Читать книгу The Sea Scouts of the Kestrel - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 8

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For the next six or seven days the work of getting the Kestrel ready for sea proceeded apace. The final coat of paint had been applied and was now dry. Sails had been bent; running rigging overhauled and rove; extra ballast in the form of iron pigs had been stowed under the floor. Fresh water and provisions had been brought on board, and although there remained a considerable amount of “finishing off” work to be done, the Kestrel was in a fit and seaworthy condition to attempt her voyage up Channel.

No other disquieting incident had occurred during the period, while to add to the serenity of the situation definite information had been received that Blueskin Bone had shipped on board a tramp steamer at Falmouth and was now on his way to Rotterdam.

Meanwhile the Kestrel’s mascot had been making steady progress. After much deliberation the Sea Scouts had decided to bestow the name of Molly upon the little animal. She was no longer the terrified, half-drowned puppy that Peter had rescued from the dark waters of the creek. Her coat, carefully combed and brushed, had acquired a gloss; her ribs were no longer painfully in evidence. Already she realised that a human hand could be something else than a means of imparting pain, although it was some time before she ceased to cringe in fear of a possible unwarranted thrashing.

“I wish Molly would be a little bit livelier,” remarked Peter. “I’ve never seen such a sedate pup.”

“Don’t you worry, old son,” rejoined Brandon. “She’s all right. P’raps before long she’ll be too lively, even for you. How about a collar for her?”

“Later on,” decided Craddock. “If she had one now she’d grow out of it in a week or so. I’ll make one when we’re under way. As it is, we haven’t a minute to spare.”

That was a fact. Time was getting on, and there was still much to be done if the Kestrel were to sail in company with the Merlin.

At length the eve of the eventful day arrived. To-morrow at the hour of ten in the morning the voyage up Channel was timed to commence, that hour being fixed to enable both yachts to take advantage of the first of the east-going tide.

The Kestrel, glistening in her new coat of paint, looked very different from the half-completed craft the Sea Scouts had taken over only a short while ago. She was now a ketch-rigged yacht with a spacious cockpit and ample accommodation under her cabin-top. Her original sails had been altered to form a serviceable and yet moderate spread of canvas. The only thing wanting was a motor; but, as Craddock observed, “Drake hadn’t a motor when he sailed round the world; so we ought to manage to find our way up Channel without one.”

“All the same I wish we had an engine,” said Carline. “The Kestrel is a whopping lump of a craft to move in a dead calm.”

“We may get a motor some day,” added Mr. Grant. “When we’ve been shipmates with one the lack of an engine seems a serious matter. We must cut our coat according to our cloth, you know. Now, lads, the tide’s making well. We’re nearly afloat, so get busy.”

The Kestrel was to be taken from Polkebo Creek that evening and sailed down to a berth off Greenbank at Falmouth, where the Merlin was lying, in order that both craft might start together.

Almost everyone in Polkebo turned out to see the Kestrel start, for with one exception (and he, it was to be hoped, was far away) the inhabitants of the hamlet were on excellent terms with the Aberstour Sea Scouts. There was also much speculation on the part of the professional seafaring folk as to how the amateur-altered ex-Service launch, manned chiefly by lads in their teens, would be handled.

Although there was a steady leading wind the houses and trees blanketed most of it; so without difficulty canvas was set, sheets overrun, and all preparation made before the rising tide floated the yacht off.

“She’ll do it now, lads,” exclaimed Mr. Grant. “Head-sheet to wind’ard, then! Cast off for’ard!”

The Kestrel held only by the stern-warp, swung slowly on her heel. She was afloat all right.

“Let go aft!” ordered the Scoutmaster. “Trim your fore and jib sheets.”

Almost imperceptibly the Kestrel, steady as a rock, gathered way. The crowd ashore cheered. The Sea Scouts responded lustily. The gap between the yacht and the quay widened. The water began to ripple under the yacht’s forefoot. She heeled to the strengthening breeze.

“Take her, Brandon,” said Mr. Grant, relinquishing the tiller. “She’ll do.”

Against the still flowing tide the Kestrel made steady progress. She was “as stiff as a house,” and showed a decided tendency to carry weather-helm—a qualification that all craft under sail must possess if they are to be accounted seaworthy.

In less than half an hour the Kestrel hove-to within fifty yards of the Merlin, on which Scoutmaster Pendennis and his crew of hefty Cornish Sea Scouts were awaiting their approach.

“Sorry there are no moorings for you!” hailed Mr. Pendennis. “Let go your anchor. Tide’s slackening. She’ll ride head to wind all right.”

The anchor was dropped, sails stowed, riding light trimmed ready to be hoisted at sunset. For the rest of the evening the crews “palled up,” some of the Kestrel’s going aboard the Merlin, while a part of the latter’s complement came over to the Kestrel.

At sunset the Sea Scouts returned to their respective craft, had supper, and turned in. Giving a final look round and satisfying himself that the riding-light was burning clearly, Mr. Grant followed the example of his crew.

“No need to turn out before seven,” he announced. “Get in a good night’s rest while you’ve the chance. You never know when you’ll get another when we’re under way.”

Peter Craddock was the first to awake. A pale grey light was filtering through the skylight. The Kestrel was rolling slightly, and the dinghy had just commenced to bump alongside.

“Turn of the tide, I expect,” thought the lad drowsily. “It can’t be much more than five o’clock. Too soon to turn out.”

Casually he glanced at his watch; looked again and then held it to his ear. It was ticking merrily. The hands pointed to twenty minutes past seven. By that time it ought to be broad daylight. It wasn’t.

Somewhat mystified, Peter rolled out of his bunk and went on deck. To his surprise a thick fog enveloped everything. From the companion ladder it was only just possible to discern the lower part of the mizzen-mast looking grotesquely distorted in the watery haze. An uncanny silence prevailed. No sounds came from the near-by town. Then the distant wail of a syren came through the mist.

According to the state of the tide, the Kestrel should be riding to the last of the ebb. How came it then that the dinghy, instead of straining at her painter, was rubbing alongside the yacht’s quarter?

“Something wrong,” muttered Peter, and making his way for’ard along the damp and clammy waterway, he gained the bows. Then he felt the cable. The chain came up easily, and no wonder; for instead of there being ten fathoms of it, terminating in a seventy-pound anchor, only a dozen links or so were trailing uselessly through the hawse-pipe.

The Kestrel was adrift in a thick sea fog, and at the mercy of the swirling tide.