The Trek
At eight o'clock on the following morning the _Spindrift's_
navigation party "fell in" on the deck of the _Olivette_. Each member
carried a couple of blankets rolled in a ground-sheet, haversack
containing toilet requirements in the outer pocket, and rations in
the inner one. In addition, Mr. Graham had a pair of binoculars slung
across his shoulders, and carried a bundle of charts. Patrol Leader
Desmond was responsible for the bulky volumes, _The Channel Pilot_,
_Lists of Lights_, and the _Admiralty Tide Tables_. Findlay was
additionally burdened with a camp kettle with a folding handle, while
Hayes acted as "emergency man" to relieve the others of their
additional gear in turn.
"Good luck and _bon voyage_!" exclaimed Mr. Armitage. "We'll keep a
look out for you when you approach the Wight. We're generally
cruising about there when we haven't any particular object in view."
"I suppose you'll make Falmouth to-day," remarked Mr. Graham.
Mr. Armitage glanced aloft, where the clouds were scudding fairly
rapidly across the sky.
"Glass is falling," he replied. "I think we'll keep inside the
breakwater to-day. Look here, Graham, suppose we run you up the
Tamar. It will knock about twelve miles off your journey."
"Thanks awfully," said Mr. Graham frankly.
"We don't know the Tamar," continued Mr. Armitage, "but there's no
reason why we shouldn't find our course up the river. It won't be the
first time we've had to navigate strange waters. It will be rather
fun. Start her up, lads."
In five minutes the crew of the _Olivette_ had their able little
craft ready to get under way. The warps holding her to the _Unity_
were cast off, and the boat began to gather way.
As usual, Mr. Armitage left the navigation to his Patrol Leader,
merely standing by ready to correct any possible error that might
result in a serious mishap. So Woodleigh, with a large-scale chart of
"The Approaches to Plymouth", was in the wheelhouse, giving the
course to Flemming at the wheel.
Warkworth was in charge of the motor, and, as was the invariable
custom in crowded waters, kept within arm's length of the clutch. The
rest of the Sea Scouts were on deck taking in the ever-changing view
with the deepest interest.
Drake's Island glided past on the port beam. The intricate narrows
between Devil's Point and Cremyll were safely negotiated, and the
expansive Hamoaze, a sheltered sheet of water large and deep enough
to accommodate the navies of the world, came into view.
Assisted by the strong flood-tide, the _Olivette_ made rapid progress
past the Royal Dockyard and Keyham Yard to starboard, and with
warships of all sizes and descriptions lying at moorings on their
port hand.
"There's a bridge right ahead of us, sir," reported Rayburn. "Shall
we have to lower our mast to go under it?"
"How high is our mast?" asked the Scoutmaster gravely.
"Twenty-five feet, sir," replied Rayburn promptly.
"We may just do it, then," rejoined Mr. Armitage. "You needn't bother
about unshackling the forestay just yet. Wait and see what the
clearance of the bridge looks like when we get a bit nearer."
A couple of minutes later Rayburn came aft again. "I think we'll just
manage it, sir," he reported.
"Very well; carry on," was the response.
It was not long before the two miles of river below the bridge were
covered, and when the _Olivette_ glided serenely under one of the
wide and massive spans Rayburn positively blushed. What he had taken
to be a low bridge was in reality the famous Saltash Bridge, with a
clearance of a hundred feet.
"That's one up against you, Rayburn!" exclaimed Hepburn, and in the
general laugh the embarrassed Sea Scout went below.
"Ease her down, Flemming," suggested Mr. Armitage. "We're getting
into an intricate waterway, and if we touch with a lot of way on we
may do ourselves damage."
Above Saltash Bridge the Tamar contracts considerably. What it loses
in breadth it gains in scenery, for on either side high ground
crowned with trees made a picturesque setting to the tidal estuary.
"We're in luck," said Woodleigh, pointing to a small paddle-steamer
ahead. "She'll be our pilot."
In a few minutes the _Olivette_ had overhauled the paddle-boat
sufficiently to be right in her foamy wake. Speed was still further
reduced until the distance between the two craft was evenly
maintained.
"Woodleigh will make one of the smartest coastal navigators going,"
observed Mr. Armitage to his brother Scoutmaster. "He knows all the
'tricks of the trade' already. He'd make a capital master of a tug or
coasting vessel, but curiously enough he hasn't shone at deep-sea
navigation. I tried to teach him to work out a position by sextant,
but it was hopeless."
"And yet, on the other hand," rejoined Mr. Graham, "how many seamen
one meets who are absolutely out of it when navigating in shallow
waters. I've seen Royal Navy men--jolly smart fellows at their
work--'tied up in knots' when compelled by circumstances to navigate
shallow, intricate channels, through which yachtsmen and fishermen
venture with impunity."
Calstock, a small village boasting a magnificent stone railway bridge
across the river, came into sight. This was the _Olivette's_ limit as
far as the Tamar was concerned. Berthing alongside the quay and
astern of the steamer that had perforce acted as a pilot, the crew
once more bade their guests and fellow Sea Scouts good luck.
Mr. Graham, armed with an Ordnance map, "set the course", aiming as
far as possible to keep off the highroad. This meant loss of speed;
but on the other hand it was preferable to tramping stolidly along a
hard-surfaced highway.
The lads were thoroughly enjoying themselves. Tramping after a sea
voyage came as a complete change. What was more, there was a goal for
which they were making--something to speed them to renewed energies.
By five o'clock in the afternoon they arrived at the old-fashioned
Cornish town of Launceston, where, guided by a local Scoutmaster,
they found a splendid camping-ground a little to the north of the
town.
It was a Spartan-like camp, but fortunately the weather was decidedly
on the mend. The drizzle they had experienced at Plymouth had been
left behind, and on the lofty Cornish hinterland the ground was quite
dry and the air marvellously bracing.
Very soon a fire was burning brightly. Over it, suspended by a stout
sapling held up by a couple of crossed poles, the kettle boiled very
quickly.
It was a gorgeous, Scout-like meal. Tea slightly flavoured with the
reek of burnt wood, huge slabs of bread liberally plastered with
fresh butter, kippers (purchased in Launceston) fried in the hot
embers, and huge, floury potatoes baked in their skins, made a
satisfying and appetizing repast.
"How's that wound on your toe, Desmond?" inquired Mr. Graham. He had
asked the same question at least half a dozen times before, and the
Patrol Leader had stoutly asserted that he hardly felt it, and that
it was healing nicely.
"It's a bit painful, sir," admitted Desmond reluctantly. While he had
been on the move he had practically forgotten all about it; but now,
sprawling on the turf, he was aware of a persistent and increasing
throb.
"Take your shoe and stocking off and let me see the injury," said the
Scoutmaster.
Desmond did so. In spite of the fact that the ratbite had been
carefully washed with disinfectant the flesh was badly inflamed.
Mr. Graham dressed the wound and insisted on the Patrol Leader
keeping still for the rest of the evening.
"We'll see how it looks in the morning," he added. "If it's not
considerably better you'll have to finish the trek by train."
It was jolly plucky on Desmond's part to have started with a toe in
that condition; but he failed to grasp the other side of the case. By
"carrying on" he had made the wound worse, with the result that he
might be laid up for several days, and thus throw a heavy strain upon
the rest of the crew of the _Spindrift_. If, however, he had admitted
that his foot was painful, Mr. Graham would have sent him to Bude by
train from Plymouth, and in all probability, by the time the others
arrived to take over the yacht, Desmond would have been able to carry
out his duties without physical discomfort.
The fire was kept up and given a plentiful supply of fuel when
darkness set in. The four trekkers had already prepared their beds on
a sloping expanse of turf under the lee of a rough stone wall. Making
the beds was a simple matter, and consisted of scooping out a small
hole to take the pressure of each sleeper's hip. Then the
ground-sheets were spread proofed-side downwards, and the blankets
arranged to fold over so that there were two thicknesses above and
below the sleeper. Haversacks laid over a heap of moss provided a
pillow, while the fold of the ground-sheet over everything made an
effectual protection from the night dews.
"Comfortable, Desmond?" inquired the Scoutmaster.
"Yes, sir," came the muffled reply.
"Good night, everyone!" exclaimed Mr. Graham.
"Good night, sir," was the rejoinder from three very sleepy lads, and
five minutes later silence reigned in the camp.
Almost before the sun had risen Hayes awoke, stretched himself, and
got up. His companions were still sleeping soundly. Resisting the
temptation to place a wet sponge on Jock Findlay's face, the Sea
Scout went to a near-by brook and washed. Then, stirring the
still-glowing embers of last night's fire and applying fresh fuel, he
coaxed the dried wood into a healthy blaze.
"Isn't it fine!" he exclaimed to himself, as he stood erect,
breathing in the pure moorland air and surveying the expanse of
undulating ground terminated by the rugged heights of Brown Willy. "I
never thought there was such a view. There ought to be some scheme
for sending East Coast Scouts to camp in Cornwall, and give Cornish
Scouts a chance to see the Essex mudflats. Now then, you sleepy
bounders! Out you turn."
By the time the others had performed their ablutions, Hayes had the
porridge under way. It hardly mattered that one kettle had to answer
for all culinary purposes; that the porridge had a slight flavour of
tea and that there were a few tea-leaves in it. Toned down with thick
Cornish cream and a lavish quantity of golden syrup the porridge
disappeared, and was pronounced excellent. Slices of streaky bacon
grilled over the fire were devoured with gusto, notwithstanding
particles of wood ash which adhered to the fat.
Breakfast over, the Sea Scouts struck camp. They did so methodically.
The blankets, after being aired, were folded; the scanty gear cleaned
and packed away. Then the cinders of the fire and all loose paper and
refuse were buried, so that the owner of the land would have no cause
for complaint.
"Now let me see your toe again, Desmond," said Mr. Graham.
Desmond felt none too happy as far as his injury was concerned. He
sat down and removed the dressings.
"H'm," remarked the Scoutmaster. "A little better, but there's still
a fair amount of inflammation. It's the puff-puff for you, my lad.
It's as much as you can do to walk to the railway station."
Protesting ineffectually, the Patrol Leader was escorted into the
town. At the station it was found that there was a train in an hour
and a half's time.
"You'll be there before us, old man," said Jock consolingly. "Since
you've got to keep your foot up you might try lying on one of the
bunks of the _Spindrift_ in case there are any rats on board. They
seem very partial to you."
"That's a fact," rejoined the victim bitterly. "I guess that rat knew
I have a Naturalist's Badge."