Captured
"Fog's lifting, sir!"
The Scoutmaster opened his eyes and blinked at the welcome light. The
good news seemed too soon to be true, but right ahead the sun was
visible--a watery disc looming faintly through the dispersing vapour.
"Nine o'clock!" exclaimed Mr. Graham. "Have I slept all that time?"
"Only four hours, sir," replied Jock. "Nothing's happened, so we let
you sleep on."
Stiffly, the Scoutmaster sat up. A grating makes a hard bed, oilskins
and greatcoat notwithstanding. Looking over the port coaming of the
cockpit he found that the range of vision was limited to a distance
of about a hundred yards, but there were indications that matters
would improve in that direction. The wind too had increased, and was
blowing more to the starboard quarter.
"That's much better, lads!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster. "I hope we've
seen the last of the fog. It hung about much longer than usual."
"Where are we, sir?" asked the three Sea Scouts in chorus.
"That's a problem I'll leave you to find out," was the reply. "Get
hold of the chart and let each of you pin-prick the position you
think we are in. The winner gets a coco-nut when we put into port."
This competition kept the crew busy, as they argued amongst
themselves and plied parallel rulers and dividers in an attempt to
solve the problem.
The tail-end of the fog cleared fairly rapidly. By ten o'clock the
horizon was visible, but land was nowhere in view.
"Shin aloft and see if you can sight land, Hayes," said the
Scoutmaster.
Hayes, lithe and active as a kitten, went up to the cross-trees,
grasping the main halliards and using the mast-hoops as foot-holds.
Arrived at his perch twenty-five feet above the sea, he surveyed the
horizon.
"There's land on our port quarter, sir," he reported. "Or it may be
clouds," he added dubiously.
"Then that's the high ground behind the Lizard," thought Mr. Graham.
"Steer nor'-nor'-east, Desmond," he added aloud, "and we'll make
Plymouth Sound in a few hours."
At noon, when the Sea Scouts went to dinner, land was not in
sight--not even from the cross-trees. At three in the afternoon, a
faint blur to the nor'-west looked like land. Half an hour later the
surmise proved to be correct.
It was a rocky coast, broken by lofty hills, but nowhere could Mr.
Graham pick out the triangular-shaped promontory of Rame Head, the
western portal to the approaches of Plymouth.
It was land, and that was all to be said about it. Somewhere within a
few miles was a harbour. The Scoutmaster had no intention of having
another night at sea, if it could possibly be avoided.
Again and again he examined the chart, and consulted _The Channel
Pilot_, hoping to recognize the coast by means of the illustrations
given in the book.
It might be Falmouth, or Fowey, or perhaps Plymouth--that gap in the
coastline. He hoped the last, but he was far from feeling confident
about it. Instinctively, the crew realized that their Scoutmaster was
out of his reckoning. They treated it as a huge joke.
With a pair of binoculars slung round his neck, Desmond went aloft.
Scanning the coast-line from his post of vantage he at length solved
the knotty problem.
"It's the Start, sir!" he reported confidently. "And I can see Prawle
Point, where we semaphored about young Gregory."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Graham sharply.
"It is, sir," declared the Patrol Leader.
Telling Desmond to come down, the Scoutmaster went aloft. Desmond was
right. Through the powerful binoculars, the white lighthouse
buildings on Start Point and the signal station at Prawle Point were
unmistakably clear.
"That settles it," decided Mr. Graham. "We'll make for Dartmouth."
"Dartmouth, sir!" exclaimed Desmond. "I thought we were going to pick
up Bedford and Coles at Plymouth?"
"Out of the question," rejoined the Scoutmaster. "We can't beat to
wind'ard all that way and retrace our course. We'll wire them to join
us at Dartmouth."
About twenty minutes later a topsail schooner, close hauled on the
port tack, showed evident intention of crossing the _Spindrift's_
bows. By the "Rule of the Road at Sea" the latter, running free on
the same tack, had to make way for her.
As the ketch passed astern of the schooner, whose name, painted in
vivid yellow letters, was the _Gloria_, of Fowey, a short, thick-set
man, wearing a reefer suit and a bowler-hat, hailed the _Spindrift_.
"Ahoy!" he bawled. "Can you heave-to, an' take a lad ashore?"
"What's the game, I wonder," remarked Mr. Graham to his companions.
"Another sort of Gregory stunt?"
Apparently the skipper of the _Gloria_ considered his request acceded
to, for he ran the schooner up into the wind and backed his top-sail.
The _Spindrift_ also put her helm down, and hove-to about fifty yards
from the schooner's starboard quarter.
"Anything wrong?" queried the Scoutmaster.
"Nothin' to speak of," was the reply. "'E's nephew o' mine, an' his
old mother do live at Dartmouth. Us'll pick him up when we loads up
at Plymouth for Littlehampton!"
"Right-o," rejoined Mr. Graham. "We'll put him ashore. We'll send our
dinghy."
Although the sea was calm, the Scoutmaster decided that it was not
worth the risk to run the _Spindrift_ alongside the schooner. Findlay
jumped into the dinghy and rowed off, returning with the passenger.
The crew of the _Spindrift_ were not particularly impressed at the
appearance of the newcomer. He was a freckled, red-haired youth of
about eighteen, with a loose lip, and greenish eyes that had a
strained, worried look. He waved his hand to the _Gloria_ as the
schooner filled her top-sails and resumed her course.
The youth was not at all backward at asking questions. He wanted to
know all about the _Spindrift_ and her crew, where they came from and
where they were bound for; why they weren't running the motor, and
when did they expect to make Dartmouth?
On the other hand, he was very communicative when the Sea Scouts
questioned him, and was as outspoken as the misjudged Gregory had
been reticent.
Choosing the inshore passage inside the Skerries, Mr. Graham
suggested that it was time for another meal. Findlay went below to
light the stove and prepare the food, and, when he announced that all
was ready, the crew and the guest went into the cabin, leaving Hayes
at the helm.
"Keep her as she is, Hayes," cautioned Mr. Graham. "I'll be on deck
to relieve you long before we open out Dartmouth Harbour."
The Sea Scouts were hungry; so was the stranger. There was food in
plenty, but, owing to the shortage of fresh water, there was only one
cup of cocoa for each person.
Suddenly, the passenger made a hurried exit into the cock-pit. The
Sea Scouts looked at each other and grinned. They had seen similar
precipitate rushes to the open air before. Even Mr. Graham raised his
eyebrows knowingly.
But the next turn of events completely took the wind out of their
sails. Almost before they realized what was taking place, the cabin
doors were slammed to and the sliding hatch drawn over. They heard
the rasp of the securing hasp, and the sharp click of the key in the
padlock.
"Forehatch, quick, you fellows!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster, who,
seated at the after end of the cabin, could not make his way into the
fo'c'sle as quickly as Findlay and Desmond. Both lads attempted
simultaneously to squeeze through the sliding door between the cabin
and the fo'c'sle. By the time Jock had given way to the Patrol Leader
it was too late. There was a scuffling of feet on deck. The forehatch
was shut with a bang, and a marline-spike inserted through the
securing-bar. The Scoutmaster and two of the crew were prisoners.
Meanwhile, Hayes was still at the helm. Not until the young ruffian,
whom they had befriended, had secured the forehatch did he grasp the
situation. It was useless for him to leave the tiller. Without a key,
it was impossible for him to open the companion-doors, while to throw
back the fore-hatch was out of the question while the red-haired
youth was in possession of the deck.
For several minutes the fellow remained for'ard, watching the
vibrations of the hatch cover under the the united efforts of the
imprisoned crew to burst it open. Satisfied that the metal bar defied
their united strength, the red-haired youth came aft, ostentatiously
fingering a large clasp knife.
"Look 'ere, kid!" he exclaimed. "Me an' you's goin' for a trip
together, friendly-like. S'long's you gives no trouble, well an'
good. Any tricks, mind you, an' it'll be the worst for yer. Got
that?"
Hayes felt very hot in the throat. He was up against something this
time. He racked his brains to know what to say or do. To attempt to
try conclusions by force with this tough-looking fellow seemed out of
the question. Hayes was small but sturdy, but he was no match for the
huge-limbed, bull-necked youth who had taken charge of things.
"I don't know what you mean," he said. "We're expecting to fall in
with another Sea Scout motor-boat off Dartmouth, so I don't see what
you can do."
"We ain't goin' to no Dartmouth," declared the youth with a leer.
"We're goin' for a run in that there dinghy. Your pals will go for a
cruise on their own till someone picks 'em up. They can't come to no
'arm. What's that place over there?"
Hayes shook his head.
"Where's that map of yours I seed you with?" continued the young
ruffian. "Chuck it over 'ere."
He studied the chart intently, at the same time taking frequent
glances at the helmsman to guard against surprise.
"'Allsands, that's wot it is," he declared. "Now, look 'ere, mate.
Throw the yot up in the wind and put that there engine into the
dinghy. Can you work it?"
Hayes shook his head again.
"You'll jolly well 'ave to," continued the young pirate. "Look
slippy."
Obediently the Sea Scout threw the _Spindrift_ up into the wind and
drew the dinghy alongside. His ready brain was evolving a plan. He
meant to make a flying leap into the dinghy and push off, leaving the
other fellow in possession of the yacht. It was unlikely that the
red-haired youth would jump overboard and swim after the dinghy
before Hayes had time to ship rowlocks and man the sculls. If he did,
a tap over the head with one of the oars would bring him to his
senses--or otherwise.
But the Sea Scout reckoned without his host.
"'Ere, 'and me that painter," said the pirate with a grin. "Do you go
aft an' fix up that motor. Look sharp, there."
Hayes clamped the outboard motor, and adjusted the controls. As he
did so, he noticed that the fellow had not belayed the painter, but
was holding it in his hand. If the engine were put suddenly into the
reverse, the chances were that he would have to choose between
letting go or being dragged overboard.
The engine fired. Quick as thought Hayes raised the tiller, thereby
setting the propeller blade at full astern. As the Sea Scout had
surmised, the painter tautened suddenly, and the next instant it was
jerked out of the red-haired youth's hands.
As soon as the dinghy was sufficient distance astern the triumphant
Hayes put the engine ahead, in order to keep within hailing distance
of the fellow in possession of the _Spindrift_, and to deliver an
ultimatum.
But Hayes's elation was short-lived. He had forgotten the painter
trailing in the water. A jerk and the engine stopped dead, with half
a dozen turns of rope round the propeller.
Shipping the oars, the Sea Scout paddled within five yards of the
yacht.
"You're done for," he exclaimed to the furious youth. "I'm going
ashore to summon assistance, if you don't instantly let my chums out
of the cabin. The wind's falling light, and the yacht won't get very
far before you're caught."
"Don't you crow, you young blighter!" was the reply. "I'm not done
yet. See that beach? That's where I'm jolly well goin' to run this
'ere yot ashore and trust to luck. If anythink 'appens to your pals
it won't be my fault."
Hayes realized the import of this sinister threat. Even in the light
breeze, the _Spindrift_ could sail much faster than he could row the
dinghy, impeded as the latter was by the drag of the useless
propeller. And on the desolate beach a heavy swell was breaking,
sufficient to smash the _Spindrift_ into firewood in a few minutes.
And how would Mr. Graham and his two chums fare? They looked like
being drowned like rats in a trap. And, now he came to think of it,
Hayes stood a poor chance of getting ashore in the dinghy, unless
there were help at hand to save the little cockleshell from the
breakers.