Down Channel
There was no sleep for either of the two Scoutmasters for the rest of
that night. The still drowsy lads had to be attended to. Stratton, in
particular, was in a bad way, while Roche complained of violent pains
in his head. The others, beyond being rather scared at the peril they
had undergone, were little the worse for their adventure.
"Wonder how it occurred?" inquired Mr. Jackson.
"I can't possibly imagine," replied Mr. Armitage. "I'm always very
particular about lights, and, I am glad to say, none of the boys
smoke, although I'm afraid I set them a bad example. The galley-stove
is quite away from the engine-room. It beats me, but, when we examine
the seat of the fire, perhaps we may find a solution to the mystery."
"We'm gettin' under way now, sir," shouted the skipper of the
drifter. "Shall us pass a line ashore for you?"
Mr. Armitage turned to his companion.
"Might as well carry out our original plan, I think, and put her on
the mud," he said. "The pair of us ought to be able to warp her out."
"Good enough," agreed the other.
The two Scoutmasters went on deck, swung out and lowered the dinghy,
and threw a coil of rope into the stern sheets. Then, rowing off to a
buoy near the centre of the harbour, they made fast the line from the
_Rosalie's_ bow.
"Cast off, please, and thank you," said Mr. Armitage to the crew of
the drifter.
It was tedious but fairly easy work to man the winch and haul the
yacht off to the buoy. The process was repeated until the _Rosalie_
touched the ground on a mud-bank that occupies a fair portion of the
eastern part of Ramsgate Harbour.
"This has been a night," declared Mr. Armitage wearily. "Now we can
stand easy till the tide leaves her. How about some tea?"
During the preliminary breakfast the Scoutmaster made inquiries of
the boys, but they could give no information as to what had occurred.
They were in complete ignorance of everything until they found
themselves coming-to on the deck.
"We're all right now, sir," declared Hepburn. "Ready to start work on
the propeller as soon as you like."
"You'll have to take things easily to-day, Alan," said Mr. Armitage.
"I don't propose getting under way until to-morrow. We all need a
rest."
While the tide was still ebbing, the fore-hatch was removed and the
foul air allowed to escape from the fo'c'sle and the motor-room. Then
the two Scoutmasters went below to investigate.
The fire had originated, they discovered, in a heap of cotton waste
over which the overalls of the two engineers had been thrown. Some of
the woodwork of the adjacent locker was charred and the paintwork
blistered, but otherwise the damage was negligible. But whether the
fire was caused by spontaneous combustion or from a spark from the
pipe of one of the crew of the drifter remained an unsolved mystery.
"It's fortunate we don't rely on petrol for the motors," observed Mr.
Armitage. "Otherwise it would have been all up with the _Rosalie_.
Paraffin's bad enough, but petrol--I saw a petrol-driven boat blow up
once. It was a sight that one doesn't wish to see again. Now, I think
the tide's ebbed sufficiently. We'll get to work."
A couple of large gratings were lowered over the stern. On these Mr.
Armitage dropped cautiously, until he found that they were amply
large enough to prevent his sinking into the mud.
"Now a mallet and chisel!" he called out. "The rope's wound round the
boss as tight as a wire hawser. There's no clearing it except by
cutting it through."
Ten minutes' steady work sufficed to free the propeller from the
tenacious embraces of the fishing-net and rope. Mr. Armitage
clambered on board.
"We'll leave those gratings till the tide rises," he said. "Otherwise
they'll be filthy. The mud is as dirty as I've seen it anywhere."
"It does whiff a bit, sir," remarked Woodleigh. "Suppose it's the
heat of the sun. Do we stay here, or shift back to our old berth?"
"Why not get on, Armitage?" suggested Mr. Jackson.
The Scoutmaster considered.
"There's Dover and Folkestone," he replied. "Neither of them is a
very desirable spot for a small yacht. The next port of any
consequence is Newhaven. That's a longish run."
He glanced aloft. The sky was clear. What wind there was wafted from
the east'ard. The day seemed too fine to waste lying in harbour. The
only question was whether the crew could "stick it".
"We're quite all right now, sir," declared the Patrol-leader reading
Mr. Armitage's unspoken question. "It will be a jolly sight better
out in the Channel than sticking in this mud-hole."
"Don't be disdainful, Peter," said the Scoutmaster. "There may be a
time when you'll be grateful for the shelter of a harbour like
Ramsgate."
He spoke feelingly, as one who knows the sea and its varying moods.
He recalled a mental picture of an M.-L.--staggering, rolling, and
lurching, with her decks swept and the windy blast howling through
her scanty rigging. And then the indescribable feeling of relief when
the staunch little craft won through and passed into the welcome
shelter of the pier-heads.
"We'll carry on," he decided. "As you say, it's a pity to waste this
fine weather."
It was a tedious business waiting for the _Rosalie_ to become
water-borne. Slowly the incoming tide invaded the malodorous
mud-flats until the wavelets slapped against the yacht's sides.
Gradually she recovered from her slight list, and presently she swung
to her hempen cable.
"Start her up, Dick," ordered the Scoutmaster. "Her props are clear
of the mud now."
Roche and Flemming hurried below, and in less than five minutes a
steady vibration and the regular cough of the two exhausts proclaimed
the fact that the _Rosalie_ was prepared to renew her acquaintance
with the open sea.
There was now plenty of water in the intricate Ramsgate Channel, and
the yacht made short work of the run to Dover.
"Take her inside the breakwater, Alan," said Mr. Armitage. "Here's
the chart. That will give you an idea of what to expect."
"Why inside, sir?" asked Hepburn.
"Merely to give you fellows a chance to see what the harbour's like.
Never throw away opportunities, Alan. In this case we go in by the
eastern entrance and out by the western, so there's no need to put
about and retrace our course."
All the crew were on deck as the _Rosalie_ approached the massive
granite wall backed by the lofty white cliffs of Dover. They had
heard a lot about the Dover Patrol during the war, and were anxious
to see the base of that efficient and hard-hitting force.
"What's that thing right ahead, sir?" asked Warkworth, as the yacht
glided between the extremities of the breakwater.
"Looks like a stranded whale."
"That's the wreck of the monitor _Glatton_," replied Mr. Armitage.
"She caught fire, and over a hundred lives were lost. There was
enough explosive material on board her to destroy the greater part of
the town."
"Why didn't it?" asked Woodleigh.
"The Handy Man saw to that," continued the Scoutmaster. "A destroyer
torpedoed the monitor and sent her to the bottom of Dover Harbour.
I'd like to take you over the old castle," he continued; "but it's
out of the question just at present. Another day, perhaps, when we
come here in our own craft."
Out once more into open glided the _Rosalie_, and soon she was
rolling and pitching in the strong tideway. It was not until she
gained the broad expanse off Romney Marsh, where the low flat shore
presented a poor contrast to the towering chalk cliffs, that smooth
water gave place to the "rip" off Dover.
"Take her, Woodleigh," said the Scoutmaster. "S.W. by W.3/4W. is the
course. You'll sight the lighthouse at the end of Dungeness very
soon."
It was a pleasant, uneventful run. The Sea Scouts found recuperative
rest after their adventure by basking on deck and taking notice of
the numerous vessels passing to and from the Downs. The English
Channel was here like a mill-pond. Not a ripple disturbed the
surface. Occasionally the yacht lifted to the far-flung wash of a
passing ship, but beyond that she was as steady as a liner.
"Something sticking out of the water right ahead, sir," reported the
helmsman.
Mr. Armitage hurried to the wheel-house. Visions of drifting mines
flashed across his mind. According to the papers, two of these
sinister objects had recently been washed ashore on the Sussex coast.
But the object Woodleigh indicated was miles ahead--a slim, tapering
column, rising apparently from a waste of water a point or so on the
yacht's starboard bow.
"That's Dungeness Lighthouse," said the Scoutmaster. "The spit of
shingle is still beneath the horizon."
"It looks different since I reported the matter," continued
Woodleigh; "shorter. Before, it was much higher, and there was a
curious-looking cloud over it."
Mr. Armitage had scarcely left the wheel-house when Woodleigh again
called out.
Returning, the Scoutmaster saw that not only was the lighthouse
distorted, but there was an inverted image above it. Practically the
whole stretch of Dungeness, with the adjacent coast-guard buildings,
appeared floating upside down in the air. Then after a brief instant
the vision appeared to quiver and disperse, until the actual
lighthouse tower resumed its normal appearance.
"Mirage!" exclaimed Mr. Armitage. "Not at all common; but I've seen
similar effects off the south coast. It usually foretells hard winds
from the east'ard."
"Then we did the right thing in getting under way to-day, sir?"
"Rather!" replied the Scoutmaster emphatically. "The open Channel's
no place to be caught out in. Once we round Selsea Bill we'll be
sheltered by the Wight, with plenty of convenient harbours under our
lee. Here harbours are few and far between. There's Newhaven,
Shoreham, and Littlehampton; all difficult to make in heavy weather.
Shoreham and Littlehampton, too, are useless at low water. That's why
I'm anxious to carry on."
Mr. Armitage glanced astern--to wind'ard. The sky was cloudless. The
almost flat calm still held.
"We may get another twenty-four hours of fine weather," he mused.
"Glass is falling slightly, and there's no question that the abnormal
refraction of the atmosphere means wind, and plenty of it."
Nearly an hour elapsed before Dungeness was abeam. The Sea Scouts
were greatly interested in the far-flung tongue of shingle,
especially when they were told that it was one of the few places on
the coast of the British Isles where the sea, instead of encroaching,
was receding, and that the land was gradually but surely gaining.
It was a long stretch across Rye Bay, the shore being uninteresting,
but when the cliffs of Fairlight came into view the monotony of the
shore changed to a picturesque aspect. Cliffs, backed by grassy
downs, were the predominant feature, whilst coast towns were
frequently passed--Hastings, St. Leonards, Bexhill, and then
Eastborne--sheltering under the frowning heights of Beachy Head.
"A breeze!" shouted the Patrol-leader, as the hitherto placid surface
of the water was ruffled by little cat's paws. "Right aft."
"Set sail," ordered the Scoutmaster; then, under his breath, he
added, "the breeze has come at the wrong end of the day's run; hope
it won't freshen too much."
By the time Beachy Head Lighthouse--built on a rocky ledge at the
base of the lofty cliff--was abeam, a fairly heavy ground swell was
beating against the serrated line of rocks.
The _Rosalie_ was now doing practically her maximum speed under both
motors and canvas, but with the wind right aft she rolled heavily.
"Is that Newhaven, sir?" asked Stratton, who was now at the helm,
pointing to a wide depression in the cliffs.
"You're not the first to make that mistake," remarked the
Scoutmaster. "That's Cuckmere Haven. Once, during the war, an M.-L.
barged into the haven under the impression she was making Newhaven.
It was a pitch-dark night, and before she found out her mistake she
was nearly aground. Her crew fired Very lights, to see what sort of
show they had got into, and the poor folk ashore thought that the
Huns had landed in force. No, Newhaven's a good four or five miles
farther along. You'll see it when it opens out beyond Seaford Head."
At that moment Mr. Jackson, who had been spinning yarns to the watch
below, came up.
"We're making a good passage, Armitage," he observed. "We ought to
make Newhaven by three o'clock."
"I hope to go farther than that," replied the Scoutmaster. "Shoreham,
or even Littlehampton. There's bad weather coming, I fancy."
"I don't blame you," said Mr. Jackson. "After all's said and done,
Newhaven's a rotten hole for a yacht. Too strong a tide and too great
a rise and fall to my liking, to say nothing of the coal dust. Tea's
going. I'll take charge of the deck, if you like, and you can get a
meal."
To this proposal Mr. Armitage gladly agreed, and the Sea Scouts
adjourned to the saloon, leaving the Oxford Scoutmaster at the wheel.
Judging by their appetites, the lads had quite shaken off the effects
of their partial suffocation. Sitting round the table they looked the
picture of health, with their bronzed faces and clear, mirth-loving
eyes.
"'And there arose a mighty famine in the land '," quoted Mr.
Armitage. "That's what'll happen to us by the way the bread and
butter is disappearing."
"We can replenish our grub-locker at the first port we make, sir,"
said Flemming.
"Unless it's after closing-time," added Hepburn.
"Fortunately the Early Closing Act does not apply to vessels leaving
and arriving at ports," corrected Mr. Armitage, "so tuck in with a
good grace. I remember on one occasion----"
What happened at that particular time never transpired, for a sudden,
disconcerting jar shook the yacht from stem to stern.
"By Jove, we're aground!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster, making a hurried
exit through the companion-way to the deck. "What is it, Jackson?" he
inquired anxiously.
"Marine road-hogging," was the reply. "Couldn't help it, Armitage. A
porpoise leapt right in front of our bows, and the _Rosalie_ gave it
a pretty tidy biff."
An examination showed that the hull had sustained no damage. The bow
planking was as tight as the proverbial bottle, and, fortunately, the
propeller-blades had not come in contact with the luckless porpoise.
"We're approaching Brighton," continued Mr. Jackson. "Although the
tide's foul there isn't much strength in it. Breeze is freshening,
but it's shifted a couple of points on the starboard quarter."
"Off the land," commented his fellow-Scoutmaster. "So much the better
for us. No risk of gybing."
Shoreham they passed. It was low tide, and the signals from the
Middle Pier proclaimed the fact that there was not enough water on
the bar. In the circumstances there was nothing for it but to carry
on for Littlehampton.
It was eight in the evening when the _Rosalie_ cautiously approached
the entrance to the latter harbour. Sails were stowed, and a leadsman
told off to take soundings.
Once it was touch-and-go whether the yacht would ground, for there
was less than a foot of water under her keel; and it was with
feelings of relief that Mr. Armitage gave orders for half-speed ahead
as the _Rosalie_ passed between the pier-heads.
"Not so dusty--Ramsgate to Littlehampton in a day!" he exclaimed, as
the yacht moored between two buoys on the west side of the narrow
harbour. He gave a glance at the now lowering sky. "Well, we're
here," he added. "Wonder when we'll be able to get out?"