Refusing a Tow
At the appointed time, the _Spindrift's_ crew was augmented by the
arrival of Bedford and Coles. The new members were delighted with the
yacht and her surroundings. The only grievance--if grievance it can
be termed--was that their share of the voyage had been shortened by
the distance from Plymouth to Dartmouth.
"Well, what's the news from Wootton?" inquired Mr. Graham, after the
two Sea Scouts had taken in the details of their new acquisition, and
had been told of her exciting run round The Land.
"Everything's all serene, sir," replied Bedford. "Patrol Leader
Bradley has got the rest of the Troop well in hand. Makes them do
physical jerks every morning before breakfast. We had to before we
came away at nine o'clock."
"You look very fit, Bedford," said Desmond. "You've worked down a lot
of your fat."
"And you haven't put any on," retorted Bedford, looking at the lean,
weather-beaten features of the Patrol Leader.
"And how are the Collinsons?" asked Mr. Graham.
"Mr. Collinson's doing well, sir," replied Bedford "His arm is
mending rapidly. He told me the other day that we were so jolly handy
that he meant to ship a couple of Sea Scouts on board his yacht
instead of a paid hand. When do we start, sir?"
"At daybreak to-morrow," answered the Scoutmaster. "The glass is high
and steady, and the weather forecast--if that's anything to go by--is
for westerly winds of moderate strength. We've a goodish run across
West Bay, and I want to be well to the east'ard of Portland Bill by
the early evening."
Grey dawn was appearing over the Devon hills when the crew of the
_Spindrift_ turned out.
"Isn't it cold for August!" exclaimed Bedford, swinging his arms.
"You're cold, eh?" rejoined the Patrol Leader, jumping at the
opportunity afforded by Bedford's remark. "Right-o; nip below and
start up the stove. You're cook of the day."
The Sea Scout obeyed readily enough. By the time the rest of the crew
had uncoated the mainsail, got the headsail and mizzen ready to
hoist, and had broken out and stowed the kedge, the "galley-slave",
as Hayes termed the youth told off for cooking meals, reported that
hot cocoa was ready.
A large cup of the sustaining beverage and a couple of very hard
biscuits provided the "stand-by" to commence the working day, as
breakfast was to be served while under way.
The little motor acted admirably, in spite of the cold, starting up
at the first swing of the fly-wheel. "All ready?" shouted the
Scoutmaster.
"Ay, ay, sir!"
"Heave her up."
The pawls of the winch clattered merrily as the cable came home.
Presently the big galvanized anchor appeared above the surface.
Findlay promptly caught the gravity-band shackle with the lower block
of the handy-billy, and in double quick time the "killick" was
secured on deck.
By this time the _Spindrift_ was forging slowly ahead, and the
hitherto fully occupied lads had an opportunity of seeing the last of
Dartmouth for no doubt a considerable time.
Within the harbour the water was as calm as a millpond, save for the
rippling wake of the outward bound yacht. Outside, the sea was
dancing under the influence of a light westerly breeze, which
promised to grow in strength as the sun rose higher.
Sail was now set, and the engine switched off.
Desmond, as sailing master, told off Hayes for the first two hours at
the helm.
"Keep the East Blackstone on your port bow," he cautioned. "When
that's abeam, we'll set a compass course."
"May we fish, sir?" asked Findlay. "We heard last night that there
are shoals of mackerel off the East Blackstone."
"Certainly," replied Mr. Graham. "Only take care to keep your hooks
clear of the main and mizzen sheets!"
Findlay had brought mackerel hooks and spinners. Quickly two lines
were paid out, one on each quarter, Jock tending one and Coles
handling the other.
The _Spindrift_ was now moving just at the right speed for this sort
of work. In less than a minute a jerk of the line nearly pulled it
out of the Tenderfoot's hand. Hauling in the line he secured a
good-sized fish.
Coles caught a dozen before Findlay hooked his first fish, which
puzzled and chagrined the latter considerably.
"Perhaps it's because my line is to lee'ard," suggested Coles. "Take
mine, and I'll try my luck with yours!"
The exchange was effected, but still Coles was the lucky one. In less
than an hour he had secured twenty-one mackerel to Findlay's four.
Then, contrary to expectation, the breeze died utterly away, and the
lines no longer trailed astern.
"We've caught enough, anyway," remarked Findlay, coiling away his
lines.
"Yes, mackerel fresh from the salt sea for breakfast," added Desmond.
"I'm jolly glad it's not my turn to be cook."
That post on board was no sinecure, and there was no competition for
the job; but whoever took it did the work cheerfully and generally
well. The Sea Scouts believed in the maxim: "a well fed crew makes a
happy ship ".
For the next two hours the _Spindrift's_ progress was tediously slow.
Breakfast was cooked and eaten, and the plates and dishes washed up
and stowed away, before the breeze sprang up; and Berry Head and the
red cliffs of Devon were still plainly visible.
"Rather slower than when we passed here last time, sir, in the
_Olivette_," remarked Desmond.
"But we've the best part of the day before us," Mr. Graham reminded
him.
"We're afloat," declared Bedford. "That's the main thing."
He no longer had cause to complain of the cold. The day grew hotter
and hotter as the sun rose and the wind dropped, till by ten o'clock
the thermometer in the cabin registered 90 degrees.
So far the _Spindrift_ was not alone. She was in company with nearly
twenty Brixham trawlers, all practically drifting. They made a pretty
sight, with their huge tanned sails casting shimmering reflections on
the gently heaving water.
At noon the wind sprang up again and quickly rose to a fresh sailing
breeze from the sou'-west. Sheets were soon trimmed, and once more
the "kick of the helm"--that delightful sensation to keen
sailor-men--asserted itself.
It was not until four in the afternoon that Portland Bill became
visible. It was now too late to attempt to round the Bill close to
and make for Portland Harbour. To have attempted to do so would have
resulted in the little craft being swept into the dreaded Race.
Accordingly, a course was shaped to pass four miles south of that
notorious headland.
As long as the breeze held, there was little to worry about; but
should it fail, as it often does towards evening in summer, there was
the prospect of another night afloat. Mr. Graham was anxious to make
Swanage or even Poole Harbour. He did not hanker after another night
in the Channel, but the Sea Scouts rather hoped for one.
The Brixham fleet was no longer in sight. The boats had stood well
away to the south'ard. All around the horizon was unbroken, save to
the east'ard, where the wedge-shaped Bill cut the skyline.
At tea-time all hands went below, with the exception of Bedford at
the helm. There was now a fairly heavy sea running, for there was a
weather-going tide.
In the midst of the meal there was a violent crash. The yacht heeled
over on the opposite tack, nearly capsizing the Sea Scouts on the
port settee, and flinging most of the things off the table.
Instantly, there was a wild rush on deck. A scene of confusion met
their eyes. The helmsman had let the yacht gybe all standing, and
before he could check the main sheet the boom had flown violently
against the set-up runners on the starboard side. The sudden shock
had carried away that part of the gear, and the strain was thrown
upon the mast. It had parted fifteen feet above the deck, letting
mainsail and headsails down in utter confusion. The mizzen, being
still set, was tending to turn the yacht head to wind, with the
trailing canvas dragging over the bows.
It was not an occasion to demand or receive explanations. The first
thing to be done was to get the yacht under control.
Under the Scoutmaster's directions, the broken-off portion of the
mast was parbuckled on board and secured, and the headsails recovered
and stowed. The next step was to set up temporary halliards and
shrouds on the fractured mast, a difficult business owing to the
erratic motion of the yacht.
Working quickly and well, Desmond and Findlay succeeded in passing
three strops round the top of the broken mast and shackling blocks to
them--two for'ard and one aft. Then the shrouds, shortened by means
of sheepshanks, were sent aloft and secured sufficiently to take up a
considerable amount of strain.
"Now we can set the headsail," announced Mr. Graham. "Take two reefs
in the staysail, or you won't get it right home; and set No. 2 jib."
All hands were so busy that they failed to notice the approach of a
steam drifter until she gave a warning blast on her syren. Slowing
down, she drew within twenty yards of the _Spindrift_.
"Want a tow into Weymouth?" shouted her skipper.
Mr. Graham had to decide quickly. On the one hand he was responsible
for the safety of the lads under his charge; on the other he did not
like the idea of "chucking up the sponge" so quickly, especially as
he would have to pay for the salvage. He glanced to wind'ard; the
breeze was fair. The barometer was high and steady. It was a strong
temptation when he looked from the disabled _Spindrift_ to the
powerful steam drifter.
"How much?" he asked.
"Twenty-five p'un," shouted the skipper.
"Don't do it, sir," said Desmond in a low voice. "We'll be all right
without having to pay that."
"Sorry, nothing doing!" replied the Scoutmaster, then turning to the
Patrol Leader he added: "Desmond, you're a brick!"
The skipper of the drifter pulled up the window of the wheelhouse
with a savage jerk, that implied plainly enough what he thought of
Mr. Graham.
"Carry on, lads!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster. "Up with the staysail!"
As the flapping canvas rose, the skipper of the drifter lowered the
pane and thrust his head through the window.
"Ahoy!" he bawled. "Make it twenty. It's 'ard earned money."
Mr. Graham shook his head.
"Fifteen, then; I likes to do a good turn to a fellow in distress."
"No, not for five pounds," shouted the Scoutmaster resolutely. "We
don't want any assistance, thank you." The engine-room telegraph bell
clanged, and the drifter began to draw astern. The crew of the
_Spindrift_ paid slight attention to her: they were busy at their own
job.
Under reefed staysail, the yacht paid off, and began to gather way.
The setting of the jib helped still more, so that with three sails
drawing well she began to make a good three knots.
"Now the mainsail," continued Mr. Graham. "We can't set the peak, so
we must set it as a trysail. We'll have to double reef first, or we
cannot hoist the throat close up."
"Look, sir! There's something wrong with that drifter!" exclaimed
Coles.
All eyes were directed upon the would-be Good Samaritan (at a price).
Her engines were stopped, but she still carried way. Clouds of steam
were issuing through the fidleys.
Raising his binoculars, Mr. Graham kept the vessel under observation.
She was now about two cable lengths away, and slowing down steadily.
Through the hatchway appeared the engineer, with his hands to his
face and steam coming from his clothes.
"Main steam pipe burst," exclaimed Mr. Graham.
"She won't sink?" asked Hayes.
"No; she can set fore and aft sail. It's that poor fellow, the
engineer, who has suffered by the accident. He looks badly scalded."
"First aid, sir?" asked Findlay hopefully.
"We'll ask them," was the reply. "Stand by to semaphore."
It was five minutes or more before Findlay attracted the attention of
the skipper of the drifter.
"Do--you--require--first--aid?" semaphored Jock. The answer was
emphatic if not to the point.
"You go to blazes!" was the message given by the irate skipper's
arms.
By this time the drifter had set her headsails and mizzen, but the
_Spindrift_ was gaining rapidly on her.
"It will be a race," declared Hayes. "We are beating her already, and
we haven't our motor going."
"Wait till she sets her mainsail," said Desmond. "Then she'll show us
her heels."
"We may as well set ours," added Mr. Graham. "All reef points
secured? Good--hoist away on your throat halliards."
The mainsail was set as a trysail, the peak lowered to its full
extent. Even that comparatively small expanse of canvas made a
difference, for the yacht quickly drew abreast of the drifter.
Up went the latter's mainsail. She too increased her pace, but it was
soon evident that the under-canvased yacht more than held her own
with her bulky rival, hampered as she was with the drag of her
three-bladed propeller.
"We've company," observed Bedford, "although a surly fellow at that.
Is he making for Weymouth, do you think, sir?"
"If he does, he'll have his work cut out to work up the east side of
the Bill," replied Mr. Graham. "We won't risk it."
The _Spindrift_ had now obtained and was holding a useful lead. An
hour later she was a quarter of a mile ahead, with the drifter
following dead in her wake. Portland Bill was abeam at last; the
drifter starboarded helm and made towards the Shambles Lightship,
while the yacht shaped a course for the distant St. Alban's Head.
"She's making for Weymouth by the east side of the Race," said the
Scoutmaster. "More than likely she'll get a tow into harbour. Well,
we've saved money this time."
The tide was now setting strongly to the east'ard. Under its
favourable influence the _Spindrift_ quickly reeled off the distance
between the Bill and St. Alban's, passing through the Race off the
latter headland without taking much water on board.
The wind had now veered a couple of points, and on rounding St.
Alban's Head the change of direction of the coast line necessitated a
close haul on the port tack if the yacht were to make Swanage or
Poole.
Mr. Graham glanced at his watch, consulted the barometer, and took a
survey of the sky to wind'ard.
"Lads!" he exclaimed. "We'll carry on for the Solent. We've four
hours' fair tide, and with decent luck we'll be inside the Wight
before dark."
"Good enough, sir!" agreed the crew in chorus.