CAUGHT BY THE SQUALL
"I CAN trust young Craddock to do anything or go anywhere within the
bounds of possibility," declared Scoutmaster Grant. "He's a bit
imaginative, I admit, and apt to jump to conclusions, but he's got
the makings of a fine, trustworthy man."
"He is certainly plucky," agreed Mr. Clifton. "And he has proved
himself very useful on board the _Thetis_. He seems to have
distinguished himself in several ways while I was off the yacht,
visiting my brother, who was taken suddenly ill. Yes, young
Craddock's a smart youngster, who would make a rattling good officer
of the Mercantile Marine, although I shouldn't be at all surprised
if his parents didn't shove him into a bank or make him cram up for
the Civil Service. I've known heaps of cases like that--strong,
healthy fellows condemned to a sedentary life when their one desire
is to go to sea. Hullo! here he comes."
Hurrying along the tow-path came Peter Craddock. The _Thetis_ was
lying at Ravensholm. For one thing, a spell of very bad weather had
detained her, and for another, Mr. Clifton had been compelled to
make several hurried journeys to his home and could not spare time
to take the yacht round to her laying-up port.
Craddock had remained on board almost continuously, but his holiday
was drawing to a close, and very soon he would have to bid farewell
to the sea until Easter.
Then, by what Peter considered to be a rare slice of luck,
Scoutmaster Grant found an opportunity of coming round to Ravensholm
to help Mr. Clifton take the _Thetis_ home. That meant that Craddock
would have what he had long been hoping for--a long sea passage in
the capable little yacht.
It was Tuesday morning. Craddock had been sent into the town to
purchase provisions for the voyage. The water tanks had already been
filled. All that remained on Peter's return was to unmoor and set
sail, then good-bye to Ravensholm and its fresh-water river, and "yo
ho!" for the rolling billows of the English Channel. Even Rex, the
sheep dog, seemed to have an inkling of what was in his master's
mind, for he had shaken off his usual lethargy and was frisking
about on deck as if to hurry on the process of getting under way.
The wind was well aft going down the river, and the _Thetis_ made
short work of the run. Instead of a series of short tacks, requiring
constant work with the sheets, as was the case when the _Thetis_
ascended the river, there was little to be done beyond an occasional
gybe when a bend in the course made such a manoeuvre imperative.
In a little over an hour the _Thetis_ had crossed the bar and was
responding to the gentle lift of the English Channel.
"Jolly fine, sir, to taste the spray," commented Peter as a feather
of foam flew in over the yacht's weather bow. "How long will the
passage take?"
Mr. Grant shook his head.
"Can't say," he replied. "It depends entirely upon whether the
breeze holds, since Mr. Clifton doesn't care to use the motor. At
this rate, we ought to make Mapplewick before dark."
Alas, for that surmise! Just about noon the wind failed entirely,
and the _Thetis_, with jack topsail set above her mainsail and a
jib-headed topsail over her mizzen, was helplessly becalmed. She had
set every possible stitch of canvas, but to no purpose. There she
lay, rolling sluggishly, with the main-boom swinging from side to
side with a succession of jerks that every sailing man knows and has
good cause to hate.
The rays of the sun beat pitilessly down upon the deck, while the
oily surface of the water reflected the glare and seemed to throw
off as much heat as that from the orb of day.
Mr. Grant gave an inquiring glance at his chum, but Mr. Clifton
shook his head.
"No," he replied, "we won't use the engine. Bad seamanship--very.
Motors weren't known in my young days, and we yachtsmen got on very
well without them. Always managed to fetch somewhere after a calm."
So they stuck it.
It was a tedious experience. Nothing could be done. The _Thetis_
wallowed and rolled, swept slowly and imperceptibly along by a
steady two-knot tide. The low-lying shore was invisible, there were
no buoys or beacons in sight, not even another sail--nothing to be
seen but an expanse of cloudless sky and mirror-like sea.
"How about grub?" inquired the owner of the _Thetis_, shaking off
his drowsiness and stretching his cramped limbs.
The suggestion met with unqualified approval.
"All right," added Scoutmaster Grant. "Craddock and I will get the
food ready, if you'll stand by the tiller."
Accordingly Peter made for the fo'c'sle and started up the Primus
stove, while Mr. Grant prepared the saloon table and foraged in the
tiny pantry.
The kettle was almost on the point of boiling when Mr. Clifton
shouted down the companion.
"On deck, you two! There's a brute of a squall coming!"
The warning was instantly acted upon. On gaining the deck Craddock
saw that it was not an exaggerated one. Less than a quarter of a
mile away the hitherto tranquil sea was being lashed into a
triangular sheet of white foam--one of those sudden squalls that,
although rare, are to be met with in British waters, and of which
the barometer gives little or no warning.
"Down with the jack-yarder!" ordered the skipper. "Take the helm,
Peter, and luff her up when the squall strikes her."
The two men sprang to the topsail halliard, sheet and downhaul. The
two latter "rendered" without a hitch, but the halliard obstinately
refused to run through the block.
"Jammed!" exclaimed Mr. Clifton, bringing all his weight to bear
upon the downhaul in a vain effort to lower the canvas. "Lower away
the peak! That'll ease her."
Before the peak halliard of the mainsail could be cast off from the
fife-rail belaying-pin, the squall struck the yacht. With a shrill,
eerie shriek the first puff hit the hitherto becalmed vessel, and in
spite of her stiffness threw her over almost on to her beam ends, so
much so that water poured in torrents over the lee coamings into the
water-tight cockpit.
The canvas groaned and shuddered at the furious blast, while the
jack-yard topsail blew out like a banner.
Vainly Craddock, hanging on like grim death, thrust the tiller hard
down. The _Thetis_ refused to answer to her helm. Sheets of
white-crested water flew completely over the cabin-top, wetting the
mainsail half-way up to the hounds. As for Mr. Grant and Mr.
Clifton, all they could do was to grip the nearest object of a
substantial nature and await developments. It was impossible to
release the head sheets, since the lee waterways were more than
knee-deep.
Above the noise of the elements came a report like the bark of a
quick-firer. A cloth of the mainsail had been slit from top to
bottom. Simultaneously the clew of the jib carried away, and the
sail flapping violently in the wind, added to the deafening din.
That proved a blessing in disguise. The carrying away of the jib
assisted the _Thetis_ to come up into the wind. More like a
submarine than a yacht, she sluggishly shook herself clear of the
water and began to gather way.
The worst was now over. The squall was of short duration, and
although the _Thetis_ was travelling fast, she was no longer in
danger of being capsized or dismasted. Yet in all conscience the
damage was serious.
"Where's Rex?" shouted Mr. Grant, knowing that the sheep dog had
been lying under the lee of the cabin skylight.
"Rex is all right," replied the dog's owner reassuringly. "He's a
knowing customer. Bolted down below a good twenty seconds before the
squall came. Righto, Peter, I'll take the helm."
A couple of short barks came from below. Mr. Clifton turned to the
Sea Scout.
"Nip below, Peter," he said, "and see what's wrong. I know the
meaning of that bark."
Craddock hurried down the companion-ladder. The saloon was in a
state of confusion. The heel of the yacht during the squall was too
great for the maximum inclination of the swing-table, consequently
the tea-things had slid off and were lying in a disordered heap on
the floor, together with the best part of the ship's library and the
cushion of the wind'ard bunk.
But it was not for that that Rex had given alarm.
The violent motion had unshipped the Primus stove from its gimbals
and the fierce blue flame had burnt a considerable part of the
fo'c'sle floor, notwithstanding the wet state of the boards. It was
owing to the latter circumstance that the fire was not more serious.
As it was, Peter replaced the stove, taking care to release the air
and quickly beat out the flames with a damp towel.