Читать книгу Chums of the "Golden Vanity" - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 8

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Even as Geoff cast loose jib and staysail sheets from their cleats, and Bernard paid out the saturated and swollen mainsheet the violent squall swept down upon the Arran Dhu.

It took her fairly abeam and in spite of her great stability flung her down until her lee coamings were awash. The canvas flapped and cracked like a whip; the slacked-off sheets flogged wildly. In the darkness it was out of the question to form any definite idea of what was going on. The lads were enveloped in salt-laden spray as they groped for the tiller and mainsheet.

Fortunately the initial blast was of short duration. The yacht, relieved of the terrific pressure, began to forge ahead, gathering way as Geoff hauled in the stubborn mainsheet.

"Get those headsails to wind'ard as sharp as you can," shouted his chum. "We'll heave to and knock down a couple of reefs."

Considering their lack of practical experience the youthful crew were to be congratulated. How exactly they succeeded in taking in those two reefs they hardly knew. It was not until the last of the reef-points was secured, and the breathless lads were once more in the cockpit, that they discovered they were without their oileys and wet through to the skin. In the excitement of finding their movements impeded they had automatically discarded the cumbersome coats and had bundled them under one of the seats of the cockpit. Ten minutes ago they were feeling chilled to the bone; now they were glowing as the result of their exertions.

By rights the headsails should have been correspondingly reduced; for, when the sheets were trimmed, and the Arran Dhu bounded ahead like a plunging dray-horse, she carried a decided amount of lee-helm. But for the enormous leverage of her keel, and the grip afforded by her generous amount of draught, she might have been thrown on her beam-ends. As it was the old "plank-on-edge" type of craft possessed one advantage denied to her more modern and easier handled sister—she could be driven with lee-helm without being either dismasted or capsized.

The way the stiff old packet bored her way through the rapidly rising seas gave returning confidence to the somewhat frightened lads. Each would have freely admitted under self-examination that he "had the wind up badly", but wild horses would not have dragged that admission from his lips. And with restored confidence came an inexplicable sensation of exhilaration.

The squall had given place to a hard wind from the east'ard—one of those summer "blows" which meteorological science may be able to explain, but is rarely able to forecast.

Showers of spray and frequently "green-uns" flew over the weather bow, while the lee-bow wave, frothing and hissing, was a sight to gladden the heart of any deep-sea sailorman. Astern the dinghy, straining at her painter, was tearing madly, her bluff bows high in the air on the crest of a wave that followed but never overtook the plunging counter of the hard-driven Arran Dhu.

With feet pressed firmly against the lee side of the cockpit, and with tautened arms grasping the quivering tiller, Bernard steered through the chaotic waves, for with the sudden change of wind the tide was now weather-going, raising a short, steep sea.

A glance at the compass showed him that the course was now sou'sou'-east. At any rate it was a fairly safe course, and not one that might eventually pile the old yacht upon the iron-bound Cornish coast. He knew that more than a hundred miles lay between the Arran Dhu and the French coast, and that the deeper the water the more regular the seas were likely to be. He had faith in Worth's dictum: "The sea is kind to little boats", even if they are sailed by raw and rash amateurs.

Bernard, steering by the luff of the mainsail as naturally as if he had been at sea for years—it was the innate instinct that makes seamen that was asserting itself—was fully occupied with what was ahead. Geoff, for the present able to "stand easy" was watching the dinghy. Even in the darkness there was something that told him that all was not well with her. She was yawing badly. No longer riding on the crest of the following wave, she was showing a decided tendency to overrun the yacht. At one moment she would sweep forward until her bows seemed as if they were about to come down with an appalling crash upon the Arran Dhu's counter. At the next she would drop astern until with a savage twang the tautened painter pulled her up with a jerk, to repeat the charging tactics.

One of those sudden jerks proved her undoing. Instead of lifting her sharp bows to the crested wave she plunged into it. A sea filled her. She rolled completely over. The strain on the painter was enormous. Something had to go. The Manila stood the stupendous drag, but the cleat on the Arran Dhu's cockpit coaming was wrenched from its fastening. For a few moments Geoff had a fleeting glimpse of the dinghy's keel. Then the derelict was lost to sight in the darkness.

"Dinghy's gone!" shouted Geoff.

His chum merely grunted. He had other things to think about. Ahead was a tremendous crested wave. Viewed from the comparatively low level of the cockpit it seemed as if it would overwhelm the yacht. Down it bore, rapidly, menacingly. The Arran Dhu buried her bowsprit into the frothing mass. Green water surged as far aft as the saloon skylight; yet, like a noble mastiff, the old boat shook herself clear, staggered as a fresh blast struck her, and resumed her onward rush.

From that moment the weather began to ease up. The wind piped down considerably. Once more rain began to fall, beating down the crests of the waves, until, as the first streaks of dawn appeared on the distant horizon, the summer storm had blown itself out.

It was a dawn! Away to the east and nor'east the sky was of a vivid crimson hue. To lee'ard ragged wisps of indigo-coloured clouds were scudding in a vain attempt to overtake the shades of receding night. As far as the eye could reach there was nothing to be seen but an expanse of sullen rollers meeting an unbroken horizon. Land was nowhere in sight—not that the chums expected to see it. They would have been considerably astonished had they done so.

"How about shaking out those reefs?" asked Geoff.

"Best not, yet awhile," replied Bernard. "There's more bad weather coming, judging by the sunrise. We'll put her about on the starboard tack, I vote we make Plymouth Sound and stop there till it looks more settled. Take her, Geoff, I'll go below and get some hot grub."

"Heave her to, first," suggested Geoff. "I vote we both go below, and shift into dry gear. Helm's a-lee!"

As if tired after her decidedly speedy performance, the Arran Dhu swung slowly into the wind. With headsheets to wind'ard she lay to, pitching gently.

Lashing the tiller and leaving the yacht to her own devices, both lads dived into the cabin, and rummaged in their respective kit-bags for dry clothing.

Considering the hammering she had undergone the yacht was fairly tidy below. The gimballed lamps were still burning feebly in the growing daylight. Some of the cushions had been thrown from the settees, and were lying sodden in a couple of inches of water that surged across the linoleum-covered floor. A few things in the galley had been displaced, but being of enamelled iron had come off lightly.

"She'll go through anything after that," declared Geoff enthusiastically.

His chum, struggling into a dry sweater, mumbled something to the effect that his sentiments were in accord with those of the speaker.

"She's all right with plenty of sea-room," he added. "But she's a pig when it comes to turning into a crowded harbour. . . . Where's the methylated, old son?"

Evidently the tin containing this necessary commodity had gone adrift during the blow. Both lads were engaged in a hunt amidst the somewhat disordered gear in the galley when a peculiar jarring sound, different from those they had previously heard on board, attracted their attention.

"What's that?" asked Bernard.

Before his chum could reply, the whole yacht quivered. She seemed to leap bodily in a vertical direction for at least six inches. It was somewhat akin to the sudden and unexpected starting of a lift. Then, almost before they realized what was happening, the lads were hurled against the fortunately unlighted stove, to the accompaniment of a shower of tinned goods from the pantry.

The Arran Dhu was on her beam ends.

Hastily the lads regained their feet, dazed by their peculiar surroundings. Instinct prompted them to make a bolt for the deck, but it was easier said than done. Between the galley and the saloon there had been a sliding door six feet in height and two in breadth. Now there was an aperture two feet in height and six in breadth, one of the doorposts forming the sill and inclining sixty degrees or more to the perpendicular.

Over the ledge the lads contrived to clamber, finding a footing on the rise of the starboard settee. Followed an indecorous scramble over the swing-table and a combined gymnastic display in order to negotiate the almost horizontal companion ladder.

At length they gained the cockpit, planted their feet on one coaming and rested their backs against the other. In that position they were able to take in their immediate surroundings.

Arran Dhu was lying with her canvas almost flat on the water. In fact her boom-end and the clew of her staysail were submerged. Her mast, thirty-eight feet from heel to truck, was inclined to such an extent that the top was only about seven feet from the surface.

"Are we aground?" asked Geoff.

"Aground—in mid channel," replied his chum. "I don't think. Must have hit some floating object, I fancy."

"Then why doesn't she right herself?"

"Goodness knows," answered Bernard. "Let's get canvas off her and see if that makes any difference."

It was a practical suggestion but difficult to put into execution. It was no easy task to go for'ard, maintaining a precarious foothold on the side of the skylight, and thence to the fife-rail. Working desperately they succeeded in casting off the moisture-swollen jib and staysail halliards and coaxing the headsails into a rough and ready furl. Harder still was it to slack off peak and throat halliards and to claw the heavy canvas. The gaff-jaws jammed; the mast-hoops refused to slide along the almost horizontal mast.

Hauling, teasing, and kneading the heavy flaxen canvas the chums succeeded after a tough struggle in gathering it in and lashing it loosely to the boom. Relieved of this amount of leverage the yacht recovered a little from the excessive list—not much, but sufficiently to bring the mast up till it made an angle of thirty degrees with the surface of the sea. At that inclination there was less immediate danger of the water pouring over the lee side of the cockpit.

"It's my belief she's dropped her keel!" declared Geoff.

Which was a perfectly accurate surmise. Arran Dhu's ballast consisted principally of three tons of iron on her keel, the rest being in the form of lead pigs stowed under her bottom-boards. In her recent refit care had been bestowed upon the renewal of her standing and running gear; but one important consideration had been entirely overlooked—the condition of her keel-bolts. Twelve years had elapsed since these had last been renewed and throughout that period unseen corrosive action had been taking place. The action is most rapid at a point where the metal keel and the deadwood touch. In fact it is not unusual on knocking out a keel bolt to find that although the corrosion elsewhere is but slight the bolt at this point may be eaten away to a mere fraction of an inch.

And this is what had happened to Arran Dhu's keel bolts. Providentially they had withstood the stress and strain during the storm, but, in the lull that followed, the heavy mass of metal keel had just dropped off and was now resting fathoms deep on the bed of the English Channel. Had the accident occurred during the height of the storm the fate of the yacht and her youthful crew would have been sealed. As it was she had merely taken a heavy list—almost on her beam ends—and had shown no decided tendency to right herself.

Both lads realized the hazardous nature of their position. It was one thing to be afloat in a stiff, weatherly craft; another to be drifting helplessly out of sight of land, clinging precariously to a disabled vessel that might roll completely over and plunge to the bottom at any moment.

So far only the sudden lull in the wind had saved the Arran Dhu from turning turtle. No other craft was in sight; the weather outlook pointed to a renewed and possibly heavier blow; the dinghy had been lost; so altogether things looked decidedly black for the crew.

Yet they came of a stock that is not dismayed when in a tight fix. They were not the sort of lads to sit down and wait for trouble, nor were they ready to throw up the sponge.

"Grub first," decided Bernard. "Now's our chance and goodness only knows when we may get another. I'll go below and fetch up some sort of a meal."

So saying he again scrambled into the saloon, fervently hoping that Arran Dhu would not capsize while he was below. The lee side of the cabin floor was more than ankle deep in water. Either the yacht was leaking through the bolt-holes or else she had shipped a quantity of water over the cockpit coaming and through the open scuttles.

Treading warily—it would have been an easy matter to find a foothold on the pictures secured to one side of the saloon—Bernard proceeded to close the scuttles. Through those on the port side he could see nothing but a circular expanse of angry-looking sky; those to starboard embraced a limited view of leaden-coloured water but a few inches from the brass-bound rim of the scuttles.

Groping in the alley-way between the pantry and the galley, Bernard retrieved a couple of tins of meat and a watertight box of biscuits. Bread and other "soft tack" was floating about in a sodden condition. The tap of the fresh-water tank, too, was a couple of inches under the bilge-water, so it was out of the question to make use of the contents of the tank for drinking purposes.

"Jolly good thing we bought those bottles of lime-juice and soda," soliloquized the lad optimistically. "Well, that's enough in the catering department for the present."

Lying upon the shelving deck with their feet against the skylight, the chums had a hurried meal. It could not be described as a pleasant repast. They knew that time was precious and hurried through the "cold tack" accordingly. Nevertheless they felt considerably refreshed and fortified and in this condition life assumed a fairly roseate hue.

"If we can cut away her mast she'll right herself," declared Geoff, mentally measuring the girth of the heavy Oregon pine spar. "We can use it as a sea-anchor and ride to it until a vessel shows up."

"Hard lines on Mr. Gordon's property," remarked his chum.

"If we don't it looks as if he'll lose the yacht," pursued Geoff. "It's my turn to go below. I wonder if there's an axe or a saw on board."

Searching diligently in the lockers in the fo'c'sle, Geoff failed to discover any cutting-tools. There were rusty spanners, a marlin-spike without a point, a serving-mallet, a few files and a hack-saw with a badly-worn blade. With these he returned on deck.

"Dud collection this," he remarked. "Let's see what the hack-saw will do. You might start on the weather rigging-screws with the spanner, old son."

While Bernard set to work to cast off the stout wire shrouds his chum attacked the mast with the hack-saw, starting at a point about a foot above the spider-band. It was hard work, the rusty blade making very slight impression upon the tough wood.

"How are you getting on?" inquired Bernard, as one shroud, cast off by unthreading the rigging screw, swung noisily across the deck, its end disappearing under the surface of the water.

"Rottenly," replied Geoff.

"Then put more beef into it," prompted his chum.

Geoff did so, with the inevitable result. The rusty hack-saw blade parted with a loud twang. It was the only saw blade they possessed.

"Rough luck," commented Bernard. "Never mind; we've our knives. I'll knock off my job and bear a hand. The sooner we cut away the mast the better. Wind's piping up already."

It was. Gusts were ruffling the heavy surface of the sea, forerunners of worse to come. The yacht's list increased until it seemed as if she would be right down to it. One blast in particular knocked her well on her beam-ends. A cascade of water poured into the cockpit.

For the moment both lads thought that it was all up with the Arran Dhu. They grasped the lifebuoys that they had placed ready to hand and waited.

But with the passing of the squall, the yacht recovered herself. In fact the angle of inclination was rather less than before.

"The water we shipped is acting as ballast," declared Bernard. "Once we get the tophamper clear. . . . Stick it, old son."

Both lads tackled their task with renewed zest. They knew that they were working against time. While Geoff held the edge of the blade of his sheath knife against the mast his chum dealt the steel a hefty blow with the serving-mallet, continuing the process until there was quite a respectable gash in the tough pine. Nevertheless it was a tedious business, and at the end of about an hour's feverish labour Arran Dhu's massive "stick" still defied their efforts.

They worked turn and turn about. Their wrists were numbed by the jarring of the knife, their hands were blistered by the unaccustomed task of wielding the heavy mallet. The deeper they cut into the wood the slower was the progress made.

Then, to add to the disadvantage under which they laboured, the sheath knife snapped close to the hilt. Geoff's knife was of the clasp variety and quite inadequate to the task. The blade was so narrow that it sank completely into the gash already cut by his chum's sheath knife.

"P'raps if we slack off the remaining shroud the weight of the mast'll finish the trick," suggested Bernard. "Stand by. I'll tackle the rigging-screw."

He found a somewhat precarious footing and faced outboard in order to get to the rigging-screw. As he did so he caught sight of a ship under all plain sail at a distance of about a mile dead to wind'ard.

According to popular notions Bernard ought to have waved his cap and shouted in transports of joy: "A sail! A sail! We're saved!"

But he did nothing of the sort. For quite a quarter of a minute he looked admiringly at the unusual sight of a ship under all plain sail; decided that the Arran Dhu lay well in her track and that, more than likely, the look-out in the on-coming vessel had sighted the derelict long before he—Bernard—had seen her.

He glanced down over his shoulder at his chum, who, unwilling to waste a moment, was diligently resharpening his knife with one of the rusty files.

"Knock off that," exclaimed Bernard in ordinary tones. "Knock off and look to wind'ard. There's a sight for you!"