Salvage
Punctual to a minute, the "liberty men" reassembled on the
tumble-down wharf at Keyhaven on the following morning, to embark
upon the last stage of their voyage. They felt like weather-beaten
salts, and doubtless had regaled their parents and friends with
stories of their adventures.
Already arrangements had been made for Mr. Murgatroyd's comfort
during the absence of the future crew of the _Olivette_. Two Sea
Scouts, who had been prevented from joining the rest of the troop,
volunteered to remain on board Mr. Murgatroyd's craft, using the
cutter as a makeshift for a dinghy. They were on duty when the
_Rosalie_, under power, glided past the _Olivette_ on her way to
Poole, and cheers were exchanged between the crews of the two boats.
"Not much chance of using canvas today," observed Mr. Armitage, as
the _Rosalie_ entered the strong tidal race between Hurst Castle and
the Isle of Wight. "It blew fairly stiff last night, but now it looks
like falling away to a flat calm."
"Hullo! what's that?" asked Mr. Jackson, as a booming sound trailing
away to a mournful wail was heard in the distance.
"Fog siren," replied the Scoutmaster. "From the Needles Lighthouse.
We ought to see the Needles distinctly from here, but we can't. That
means local fog."
Mr. Jackson followed the direction of his companion's outstretched
hand. He could see the uncovered shoal known as the Shingles, over
which a ground swell was breaking heavily. Farther away, and more on
the port quarter, he could discern the cliffs of Totland Bay. There
the view of the Isle of Wight ended. Alum Bay and the detached chalk
masses known as the Needles were blotted out in a thick but invisible
mist that blended with the grey sky.
"It's stopped, sir," exclaimed Hepburn.
"What's stopped?" inquired Mr. Armitage.
"The fog-horn, sir," replied Alan, who, like the rest of the Sea
Scouts, knew the character of the Needles "fog reed-horn" well, since
Milford is within six miles of the lighthouse. "It's a blast of five
seconds every fifteen seconds. I haven't heard it for more than a
couple of minutes."
"The fog's lifted out there, perhaps," suggested Roche.
"It certainly doesn't look like it," observed Mr. Armitage. "Most
likely we have struck a zone of silence. You remember how we saw an
inverted phantom image of Dungeness Lighthouse? That was caused by
irregular layers of air. Sound is similarly affected. The volume of
noise leaps, as it were, and although we might not hear it fairly
close to, vessels much farther away might hear it distinctly. There
it is again, Alan. We have passed through the zone of silence."
Attention was then turned in a new direction. The _Rosalie_, having
"made her numbers" to Hurst Signalling Station, was passing within a
quarter of a mile of Milford. The Sea Scouts could discern their hut,
perched half-way up the low, gravelly cliff, and, what was more,
every lad was able to distinguish, by the aid of the glasses, the
features of some relative, for parents and other kith and kin had
gone down to the beach to watch the _Rosalie_ pass.
"Give Christchurch Head a wide berth, Peter," cautioned the
Scoutmaster. "Although there's plenty of water for us over the ledge,
there'll be a nasty sea after the recent gale. Can you see the Ledge
buoy?"
"Yes, sir," replied Stratton, after a brief survey. "A point on our
port bow."
"Then starboard a point. Note the compass bearing in case it comes on
thick. I rather fancy it will before long."
Before the _Rosalie_ was abreast of the buoy the Scoutmaster's
forecast proved to be correct. Insidiously the white, dank mist swept
down, until the bold outlines of Christchurch Head were blotted out.
Then the fog thickened until the range of visibility was limited to
about twenty yards.
"We're all right so far," said Mr. Armitage cheerfully. "Out of the
way of Channel traffic, and, even if the fog doesn't lift, we'll pick
up the entrance to Poole Harbour by taking soundings. Plenty of time
for that, however. Keep her on West by 1/2 South for the present,
Peter. Warkworth and Woodleigh, get your oilskins on and go for'ard.
Keep a sharp look-out, especially for lobster lines. There are a lot
off this ledge."
"What would happen if we struck one?" asked Flemming.
"It might get round our props and stop both motors," replied the
Scoutmaster. "But I'm looking at it from a fisherman's point of view.
Lobster pots cost money, and take a lot of labour to bring out and
place in position, and no one but an incompetent navigator or a
malicious individual would deliberately cut away the lobster-pot
lines. I think we'll slow down to five knots, Roche. It will give us
a better chance if there are any fishing-boats in the bay."
Mr. Armitage glanced at his watch. Working by "dead reckoning", he
knew that even with the west-going tide an hour would elapse before
the _Rosalie_ approached the dangerous Hook Sands off the entrance to
Poole Harbour.
"Weird sort of business, eh, Peter?" remarked Roche, joining his chum
in the wheel-house.
Stratton nodded, and peered into the compass-bowl. The windows of the
wheel-house were wide open, and the dank mist settled on the glass of
the binnacle so that the helmsman had to be constantly wiping it to
be able to observe the compass-card.
"All in a day's work, I suppose," he replied. "This is the thickest
fog we've struck. I don't think I'd care about it if I were on my own
bat," he confided; "but Mr. Armitage knows this part, so that's all
right."
Mr. Armitage, although he did not overhear the remark, was less
sanguine. Part of his time in the R.N.V.R. had been spent at Poole in
the M.-L. flotilla, and he had seen the bar under almost every
possible condition, from the flat calm of a perfect August day to the
shrieking, howling, south-easterly gale of mid-December. He had a
wholesome respect for Poole Bar, and, with fog limiting the range of
vision to a few yards, he realized that an error of judgment might
result in the _Rosalie_ ending her career either upon the dangerous
Hook Sands or on the surf-swept shoals of Studland Bay.
Half an hour after the _Rosalie_ passed Christchurch Head a breeze
sprang up from the south-east--a breeze that speedily developed into
a hard blow.
"That's better," exclaimed Mr. Armitage. "This ought to disperse the
fog."
Another twenty minutes passed, but the fog showed no signs of
lifting. Rolling banks of vapour eddied athwart the yacht's course,
producing a strange optical effect, as if the _Rosalie_ were drifting
bodily to wind'ard. Occasionally, during a lull in the wind, the
thunder of distant surf could be heard.
"We ought to be picking up Anvil Point fog signal," Mr. Armitage
remarked. "Stand by with the lead-line, Hepburn."
"I hear a syren, sir," declared Woodleigh.
"That's not Anvil Point, then," rejoined the Scoutmaster. "Anyone
else hear it?"
Almost immediately came the strident blasts of a steam-whistle--a
long blast followed by a short one; a pause, and then long, short,
long, short.
Every one of the _Rosalie's_ crew knew what that meant. It was the
Morse N.C., signifying: "In distress; require immediate assistance".
It was a call--to which no true seaman would hesitate to respond--to
hasten, regardless of risk, to the assistance of the distressed
vessel.
"About a couple of miles to the south'ard, I imagine," said Mr.
Armitage. "Starboard four, Peter."
"What's happened, I wonder?" inquired Roche.
"Some sort of disaster, I'm afraid," replied the Scoutmaster. "A
small tramp in distress."
"Why small, sir?" asked Woodleigh.
"Because she used her syren to signal in Morse instead of using the
wireless S.O.S. All large ships, and many small ones, have wireless
installation. It's compulsory for large ships. Hence it is safe to
assume that the appeal emanated from a small steam vessel; a sailing
ship would use a fog-horn worked by air, or perhaps a Klaxon horn.
There it is again. Nearer now. Reply, Hepburn, FGI--I will assist
you."
Roche went below, in readiness to work the clutches should the deck
controls fail. Mr. Armitage stood just outside the wheel-house, in
order to give directions to Stratton at the helm, while the rest of
the crew stood by with heaving-lines and fenders, in case they had to
run alongside the distressed vessel.
They could now hear the hiss of escaping steam and distinguish the
strident tones of someone giving orders.
"'Stern both engines!" ordered Mr. Armitage. "Hard-a-port!"
The _Rosalie_ swung round just in time to avoid collision with a
towering wall of iron, looming suddenly on them out of the fog.
A rift in the mist revealed the presence of a tramp well down by the
head, and with such a great amount of damage to her bows that it
appeared impossible for her to keep afloat.
"Ahoy!" hailed the same loud-voiced man. "Can you take us in tow?"
A series of hurried questions resulted in the information that the
tramp was the S.S. _Pen-y-coote_, bound from Christiana for Bristol
with timber. In the fog she had collided with, or rather--as her "Old
Man" was careful to state--had been run into by, an unknown vessel
somewhere between St. Catherine's and the Shingles.
"Cut clean through my bows for'ard of the hold bulkhead," declared
the skipper. "Carried both anchors away, and then as we went astern
we fouled something and fractured our main shaft. The other vessel? I
don't know what happened to her. She was ten times my size, and
cracked on at the rate of knots. Stop? Not she. A dirty Hun most
likely; sort of thing they would do if they got a chance. You haven't
much horse-power, Cap'n. I thought you were a tug."
"We'll have a shot at it anyway," declared Mr. Armitage. "We'll take
you into Poole. Pay out a hawser; we'd better tow you stern
foremost."
Manoeuvring to leeward of the helpless tramp, the _Rosalie_
approached sufficiently near for a heavy line to be thrown from the
_Pen-y-coote's_ stern.
[Illustration: "STAND CLEAR OF THE HAWSERS AS SHE TAKES UP THE
STRAIN"]
The hawser was then brought on board and bent to a wire span between
the two after bollards.
It was a tough proposition for the 35-ton motor yacht to tow the
disabled 650-ton tramp, but the crew of the _Rosalie_ were on their
mettle. If they failed, then the result would be much the same as if
they had not put in an appearance--the tramp, unable to anchor, would
be driven ashore either against the cliffs of the Isle of Purbeck or
upon the treacherous sands in the vicinity of the mouth of Poole
Harbour.
"How much water are you drawing?" hailed the Scoutmaster.
"'Bout thirteen for'ard, and eleven aft," was the reply.
"Good enough," declared Mr. Armitage. He knew that eleven feet
represented the minimum depth on the bar at low-water springs. It was
now close on the neaps, which meant possibly another two feet over
the deepest part of the entrance, and the young flood would soon be
making.
"Stand clear of the hawser as she takes up the strain," continued the
Scoutmaster, addressing Woodleigh and Warkworth. "We don't want
broken limbs on this packet. Now, Peter, easy ahead both engines."
By dint of careful manoeuvring the towing-rope tautened without
anything carrying away, and presently the _Rosalie's_ motors were
running all out. The _Pent-y-coote_ gathered way, and was presently
moving at a modest three knots in the wake of her small helper.
The fog was still as thick as ever it had been, while the deviation
of course and manoeuvres that had taken place had resulted in Mr.
Armitage losing his bearings. Whether he was off Poole Harbour, or
farther to the west'ard, he had only the haziest notion. He decided
to steer north magnetic, and by the aid of soundings arrive
sufficiently close to shallow water to enable him to recognize the
coast-line.
For the best part of an hour they held on, hearing nothing, seeing
nothing, until the dull rumble of the breakers dead to leeward became
audible.
The Scoutmaster was far from easy in his mind. Hampered by a heavy
and unwieldy tow, and with the wind right aft, he realized that
unless he hit the entrance he would be embayed and possibly driven
ashore. If only the fog would lift! The sea, too, was getting
considerably confused, a sure indication that the bottom was
shoaling.
The roar of the surf prompted the Scoutmaster to alter his plans. He
decided to turn and make for the open. Even if the _Rosalie_ and her
tow could only hold their own until the fog lifted, the result would
be justified. Other help might then be forthcoming. The question was,
had the yacht sufficient fuel in the tanks for a prolonged struggle
against the wind?
"Hard-a-starboard!"
The _Rosalie_ turned, slowly and jerkily. The Scoutmaster feared for
the towing bollards, for the hawser was sagging and snubbing as the
tramp began to face the open sea.
"Buoy right ahead, sir!" shouted Hepburn.
Less than fifteen yards off, was a barrel-buoy, painted red and
white, and surmounted by a battered top-mark.
Mr. Armitage felt like shouting with sheer delight. He could scarcely
believe his eyes. Surely there was a special working of Providence.
Unknown to anyone on board either the yacht or her tow, the _Rosalie_
had groped her way over the bar without so much as catching a glimpse
of the bar buoy, and the alteration of helm had brought her close to
the second of the line of buoys marking the port-hand side of the
Swash Channel leading to Poole Harbour.
Nowhere else on the South Coast is the port-hand side of a channel
marked in this fashion. The red-and-white barrel-buoy Mr. Armitage
recognized instantly. He felt like a lost man who has been suddenly
placed upon his own doorstep.
"Hard-a-port!" he ordered, somewhat to Stratton's amazement at the
quick change of course. "Nor' by west. Keep her at that."
It was now a case of making her way up from one buoy to another. For
intervals of a couple of minutes or so there would be a blank expanse
of sea and fog, then slightly on the port bow would appear another of
those blessed red-and-white barrels, each one as it was passed
representing a certain distance made good in the direction of a
sheltered anchorage.
On either hand the surf was roaring, but the _Rosalie_ and the tramp
were in comparatively deep and smooth water, with a young flood tide
to aid them.
"Land on the port bow!"
There was a long, low stretch of sand dunes covered with coarse
grass.
"Land on the starboard bow!"
Again there was no mistake. Through the now lifting fog could be
discerned a large white building, with a small pier a little beyond.
"Thank God!" ejaculated Mr. Armitage fervently, wiping the moisture
from his brow. "We're in."