Chapter XV: “To be Returned in Due Course”

The situation was desperate. The _Merlin_ was now a source of peril to the yacht she had done her best to aid. There was no wind. The fiercely flapping canvas was useless; equally out of the question was it to attempt to make use of the oars, for at one moment the blades would be high in the air, at another buried by the rush of the irregular and foaming waves. Held by the towing hawser, the two yachts were in momentary danger of colliding as they swung round almost parallel to each other and with less than five yards of chaotic water between them.

In a trice, Brandon realised the danger, made up his mind, and acted. At the imminent risk of being either jerked or washed overboard he fought his way for’ard, hanging on desperately as he battled towards his goal. One moment thigh deep in water; at another sprawling on the ridge formed by the steeply heeling cabin-top, he progressed foot by foot. With bleeding knees and broken finger-nails, well-nigh breathless with his struggle, the Patrol Leader contrived to throw himself flat upon the heaving fore-deck. Then, hanging on with his left hand, he succeeded in casting off the rope that held the _Kestrel_ to the _Merlin_.

Then, obtaining a grip with both hands, Brandon waited to witness the fruits of his hazardous task. At first it seemed as if the act were in vain. The two craft showed no tendency to drift apart; on the contrary, it looked as if they would close. Had they done so, the fate of each would have been sealed, for the strongest yacht ever built would not be proof against the terrific hammering of the two hulls in that tumultuous sea.

After a few minutes of anxious suspense, the distance between the two vessels began to increase. The _Merlin_ swung round until her bows pointed in the opposite direction to her previous course. As she rolled, the crew of the _Kestrel_ could see the Cornish Sea Scouts struggling desperately in a futile attempt to restart the motor.

For another five minutes the ordeal continued; then, almost as suddenly as she had entered the Race, the _Kestrel_ found herself in comparatively calm water, with the final unwelcome gift of about fifty gallons of the English Channel being thrown in her cockpit.

The _Merlin_ was not long in following her consort’s example, and, with the roar of the turbulent overfalls still dinning in their ears, the crews of both yachts set about repairing the damage done during their exciting quarter of an hour.

Owing to the fact that they had missed the most dangerous part of Portland Race both craft had come off comparatively lightly. Twenty minutes’ hard work at the pump freed the _Kestrel_ of the water that had found its way on board. Her mizzen-boom had been sprung close to the gooseneck; one of the panes of the skylight had been broken; while—worst of all—her dinghy’s top-strake had been badly smashed owing to the boat being thrown violently against the _Kestrel’s_ quarter.

Three of the Sea Scouts had received minor injuries owing to the severe and erratic motion of the yacht; Eric Little was “down and out” with sea-sickness; while Molly, the pup, who had been locked in the saloon, was nearly frantic with joy when Peter went below to see how she had fared.

“What’s wrong with your engine?” enquired Mr. Grant, hailing the _Merlin_.

“Water on plug and in the carburetter,” replied Scoutmaster Pendennis. “We’ll get her going soon, I hope. I’ve heard a lot about Portland Race, but I never expected it to be like that on a calm day. Hello! what’s the matter with your hand?”

“Poisoned it,” explained Mr. Grant. “It’s getting better now. I say: what do you propose to do?”

“We’re carrying on,” replied Pendennis. “We want to make Yarmouth or Lymington to-day. We’ll tow you until a breeze springs up.”

“We’ll have to put into Swanage,” announced Mr. Grant. “We’ve a stowaway on board and we want to land him.”

“How interesting,” rejoined the Cornishman. “All right, Swanage it is for both of us. We want more petrol, although we may have enough to carry us on if the breeze does show up.”

Both yachts, now being propelled by sweeps, were now standing up Channel at a distance of about ten yards between them, so that the crews could keep up a running fire of conversation. The while the Cornish Sea Scouts were tackling the still refractory motor.

It was not until the two craft had practically drifted two miles to the east’ard of the Shambles Lightship that the long-hoped-for breeze sprang up—a steady sou’westerly one.

In grand style the two yachts cut through the water, heading for the still distant St. Alban’s Head. In point of speed there was little to choose, for although the _Merlin_ had a slightly greater displacement and carried more canvas, this advantage was countered by the drag of her now inactive propeller.

“We’ve got to go through another race, lads,” observed Mr. Grant at breakfast. “That’s the one off St. Alban’s, but it won’t be anything like the one off Portland.”

“What causes them, sir?” asked Carline.

“It’s a sort of submarine steeplechase,” explained the Scoutmaster. “A strong tidal water sweeping over a fairly deep and level bed of the sea suddenly encounters a submerged ledge of rocks. The whole of that mass of water has to find its way across in less than half the previous depth, and since the level of the water cannot be materially increased, the result is that the rate of the flow of water has to be greatly increased and causes a succession of overfalls. . . . Well, Eric: feeling better? Good! Make a decent meal, my lad, ’cause you’ve a long journey in front of you.”

“Is it very much further to Chichester?” asked the youth.

“We’re sending you home to Dartmouth.”

“I think you are labouring under a misapprehension, sir,” rejoined the precocious youth. “I’m on my way to visit my aunt and uncle at Chichester—and I won’t go back to Dartmouth! If you won’t take me, I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“We’ll see,” remarked the Scoutmaster oracularly, and changed the topic of conversation.

An hour later the _Kestrel_ and the _Merlin_ rounded St. Alban’s Head, where, with the exception of a sullen swell, there was little to indicate the locality of the ofttimes dangerous Race. Followed a run along the rocky coast in full view of the famous caves where smugglers and wreckers once plied their infamous trade. Durlstone Head was left astern and a course shaped to clear the dangerous Peveril Ledge. Then the whole expanse of Swanage Bay opened into view.

Both yachts anchored in less than seven feet of water just inside the shelter of Swanage Pier. The Cornish lads went ashore in their quest for petrol and provisions, and with them went the Sea Scouts of the _Kestrel_ with the exception of Craddock, who, with Mr. Grant and the stowaway, remained on board.

Brandon was the bearer of a telegraph form on which Mr. Grant had written: “Have found a stray grandson; please wire instructions.”

Having dispatched the wire, the Patrol Leader and Heavitree made their way towards Peveril Point in order to give Molly a run on a closely cropped turf.

Waiting until a reply might be forthcoming, Brandon called at the post-office. There was no answer. After another half-hour had elapsed he called again, still without success. From the beach he semaphored the news to Mr. Grant.

The delay was getting serious. The _Merlin_ was ready to resume her voyage. There was a fair wind and tide, but if the start were delayed much longer a strong adverse tide would be encountered in the Needles channel, which meant that perhaps the Sea Scouts would be compelled to spend another anxious night afloat.

“You’d better push on, Pendennis,” suggested Mr. Grant. “We’ll follow and pick you up at Lymington.”

The Cornishman fell in with the idea. As a matter of fact, he particularly wanted to give his crew a good night’s rest in some sheltered harbour within The Wight; and, having the West of England yachtsman’s typical respect for the mudbanks and erratic tides of the Solent, he did not relish the possibility of having to navigate that intricate waterway in the hours of darkness.

So the _Merlin_ “carried on.”

Craddock then semaphored a message to his chum telling him to remain ashore until one o’clock, but to keep the other Sea Scouts together in case they had to re-embark in a hurry.

It was not until five minutes to the hour that the expected telegram arrived. It read:

“Administer suitable chastisement. Return delinquent at your convenience.”

The Scoutmaster made a wry face when the telegram was handed him.

“That merely confirms my opinion, Brandon,” he remarked in a low voice. “The lad’s grandfather is not only very precise in his mannerisms; he is evidently a bit of a martinet. I’ll say this for Eric: he might be a queer little chap, but he’s not a sneak. It was only by quite an accident that I found out that he has been frequently thrashed for minor offences. ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’ might be all very well if carried out with fairness and moderation—although I very much doubt the wisdom of personal chastisement, except under very special circumstances. However, since Mr. Little gives me a tolerably free hand, I’ll return the delinquent at my convenience. That is: we’ll take him along with us, and hand him over to his uncle at Chichester.”

“That’s a topping idea, sir!” exclaimed the Patrol Leader. “We’ll do our best to give the lad a good time.”

“Then tell Eric the news,” continued Mr. Grant. “Or, better, send him down to me. Get under way as sharp as you can, Brandon. The _Merlin_ has a good start, but with luck we ought to rejoin her before sunset.”