Chapter XIV: The Peril of the Race

Late in the afternoon the long-looked-for Portland Bill was sighted—not on the port bow, but dead ahead. Apparently in the light air the _Kestrel_ had been carried by an indraught slightly to the nor’ard of her proper course. Progress had been slow, and in consequence she had lost her tide and was now making very little against the west-going stream.

“It will mean another night at sea, lads,” remarked Mr. Grant, when the Patrol Leader had reported land in sight. “It will be quite five hours before we pick up a fair tide, and then, unless the wind holds, we’ll have to be jolly careful we aren’t swept into Portland Race.”

“Let me know the course, sir, and I’ll see she keeps to it,” declared Brandon. “There’s no need for you to do anything. How’s your hand now, sir?”

“Better,” replied the Scoutmaster, although he knew perfectly well that it was far from being right. “I’ll turn out at sunset.”

“You oughtn’t to, really, sir,” protested Brandon. “Take it easy to-night. If anything unusual occurs we’ll give you a call.”

Mr. Grant capitulated. He was still feeling “a bit shaky.” The finger, thanks to action of numerous poultices, had swollen still more, but there were no indications of the poison discharging itself. In these circumstances, an accidental knock or blow might easily undo all the good that had been done by fomentation. In addition, the Scoutmaster “had a temperature,” although he kept this knowledge to himself, hoping that in a few hours’ time it would return to normal.

“What are we going to do with our stowaway, sir?” asked Brandon.

“Send him home from the first place we touch at,” replied Mr. Grant. “It’s unfortunate we cannot signal. His grandparents must be very anxious about him; but we can send a wire from Swanage.”

“He’s a queer sort of fellow, isn’t he?” remarked Brandon.

“Yes, but it’s hardly his fault. It’s the way he’s been brought up,” replied the Scoutmaster. “He uses those somewhat high-brow expressions quite naturally, because he’s lived in an atmosphere in which they are spoken. After all, it’s the same with everyone. A stable boy unconsciously uses racing slang because he hears it all around him. A sailor’s expressions are often unintelligible to landsmen, although his messmates haven’t the slightest difficulty in understanding what he says. Often we were at a loss to know what the Cornish fisherfolk were saying. Eric Little’s case is much the same, only in a very much smaller environment. Well, right-o, Brandon. Carry on, if you will. See that all hands get a decent meal, then pick your watch and let the rest turn in.”

Alive to his responsibilities, Brandon went on deck, ordered the spinnaker to be taken in, and set the _Kestrel_ on her new course. He, too, realised the dangers of being becalmed at night in the vicinity of that dangerous expanse of turbulent water known as Portland Race.

Night came on. The yacht, moving slowly through the calm water, was steadily losing ground. Although she was pointing seawards, the strong tide was sweeping her back. The Bill appeared to be receding, but there was no likelihood of losing sight of the powerful high light on that famous promontory. With the turn of the tide the leeway would be quickly made up, but there was the risk of the _Kestrel_ being carried through the Race before she could gain a sufficient offing to pass it to the south’ard.

At ten o’clock Mr. Grant came on deck to look round. It was a perfectly calm night and the shoreward lights showed up distinctly.

“We’re still rather close in,” he remarked. “Those are the lights of Lyme Regis, and more to the east’ard are those of Bridport. I wish we had had time to visit Bridport. It’s a picturesque little place. There used to be a quaint expression: ‘Struck with a Bridport dagger.’ Does anyone know what that means?”

There was silence for a few moments; but before Mr. Grant could explain, Eric Little replied:

“I believe I know: it is a colloquial expression signifying that a person has been hanged.”

“Quite right!” exclaimed Mr. Grant approvingly. “Bridport was noted for rope-making, and also for sailcloth. Now I’ll tell you something more, and I wonder if you can explain the reason for it. Years ago when the rope and sailcloth industry was at its height most of the flax was brought to Bridport in Russian vessels. They used to send the stuff up to the town in boats. On Saturday nights the Russians made a point of going into the town, which is some distance from the harbour. The road between the two places was lighted with oil lamps. Every time the Russians returned to their ships these lamps were afterwards found to be extinguished. Why?”

Several suggestions were forthcoming, but at each of them Mr. Grant shook his head.

“The Russian sailors drank the oil,” he explained. “In those days the lamps were filled with whale-oil, and that was evidently a liquid appreciated by the Muscovites. . . . Now, Brandon, send the watch below down. I’ll turn in, since the skipper insists; but call me at once, if necessary. Good night!”

Retaining Heavitree as a deck-hand, Brandon prepared for his long vigil. The wind showed no indication of appearing. The sea was as smooth as glass, save for the occasional ripples caused by a fish “breaking surface.” For the next two hours the _Kestrel_ was left to her own devices, drifting idly, with the dinghy frequently ranging up alongside as she swung through all the points of the compass.

At midnight a faint haze obscured the bright light of Portland, which was now about twelve miles away. Before the light disappeared, Brandon took a compass-bearing and noted it in the log. Then he resumed his tedious watch.

“Four bells!” he announced at length, stirring the torpid Heavitree with his foot. “You turn in, now, old son, and tell Peter to come on watch.”

“Where are we?” asked Craddock, as he gained the cockpit.

Brandon told him, adding the information that the flood tide had now set in.

“Haven’t touched the tiller for the last four hours,” he remarked. “We’re just drifting. This is where a motor would come in handy. Well, thank goodness, this isn’t the Doldrums, and we ought to get a breeze soon.”

At length came that “darkest hour before the dawn,” when human vitality is supposed to be at its lowest ebb. Through the stillness of the night came a low rumble.

“What’s that?” asked Peter. “Thunder?”

“Don’t think so,” replied his chum. “It’s too prolonged.”

They listened. The sound continued and seemed to increase in volume until it reached a distinct rumbling roar.

“It must be the Race,” declared Brandon. “Of course it’s still a long way off, but we’re being carried into it.”

“What’s to be done?” asked Peter. “Anchor?”

“No use attempting to anchor in over twenty fathoms,” replied the Patrol Leader. “Let’s get the sweeps to work. It will be something to do, and we may get her well clear with an hour’s steady work. Gently with them; don’t disturb the other fellows.”

Carefully the long ash sweeps were placed in the rowlocks, and by means of steady strokes the _Kestrel_ was brought round until the yacht’s bows pointed sou’-sou’-east. The dinghy’s painter no longer trailed in the water as the little boat followed sedately in the wake of her parent.

Again the beams of the high light of Portland pierced the darkness, this time broad on the port beam. The roar of the Race steadily increased.

“Don’t think we’ll clear it,” muttered Brandon breathlessly, for sweeping the yacht was heavy and tiring work.

“I wish it were day,” rejoined Peter. “Then we could see where we are. How far are we from the Race, do you think?”

“Quite near enough,” admitted the Patrol Leader. “You’d better inform Mr. Grant and turn out a couple of hands to man the dinghy. We might be able to tow the yacht as well as sweep her.”

Craddock found the Scoutmaster awake. In fact, Mr. Grant had hardly slept at all. Apart from the still painful state of his arm his anxiety as to what might happen on the turn of the tide had kept him awake. He realised the danger. All along that dangerous coast there is no harbour for which a vessel can make for shelter except at or about the time of high water. True, there is a smooth passage between the Race and the Bill, but even then a stranger is apt to get into difficulties and be swept into the dangerous overfalls unless he times the attempt at a favourable state of the tide.

Mr. Grant came on deck.

“You’ve done all you can, Brandon,” he remarked. “We may be able to tow her clear. Get the other fellows out and see that the forehatch and skylights are well secured. We’ll be having plenty of green water over our decks before very long, I fancy.”

Craddock was about to haul the dinghy alongside, when he caught sight of the steaming-lights of a vessel on the starboard quarter. She was, he judged, about a quarter of a mile away and heading straight for the _Kestrel_. Above the distant roar of the Race could be distinguished the steady pulsations of a marine motor.

“Show a stern light,” ordered Brandon. “She won’t be able to see our starboard light.”

Talbot produced a torch and held it pointing in the direction of the oncoming vessel. Suddenly a succession of “E’s” in Morse flashed from the stranger; then, after a brief pause, came the question, “What ship is that?”

“_Kestrel!_” signalled Talbot in reply.

“I hope they’ll be the wiser for that,” remarked Carline.

Then, to the astonishment of all on board, the approaching craft announced her identity as the _Merlin_, and followed up by asking whether the _Kestrel_ wanted a tow.

“Yes, badly,” was the reply.

In a few minutes the Falmouth Sea Scouts’ yacht was alongside.

“So we’ve overhauled you,” remarked Scoutmaster Pendennis. “We wondered what had happened. What made you put to sea in a fog?”

“Didn’t you get our wire?” countered Mr. Grant. “But explanations can come later. You’ve arrived at a very opportune moment.”

“And how’s that?” asked Mr. Pendennis.

“We’re in danger of being swept through Portland Race, and it looks as if you are heading straight for it.”

“Are we, by Jove!” ejaculated the Cornishman. “Yes, I can hear the roar now. Our engine muffled the sound. Right-o! pass your line. Course, sou’east?”

“Sou’-sou’-east would be better,” remarked Mr. Grant. “’Tany rate, day’s breaking, and we’ll soon see if we’re giving the Race sufficient berth.”

“Right-o!” rejoined Scoutmaster Pendennis. “We’ll do our best, but we’ve only an eight horsepower engine.”

The _Merlin_ forged slowly ahead until she took up the strain of the tow; then, increasing power, she whisked the _Kestrel_ along at a steady five knots.

“You fellows can turn in again,” said Brandon, addressing the Sea Scouts who had been routed out of their bunks.

But the lads showed no desire to go below. In the pale grey dawn they remained on deck, dividing their interest between the _Merlin_ and a broad belt of white-foamed water barely a couple of miles on the port hand. Although the sea everywhere else was calm, the Race was one chaotic mass of broken water, roaring like a wild beast baulked of its prey.

“Good old _Merlin_!” exclaimed Talbot. “She’s done the trick!”

Mr. Grant did not join in the chorus of appreciation. It was yet too soon to shout. He had his doubts on the ability of the little motor to carry out its heavy task; for, although both yachts were moving in a southerly direction at about five knots, the now strong flood tide was setting in a nor’-easterly direction at a good seven miles an hour. The question that arose was whether the _Merlin_ and her tow could draw clear of the Race in time; although there was some consolation in the fact that the yachts were no longer in danger of being carried into the centre of that tempestuous waste of water.

Almost imperceptibly the _Kestrel_ began to feel the influence of the broken waves. Soon she began to pitch and roll. So did the _Merlin_, to the accompaniment of a series of heavy jerks on the towing hawser.

“Why, the Race is coming towards us!” remarked Symington.

“No, it isn’t,” rejoined Brandon drily. “We’re going towards it. Hang on to something solid, you fellows. We’ll be getting wet shirts in a brace of shakes. . . . You all right, sir? Mind that arm!”

The fellows on the _Merlin_ had by this time noticed the danger that threatened them. Two of her crew hurriedly paid out more hawser, an act that at first looked as if the _Merlin_ was about to cast off her well-nigh helpless consort. Some of the former’s crew who had been sitting comfortably on the fore-deck came aft hurriedly when they saw the wall of breaking water approaching.

A minute later and both yachts were in the thick of it. True, it was but the tail end of the dreaded Race, but the sight of the agitated mass of water was none the less awesome. At one moment the _Merlin_ was towing the _Kestrel_ through a calm sea; at the next both craft, pitching, heeling, and staggering, were being assailed by the furious waves.

Again and again the _Kestrel_ dipped her bowsprit, flung her bows high as her stern dropped into the trough of the sea. Spars and solid gear rattled, canvas shook and flapped furiously as boom and gaff, bringing up with disconcerting jerks, threatened to shake the mast out of her, the while the _Merlin_, similarly assailed, was doing her best to win through. Suddenly a particularly vicious breaker surged over her quarter. The motor stopped. Both yachts were now helpless in the grip of the dreaded overfalls.