THE SIGNAL
A light breeze was blowing when the _Rowan_ ran into a confused tide
eddy in the mouth of Wigtown Bay. There had been more wind and the
swell it left was broken by the current into short, splashing seas
amid which the yacht lurched uneasily. It was four o'clock in the
afternoon and about two hours before high-water, and when the breeze
fell very light a stream that ran north from the disturbed patch swept
the _Rowan_ up the bay.
Andrew frowned as he looked about.
"She's right off her course, but it's too deep to anchor, and the
bottom's foul near the beach," he said. "We must let her drift until
the ebb sets in and carries her down along the opposite shore. We
ought to make Ramsey on the next flood."
"At four or five o'clock in the morning!" Dick grumbled. "Well, I'm
glad I'm no use at the helm in the dark, and we may get a few hours'
smooth water before we round the Burrow Head. At present I'm wondering
why I came."
"There's some water in the bilge, and it's your turn to pump," Whitney
remarked.
"If she was half full, I wouldn't pump until this rolling stops," Dick
said firmly.
The sea got smoother as they drifted along the coast, and presently
ran in faint undulations that gleamed like oil where their surface
caught the light. The days, however, were getting short, and soon the
long tongue of land across the bay cut low and black against the
sunset. The hills to the eastward were gray and dim, a heavy dew began
to fall, and a pale half-moon came out. Now and then a puff of wind
from the south rippled the glassy water and drove the yacht farther up
the bay.
When an inlet began to open out ahead Dick took up the glasses.
"We ought to find water enough across the sands to Gatehouse," he
said. "I'd a good deal rather sleep ashore and we'd get a much better
meal at the Murray Arms than Whitney can cook."
"We can't get ashore without a breeze," Andrew replied.
"There's somebody going up. I can see a lugsail boat beyond the
point."
Andrew took the glasses from him. The light had nearly gone and mist
hung about the shore, but a belt of water shone with a pale gleam,
against which a distant boat stood out sharply.
"She looks like one of the Annan whammelers; they use a sail with a
shorter head in the West, but I can't see what an Annan man would be
doing here."
Putting up the glasses, he thoughtfully filled his pipe.
"The night our lamp went out on Mersehead sands," Whitney said, "I saw
a lugsail boat. What kind of fellows are the whammelers?"
"Unusually good seamen. The boats are small, but they turn out in very
wild weather when the salmon are about."
"That was not what I meant."
"Oh, they're a sturdy, honest lot; but you don't often find a set of
men that doesn't include a wastrel."
Soon a white light and a green one twinkled some distance behind the
yacht, and Dick called attention to it.
"That steamer's moving slowly," he said.
"A trawler, I expect. She's probably waiting until it's dark, when
she'll put her lights out and drop her net. I understand the Fishery
Board forbid trawling here."
They said nothing further, and the _Rowan_ drifted shoreward with an
eddy of the tide, which had begun to turn. The moon was half obscured
by haze, but they could see a wall of cliff to starboard with a narrow
line of surf at its foot. Part of the wall seemed detached from the
rest and Andrew explained it to Whitney.
"That's Barennan Island. This strip of coast was a favorite haunt of
Dirk Hatteraik's, but tradition locates his cove at Ravenshall, across
the inlet yonder. It might have been convenient for running contraband
up the Cree and Fleet, but the shore abreast of us has better
hiding-places, besides being nearer open sea."
"Dirk's been dead a long time, and has no successors in the business,"
Dick interposed. "His men probably were more ruffianly than romantic,
but they must have given the neighborhood an interest, with their
signal fires, their vessels running in at dark, and their pack-horses
winding through the moors-- The trawler's gone!"
"Impossible," Andrew said quietly. "She hasn't had time to steam
farther than we could see her lights."
"Then she's put them out. Perhaps the net's over."
"What's that light ashore?" Whitney asked.
A twinkling flash appeared on the high, black cliff behind the island
and went out, but after a moment or two flickered up again and,
growing brighter, burned for a time.
"It looks as if the smugglers weren't quite extinct," Whitney
remarked.
Andrew made no comment, but when a cool breeze came off the land he
edged the boat closer to the beach. It showed as a gray blur beneath
the crag, hardly distinguishable except for the white fringe of surf.
"I'm curious about that light," he admitted. "I'd have said it was
somebody baiting a long-line or looking for lobsters, only that the
fellow wouldn't have waited for high-water. Then, it was too brilliant
for a lantern."
"Let's go ashore, Whitney," suggested Dick, anticipating adventure of
some kind.
"All right," Andrew replied. "Scull in instead of rowing: it's
quieter. And take the small cask and ask if there's a spring about if
you meet anybody."
Whitney launched the light dinghy and put an oar in the sculling notch
when Dick joined him. The swell looked higher than it had appeared
from the yacht, and as he heard it tumbling among the stones he
wondered how they were to land. Besides, it was difficult to keep the
lurching craft on a straight course. He stopped sculling when a weedy
ledge of rock with a white wash running over it appeared in the
gloom.
"Go on," said Dick. "Keep the reef to starboard. There's a cove. I've
been here before."
Swinging past the ledge as an undulation rolled in, they were met by
its broken recoil; but Whitney drove the craft through this, and a few
moments later ran her on to a narrow beach. Quietly lifting the boat
beyond the reach of the water, they made for the cliff. After a few
yards they came to large, rough stones, and Dick stopped. Everything
was quiet except for the splash of the surf, and the wall of rock rose
above them, black and mysterious.
"We couldn't see anybody against that background," he said in a low
voice; "and it's difficult to move quietly among these stones. I think
we'll try the crag."
It took them longer to reach it than Whitney expected, but presently
Dick stopped in front of a mass of fallen rock.
"Follow me close; the path isn't good," he said.
They went up carefully, feeling for a foothold among the stones, until
they came to a ledge that ran upward across the face of the cliff.
Whitney could see nothing below him, but he followed Dick, and after a
while they reached a ravine filled with tangled grass and heath, which
led them to the summit. Here they lay down behind a whinn bush and
then Whitney understood why his companion had chosen the position. The
moon was hidden, but the sea reflected an elusive light that
distinguished it from the blackness of the land. Anybody moving along
the beach would show against the glimmer of the water. Whitney could
not see the _Rowan_, but Andrew had, no doubt, steered a course that
would bring the island behind her canvas. It was, of course, possible
that their landing had been noticed; but the dinghy was very small
and the dull roar of the surf would have drowned the noise they made.
Turning quietly, Whitney looked inland across high, rolling ground. It
was all obscure, but in the hollows there were gray patches, which he
supposed were belts of mist, and two or three dim lights twinkled in
the distance. Now and then a bleating of sheep and the whistle of a
curlew came down the cold wind. There was nothing to rouse suspicion,
and Whitney began to think of going back. Just then Dick touched him.
A shadowy figure showed against the water a short distance from where
they had landed, and then a flickering beam of light fell upon the
sea. It was too bright for an ordinary lantern, and Whitney could not
see where it came from, but after a moment or two it was abruptly cut
off.
"There's another cove behind the point and I think I know a way down,"
Dick whispered. "Come on as quickly as you can!"
The figure vanished, but as the light was obviously a signal, it was
worth an effort to learn something about the men who had made it. When
Whitney got on his feet, Dick had already started. They turned down
the landward slope of the crag, where they stumbled among prickly
whinns and long heather. In a few minutes, Dick was breathing hard,
but he kept up the pace, and they presently came to a ravine that
seamed the front of the cliff. It looked dangerously steep and there
was no evidence of a path, but Dick went down, following a runlet of
water, and now and again catching at the grass and stones to check his
descent. Whitney, following as closely as he could, hoped that the
ravine did not end in a precipice.
They came to one steep drop, and at the bottom of it Whitney stumbled
into a hole among the stones. When he got up, Dick was some distance
below him, but he could distinguish his figure against the sea. No
sound but the growl of the surf reached them; but this was loud enough
to drown any footsteps on the beach and cover their rather noisy
descent. Whitney reached the edge of the pool where the runlet of
water widened, and was looking for a way across it when he saw Dick
stagger. He swayed in a curious way, as if trying to recover his
balance, and then suddenly disappeared. Whitney splashed through the
water and came to the edge of a very steep slope. He could not see the
bottom, but he scrambled down, clinging to the stones; and after
sliding the last few yards he found himself on the beach. Dick lay
motionless on a slab of rock near by.
"Are you badly hurt?" he asked, breathlessly.
"No," Dick said faintly. "Leave me alone a while."
Whitney sat down beside him, feeling alarmed. The dinghy was some
distance off, and he did not know whether it could be reached by the
beach. It would be impossible to carry Dick across the rough stones
without help; the _Rowan_ was too far off for Andrew to hear a call;
and he did not want to leave the boy, who might be seriously injured.
"Do you feel better?" Whitney asked presently.
"Don't talk," said Dick. "I'll be all right presently."
Whitney waited anxiously, and five minutes later Dick held out his
hand.
"Give me a lift; I'll try to get up."
He got upon his feet with Whitney's help, but leaned on him heavily
for a minute.
"I can move along slowly," he said; "there's a way across the point."
They were some time in crossing the slippery rocks, but at last
Whitney helped the lad down to the sand and felt keen satisfaction
when they came to the dinghy.
"I'm much better," Dick said as Whitney pushed off. "I must have been
half stunned--guess I knocked my head as I fell down the last bit."
"Is it cut?"
"Don't fuss!" Dick answered irritably. "She'll wash back up the beach
if you don't pull."
Whitney occupied himself with the oars; but he felt puzzled. Dick
seemed to have turned dizzy before he fell; and although it was
possible that he struck his head, his statement that he had done so
looked like an afterthought. It was, however, his business now to find
the _Rowan_, and he could see by the way the cliff slid past that the
tide was running down. He had to pull hard to get near the island, and
the wind was rising, but soon he distinguished a patch of dark canvas,
and a few minutes later he ran the dinghy alongside the yacht.
"Lash the helm and come below!" he called to Andrew, after helping
Dick on board.
Andrew stopped to throw a sail over the skylight when Whitney lighted
the lamps, and then went down and looked at Dick, who lay on a locker.
His face was very white, his lips had a blue tint, and the veins
showed dark on the back of his colorless hands.
"I think you had better have a drink," he said, taking out a whisky
bottle.
Dick drained the glass.
"That's good; I'll soon be all right. I slipped when we were coming
down the crag and pitched over the edge of the steep bottom part."
"He thinks he hit his head," Whitney added.
Andrew felt Dick's head in spite of his objections.
"There is a lump, but not large. It doesn't account for the shock you
seem to have got."
"If you had fallen down that rock, I don't suppose you'd feel very
fit. But give me a cigarette and ask Jim to tell you what we saw."
Andrew gave him the cigarette and then looked out the scuttle. A
breeze had got up, blowing off the land, and the yacht was drifting
seaward with her loose mainsail flapping and her jib aback. She would
need no attention; so he closed the hatch and sat down to listen to
Whitney's story.
"Do you think they heard Dick fall?" he asked.
"I can't say. It's possible, though the swell was breaking noisily on
the beach."
"It's a curious affair," said Andrew. "I saw the light and was glad
I'd kept the boat in the gloom of the island. It certainly looks as if
the steamer that put her lights out and the whammel boat that crept in
to the land at dusk had some connection with each other. Then I
thought I heard oars shortly before you came off."
"Suppose the boatmen had meant to signal the vessel, why should they
land when they could have lighted a flare on board?"
"It would have shone all round," said Andrew. "By coming ashore they
got the crag for a screen and a high platform. The light could be seen
farther off, but only from the sea."
"But what would they want to signal from a place like this, and whom
would they signal to?"
"I don't pretend to know. It's a long distance from a main line, but a
fast car would cover a good deal of ground in an hour or two."
Andrew stopped, and, taking a chart from a rack, pointed to the narrow
channel between Scotland and Ireland.
"You see how close Fair Head is to Kintyre," he resumed. "Well, all
the shipping from the Clyde and a good deal from Liverpool passes
through that gap. You can imagine what would happen if it were filled
with mines."
"The difficulty is that the mine-sowers would be seen. The lighthouses
on Rathlin and Kintyre command the channel."
"It's hard to see a vessel that carries no lights, and a mine-sower
wouldn't proclaim his intentions. There's a big fleet of trawlers
working in the Irish Sea, and a stranger would excite no remark by
slipping in among them. It wouldn't take long to paint on a registered
number and copy the funnel of a steam fishing company."
"So Rankine has another duty besides taking soundings! A small survey
vessel could cruise about among the shoals without attracting much
notice. Her business would be obvious, but that needn't stop her crew
from watching out."
"Well," said Andrew, "it isn't difficult to form a theory to fit the
few things we know. However--"
"It would probably be all wrong when you'd made it," Dick broke in.
"I'm glad you're feeling better," Andrew smiled. "I'll go up and look
after the boat."
He left the scuttle open and they heard blocks rattle as he hauled the
main sheet, and the soft splashing at the bows as the yacht gathered
speed.
"I'm not sure it was the blow on your head that knocked you out,
Dick," Whitney said. "You reeled as if you were getting faint before
you fell."
"Well, suppose I did? I may have been running harder than was good for
me; but can't you understand that one shrinks from making a fuss about
one's weaknesses?"
"Of course. This means you want to keep the real explanation from your
cousin?"
"I'd very much rather nobody knew. Falling on your head is a good
enough reason for feeling faint, and, as a matter of fact, I hit it
hard enough."
"Very well," agreed Whitney. "I suppose I must say nothing, since you
have taken me into your confidence."
"You might let my cot down and pull out the blankets. I'm not quite
right yet, to tell the truth. I think I'll go to sleep."
Whitney arranged the cot for him, and then, going up on deck, sat in
the cockpit while the _Rowan_ stretched across the bay before a fresh
easterly breeze.