THE PERIL IN THE FAIRWAY
"THIS has been a dud cruise, if you like!" observed Patrol-leader
Brandon to his particular chum, Craddock. "Mind, I'm not saying that
it hasn't been awfully enjoyable, but nothing's happened."
"Do you want anything to happen?" asked Peter. "I don't. I'm quite
content to take things as they are in the _Puffin_."
All the same the weekly cruise had been uneventful. The _Puffin_ had
stood well out into the Channel, and after beating to the westward
had put into Crabhaven for the night. She was now on her way back to
Aberstour, running with spinnaker set and mainsheet slacked right
out before a gentle sou'westerly breeze.
Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The Sea Scouts' log
contained no entries beyond the customary records of the state of
the tide and the force and direction of the wind. They hadn't had to
reef; they hadn't missed their tide; they hadn't even run aground on
making the intricate entrance to Crabhaven. They were now within
five miles of their home-port, and dead in the centre of the fairway
between the grey cliffs to port and the submerged shoal known as the
Grab to starboard. With a fair wind and tide there was every reason
to expect that the remaining five miles would be reeled off in quick
time and without incident.
"Those fellows are a time having their tea," commented Peter, as the
sound of chattering voices came from the cabin where the rest of the
crew were doing full justice to good fare with their healthy
appetites. "Aren't you peckish, Frank?"
"Just about," agreed the Patrol-leader. "But I'd rather hang on to
the tiller than waste time over grub. Hello! Wind's dropping. Does
it mean we'll have to sweep the yacht the rest of the way?"
The breeze was certainly falling off. Already the _Puffin's_
mainsheet was dropping in the water, and her spinnaker was no longer
curving before the following wind. Yet she was still making way and
answering to her helm.
"What's that right ahead, old son?" asked Peter, pointing in a line
with the bowsprit end.
"What's what?" rejoined his chum. "I can't see anything."
"It's less than twenty yards away. Up helm a bit, or we'll hit it.
Looks like a water-logged barrel."
Brandon altered the helm a little. Peter grasped a boathook.
The object drifted slowly past the yacht's side. The slight
alteration of course had enabled her to clear it by about five or
six feet. Craddock was about to satisfy his curiosity by prodding it
with the tip of the boathook when Brandon grasped him by the wrist.
"Hold on!" he exclaimed earnestly. "Be careful! It's a mine."
Before the astonished Craddock could offer any comment the
Patrol-leader called to Mr. Grant to come on deck.
The Scoutmaster appeared promptly, followed by the rest of the crew,
who, judging rightly by the Patrol-leader's anxious tone, were
anxious to know the reason for the urgent summons.
"A mine, sir!" reported Brandon.
"By Jove, yes!" agreed Mr. Grant. "We've only just missed it."
The sinister object had evidently been under water for years. Its
globular shape was thickly encrusted with barnacles and seaweed.
Only a small portion of it was above the surface, but even that
relatively diminutive part displayed a pair of aggressive-looking
horns. These, composed of brittle material, had only to be fractured
and the explosive contents of the mine would be detonated.
"Right in the fairway," remarked Peter.
"Yes," agreed the Scoutmaster. "Right in the line of shipping. It's
up to us, lads, to do our best to scotch it. Carline and Phillips!
You two keep aft and watch that mine. Don't lose its position
whatever you do! Now, lads, down spinnaker! Smartly, now!"
The huge light triangular sail was lowered and unbent in
double-quick time, and the spinnaker-boom topped-up into its usual
place.
"Down helm!" ordered Mr. Grant. "Mainsheet home! Stand by
headsheets!"
The _Puffin_ came round slowly yet surely into the wind,
close-hauled on the starboard tack.
"How does the mine bear?" asked the Scoutmaster.
"Two points on our starboard bow, sir," replied Carline.
"Good!" continued Mr. Grant. "Now, lads, listen! We've got to buoy
that mine. We can't tow it. That's too risky, because the thing
might go up and us with it. On the other hand it might not, since
it's probably been under water for eight or nine years. Last week's
gale parted it from its moorings, I should imagine. Lee-o! We'll
beat up to it as close as we dare."
As soon as the _Puffin_ had settled on the other tack, Mr. Grant
continued:--
"Get up one of our water-beakers and empty it, Brandon. You, Talbot,
get Letter B flag from the signal locker, and lash it to the
boathook staff. Now, Peter, you're a splendid swimmer. Are you
willing to run a possible risk? Good, you are! Off with your things,
then. You and I are going for a swim."
Scoutmaster and scout began to divest themselves of their clothing.
Meanwhile the boathook staff with the red swallow-tail flag
attached, had been thrust into the bung-hole of the now empty
beaker. A length of stout rope was bent to the barrel and coiled up
ready for further use.
The _Puffin_ was now hove-to at about fifty yards from the drifting
mine. Mr. Grant and Craddock dived overboard. The beaker was dropped
into the water, and the two swimmers, towing their make-shift
mark-buoy, made for the mine.
"Near enough!" announced the Scoutmaster. "Keep the buoy as she is,
Peter. Don't let it bump alongside, whatever you do. I'm going to
dive."
Taking the slack of the rope, Mr. Grant approached to within a few
feet of the mine, and disappeared from view. Ahead, and at about six
feet underneath the sinister object, he saw what he hoped would be
there--a length of rusty iron chain secured to a ring at the base of
the mine.
Working rapidly, yet with extreme caution, he bent the end of the
line to one of the links of the chain; then, striking out until he
was well clear of that barnacle-encrusted menace, he broke surface.
"All secure!" he spluttered. "Let's hope the buoy won't bump before
we're well away. Strike out, Peter."
Both swam their hardest. Breathlessly they clambered over the
yacht's side, and without loss of time the _Puffin_ gathered way and
drew clear of the danger zone. Peter and his Scoutmaster went below
to dress.
As soon as possible they regained the cockpit. Brandon was keeping
the yacht tacking at about a quarter of a mile from the square of
red bunting that indicated the position of the now invisible menace.
"Now for a little signal-practice," said Mr. Grant briskly. "Where's
the Code Book. Let's hope our letter B won't be required."
The _Puffin_ was within visual signalling distance of Dungale
coastguard station. Her signal, reporting the presence of a floating
mine was seen and acknowledged.
"We may as well hang on and see the fun," observed Mr. Grant, and
the suggestion met with unanimous approval.
Within half-an-hour the fishery protection gunboat appeared upon the
scene, and the highly interested Sea Scouts watched the proceedings
with zest.
The gunboat opened fire with rifles and a machine-gun. The red
signal flag disappeared as if by magic. All around the spot the
water was churned by the hail of bullets. Yet the mine did not
explode.
"Probably a dud," commented Brandon when the firing ceased. "They've
sunk it, more than likely."
But after a brief interval the gunboat reopened fire. Suddenly a
huge column of water was flung high in the air, to be followed
almost immediately by the terrific crash of the explosion.
"Good-bye to our beaker, boathook and signal-flag," remarked Peter.
"Lost in a thundering good cause," added the Scoutmaster gravely.
"Now, lads! up helm. We've got to look slippy if we're to save our
tide!"