On her Beam Ends
Peter Stratton had a weird dream. Perhaps it was the effects of the
lobster that a friendly fisherman had given to the _Rosalie's_ crew
to supplement their sadly depleted larder.
He dreamt that he was lying on a slippery shelving rock, with his
feet dangling in the water. There was a lobster tugging at his
toes--a big fellow, tugging and biting hard. He wanted to shout for
assistance, but a man, who strongly resembled the thief who had
stolen the _Olivette's_ warp, was cold-bloodedly ramming a rope's end
into the Sea Scout's mouth. Peter couldn't prevent him. He had all
his work cut out to hang on to the slippery rock with both his hands.
Yet, in spite of his efforts, he was slowly yet surely sliding into
the water, where myriads of crustacean fishes were awaiting him.
With a thud he alighted, not in the sea, but on the shelving floor of
the fo'c'sle. He awoke with a yell, to find himself out of his bunk
and lying in the angle formed by the floor and the rise of the
opposite locker. Beating a tattoo with his bare foot upon Peter's
face was Roche, while Bruin, thinking it was a rare bit of fun, was
nibbling the Patrol-leader's toe.
For some minutes Stratton failed to grasp the situation. Then it
dawned upon him. It was daylight--eight o'clock in the morning. The
_Rosalie_ was heeling badly, lying right over on her starboard side.
The occupants of the three bunks on the port side had been
unceremoniously ejected--mattresses, blankets, pillows, and all.
Woodleigh, Warkworth, and Hepburn, occupying the starboard berth, had
merely slid against the skirting, and were slumbering unconcernedly.
It was raining heavily. Drops were pelting on deck, and a
considerable amount of rain was driving in through the partly-closed
fore-hatch.
"What's happened?" asked Roche, struggling into his clothes.
"Hanged if I know," replied the Patrol-leader, still rather hazy as
to which was a dream and which solid fact.
Just then Mr. Armitage, clad in oilskins, sou'wester, and sea-boots,
made his way into the fo'c'sle--a matter of considerable difficulty,
owing to the angle of the slippery ladder.
"Morning, lads!" he exclaimed. "I meant you to sleep as long as you
liked, but the _Rosalie_ won't let you, I see. Hallo! three still
slumbering sweetly."
"What's happened, sir?" asked Roche.
"Nothing very serious, I hope," replied the Scoutmaster. "We've been
driven on the edge of the mud by the strong east wind--it's blowing
half a gale--and the tide has fallen. Consequently we're high and
dry, and heeling rather badly."
Above the howling of the wind could be heard the loud roar of the
waves breaking over the east pier. During the night the wind had
shifted to the south-east, and the sea was surging violently in the
Channel.
Donning oilskins, Stratton accompanied Mr. Armitage on deck. The
aspect of things in general, and the _Rosalie_ in particular, was not
a cheerful one. Against the dark-grey sky showers of white foam
showed up distinctly as the waves lashed themselves against the
wooden piers. A cold rain added to the discomfort of the morning.
The _Rosalie_ was heeling at a sharp angle, with her rail on the
starboard side amidships within a few inches of the slimy mud. In the
fairway, only ten yards distant, the ebb tide, swollen by the rain,
was surging furiously.
Sheltering in the wheel-house, with his feet hard against the edge of
a locker, was Mr. Jackson, disconsolately surveying the inclined
plane represented by the listing yacht's wet deck.
"Think she'll lift to the flood tide, Armitage? Frankly, I don't
think she will."
"There's a chance she won't," agreed Mr. Armitage. "She's heeled more
since I left you. The difficulty is, that we can't run a warp ashore
till there's enough water to float the dinghy. By that time----"
He broke off abruptly.
"I'll manage it, sir," volunteered Peter. "I don't suppose the mud's
softer than it is at Keyhaven."
"Perhaps there'll be someone ashore who will make a line fast for
us," suggested Mr. Jackson.
But the river banks were deserted. Right at the pier-head, underneath
the flagstaff from which was displayed the storm-cone, were a couple
of oil-skinned figures, but their attention was centred upon
something in the offing--a fishing smack attempting to run for
shelter, but compelled to await sufficient depth of water on the bar.
The men were looking through telescopes. Every few minutes they were
hidden from sight by showers of spray, yet, oblivious to their
immediate surroundings, they kept their attention fixed upon the
craft attempting to make the harbour.
Under Mr. Armitage's direction everything that could be done to
assist the _Rosalie_ to rise on the flood tide was undertaken. The
scuttles were tightly closed, the dinghy swung out and lowered on to
the mud so that her weight would not tend to retard the vessel's
lift.
Stratton, with a light line made fast round his waist, lowered
himself over the side on to a grating that he had previously dropped
on the mud. Then, by the aid of a second grating, he moved a couple
of feet nearer dry, or, rather, hard ground, lifting the first
grating and placing it in front of him. It was a slow business, but
at last the surface became sufficiently stiff to walk upon without
the assistance of his improvised mud-pattens.
To the other end of the light line was bent the four-inch hawser.
This Peter hauled ashore and made fast to a massive warping-post,
repeating the process till a second rope was secured to the same
post.
While the Patrol-leader was making his way back to the yacht the
four-inch hawser was led to the for'ard winch, and the small rope
taken aft and a watch-tackle clapped on to it.
"That's all we can do for the present," declared Mr. Armitage. "It's
no use putting a strain on the ropes until the tide flows round her.
Pipe all hands to breakfast, Peter."
Breakfast was a matter of inconvenience, not to say difficulty. The
Primus stoves, not being gimballed, had to be propped up in a
horizontal base and wedged to prevent them sliding bodily to leeward.
The Sea Scouts ate their meal squatting tailor-fashion on the
piled-up cushions. The only member of the crew who didn't take kindly
to the novel situation was Bruin, whose attempts to walk the shelving
floor caused roars of laughter from the boys.
"Time for action, lads," exclaimed Mr. Armitage, glancing through one
of the cabin scuttles. Where the outlook formerly consisted of mud,
there was now water. The rising tide was lapping round the side of
the yacht.
Everyone on board realized the danger. Unless the _Rosalie_ became
waterborne before the rising tide flooded her cockpit and poured
below, she would be covered to a depth of five or six feet at high
water.
Scrambling on deck and holding on as they moved to their appointed
stations, the Sea Scouts prepared for the coming ordeal.
A heavy strain was taken on both ropes leading ashore to assist the
vessel to lift, while all hands not employed at the winch and the
watch-tackle hung over the port side, clinging to the shrouds so that
their weight would help in levering the yacht on an even keel.
It was a spiritless job hanging on and waiting for the tide to rise.
Buffeted by the wind and driving rain, the Sea Scouts stuck it
gamely, until the period of inaction was broken by at quite
unexpected turn of events.
The two men on the pier-head-who had been keeping their telescopes
fixed seaward were now in a state of activity, shouting and
gesticulating to an approaching vessel, which, however, was invisible
from the sloping deck of the _Rosalie_.
A few minutes later, pitching and rolling heavily, a large motor-boat
staggered in between the pier-heads, her deck glistening with water
that came inboard over her bows.
"She's the _Olivette_!" exclaimed Stratton.
"Looks uncommonly like her," agreed Mr. Armitage. "But she's one of a
class. May be one of the same type."
In the shelter of the harbour, although the "gush" was fairly heavy,
the heavy motor-boat ceased to pitch. Out of the cockpit climbed a
man wearing a mackintosh coat and a "deerstalker's cap", the latter
secured by a scarf tied under the chin.
"By Jove, you're right, Peter!" declared the Scoutmaster. "It is the
_Olivette_. That's Mr. Murgatroyd. Wonder what he's doing here?"
Evidently Mr. Murgatroyd was expecting to find his former crew at
Littlehampton, although he had never seen the _Rosalie_, and one of
the first craft that caught his eye was the listing yacht with the
Sea Scouts at "Action Stations".
"Give her a cheer, lads," called out Mr. Armitage.
The boys complied with the utmost enthusiasm, the owner of the
_Olivette_ waving another scarf in reply. Then, losing way under the
reverse action of her propeller, the new arrival made fast to a buoy
about fifty yards higher up stream than the still-stranded _Rosalie_.
"Seems rather a shame to be found in this position," declared
Hepburn. "Mr. Murgatroyd will think we're everything but a posh lot
of navigators."
"She must have had a dusting outside," said the Scoutmaster. "We'll
go alongside directly we're afloat. Now, lads, water's lapping over
the lee gunwale. Heave away on the capstan and haul away with the
luff-tackle."
For ten minutes it was touch and go whether the water would swamp the
yacht before she lifted. The level of the rising tide was within a
couple of inches of the cockpit coaming when the _Rosalie_ shook
herself clear of her muddy bed. With a weird gurgling noise as the
tremendous suctional powers of the ooze were overcome, the yacht
recovered herself, and in a few minutes was on an even keel.
"Thanks be!" ejaculated Mr. Armitage fervently as he wiped the
moisture from his face. "We'll shift our berth at high water. No more
of these tricks for us."