RUN DOWN
A FEW years ago a commander-in-chief is reported to have declared
that our seamen are the worst boat-sailors in the world, while
another naval officer of high rank has written: "I don't think there
is any foreign navy that is not better than us in the handling of
their boats--ours is a disgrace." Thanks, however, to the forethought
of the Admiralty in providing fore and aft rigged cutters for the use
of the cadets at Dartmouth this stigma is gradually being removed.
Owing to the opportunities thus provided Gerald Tregarthen was no
novice on board a yacht. He had steered the college cutters to
victory on several occasions, and, now once having acquired the knack
of dealing with the _Playmate's_ peculiarities, he was quite capable
of taking charge of the tiller while Jack Stockton attended to the
numerous duties so necessary when about to make a long passage.
Gallantly breasting the young flood the _Playmate_ thrashed her way
down the well-lighted channel, passed between the sandy dunes that
mark the entrance to Poole Harbour, and negotiated the long, buoyed
passage under the lee of Studland Heath. Then, the outer bar-buoy
being rounded, the yacht was gybing, and her course shaped for the as
yet invisible Needles Light.
This done Jack Stockton put on his oilskins, in anticipation of a
"dusting," and Gerald Tregarthen turned in for a few hours' rest.
Left to himself the skipper of the _Playmate_ settled down to his
night's vigil. Lighting his pipe he took up a position on the lee
side of the cockpit, whence, by occasionally raising himself, he
could command a view ahead. Then, keeping the lee shrouds in line
with a conveniently placed star, he was able to dispense with the
inconvenience of having his eyes glued to the compass-card. Jack was
an old hand at the pastime of yachting. Scorning the use of a motor
as being detrimental to the joys of sailing, he relied upon his
weather lore, the judicious use of the barometer, and a thorough
knowledge of the tides to make his voyages, and rarely did he fail to
make his desired port. He was an ideal yachtsman--calm and resolute
in difficulties, patient in adverse circumstances, loth to run
unnecessary risks, yet full of courage and reliance.
With the pale grey dawn the _Playmate_ was within the influence of
the mighty St. Catherine's Race, where, fair weather or foul, the
tide surges over the uneven bed of the sea at a good five knots.
"Pity to wake him," exclaimed Stockton, as he put the helm hard up,
jibbed, and headed for the distant French coast. "Still it can't be
helped."
With the gybe Gerald Tregarthen's berth on the leeward side was
transformed into the windward one, and the heel and pitching of the
little craft deposited him bodily on the floor of the cabin.
"Hallo! Where are we?" he asked, sleepily.
"You, my dear fellow, are wedged in between the swing-table and the
floor; I am still at the helm, waiting to be relieved; and the
_Playmate_ is approximately two miles southwest of St. Catherine's.
Have I made clear our relative positions?"
"Quite, old fellow," replied Tregarthen, scrambling out of the
partially closed sliding hatchway. "I'll give you a spell."
"Here you are, sou' by west quarter west," said Stockton, indicating
the course; and crawling into the fo'c'sle, he was soon hard at work
preparing breakfast.
Having satisfied himself as to the course Tregarthen looked astern.
It was a magnificent picture. Away on the port hand a huge man-of-war
was heading towards Spithead. By her tripod masts and the peculiar
arrangement of her funnels and upper works the sub-lieutenant
recognised her as the _Foudroyant_, the latest phase in British naval
construction. A mile ahead was a topsail schooner, close-hauled on
the starboard tack, her brown and patched canvas gilded by the
slanting rays of sunshine, while still further away a few tramps were
steaming steadily up Channel, their outlines barely discernible
against the morning mist. "How's the glass?" asked Gerald, as his
chum regained the cockpit with a deep tray covered with eatables.
"Steady as a rock. Here, wedge this tray in somewhere, and I'll bring
out the coffee. We must rough it a bit when we are having meals under
way."
In spite of the pitching of the yacht both members of the crew did
full justice to the meal. This over, Jack resumed his place at the
helm, and Gerald proceeded to his task of "washing up."
The young sub-lieutenant could not help laughing at the ludicrousness
of his position. Here was he--an officer of H.M. Navy--cooped up in a
most uncomfortable posture in a cramped fo'c'sle, and undertaking a
task that he had never before performed. How his brother-officers
would roar with amusement could they but see him. Yet he had to
confess that the novelty of the whole thing was delightful.
"What about a wash?" he asked, some time later.
"You'll have to whistle for one," replied Jack. "At least, till we
reach port. Fresh water's precious at the present time. I'll tell you
what--we'll have a bathe over the side."
Gerald looked at the wake of the little craft. The _Playmate_ was
bowling along at a bare three knots, and having passed the disturbed
waters of the race was now sailing more steadily in the gentle,
regular heave of the open Channel.
"How will you manage it--heave-to?"
"No; one at a time. Keep her as she is." Jack quickly divested
himself of his clothing, and, grasping the bight of the slackened-off
main-sheet, he lowered himself into the sea. There he hung, towed
through the waves, with a miniature cascade pouring over his head,
till, having had enough, he dexterously regained the yacht.
"Capital!" he exclaimed, shaking the dripping water from his face.
"But it's much colder than one would expect for the time of year."
"Deep water always is," replied Gerald, as he prepared to follow his
companion's example.
"Are you going to get the dinghy aboard?" he asked, after the
ablutionary exercises had been completed. "She's a bit of a drag
astern, I fancy."
"No; let her stop. I'm going to turn in now. If it comes on to
blow--I don't think it will--give me a shout, and we'll soon whip the
dinghy aboard and lash her down securely. In any case turn me out at
eight bells."
Gerald thereupon took charge of the helm. The _Playmate_ had already
reeled off more than thirty miles of her cross-Channel passage. But
though the atmosphere astern was perfectly clear, ahead the horizon
was obscured by a haze that blended sea and sky together in an
indistinct blurr. The wind, too, was slowly yet gradually dying away,
and the yacht was doing little more than two knots.
With the falling of the wind the haze increased in density, so that,
two hours after Gerald had taken the helm, the _Playmate_ was fairly
in the thick of a dreaded sea-fog.
"Jack, old man, have you a fog-horn aboard?"
Stockton was wide-awake in an instant.
"By George! This is thick," he exclaimed, for already the yacht's
bowsprit end was lost to view in the white, curling vapour. "No, I've
no fog-horn; I always use a rowlock. Here's one. We'll lash it up to
the sliding-hatch."
This done, he struck the suspended rowlock a couple of sharp taps
with a mallet.
"There's enough noise to warn any vessel within a cable's length of
us," he continued. Gerald grunted. He knew the ways of the sea. A
tramp steamer, forging through the fog at a steady eight knots--as
they frequently do--would not pay much heed to anything less than a
siren.
"All right," he assented; "I'll see to that. You may as well turn in
again."
"I've had enough sleep to last me for a time," replied Jack. "I'll
keep watch with you. Here, put this on, or you'll get soaked to the
skin," he added, producing an oilskin from one of the lockers, and
proceeding to don a second one himself.
"What's that?" asked Gerald, after a prolonged interval, as a dull,
pulsating sound, quite unlike the noise of a steamer's engines, was
borne faintly to their ears.
"Hanged if I know! Here, old chap, get a sweep out, and keep way on
her. I'll sound the fog-bell."
Tregarthen did as he was asked, for the yacht was now practically
becalmed, while Stockton made a vigorous onslaught upon the
improvised fog-bell with his mallet.
Nearer and nearer came the mysterious vibrating sound; then, with
appalling suddenness, a shrill, long-drawn blast from a siren sounded
as if from overhead.
"By Jove! We'll be run down!" exclaimed Jack, calmly, though he fully
realised the danger.
The next instant a hoarse voice shouted: "Ahoy there! Starboard your
helm!"
Instinctively Jack thrust the tiller hard over; the yacht, responding
slowly to the helm, commenced to describe a wide curve; but in less
than ten seconds from the time of the hail a ponderous monster of
grey-coloured steel loomed out of the fog, its upper portion lost to
view in the mist.
_Crash!_
Although doing a bare five knots the sharp steel bow of the huge
vessel caught the _Playmate_ fairly on the port side amidships. The
stout planks were shorn through as if made of match-board, the mast
snapped off close to the deck, and, as the stick with its spread of
canvas fell over the side the water poured in a cataract over the
lee-coaming, and through the huge rent in the side of the doomed
yacht.
[Illustration: chapter IV]