’s spotted something,” replied Peter. “Look! It’s a life-buoy.”
The next wave brought the buoy almost to Craddock’s feet, although he
had to go knee-deep into the retiring “undertow” before he could secure
it.
The canvas of the life-buoy was ripped in several places, and most of
the rope that ought to be attached to it was missing; but painted on it
in black letters was the name “S.S. _Lumberjack_.”
Hurling the life-buoy out of the way of the breaking waves, Brandon was
about to resume his post when Craddock shouted to him.
[Illustration: Returning Good for Evil
Masses of milk-white foam were swirling round his legs; he could see
that the succeeding wave would be upon him before he could get into
deeper water. If it caught him squarely it would hurl him like a stone
upon the beach, and probably batter the breath from his body.]
“Where’s the line?” he asked. “There’s a man out there. Look out for
Molly.”
At that moment Mr. Grant and Carline appeared through the fog. Already
Peter was securing one end of the rope round his waist.
“Look after Molly,” he reiterated. “She’ll be after me if you don’t.”
And, handing the coiled portion of the rope to Mr. Grant and Brandon,
Craddock rushed into the water.
For the first ten yards his progress was hastened by the undertow.
Masses of milk-white foam mingled with moving sand were swirling round
his legs and urging him on. He could see that the succeeding breaker
would be upon him before he could get into deeper water. If it caught
him squarely it would hurl him like a stone upon the beach, and probably
batter the breath from his body.
The crest towered high above his head. It was almost upon him. But Peter
kept a cool head. As the wave broke, he dived into it, felt himself
being borne backwards, was conscious of his feet coming in contact with
the ground. He wanted to kick, to leap until his head appeared above the
surging torrent. He felt he could keep his breath no longer.
At last he broke surface and found himself beyond the breaker. He struck
out vigorously. Found himself impeded.
“Pay out more line, you fellows!” he shouted.
He might well have saved his breath, for his voice was inaudible in the
roar of the surf. It wasn’t that Brandon had neglected to give more
scope to the line; it was the drag of the water against it.
There was no sign of the man he was risking his life to save. Another
wave came up, foaming ready to break. Peter surmounted it just before
the angry crest toppled over. As he did so something was thrown against
his side—something that felt like a sack of saturated sawdust.
Instantly Peter gripped the object. It was the senseless body of a man.
Now came the supreme effort—to regain the beach without being pounded
by the breakers. It was easy enough to come ashore—the waves would see
to that—but it was far from a simple task to protect himself and his
senseless burden from the terrible onslaught of the hammering surf. And
such a lot depended upon the life-line being hauled in at exactly the
right moment.
The life-line, hitherto a hindrance, was now apparently uselessly slack.
Vaguely, Peter found himself wondering what possessed the fellows on the
beach: why on earth weren’t they hauling away for all they were worth?
Then it occurred to him that even at that short distance the shore was
hidden in the fog. A mild panic seized him. What if the rope had parted
and he was being carried out to sea?
Not for one moment did he relax his grip upon his unconscious, perhaps
lifeless, burden. Another roller was on the point of breaking. Would it
batter him into a state of insensibility?
It overtook him, fortunately without toppling over. Right on the crest
he found himself, being urged towards the shore at a tremendous pace.
Then with a loud roar the unstable mass broke. Peter felt his feet touch
the yielding sand. He was surrounded by a swirling torrent of foam and
hurled sideways like a sack of flour.
Then he was conscious of the life-line tautening. He was being swept
back by the undertow. In desperation he threw arms and legs round the
form of the helpless seaman in an endeavour to prevent him being torn
from his grasp.
The rope held. Half a dozen lusty men and youths were tailing on to it.
The pressure was terrific. The sand, washed down by the undertow, rasped
Craddock’s face, hands, and knees. His lungs seemed on the point of
bursting.
Another wave was rearing its formidable crest. Peter eyed it with
apprehension. Magnified in the fog, it looked higher than it actually
was, but the power behind it was none the less. He wondered whether he
could survive the threatened hammering of the tremendous thunderous
mass.
He was dimly conscious of vague forms surrounding him, grasping arms and
legs. Still he held on to his helpless burden, and, since they could not
be separated, the pair were literally dragged beyond the reach of the
breaker.
It fell harmlessly, and, like a monster baulked of its prey, retired
growling and muttering to merge into the turmoil of tumbling breakers.