The Fog
For the next two days the _Spindrift_ remained at St. Ives,
alternately rolling like a barrel or lying well over on the bottom of
the harbour, according to the state of the tide. On the first of
those two days it would have been sheer madness to attempt to put to
sea: the yacht would have been dismasted or sunk before she came
abreast of Pendeen. On the second the brief summer gale had
moderated. The _Spindrift_ might have made the passage round The Land
successfully, but Mr. Graham deemed it prudent to wait until the sea
calmed down. It looked quiet enough when viewed from the heights
above St. Ives, but there were those long Atlantic rollers between
Cape Cornwall and Land's End to be taken into account, to say nothing
of the strong current setting towards the deadly Brisons.
The greater part of the time was spent ashore. Enthusiastic
sailor-lads though they were, the Sea Scouts found that life afloat
under these conditions was neither comfortable nor instructive.
Sleeping on board, with the deck at an angle of 45 degrees was bad
enough, but when it came to eating and living in a confined space
that was rolling monotonously until the yacht's planks were awash, it
was too much for the crew to endure.
At length, the glass began to rise slowly, after suffering a relapse
that threatened a harder blow. The weather reports stated that a
cyclone of considerable violence and with a narrow path had shifted
towards the North Sea. Vessels putting in from the west'ard reported
calm seas, while on the morning of the third day a grey dawn
prognosticated a return of fine weather. On a falling tide, and with
less than a foot of water under her keel, the _Spindrift_ slipped the
friendly mooring-chain--their blessing in disguise--and stood out
bound round The Land. A light nor'-westerly breeze was in her favour,
although it was a case of long and short tacks until Zennor Hill was
abeam.
"Is that Land's End, sir?" asked Hayes, pointing to a bold promontory
on the port bow.
"No," replied the Scoutmaster, "that's Cape Cornwall. It looks to be
the most westerly point of England, and its bold appearance rather
bears it out. Don't expect too much of Land's End. Viewed from
seaward it has rather a disappointing aspect compared with Cape
Cornwall."
The latter cape rounded, the _Spindrift_ stood well out to avoid the
Brisons, tall detached rocks connected with the shore by a submerged
reef, over which the tide swirls furiously.
Right ahead, a tall lighthouse reared itself from a low-lying ridge
of rocks. It was the Longships, one of the beacons lighting the
"Chops of the Channel ".
"We don't have to go outside that, sir, do we?" asked Desmond, who
was taking his trick at the helm. "The chart shows plenty of water
between the Longships and the shore."
"No, inside," replied Mr. Graham. "You'll have to keep on a
stern-bearing--keep the highest part of the northern Brison west'ard
of the highest part of the southern Brison. That will take you
through. There's Land's End, lads."
Before the noted promontory drew abeam, Mr. Graham saw something that
caused him certain misgivings. He had wished to round The Land in
calm weather. That wish was being satisfied; but with the calm came a
sea-fog. Already the high ground above Land's End was being obscured
by a pall of fleecy vapour.
To make matters worse the wind died away, leaving the _Spindrift_
rolling sluggishly, with her canvas hanging idly from her swaying
yards.
"We're in for a fairly thick fog, Desmond," said the Scoutmaster
quietly. "Take a compass bearing of Land's End before it's shut out.
Good: now keep her head on sou'-by-east. Jock, start up the motor.
The sooner we get into the English Channel the better."
Five minutes later the _Spindrift_ was enveloped in the dense, clammy
fog. From the cockpit it was impossible to see the bowsprit end,
while the headsails, grey and grotesquely distorted, seemed baffling
in their size and appearance.
Somewhere astern, the Longships Lighthouse was throwing out its
fog-signals--two explosive rockets every five minutes. Faintly, and
far ahead, came the hoarse bray of a steamer's syren. Ashore a dog
was barking dismally--the noise too close to be appreciated by the
crew of the fog-bound yacht; while in the flat calm, the roar of the
surf upon the iron-bound coast was an audible reminder of the fate a
small craft might expect should she be carried upon that dangerous
shore.
It was the Scoutmaster's plan to hold on the present course until the
yacht was well clear of the coast; then to shape a course up-Channel
until the fog lifted. He was of opinion that it would be far safer to
spend a day and a night afloat, if necessary, with plenty of
sea-room, than to attempt to find his way into Penzance in a blinding
fog, and to risk being swept ashore or being carried upon one of the
numerous reefs or detached rocks which abound on the west side of
Mount's Bay.
Although the _Spindrift's_ compass had no deviation card, the
Scoutmaster had verified it by taking various bearings on the run
from Bude to St. Ives. He found that the compass was remarkably
accurate with the vessel's head pointing between west and sou'-west;
but whether there was an error in the compass on an easterly course
he had not the slightest idea.
Consequently, he decided to take no undue risks on that score, and
when, after an hour's steady progress under motor-power, the
_Spindrift_ was, according to his calculation, four miles south of
Land's End, he ordered a course east-by-south.
The Sea Scouts had been caught out in fogs off the Essex coast
several times. Then the usual procedure was to stand shorewards and
drop anchor in about one fathom at low water, until the fog lifted.
In such shallow water there was very little risk of being run down.
But in the present circumstances anchoring was out of the question.
All they could do was to carry on with the utmost caution, until a
lifting of the pall of vapour gave them a chance of verifying their
position.
Although the lads did not realize the gravity of the situation to the
same extent as did their Scoutmaster, they felt far from happy. It
was an eerie experience, forging ahead at about three knots through
the mist. No longer could they hear sound from the shore. The noise
of the exhaust from the motor deadened everything, the sharp reports
reverberating as the sound was thrown back by the enclosing vault of
fog.
Suddenly a loud whistling noise rent the air, its weird shriek
outvoicing the roar of the motor.
"Down helm!" shouted Mr. Graham.
Findlay, who had relieved the Patrol Leader at the helm, put the
tiller hard over. Even as he did so, a faint light appeared through
the fog almost on top of the yacht. Then the crew had a brief glimpse
of a large can-buoy, painted in black-and-white vertical stripes, as
it swept past them, straining at its moorings in the strong tideway.
It was a narrow squeak. A few feet nearer and the _Spindrift_ would
have crashed violently into the buoy. Even her stout planks and heavy
timbers could not have withstood the shock.
Five seconds later the buoy was lost in the mist, but as a parting
reminder it emitted another long-drawn whistle.
"It's the Run-something Buoy, sir," said Desmond. "I saw the first
three letters painted on the side."
"Runnelstone," said Mr. Graham. "It marks a dangerous rock off the
coast. Fortunately, we were outside the buoy. Put her east-sou'-east,
Jock."
Mr. Graham realized that there was something wrong. Although he had
allowed, as he thought, ample margin, the original course was not
sufficient to give the coast a wide enough berth. Either the compass
was in error, or else a strong indraught of tide was setting the
yacht ashore. By steering another point to the south'ard the
_Spindrift_ ought to be clear of everything.
Hour after hour passed in nervous tension. All the crew kept on deck,
straining their eyes needlessly, and listening for the faintest
sound. In spite of oilskins, they were wet through. The fog, cold and
clammy, seemed to penetrate everything. At one time, the fog-horns
and wrens of several craft were distinctly audible. At another a bell
clanged dolorously. But for the most part the yacht was in a zone of
silence, broken only by the noise of the engine and the sullen splash
of the water against her bows.
"Switch off the motor, Jock," said the Scoutmaster. "We haven't any
too much petrol, and we may want the engine to help us into port."
"How far are we from Penzance now, sir?" asked Hayes.
"Bother the boy: he does ask awkward questions," thought Mr. Graham.
He could not say, for the simple reason that he was out of his
course; and to state that fact would be an admission of incompetence
as far as his crew were concerned. It might also tend to put them in
a state of alarm.
"We are not making for Penzance," he replied. "With the fog hiding
everything it would be too risky to close the coast. So we are going
to carry on all night, if necessary. With plenty of sea-room and a
calm sea there's nothing much to worry about. Now, then. All hands
below for tea. I'll take the helm until Desmond comes on deck to
relieve me."
At length, the murky daylight began to fail. Night was approaching.
The fog was as thick as ever, notwithstanding a faint westerly breeze
that had sprung up.
Already canvas had been hoisted, and the _Spindrift_ was gliding
through the water at about 3 1/2 knots--forcing her way through the
dense bank of vapour that, in the gathering darkness, could be
felt--actually felt.
For hours not a sound had been heard from without. An uncanny silence
was in the air. Even the breeze failed to give its tuneful song as it
usually does when it hums through the rigging.
At ten o'clock a large steamer, going at high speed and blaring
incessantly with her siren, passed within fifty yards of the little
_Spindrift_; for a temporary lift in the fog showed her port light
like a gigantic blur of fire. So great was the steamer's speed, that
her bow wave broke completely over the yacht's weather side, causing
her to roll so furiously that Hayes afterwards said it was as if the
_Spindrift_ was standing on her head.
"Not much use blowing our fog-horn," remarked Findlay. "They didn't
take the slightest bit of notice."
"There's one good thing: they missed us," said Desmond.
Within the next half-hour half a dozen other craft were heard at
varying distances, fortunately not close enough to cause
apprehension.
Evidently the yacht was either crossing or converging upon one of the
regular "lanes" of shipping; but curiously enough, Mr. Graham failed
to detect any fog signals from shore stations. He had listened for
the Lizard, and later on, the Eddystone, but in vain. He had to admit
that he was completely out of his reckoning, but he made this
admission to himself.
"Turn in, lads!" he ordered briskly. "Turn in all standing, except
your shoes, in case you're wanted on deck in a hurry."
"How about you, sir?" asked the Patrol Leader. "Can't I take a watch,
and let you turn in? I'm not at all sleepy really, sir."
"All right, then," agreed the Scoutmaster, inwardly glad to have
company during the night watches. "You can do a trick with me on the
understanding that you turn in at dawn. You others, watch below!"
Scoutmaster and Patrol Leader, both clad in oilskins in addition to
their pilot jackets, prepared for their long trick. Desmond,
supremely confident in his officer's capabilities, had lost that
sense of dread which had gripped him in the early stages of the fog.
He was rather enjoying the novelty of a night at sea in thick
weather.
But not so Mr. Graham. The fog had upset all his calculations. Added
to this, the obvious unreliability of the compass had destroyed his
sense of direction. The leadline was all but useless. It was but
twenty fathoms in length, and at no time during the fog had the crew
been able to strike soundings.
It was a long night. At intervals Mr. Graham consulted the luminous
dial of his wristlet watch, and was surprised to find how slowly the
hours passed. Then there was more trouble with the compass. The light
did not burn well, and condensation on the underside of the binnacle
glass made it a matter of great difficulty to read the points. It was
only by flashing his electric torch directly upon the card that the
Scoutmaster was able to shape a course.
Yet he "kept his end up", chatting on various subjects with his
youthful companion, the while stifling the ever-present suggestion
that the _Spindrift_ was lost in the fog-enshrouded English Channel.
At last the blackness of the night gave place to a greyish light that
indicated dawn. The fog still held and showed no sign of dispersal,
while the wind held steadily from the same quarter.
"Daybreak, Desmond!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster, stretching his
cramped limbs and yawning. "Down below you go. Turn Findlay out, and
get him to make some hot cocoa before you turn in."
Five minutes later Jock thrust a tousled head through the companion
and sniffed inquiringly.
"Where are we now, sir?" was the question Mr. Graham expected--and
got.
"Still running up-Channel," was the Scoutmaster's unsatisfactory
reply. "Until the fog lifts we must not close the shore."
"I'll give you a spell, sir, directly I've made the cocoa," said
Findlay. "We haven't much fresh water left, sir. Only about a
gallon."
Left to himself, Mr. Graham threw a used match over the side and
watched it drift until it was lost to sight in the fog. By the rate
at which it drifted, the Scoutmaster estimated the yacht's speed at
three knots. Assuming that that speed had been maintained from the
time the _Spindrift_ rounded Land's End, she had already covered a
distance of forty miles in thirteen hours--the time the tide was
against her being equalized by an equal period when it was in her
favour. That meant that she ought to be fifteen or twenty miles
east-sou'-east of the Lizard, but Mr. Graham felt none too sure about
that.
Presently, Findlay appeared with two cups of steaming cocoa and half
a dozen dry biscuits on the lid of a tin.
"I've served out cocoa to the others, sir," he reported.
The Scoutmaster drank his cocoa gratefully, and began to nibble a
biscuit. It was only then that he realized how thirsty and hungry he
was. He had carried on throughout the night without any desire to eat
or drink, and maybe could have held on much longer had not Jock
brought the meal on deck.
Then came the almost overpowering desire for sleep. More than once,
Findlay, who was as fresh "as paint", caught Mr. Graham nodding his
head over the tiller.
"Won't you turn in, sir?" asked the lad. "I'll keep her going and
call you if there's anything to report."
Mr. Graham shook his head.
"I'll stick it," he declared. "When the fog lifts I may snatch a few
minutes."
But alas for the Scoutmaster's resolution! Five minutes later he
awoke with a start as the yacht ran up into the wind, and the
slatting of canvas brought the three Sea Scouts hurriedly on deck.
"Take her, Jock," said Mr. Graham wearily, as he handed over the
helm. "I must have a spell-o. I'll turn in on the cockpit floor. Kick
me if you want me."