Sea Scouts to the Rescue
At the hail, Mr. Graham and the rest of the Sea Scouts swarmed up the
ladder into the chartroom.
Patrol Leader Desmond had read the signal correctly, in spite of the
fact that the light was fading and that the flags, owing to the
direction of the wind, were nearly end on and blowing out almost as
stiff as a board.
Taking the telescope, the Scoutmaster verified his Patrol Leader's
statement. There was the white and blue chequered flag surmounting a
white pennant with a red ball in it, signifying: "In distress; need
immediate assistance ".
"How long has this been flying?" inquired Mr. Graham.
"Not long, sir. Less than a couple of minutes," replied Desmond.
"She's been at anchor there for the last hour. I was wondering what
she was doing in the open."
"Waiting for enough water to get in," hazarded the Scoutmaster. "It's
not far from high tide now. Come along, Desmond and Findlay, we'll
see what's wrong. No, not you others; three of us will be enough for
this job. Got your first-aid outfit, Jock? I wouldn't mind betting
that's what will be wanted."
With mixed feelings, Bedford, Hayes, and the Tenderfoot watched their
Scoutmaster and their two chums push off in the dinghy. They were
disappointed that they were compelled to remain on board as passive
spectators, but they knew that in a choppy sea the dinghy stood a
better chance of reaching the craft in distress than if she were
deeply laden with six fairly hefty individuals. So, with a cheer of
encouragement, they bade their chums good luck and remained watching
the slow progress of the dinghy until she was lost to sight in the
rapidly gathering darkness.
Jock Findlay, a big-limbed, deep-chested lad of sixteen, pulled bow;
Mr. Graham was at the stroke oar; Desmond steered. Already the Patrol
Leader had made good use of his eyes during his comparatively short
experience of Wootton Creek. By the aid of the chart he had studied
the somewhat intricate entrance, verifying his facts by observing
through the telescope the actual position of the "booms" or
mark-posts. Thus he knew that the black-and-white chequered posts
were on the port side of the approach channel and that those painted
all black were to starboard.
"There's a coast-guard station on our starboard hand, sir," remarked
the Patrol Leader. "It's rather strange they haven't turned out."
"I know," replied Mr. Graham shortly. He was pulling strongly and was
disinclined to speak more than was absolutely necessary. He knew that
it would be a tough struggle before the dinghy arrived alongside the
disabled or distressed craft.
A bend in the creek brought the dinghy abreast of the little hamlet
of Fishbourne. The boat was now dead in the eye of the wind, and,
although it was nearly high water, there was still a considerable
tide setting in. These conditions made the rowers' task a hard one,
but it had one advantage: with the wind and tide in the same
direction the waves were not so short and steep as they might be were
the natural forces acting in opposite ways.
The Sea Scouts had already passed a line of small yachts anchored in
the lower reaches of the creek. Several, doubtless belonging to the
place, were without anyone on board; others showed gleams of yellow
light through their scuttles and skylights. Their owners were
comfortably sheltering in their snug cabins, thankful that on such a
dirty night they were in a secure anchorage.
On the gravel beach at Fishbourne were several pleasure boats hauled
up. The boatmen, in view of the rain, had decided early that it was
of no use staying there to look for customers, and they had gone
home.
The Sea Scouts' dinghy was barely a hundred yards below the
coast-guard station when an oilskin-clad man wearing a sou'wester
appeared from the look-out hut. He was obviously puzzled to see a
little open boat making seaward on a night like this. Had it been
light enough he might have spotted the craft flying the distress
signal; but now it was too dark to discern her, and for some unknown
reason she failed to display a riding-light.
So both the boatmen and the coast-guards had missed a chance of
earning salvage.
"Where is she?" exclaimed Findlay breathlessly, turning his head and
shading his eyes with one hand while he pulled with the other.
"I can just make her out," shouted Desmond in reply. "Ough!"
ejaculated the bowman, as a shower of spray hit him on the back and a
cold stream of salt water trickled down his head. "We look like
getting wet shirts before this job's done."
It was soon evident that the task the Sea Scouts had undertaken was
not only a strenuous one. It was a dangerous one; but the mute appeal
for aid was sufficient. Having set out upon an undertaking they meant
to see it through.
Already the water was sluicing over the bottom-boards, as the tubby
little dinghy rose and fell in the vicious seas. Desmond, still
keeping his eyes fixed upon a faint object that he rightly supposed
to be the craft in distress, groped and found the baler. Steering
with one hand he began baling for all he was worth. Even then the
water seemed to be gaining as the tops of the white crested waves
slopped in over the bows.
The Scoutmaster and Jock Findlay were beginning to feel the terrific
strain. Used as they were to rowing, they stuck it grimly, but even
their horny hands were blistering, while their muscles ached and
their breath came in short, jerky gasps. Nor could Desmond relieve
his chum at the oar, without an almost certain chance of capsizing
the dinghy, while even the slightest respite would result in the boat
being carried shorewards.
The outermost beacon appeared to glide slowly past the labouring
boat. Here the waves were dangerously steep, for the tide was setting
strongly to the west'ard, resulting in a seething cross-sea.
"Nearly there!" bawled Desmond encouragingly, raising his voice to
make it audible above the noise of the wind and waves.
The yacht--for such she proved to be--was now only about a hundred
yards away, as she rose and plunged to the waves, but it took Mr.
Graham and Findlay a good ten minutes of desperate pulling to cover
the comparatively short distance.
There was no need for the Patrol Leader to give the customary order:
"Way 'nough". He knew that his companions would have to row until the
dinghy was within oar's-length of the yacht. And then Desmond would
be faced by the difficulty of bringing the dinghy alongside the
heaving, pitching hull, as the yacht strained at her chain cable.
The result of a false move on the helmsman's part would be that the
boat would miss her objective altogether and drift yards lee'ard, or
else would be crushed like an egg-shell as the larger craft rolled
towards her.
"Ahoy!" shouted Desmond.
"Ahoy!" came a muffled reply. "Come aboard."
"Easier said than done," thought Mr. Graham. "Why doesn't the fellow
come on deck to take our painter?"
Awaiting his opportunity, Findlay, with the slack of the painter over
his left arm, sprang upon the deck of the yacht, while Mr. Graham
fended off. Desmond followed, and finally the Scoutmaster leapt on
board, steadying himself by the shrouds. The dinghy, left to its own
devices to a certain extent, drifted rapidly astern, until she
brought up with a jerk that almost wrenched the painter out of
Findlay's hands.
"Below there!" hailed the Scoutmaster again, as he peered down the
companion-way in a vain attempt to see what was taking place in the
unlighted cabin.
"Come on down," replied a somewhat faint and quavery voice. "Sorry I
can't get you a light."
"That's easily remedied," declared Mr. Graham, as he switched on his
electric torch. "What's the trouble?"
With Desmond and Findlay close at his heels the Scoutmaster descended
the slippery, brass-treaded ladder leading to the yacht's saloon.
There on one of the bunks sat, or rather reclined, a man of about
fifty years of age. His face looked grey and drawn. He was supporting
his right arm with his left, the sweater-sleeve of which looked
ominously lumpy just above the wrist, while a dark stain was showing
on the woolly garment.
"Fracture, eh?" inquired the Scoutmaster.
"Double fracture, to be precise," replied the owner of the yacht.
"You're Sea Scouts, I see? Thought at first you were the
coast-guards."
"Sort of substitute, you know," rejoined Mr. Graham. "Now let's see
what the trouble is," he added briskly.
Jock Findlay was ready with his first-aid outfit, Desmond lit the
cabin-lamp, but the erratic motion of the yacht so affected it in
spite of its being gimballed, that the confined space was poorly
illuminated.
With a pair of sharp scissors the sufferer's sweater and singlet
sleeves were ripped open, and the arm exposed to view. It was not a
pleasant sight, for in two places the ends of fractured bones had
forced themselves against the skin. In addition, there was an
abrasion that was bleeding freely.
"'Fraid it will give you gip," said Mr. Graham apologetically, as
he prepared, with the assistance of his young companions, to set
the broken limb. "I'll have to grin and bear it," replied the
injured man stoically. "But before you start--in case I make a
fool of myself, you know--can you take my yacht into Wootton Creek?"
"We'll try," replied the Scoutmaster.
"You know the way in?" inquired the owner anxiously.
"Yes," replied Mr. Graham briefly. Already he knew enough of the
creek to justify the assertion.
"Thanks awfully," was the rejoinder. "And can you phone to my wife,
Mrs. Collinson? She's staying at the Solent Hotel, Ryde. Tell her I'm
all right, or at any rate reassure her that there's nothing much the
matter. Good! Now, I'm ready."
It was not the complicated nature of the injury but the awkwardness
of the impromptu surgery that was the difficulty. The motion of the
yacht was now so violent that the Sea Scouts had great trouble to
maintain their balance, let alone to support and hold the injured
man, while Mr. Graham placed the limb in two well-padded splints.
But Mr. Collinson did not "grin and bear it". Long before the
first-aid process was completed he was in a dead faint.
"Just as well," commented the Scoutmaster, "only it will mean telling
off one hand to prevent his rolling off the bunk. You stay here,
Jock; Desmond and I will get the yacht in. She'll do it easily under
foresail only, I think. There's no immediate hurry. We'll have to
overhaul the gear before we get the anchor up. It's no use monkeying
about with sheets and halliards on a strange craft in the dark after
we are under way."
Leaving Findlay in charge of the patient, the Scoutmaster and Desmond
went on deck. For a few moments, coming from the lighted cabin, they
could see nothing. By degrees their eyes grew accustomed to the
darkness. They could discern the high ground on either side of the
entrance, but the beacons marking the channel were invisible. All
around there was a welter of foaming water.
"We're dragging, sir!" exclaimed the Patrol Leader.
"By Jove, we are!" agreed Mr. Graham, abandoning his intention of
overhauling the ropes. "Stand by at the helm, Desmond. I'll get the
anchor up and set the staysail. She ought to draw clear."
Making his way for'ard the Scoutmaster knelt on the heaving fore-deck
while he fumbled for the gasket securing the staysail. In this
position he was often thigh deep in water, as the yacht dipped her
lean bows into the angry crests. It was now blowing half a gale, and
the yacht was perilously close to a lee shore.
To his relief, Mr. Graham found the staysail halliard without
difficulty. A trial hoist showed that the sail could be set without
risk of fouling anything.
The next task was to weigh the anchor. In ordinary circumstances this
operation would be performed by means of a small capstan--an easy yet
slow process. Long before the anchor could be brought a-peak the
yacht would drag and go aground. Slipping the cable was out of the
question, as the Scoutmaster did not know whether the end of the
chain was shackled or not, and there was no time to grope about in a
strange fo'c'sle, struggling with a possibly refractory shackle.
"Desmond!" he shouted.
The Patrol Leader, relinquishing the as yet unwanted tiller, made his
way for'ard, clutching at runners, shrouds, and mast as he did so.
Without these supports he would almost certainly have lost his
footing, so erratic and violent was the motion of the yacht.
"Bear a hand!" exclaimed Mr. Graham breathlessly, pointing to the
cable.
Desmond understood. In order to save time the anchor-cable was to be
hauled in by hand instead of by means of the winch.
It was a tough task, especially at first, but gradually the iron
chain came home, until a sudden and considerable relaxation of the
strain announced that the anchor was off the bottom, or in nautical
terms "up and down".
The Patrol Leader subsided ungracefully upon the mainmast spider
band, while the Scoutmaster sat heavily upon the brass-capped bitts.
It was painful for both, but there was no time to waste in vain
complaints.
"Take the helm--quick!" shouted Mr. Graham, regaining his feet and
hauling in the staysail halliards.
Desmond hurried aft, secured a grip on the tiller, and waited.
For some moments the staysail slatted violently in the wind. The
yacht began to gather stern-way and showed a tendency to fall off on
the starboard tack. Exerting all his strength the Scoutmaster gripped
the stiff canvas (his finger-nails were tender for a week afterwards)
and held the sail aback.
Even then the yacht hesitated. There was a distinct shock, different
from the jars and jerks caused by the action of the waves. The vessel
had touched bottom. Her keel had struck what felt like a shingle
bank.
Then, to Mr. Graham's relief, she heeled and drew clear of the
bottom.
But the danger of striking a lee shore was not yet over. The yacht
under staysail alone could not "claw off". She had to be sailed
free, but not too free, until she rounded the spit of mud at the
starboard side of the entrance to the creek. The question was whether
Desmond could strike the happy medium and keep her on the only
possible safe course, which was now against a strong west-going tide.
Checking the lee staysail sheet, Mr. Graham came aft. Then, belaying
the sheet, he glanced at the bellying canvas which was just
discernible against the loom of the land.
That glance told him that the youthful helmsman knew his job.
"Couldn't do better myself," thought the Scoutmaster.
He made no attempt to take the tiller. It was one of his principles
in Sea Scouting never to interfere when one of the lads was doing his
work properly. And Desmond knew it was "up to him" to keep the yacht
on her course; he also knew that he was doing the right thing,
otherwise his Scoutmaster would have "butted in".
Suddenly, through the shower of spray flying over the yacht's bows,
Desmond caught sight of the outermost of the beacons, barely twenty
yards to lee'ard.
It was now a case of "up helm and run for it". The yacht answered
readily to the action of the rudder, and in a few seconds she was
scudding before the wind with slacked-off sheets and almost on an
even keel.
"See the next mark?" shouted the Scoutmaster "On your port bow?"
"Ay, ay, sir," was the confident response.
"All right below, there?" inquired Mr. Graham, calling down the
companion-way.
"Quite, sir," replied Jock, who up to the present had all his work
cut out to keep the injured man from further harm. "He's not come to
yet, sir."
Certainly Jock had seen little or nothing of the fun. By the noises
on deck as the cable came home he knew that his comrades were
weighing anchor. The shock too, when the yacht grounded on her keel,
was far more pronounced to him than it had been to the others on
deck. Then, by the more or less steady heel to starboard, he was
aware that the little craft was under way. And now, by reason of the
yacht running in comparatively calm water, he knew that she was
within the entrance to the creek.
Gybing abreast of the coast-guard station the yacht flew up stream,
passed the line of anchored craft, until she was almost becalmed
under the high, well-wooded ground to starboard.
"We've got her in, sir," remarked Desmond. "Now what are we going to
do?"
That was precisely what Mr. Graham was thinking about. The obvious
thing to do was to get medical aid for the injured man. In his
present state it was far too risky to attempt to land him in the
dinghy, and, since he could not be taken to the doctor, the inference
was that the doctor must be brought to him. Then, again, was the
question: where could the patient be placed? The narrow, ill-lighted
cabin was not at all suitable, with its awkward bunks and headroom of
less than six feet under the beams. The best thing to do in these
circumstances was to tranship the injured man from the yacht to the
guardship.
"I'll take her for a minute," said Mr. Graham, relieving Desmond at
the helm. "Call up the others and tell them we're coming alongside."
Springing upon the now steady cabin-top the Patrol Leader flashed a
series of dots with his torch. The reply signal came almost
immediately, showing that Bedford, Hayes, and Coles were anxiously on
the look out for their comrades' return.
"We are bringing yacht alongside," signalled Desmond in Morse. "Swing
in boat booms and lay out fenders."
For the next quarter of a mile progress was slow. The ebb-tide was
weak, but the wind came only in fitful puffs over the tree-tops.
"We'll get it in a minute," declared the Patrol Leader, pointing to
the ruffled water ahead that showed up distinctly in the reflected
gleam of the guardship's riding-light.
"That usually happens," observed Mr. Graham. "Often and often a yacht
approaches her moorings in a gentle little breeze, then just as she's
on, down comes a puff that shoots her past the buoy like a young
racehorse.... Findlay!"
"Ay, ay, sir," replied Jock from the cabin.
"How is Mr. Collinson?"
"Still insensible, sir."
"All right; think you can leave him? If so, come on deck. You'll be
wanted to make fast when we go alongside."
Findlay obeyed with alacrity; but had it been light Mr. Graham would
have had a bit of a shock. The excitement of attending to the injured
man, and the Sea Scout's subsequent confinement in the stuffy cabin
of the violently pitching and tossing boat, had made the lad
sea-sick. Yet, dreading the chance of discovery more than the actual
malady, Findlay had not said a word about it, but had stuck gamely to
his appointed task.
As Desmond had predicted, there was quite a heavy squall as the yacht
approached the guardship. Waiting until the latter craft gathered
sufficient steerageway, Mr. Graham lowered the staysail. Adroitly
steered by Desmond, the yacht ran gently alongside the hull of the
guardship. Ropes were thrown and made fast, and, with hardly a jar,
the two vessels were side to side, separated only by a pair of large
coir fenders.
The first instalment of the Southend-on-Sea Sea Scouts' "good turn"
was an accomplished fact.