Читать книгу Midshipman Raxworthy - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 9

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But the danger was by no means over even though it was not so formidable as before.

Kenneth was ignorant of the haven. As far as he could remember it was not shown on the Admiralty charts. In all probability—and the set of the tidal current pointed to this—it was merely a channel with a wider outlet on the seaward side of the Mutches. Unless the picket-boat could bring up—a difficult business since she had lost her anchor—or beach herself in a sheltered part of the haven, the odds were that she would be swept out to sea—unless she ended her career on the fringe of jagged rocks on the eastern side of the group of islands comprising the Mutches.

“See any light, Wilson?” inquired Kenneth anxiously, as he peered through the snow-laden darkness.

“No, sir. Maybe there are some cottages on the island, but people aren’t likely to be up at this time of morning—even though it’s Christmas Day.... I’ll nip for’ard now she’s riding easily an’ overrun the painters. Without a killick they ain’t much use for us to bring up, but one never knows.”

Raxworthy at the useless wheel watched the coxswain as he made his way to the fore-deck. Even at that distance the man’s form was barely distinguishable in the darkness.

Suddenly a tall shape loomed up across the path of the scudding picket-boat. For a moment Kenneth imagined that it was a rock rising sheer out of the water.

Then through the eddying sleet came a hail from the coxswain.

“Ship ahoy! Take our line, will you?”

Almost immediately the picket-boat drove across the bows of an anchored craft—a sailing vessel, judging by the bowsprit and foremast that were just discernible against the sky.

The impact, although it sounded severe, was fortunately a light one, the sailing craft’s tautened cable taking the force of the collision.

The picket-boat heeled until her starboard waterways were well awash; then recovering, hung irresolutely against the other craft’s stern.

As she held thus, the coxswain, with great presence of mind, passed a bight of one of the painters round the anchored vessel’s cable; and presently the picket-boat, grating astern over the heavy chain, brought up alongside the craft with which she had collided.

Over the latter’s low bulwark appeared the head and shoulders of one of the crew.

“Take our line!” reiterated Wilson.

The man remained staring open-mouthed at the boat alongside. He stood there for perhaps a quarter of a minute, then without attempting to make fast the second painter which Wilson had heaved on board, he disappeared from sight.

“Perishing blighter!” ejaculated the coxswain contemptuously as he coiled in the disregarded painter. “She’s holding, sir. I’ll just nip aboard and secure her properly. I reckon we’re nicely out of this mess.”

“Lay out a couple of fenders first,” ordered the midshipman; for now that all immediate danger was over he was not going to risk a further reprimand from the commander for damaging the picket-boat’s side. Although there was now little more than a heavy ground swell the two craft were rolling considerably to the detriment of the naval boat’s paintwork.

“Ay, ay, sir!”

The hands fended the picket-boat off until the coir fenders were placed in position, with the result that instead of a disconcerting succession of grinding thuds as woodwork banged against woodwork, the fender took practically all the chafe.

“What’s up with the fellow we saw on board?” inquired Kenneth.

Wilson, putting on his sea-boots once more, spat contemptuously over the side.

“Measly rat! He’d have let us drift past without raising a finger to bear a hand. Maybe he’s scared stiff—thinks we’re ghosts doing a little round o’ visits at Christmas! Suppose I nip on board and see what’s doing, sir?”

“Carry on, then,” agreed the midshipman. “Mind you don’t get a crack over the head from a scared-stiff ship-keeper.”

“Trust me to look after myself, sir,” rejoined Wilson confidently.

The other craft turned out to be a schooner with old-fashioned chain plates and projecting platforms fitted with dead eyes to which the shrouds were secured. Her bulwarks were from six to ten feet above the picket-boat’s deck—according to the relative roll of both craft—but the chain plate was well within the coxswain’s reach.

Waiting his opportunity, Wilson gripped the lanyards of one pair of dead-eyes and swung himself up. His feet slithered upon the accumulation of frozen snow that had lodged upon the chain plate, but his grasp was a powerful one.

Recovering his foothold he scrambled over the bulwarks and disappeared from the midshipman’s sight.

In a few seconds he reappeared.

“Chuck me up the spare painter, Nobbie!” he hailed, addressing the bowman. “There ain’t no one on deck, so I’ll take the liberty of making all fast myself!”

As soon as the second painter was secured the coxswain picked up a coil of rope that was lying on the schooner’s deck and dropped one end into the picket-boat’s stern-sheets.

“That’ll do for a sternfast, sir!” he explained. “With the helm as it is she’ll take a sheer and lie quietly. I’ll be back in a brace of shakes.”

But it was a long “brace of shakes”.

Kenneth shivering in the biting wind, for the hull of the schooner offered little or no protection from the keen blast, began to grow anxious concerning the absent coxswain. There seemed something decidedly uncanny about the schooner—moored in a practically unknown anchorage and showing no riding lights. There was, of course, nothing unusual about having a man on deck. Apparently he was keeping anchor watch; but what was unusual was the fact that he had declined to secure the picket-boat’s rope and after looking over the side for a short while had disappeared from sight. If he had gone to rouse the master and the rest of the crew they would have turned out long before this.

And what had happened to Wilson? Had he been attacked by the fellow they had just seen? It was quite possible that the man might have had a fright and have hit the coxswain over the head with a belaying pin the moment he gained the deck of the schooner. Or Wilson might have slipped on the snow-covered deck and pitched head foremost down an open hatchway.

Where was the ship-keeper? If he had deserted the ship, by what means had he left her? Hardly by swimming, since the low temperature was sufficient to benumb the strongest man in a few minutes.

And what was the schooner doing there, riding to a single anchor and without displaying a light of any description? The whole business looked decidedly fishy, but for the present Raxworthy was content to take what the gods offered. Here was a temporary shelter from the winter’s gale. Even under the bleakest conditions it was preferable to lie alongside the mysterious vessel rather than to face death in the aimlessly drifting picket-boat.

Nevertheless, Kenneth’s anxiety on the score of his absent coxswain increased as time wore on. He was debating with himself whether he should send someone in search of him when Wilson’s sou’wester-crowned face appeared over the bulwark.

“Crickey, sir!” exclaimed the coxswain. “If this ain’t a rum go! Can you come on board, sir, and see for yourself.”