How Desmond Fared
Patrol Leader Desmond's chief inclination, upon arriving at Bude
railway station, was to make the acquaintance of the _Spindrift_ as
soon as possible. He had two reasons for so doing: he wanted to see
what the yacht was like; he also wished to rest his injured foot in
order to get it well as quickly as he could. The thought of being an
idler on board, when there was plenty of work for all hands, was
repugnant to a fellow of his energetic character.
On making inquiries, he was directed to follow a footpath crossing a
stream and leading to the lock gates.
"That's the _Spindrift_," he said to himself, as the slender masts of
a small craft came into view, "or perhaps she's that 'two sticker'
lying farther up. I'd better ask someone."
The first person he met was a freckled-faced, curly-haired seafaring
man with earrings. He wore no hat, but the visible part of his attire
consisted of a loose canvas jumper, a pair of tanned trousers, and
brown canvas shoes. He only wanted a musket slung across his
shoulder, brace of flint-lock pistols, and a sheath-knife to be the
living counterpart of a seventeenth-century buccaneer.
"Please can you tell me if that is the yacht _Spindrift_?" inquired
Desmond politely.
The man looked him up and down before replying. "Ay, 'tes 'er," he
announced briefly.
"Thank you," rejoined the Patrol Leader, and was about to resume his
way when the man addressed a string of questions uttered in the
broadest Cornish dialect.
Desmond shook his head. He did not understand a single sentence.
The man merely grinned, and, without attempting to repeat his words,
rolled unsteadily away.
"Funny sort," soliloquized the Patrol Leader. "Looks as if he hasn't
lost his sea-legs. But I've found out what I wanted to know."
Arriving at the canal basin, Desmond saw that the ketch was lying
alongside the farthermost wall. To get to her necessitated a
considerable _détour_, and, in addition, he had to cross a plank
bridge over the lock gates.
As he limped along, Desmond took stock of the little craft. She was
spoon-bowed, with a raking transom. There was no name painted on her
stern, nor anywhere else as far as the Patrol Leader could discover.
Her tanned sails were uncoated and loosely furled ready to be
hoisted.
Getting on board with no little difficulty, Desmond found that the
cabin doors were locked, which was rather what he expected. The
circular hatch in the fore-deck was, however, open.
"Good enough," thought the lad. "I can get into the cabin through the
door in the for'ard bulkhead."
He lowered himself into the fo'c'sle. For some seconds he was almost
blinded by the sudden change from the dazzling sunshine to the gloom
below, especially as his bulk intercepted most of the light from the
open hatch.
Rather to his disappointment he found the sliding door closed and
bolted on the inside. If he were to gain admittance it would be
necessary to obtain the key from the person in charge of the yacht.
Desmond was hot, tired, and feeling a fair amount of pain in his
injured toe.
"Not worth the fag," he contended. "I'll turn in here."
The fo'c'sle boasted a couple of cots, one folded back against either
side of the boat. What struck Desmond as being remarkable was the
presence of a number of enamelled cups, saucers, and plates that
badly wanted washing up, together with the fragments of a meal
consisting of bully beef, sardines, and tinned apricots.
"I expect the workmen have been grubbing here," he hazarded. "They're
not Scouts, or they would never have left the place in such a mess."
There was a Primus stove in the gimbals, and close to it a saucepan
half filled with lukewarm water. On a nail in the sliding door was a
tea-towel.
Desmond set to work with a will to wash up the plates and dishes and
to stow them away. This done--it was hot work in the confined space,
what with the sun shining on deck and the heat of the stove
below--the Patrol Leader felt more tired than before.
Lowering one of the cots, and using a sail-bag for a pillow, Desmond
turned in. For a while his toe throbbed painfully, then the desire
for sleep overcame every other sensation, and he was soon in a deep,
dreamless slumber.
Ten minutes later Tom Truscott and Dick Wilde, part-owners of the
8-ton, centre-board ketch _Spanker_, came hurrying along the canal
bank to the accompaniment of a series of exhortations to, "'Urry up
if yer want to get through afore yon schooner locks in," from the
energetic lock-keeper.
Both men were young, hefty, full of action, and keen yachtsmen. They
had come "round the Land", and were making their way by easy stages
to Penarth. Three days previously they had put into Bude through
stress of weather, and were about to set sail for Lundy Island and
the South Wales coast.
There was little time to be lost. Men on the breakwater were
tracking-in a topsail schooner, and, as it was close on high water,
the vessel was coming straight into the canal basin. Directly the
gates were open there was an opportunity for the _Spanker_ to go out
under headsails before the limited expanse was still further impeded
by the arrival of the topsail schooner.
Truscott and Wilde were deft hands at their work. They went about it
with the minimum of noise. Since the yacht was moored alongside a
wall, there were merely ropes to be cast off and headsails hoisted.
Getting up the anchor to the accompaniment of the rattling of a winch
and the clanking of chain cable did not figure in the operation.
Almost as silently as a wraith the ketch glided through the lock,
and, with the wind well on the port quarter, stood steadily seaward.
Truscott was at the helm, while his companion, after descending into
the cabin and lowering the centre-board, proceeded to set first
mizzen and then mainsail.
Half an hour later the north Cornish coast grew dim in the summer
haze.
"Thought we'd have found more wind out here," remarked Truscott.
"What about setting the topsail?"
"Right-o," assented Wilde. "Ten to one we'll have to douse it before
we make Lundy. There's wind about--plenty of it before long."
"All right then," said his companion. "Don't bother about the
jack-yarder. Send the jib-headed topsail aloft. She'll carry short
for all the wind we're likely to get to-day."
Wilde went for'ard to get the required sail, which was stowed in a
bag in one of the fo'c'sle lockers.
"Jehoshaphat!" he ejaculated. "We've a jolly stowaway on board, old
man! There's a boy sound asleep in one of the fo'c'sle cots."
"Good job we did lock the cabin, then," rejoined Truscott. "What sort
of young blighter is he?"
"A Sea Scout," announced the other.
"A Sea Scout?" snorted Truscott contemptuously. "Never came across
one yet who was any good. Sort of glorified beach-combers--useless
when by chance they do go to sea. I hope to goodness he doesn't
muster his bag in our fo'c'sle. What's to be done with him."
"He's here on board," said Wilde, stating an obvious fact.
"And here he stops," added Truscott grimly. "If he doesn't like it
that's his funeral. I'm not putting back to land a rotten stowaway.
Get him out of it--sling a bucket of water over him!"
"That's all very well," objected Wilde with a laugh. "But who's going
to mop up the fo'c'sle? I know a way."
From one of the cockpit lockers he produced a long metal fog-horn--a
kind of exaggerated trumpet. Going for'ard he lowered the instrument
until the horn was within six inches of the sleeping lad's face,
then, distending his cheeks, Wilde blew a long, ear-splitting,
discordant blast.
Intensified by the confined space the terrific roar awakened Desmond
only too effectually. He sat up, caught his head on one of the
deck-beams, and subsided with his hands held to his aching forehead.
"Sorry, I am really!" exclaimed the genuinely repentant Wilde, who
had never anticipated such a sequel. "I only meant to turn you out.
What are you doing here?"
Desmond made no reply. He was a little dazed, deafened, and
completely mystified at being rudely awakened to unfamiliar
surroundings. He slid out of the cot and sat upon one of the lockers,
blinking at the disturber of his slumbers.
"What are you doing here?" repeated Wilde.
"This is the Sea Scouts' yacht _Spindrift_," declared Desmond.
"I----"
"First I heard of it," interrupted the other with a laugh. "This is
the _Spanker_ of Dartmouth, for Penarth; and at Penarth you'll be set
ashore, unless we drop across some Bude fishing-boats. That isn't
likely, as they are generally away down west'ard."
"Then I've made a mistake," said the Patrol Leader.
"First time I've known a Scout to admit that," rejoined Wilde drily.
"However, come aft and tell your yarn to my chum."
It was soon apparent to the partners that Desmond had made a genuine
blunder. His open narrative carried conviction, and the annoyance
that the two men had shown when the stowaway had been discovered
quickly evaporated.
"With luck, you'll be with your pals by noon to-morrow," observed
Truscott. "We'll send you back by train from Penarth, unless there's
a joy-boat running from Cardiff to Ilfracombe. Hello, Wilde old man:
wind's heading us."
During the last few minutes the wind had veered through sixteen
points of the compass. It had been from the sou'-sou'-east; now it
was nor'-nor'-west.
Tending sheets occupied the crew's attention, and the conversation
ceased. Desmond, perched upon the weather-rail, wanted to bear a
hand. Inactivity bored him. In spite of his injured foot, he knew he
could be of use if required, but his natural hesitation to thrust
himself forward in the presence of strangers held him to silence.
"There's Lundy," announced Truscott, as a faint blurr appeared
through a partial dispersal of the haze.
"Wind's piping up, too," added his chum. "How about handing that
topsail? It isn't doing much good close-hauled."
Truscott glanced aloft. The topsail was acting up to its reputation
of being the first sail to shake.
"Right-o!" he agreed. "Down with it."
Wilde went for'ard, cast off topsail sheets and halliards, and
commenced to haul down.
"Dash it all!" he exclaimed. "The halliard's jammed. I always said
that sheave was too small."
"Can you steer?" demanded Truscott abruptly, turning to the Patrol
Leader. "Yes? Right-o, here you are."
Desmond found himself in possession of the tiller, while Truscott
went for'ard to bear a hand with the stubborn topsail.
It did not take Desmond very long to "get the hang" of the helm. Used
to small-boat sailing, he quickly found that it was quite an easy
matter to keep a yacht on her course without yawing. Had the
_Spanker_ been running, it might have been rather difficult; close
hauled the ketch almost sailed herself, save for an occasional touch
of the helm as she tended to come up into the wind.
"That youngster knows what he's about," remarked Truscott in a low
voice. "He won't get her in irons. I'll go aloft and clear the
blessed sail."
Truscott was a burly fellow. He went aloft, holding on to the
staysail halliards and getting a foothold on the mast-hoops. Gaining
the cross-trees, he balanced himself on the slender galvanized-iron
spreader and stretched for the jammed rope.
[Illustration: BOTH MEN TUMBLED ON THE CABIN-TOP
_Page_ 145.]
As he did so the weather-arm of the cross-trees gave way under his
weight. So quickly did the metal-work give, that Truscott had only
time to grip the topmast shroud as he fell. His grasp was sufficient
to check his downward path, but the wire shroud cut deeply into his
hands. He had to let go.
Wilde, seeing his companion's predicament, pluckily broke his fall.
Both men tumbled in a confused heap upon the raised cabin-top,
fortunately on the wind'ard side, or both might have been thrown into
the sea.
Lashing the helm, Desmond hastened to their assistance. He stubbed
his already injured toe upon a cleat as he did so, but in the
excitement of the moment he hardly noticed that the wound had
reopened.
Both men had to be assisted into the cockpit, for they were shaken by
the concussion. In addition, both of Truscott's hands were lacerated
across the palms, while Wilde had sustained an injury that Desmond
correctly diagnosed as a broken collar-bone. It was pretty obvious to
the Patrol Leader that he was the only capable hand left on board,
and that upon him would devolve the management of the ship.
Desmond's first step was to haul the headsail sheets to wind'ard.
Fortunately the _Spanker_ was an admirable craft when hove-to. She
was now as steady as she could possibly be, forging ahead at less
than one knot.
"I'm all right," protested Truscott. "There's a tar-pot and some
waste up for'ard. Nothing like a flick of tar to stop bleeding."
Desmond did not view these rough and ready methods of first-aid with
anything like approval. Tar, in itself an excellent disinfectant, was
hardly suitable for a deep wound in which, more than likely,
fragments of rusty wire were embedded.
"I've a first-aid outfit in my kit," he announced, "if you don't mind
washing your hands, while I see what I can do for your chum."
"Good lad!" exclaimed Truscott approvingly.
The Patrol Leader fetched his outfit from the fo'c'sle and proceeded
to attend to Wilde's injuries. This done, he carefully bandaged
Truscott's cuts with boric lint, and not until both men were fixed up
as comfortably as possible did Desmond re-dress his own injuries.
"Hadn't we better put back?" he inquired. "I can take the yacht into
Bude, but I don't know the Bristol Channel."
Somewhat to Desmond's surprise, Truscott, "who wasn't going to put
back for anything or anybody" according to his own words a couple of
hours ago, offered no objection. His views of Sea Scouts, and this
one in particular, had undergone a rapid change. He knew that
Desmond's plan was a sound one. It was a hazardous task for a youth
practically single-handed to sail the _Spanker_ almost dead to
wind'ard for a matter of fifty or sixty miles of strange waters, when
Bude lay an easy distance dead to lee'ard.
"Carry on," he replied. "Can you get her about? Don't gybe her."
Desmond had no intention of gybing. Casting loose the tiller, and
trimming the headsail sheets to lee'ard, he soon got way on the
vessel. Then, putting her helm down, he "went about" and steered for
the now invisible Cornish coast.
Three hours later, for the wind had dropped considerably, the land
loomed up. It was unfamiliar ground. Hartland Point, which Desmond
had noticed on the outward passage, was nowhere to be seen. Right
ahead was a bold promontory crowned with a few scanty ruins.
He called Truscott from the cabin.
"What's that point, sir?" he asked.
Truscott gave a low whistle.
"You're a little out of your course, my lad," he declared. "That's
Tintagel. Bude is twelve miles to the nor'-east'ard. Bring her close
to the wind. We may fetch it without tacking, but I'm doubtful."
It was Desmond's lack of navigation that had been responsible for the
error. Simply reversing the compass course for the return run was not
enough. He had omitted to take into consideration the strong tide
running to the sou'-west, with the result that the yacht had made her
landfall a dozen miles to lee'ard of her destination.
"Live and learn," thought Desmond philosophically. "I'll know better
next time."
The _Spanker_ was now close-hauled on the port tack, and, although
she was able to lay on her course, the wind had fallen so light that
she was hardly able to stem the adverse tide.
"It doesn't very much matter, my lad," remarked Truscott. "You
wouldn't have been able to get the _Spanker_ into harbour until close
on high-water. Better keep on sailing than lying at anchor in a
ground-swell."
"That's all very well," added Wilde, "but how about my collar-bone?"
"I've not forgotten it, nor my hands either," rejoined his chum, with
a faint show of asperity. "My head's aching like anything."
"So's mine," said Wilde, "so you've nothing to make a song about."
Desmond heard, but said nothing. It seemed strange to him that two
chums should start wrangling on board a small craft. But a few
minutes later amicable relations were resumed as suddenly as they had
been interrupted.
At six o'clock the yacht was hove-to once more, while the handy Sea
Scout prepared and served a meal. Shortly after, the tide turned, and
the _Spanker_ made better progress, although the breeze was paltry
and inclined to be fluky. Nine o'clock found her off Compass Point,
the southern boundary of Bude Haven, and Desmond had another
experience: that of waiting for enough water to make the entrance.
At last, with centre-plate up, the _Spanker_ ran in. Fortunately for
Desmond the wind was very light. Wilde, with his uninjured arm, held
the tiller, while the Sea Scout lowered first mainsail, then mizzen,
jib, and finally the staysail.
Gradually losing way, the ketch was brought alongside the stone wall
outside the lock and made fast. In the fading twilight Desmond was
delighted and surprised to recognize Mr. Graham's voice.
"Thank Heaven I've found you!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster gratefully.
"What have you been doing, Desmond?"
It was Truscott, erstwhile scoffer of Sea Scouts, who replied:
"Doing a rattling good turn, sir. We'd have been tied up in knots if
it hadn't been for Patrol Leader Desmond."