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“In fog, mist, or falling snow . . . a sailing ship under way shall make with her foghorn, at intervals of not more than two minutes, when on the starboard tack one blast, when on the port tack two blasts in succession, and when with the wind abaft the beam three blasts in succession.”—Board of Trade Regulations.

The fog came suddenly, and with it a slow swell from the Atlantic, lifting the Wild Cat lazily up and dropping her gently down smooth hills and valleys of greenish-grey water. There was still a faint breath of wind from the north-east. The moment he had seen the fog closing in, Captain Flint took a bearing of the Longships and another of the Wolf Rock and went into the deckhouse to plot the position on the chart, and to set down the time, 8.57 a.m. At 8.57 a.m. they knew exactly where they were, south-south-west of the Land’s End, south by west from the Longships, north by east from the Wolf Rock. They knew where the Viper was too, at that moment. Before the fog blotted her out they had seen her, heading west and about a mile south by east from the Wild Cat.

Just before the fog hid her, Peter Duck had changed the course of the Wild Cat.

“We couldn’t ask for nothing better than this fog,” he said, and without waiting a moment, spun the wheel, and headed the Wild Cat due north. “Now,” he said, “will you and Cap’n Nancy rattle in them sheets? There’s no weight in the wind. But I’d like him to see us aiming for Dublin. . . .”

For a minute or two, before the fog hid the two vessels from each other, the Wild Cat was sailing close hauled as if to round the Longships, bound north for the Irish Sea.

John went into the deckhouse and asked for the foghorn.

“Better take the big one,” said Captain Flint, who was busy with his calculations, and John came out again with a huge foghorn of the old sort that has to be blown through but makes almost as much noise as the steam syren of a small tug. He was just gathering breath to blow it, when Peter Duck stopped him.

“No,” he said quickly. “Leave that and bang the bell Quick, while he knows where we are. Let him think we’ve got no horn. Lost it overboard, maybe. Anyway, don’t let him think we’ve one of them bull-roarers that’d scare the life out of a liner’s fourth officer and give him something else to think about than berthing in Southampton on time. Let him think we’ve nothing but a bell. Cat’s eyes that man’s got. Dark’s like day to him. But I don’t know but what we may give him the slip in a fog.” And with that he gave one hard blow on the ship’s bell, just outside the deckhouse door, within easy reach from the wheel. “Starboard tack1 we’re on, heading north.”

Captain Flint shot out of the deckhouse.

“What’s that bell?” he said.

“Against regulations, sir,” said Peter Duck. “And Black Jake’ll likely report us to the Board of Trade for not having what they call an efficient foghorn.”

“But we’ve got a couple,” said Captain Flint. “One of the new horns you work with your hand, and the old thing I gave John just now, that makes four times the noise.”

Peter Duck reached forward and gave one more sharp stroke on the bell.

“It’ll carry a fair way, that bell,” he said, “and we may need the foghorn later.”

Three hoots on a foghorn came dully through the fog.

“There’s the Viper” said Nancy.

“Aye,” said Peter Duck. “Heading west she was. Still got the wind abaft the beam.”

“But what are you thinking of doing?” asked Captain Flint. “Anything you like, of course, if we can get rid of that fellow.”

“There’ll be a wind coming behind this fog,” said Peter Duck. “There’s all but no wind now, but if Black Jake had his eyes on us these last few minutes he’ll have seen us heading north and heard our bell.”

“But why north?” said Captain Flint.

“If the wind comes out of the nor’-west, and it will, by the smell of the fog and the way the swell’s moving, we can take our choice, close hauled up the Irish Sea or running free for Spain, while the Viper’s butting into it across the Bristol Channel. Sound that bell again, will you, Cap’n John?”

“The dinner-bell’s louder,” said John.

“Lay into that then,” said Captain Flint. “One stroke every two minutes. We’re on starboard tack. It can’t do any harm. Spain, did you say, Mr. Duck? Why not Madeira?”

“There’ll be no lack of sou’-westerlies to bring us home,” said Mr. Duck.

Bang. Bang. Two dull reports sounded somewhere not so very far away over the starboard bow. A long-drawn-out hoot, four whole seconds of it, sounded somewhere to southward.

“Lighthouses taking a hand,” said Captain Flint. “That’s the Longships and the Wolf Rock. I’ve just been looking them up. Every five minutes we’ll be hearing those bangs, and the Wolf does its howl every thirty seconds. Precious little wind there is now to get us out of this.”

The booms were swinging across with the swell. The gaffs swung overhead. The sails flapped heavily.

“It’s coming,” said Peter Duck.

“Well, I wish it would come soon,” said Captain Flint. “We don’t want to lose our reckoning and go drifting about here, between Land’s End and the Scillies, with the Wolf Rock and the Seven Stones too near to let us feel comfortable.”

“It’s coming,” said Peter Duck. “Lay into that bell again, one good whack. Now listen.”

Out of the fog to the south of them came three blasts on a small foghorn.

“He’s keeping his way,” said Peter Duck. “Or wants us to think so.”

The others came up on deck, laden with breakfast things for the galley and washing up, thinking that the bell they had heard was to tell them to hurry up, but wondering what the other noises were.

“Hullo,” said Nancy. “A real fog. What were those guns?”

“Fog signals,” said John.

“This is just like a fog on the fells,” said Peggy.

“It’s very coughy,” said Roger.

“I’ll let Polly stay down in the saloon,” said Titty. “And, Roger, you’d better not bring Gibber up to let him catch a cold.”

“Both of you go below at once and dig out your mufflers,” said Susan. “You too, Peggy. Bring up mine at the same time, somebody.”

“And mine,” said Nancy. “I left it below when I went off watch to have breakfast.”

An astonishing cold had come with the fog.

“You’d almost say it was icebergs,” said Peter Duck, half to himself. “I’ve felt the cold of them through fog many a time. But it ain’t. It’s a nor’-westerly blowing up behind it. We’ll likely have a gale before night. It often comes hard from nor’-west after an easterly.”

Almost as he spoke jib and staysail flapped and were held aback.

“Let go jib and staysail sheets,” said Peter Duck. “Now then, haul in to starboard. So. Don’t bring that jib in too flat, Cap’n John.”

The wind, a light wind, sweeping the fog with it, but not lifting it from the water, was coming from the north-west. The Wild Cat was now on the port tack, though still heading north as if to round the Longships and make up across the Bristol Channel.

“Well, sir,” said Peter Duck. “We’ve a chance now of giving him the slip and leaving him guessing, if the fog stays with us, as it likely may.”

“No harm in trying,” said Captain Flint.

“Ready about,” said Peter Duck. “And quietly, now. Will you help her round with the staysail to windward if she needs it. There’s but a light air to go about in.”

Captain Flint hurried forward. The Wild Cat slowly, almost unwillingly, came up into the wind, seemed for a moment to hang in stays, and then paid slowly off again on the starboard tack. Round she came, until she was heading a little west of south.

“Fetch that bell two smart strokes, Cap’n Nancy.”

“But oughtn’t it to be three?” said Nancy. “We’ve got the wind abaft the beam.”

“Two strokes, Cap’n Nancy. We want him to think we’re on port tack now and still heading north. You see, the wind’s changed.”

“Giminy,” said Nancy, “this is war.” And she gave the bell a couple of blows that fairly made it ring.

“Now, listen,” said Peter Duck.

“Boom. Boom,” came from the Longships, and again the long-drawn-out howl from the Wolf Rock.

“No. Not that. Listen.”

Somewhere away to the south of them they heard a single blast on a small foghorn, the same that up till then had been giving three hoots at a time.

“Starboard tack now, and still going west,” said Peter Duck, and looked round at Nancy with a smile. “Or not. I wouldn’t put it past him to be trying the same tricks on us we’re going to play on him. Now then. We wants no noise. It’s my belief he’ll be coming north after us this very minute. Who’s got good eyes? Cap’n John. You’re in my watch. Will you go forrard, right up to the stem-head, and keep your eyes skinned. If you see anything, sing out sharp. If you hear anything, keep quiet, but let us know. Cap’n Flint, sir, how’d it be to have the whole crew right along the deck so’s we can send messages without no shouting?”

“Right,” said Captain Flint who was busy streaming the log.⁶ He knew just where they were at the moment, but it might be some time before they saw land again.

John and Susan went up to the foredeck. Peggy and Roger sat, one each side of the Swallow, on the skylights between the two masts. Titty leant against the side of the deckhouse. Nancy waited by the galley door ready to give the bell another couple of whacks.

“No more, Cap’n Nancy,” said Peter Duck, just in time. “She’s moving now, and Black Jake’d know at once the sound was nearer.”

Just then the parrot, indignant at being left alone in the saloon, sang out, “Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!” at the top of its voice.

“Lucky I didn’t bring him on deck,” said Titty as she hurried down the companion to suppress the parrot by putting his blue cover over his cage. “It’s in a very good cause, Polly,” she said, as she left him and ran up on deck again in time to hear that same short, single blast on a horn, somewhere in the fog in the direction in which the Wild Cat was now heading.

“Due south,” said Peter Duck quietly to Captain Flint. “Pretty near due south that foghorn’s bearing now.”

Very slowly, hardly leaving a wake, slipping silently over the smooth Atlantic swell before that breath of wind out of the north-west, the Wild Cat moved south in the fog. Titty looked up and found she could not be sure whether the burgee was at the mainmast-head or not. John and Susan, up in the bows, looked like ghosts, and the white jib beyond them seemed to be made of fog, not canvas. Outside the ship she could see nothing at all except a few yards of grey-green water.

There was a gentle squeak as Peter Duck turned the steering-wheel. Titty saw the old seaman say something to Captain Flint, who moved into the lee of the deckhouse to speak to Nancy. Nancy slipped forward to whisper to Roger, who was sitting on the skylight. Roger, on tiptoe, hurried to the companion and disappeared below. He was up again in a minute with Gibber’s oil-can, which he gave to Mr. Duck. Mr. Duck put a drop or two of oil in the right place and the steering-gear squeaked no more.

The fog signals from the lighthouses, the double boom from the Longships every five minutes, and the howl from the Wolf every half-minute came regularly, but they were all listening for something else.

The Viper’s foghorn presently sounded again.

“Still bearing south,” said Peter Duck under his breath.

“A bit odd that, if he’s been sailing west on starboard tack with the wind from nor’-west.”

“It’s more’n odd,” said Peter Duck.

Roger slipped as he made his way forward on the decks, wet with the fog.

“ ’Sh!” whispered Peggy.

Everybody looked that way, and then at each other, listening.

The Wild Cat made hardly any noise at all, hardly as much noise as the wind blowing over soft grass.

But suddenly John, in the bows, held up his hand. Susan signalled to Peggy. Peggy to Nancy. Everybody froze. There was no doubt about it. Somewhere in the fog, close to them, was the creak of steering-gear. Everybody knew that it was not the steering-gear of the Wild Cat. Then, away to leeward, came the noise of a wooden block on a slack rope, tapping a mast. Then the noise of men’s voices, angry, muffled.

Titty looked at Peter Duck. He was not so much steering as holding the steering-wheel so that it should not move the millionth of an inch. He was not going to trust to oil alone to keep it quiet. The Wild Cat moved on, slowly, slowly. The muttering that, when they had first heard it, had sounded near the bows, sounded now astern.

“Them,” Titty whispered to herself. “It must be them.”

Everybody except Peter Duck was peering away into the fog. Peter Duck was looking at nothing but the compass card inside the deckhouse window. He leaned forward and wiped the window with a red and green speckled handkerchief.

And then that same short blast on a foghorn sounded ahead of the Wild Cat, as it had sounded before.

Everybody stared forward, except Peter Duck. Peter Duck stuffed his speckled handkerchief into his pocket and went on watching the compass card, keeping a firm, steady grip on the wheel.

“Was that the Viper, or wasn’t it?” whispered Captain Flint.

“We’ll soon know,” whispered Peter Duck. “Still bearing south, that foghorn of his.”

“If it wasn’t them, who was it?” thought Titty, and Captain Flint and everybody else aboard was thinking the same thing, except perhaps Peter Duck, for whom nothing seemed to matter but the compass card inside the deckhouse window.

The deep booming of an Atlantic liner’s siren startled them.

“Far enough,” whispered Peter Duck, “and her course is a long way south of this. She’ll be ten miles west of the Scillies before we cross her wake.”

Again, and nearer now, came the single hoot on exactly the note of the horn they had heard from the Viper soon after the fog had rolled over her and hidden her.

“Still south?” asked Captain Flint, who had slipped into the deckhouse for a moment, to look at the chart, and now came out again after seeing for himself that Peter Duck was right and that they had nothing to fear from the liner.

“South,” said Peter Duck. “If she’s been sailing all this time on the starboard tack she must have got an anchor out over her stern. Stand by, sir, now, with that big foghorn of ours, the bull-roarer, not that Board of Trade toy.”

Captain Flint brought the big foghorn out again, and rested it on the roof of the deckhouse.

Again there was the hoot of a foghorn, close ahead of them.

“Let fly now, sir,” said Peter Duck. “Three blasts to stir old Davy out of his bed.”

Captain Flint took a long breath, set his mouth to the bull-roarer and let fly, and if Davy Jones had been sleeping anywhere within a mile or so, the noise would surely have tumbled him off his locker. It was a long, tremendous roar, so loud that Titty was almost deafened by it, and Nancy, who was by the door of the galley and had not seen what was going on behind her, looked as startled as if an Atlantic liner were at that moment looming over them out of the fog. Peggy and Roger were startled almost into squeaking, though they instantly hushed each other. Susan and John, up in the bows, turned round wondering what was happening, just as Captain Flint, taking a second long breath, let fly again.

Before his second blast was finished, they heard the foghorn ahead of them. Weak, plaintive it seemed after that tremendous roar. It sounded this time not a single short blast, but one after another, in quick succession, as if it were afraid to stop.

Captain Flint let fly for the third time.

The other foghorn hooted desperately now from close under the very bows of the Wild Cat.

Titty saw Captain Flint look questioningly at Mr. Duck. Mr. Duck did not stir.

Suddenly there was a yell from John.

“Boat right ahead! On the port bow.”

“Guessed as much,” said Mr. Duck.

There was a wild scream, from close under the bowsprit as it seemed to Titty and the others in the stern. But they saw Susan running aft along the port side.

“Throw him a rope,” she cried. “Quick! Quick!”

Everybody hurried to the port bulwarks. Drifting by close under the Wild Cat was a small ship’s gig, tarred black. In it was a smallish boy clutching a mechanical foghorn, and looking up with terrified eyes at the Wild Cat gliding past him and at the faces looking down at him over her rail.

“Catch,” called Captain Flint, picking up the loose end of the mainsheet, which was hanging in loose coils on a belaying-pin in the rail, and dropping it neatly across the boat as it slipped by.

RUN DOWN IN THE FOG

The boy did not hesitate. He dropped the foghorn, grabbed the rope as high as he could reach, threw himself clear of the boat, and scrambled up. In another moment Captain Flint was hauling him over the rail, while the boat, empty except for the foghorn, drifted away into the fog and disappeared astern.

The boy, trembling all over, stood on the deck, looking round him and holding to the bulwarks.

“Why, it’s Bill,” said Peter Duck.

“It’s the red-haired boy,” said Titty.

The boy’s wet red face broke into a smile.

“Come aboard, I have, Mr. Duck.”