THROUGH THE FOG BANK
"WE'LL have that jack-yarder aloft, lads!" exclaimed Scoutmaster
Grant as the yacht _Puffin_ cleared the entrance to Aberstour
Harbour. "It's going to be a fine day and a light wind from the
south'ard."
The Otters were having their turn afloat, and, on the principle that
a voyage is all the more enjoyable if made with a definite object in
view, they had planned a run out to the _Vang_ Lightship with a
consignment of papers and magazines to help liven the monotonous
existence of the lightship's crew.
Quickly the topsail was set. The yacht being "stiff," she could
carry this additional canvas with ease even in a much stronger
breeze. Now she was slipping through the dancing, sunlit water at a
very modest three knots.
"Jolly sight better than sitting in a stuffy court," remarked Peter
Craddock, referring to the recent trial of a certain Harry Benz,
who, under the name of George Gregory, had attempted to smuggle a
quantity of cocaine.
"I didn't like having to give evidence a bit, sir. And it seemed
rough luck that the fellow should get all the punishment and his
pals go scot free."
"A case of honour amongst thieves, I expect," remarked Mr. Grant.
"He wouldn't divulge the names of his accomplices, and apparently
there was a pretty big gang at work."
"I suppose, sir," said Patrol-leader Frank Brandon, "they won't try
to pay us out."
"Hardly," replied the Scoutmaster, shaking his head. "They'll look
upon our part of the business from a level-headed point of view.
They used us as instruments to further their ends--and that without
consulting us. They took their chances and got let down. Revenge
rarely enters into the case as far as an Englishman is concerned,
even amongst rogues."
"Of course, with Spaniards and Italians the case is different. No, I
don't think we have any cause for anxiety on that score. Slack off
that lee runner a bit, Carline. That's right. Now, Peter, another
couple of feet home with that mainsheet."
A couple of hours' run brought the _Puffin_ within hailing distance
of the _Vang_ Lightship. The shipkeepers knew the Sea Scouts and
guessed their errand.
"Coming aboard, sir?" inquired the mate, who happened to be in
charge of the lightship in the absence of the master on shore leave.
"Not to-day, thank you," replied Mr. Grant, noticing that the _Vang_
was riding stern to tide, and was in consequence pitching
considerably. "We've just had our topsides painted. Stand by for
papers."
One of the men produced a landing-net lashed to the end of a
boathook. The _Puffin_, with staysail a-weather, crept slowly under
the lee of the huge, lobster-red hull.
Deftly Brandon transferred the packet of newspapers to the net,
receiving in return a small waterproof bag containing the
lightship's "mail."
"Righto!" shouted Mr. Grant. "We'll post that little lot for you
well before post time. Sheet home, Peter. Up helm, Tom."
"Plenty of time yet, sir," remarked Brandon as the _Puffin_ drew
clear of the securely-moored lightship. "Can't we have a run seaward
and come back on the young flood?"
"Just what I was about to suggest," agreed the Scoutmaster. "The
wind's dropping, I fancy. Plenty of petrol in the tank, I hope?"
"Filled up this morning, sir," was Brandon's reassuring reply.
For the next hour the _Puffin_ held on, her crew basking in the
glorious sunshine. Then, with remarkable suddenness the sun
disappeared in a watery haze, the temperature dropped considerably,
and the crew actually found themselves shivering.
"Fog banking up," announced Mr. Grant. "Luckily we're inside the
steamer track. All we'll have to mind is the cross-Channel traffic
in and out of Aberstour. Put her about, Brandon. Tide's against us
still. If we get closer in-shore we may dodge the worst of it."
The Patrol-leader knew his work. He was well-equipped for his
position. Mr. Grant stood aside, ready to correct or criticise; but
there was no occasion. The yacht ran up into the wind, fell off on
the other tack and gathered way without the faintest hitch.
"Well done, Brandon!" exclaimed Mr. Grant. "I see we shan't escape
the fog. It's banking up on all sides. Now I want you to carry on
and take all necessary precautions."
In a few minutes the _Puffin_ was enshrouded in a thick, clammy bank
of vapour. At times it was impossible to see the bowsprit-end from
the cockpit. The wind, too, had dropped until the saturated canvas
was barely drawing.
Meanwhile Brandon had told off Phillips to go for'ard as look-out;
Wilson was instructed to stand by with the fog-horn; Hopcroft was
given the hand-lead with instructions to sound occasionally, while
the rest of the crew were to tend sheets and runners, should it be
necessary to "go about."
"There's a foghorn, sir," announced Phillips after twenty minutes
had elapsed since the arrival of the fog. "Two blasts--that's a
sailing vessel on the port tack."
"How does the sound bear?" asked the Patrol-leader.
"On our starboard bow," replied Phillips.
"I thought it was on our port bow!" exclaimed Hopcroft.
"No fear, it was there!" declared Carline, pointing over the yacht's
starboard quarter. "Wasn't it, sir?"
Thus appealed to, Mr. Grant had to confess that he was unable to
say.
"Wait another minute and you'll hear it again," he added. "Sound
plays strange pranks in a fog. Keep our horn going, Wilson; one
blast at a time 'cause we're on the starboard tack."
The blare of the stranger's fog-horn grew louder and louder. Still
there was no definite indication of the direction from which the
sound came. Then a cock crew loudly and brazenly.
"We aren't near land already!" exclaimed Carline.
"No," replied the Scoutmaster. "That shows that the vessel's a
fairly large one, since she carries poultry coops. Give her another
blast, Phillips."
The resounding echoes had hardly died away when the swish of water
from the unseen vessel's bows became unpleasantly audible. Then
through a temporary lifting of the mist, appeared the ghostly
outlines of a huge full-rigged ship.
A hoarse shout given in a foreign tongue resulted in the stranger
porting helm sufficiently to enable her to run under the _Puffin's_
stern. It was a close call, but even in the moment of suspense the
Sea Scouts could not help gazing with admiration at the towering
canvas and graceful outlines of the craft that had narrowly avoided
sending them to the bottom.
"Ohé!" hailed the skipper of the ship. "'Ow ze land bears it?"
"Oldbury Head seven miles nor'-nor'-east," shouted Mr. Grant in
reply.
The captain waved his hand in acknowledgement. The great ship glided
past, giving the Sea Scouts time to read the words, "_Achilles_,
Nantes," on her stern before she was swallowed up in the fog.
"Frenchman!" exclaimed Craddock. "And isn't she shifting, although
there's hardly enough wind to make us answer our helm."
"At any rate, we've done her a Good Turn," remarked Mr. Grant.
"She's going about already. Cautious chap, that skipper. Now,
Hopcroft, try a cast and let's see where we are."
The lead-line showed a depth of seventeen fathoms, while when the
lead was brought on deck the "arming" was thick with fine grey sand.
"Good enough," said the Scoutmaster. "We're still eight miles from
land. I gave that fellow a generous amount of scope, which is on the
safe side. Now, lads, grub. Watch and watch. Starboard watch will
remain on deck while the port watch goes below."
With an appreciative "Ay, ay, sir!" Craddock was about to dive into
the cabin when Symington, who had relieved Phillips in the bows,
suddenly yelled:
"Vessel dead ahead, sir!"