Chapter XVI: The Kestrel to the Rescue

The Sea Scouts needed no second bidding to get under way. The remote possibility of being able to overhaul the _Merlin_ acted as a spur. By this time each lad knew his particular duty, and in very quick time main and mizzen sails were set, head-sails hoisted in stops, and the cable hove short.

Then, at the Patrol Leader’s word of command, the anchor was weighed and stowed in its customary place, the jib and staysail were broken out and trimmed to catch the favouring breeze, and within five minutes from the order to get under way the _Kestrel_ was heading for the distant Solent.

Already the _Merlin_ was hull-down, only her canvas showing above the skyline. She was roughly eight miles ahead.

Outside Swanage Bay the wind freshened, coming offshore in irregular gusts that swept over the lofty chalk cliffs of Ballard Down. The tide was still running to the east’ard with considerable strength, but there was very little sea to speak of. Even a sailing dinghy could be out without any danger of shipping water.

Presently a craft under sail and motor overtook the _Kestrel_. It was a flat-bottomed contraption measuring, perhaps, twenty feet in length, and was propelled by an outboard motor.

Brandon regarded the boat critically. It certainly looked a freak. Apparently the designer had originally intended to give her plenty of beam and a broad transom; but, changing his mind, had tapered the stern until it was about nine inches in width. Consequently, and owing to the weight of the heavy engine clamped on the stern, the boat had very little bearing surface aft and a small amount of freeboard.

In the stern-sheets sat a fat-faced, smug-looking individual rigged out in a peaked cap and blue reefer coat with brass buttons. His profile reminded Brandon of a parrot, for his nose was inclined to be hooked, while from underneath a pair of full lips an insignificant receding chin heightened the resemblance to a bird. The rest of the “crew” consisted of three women and two children. The sheet of the lugsail, Brandon noticed, was made fast.

As this freakish craft overhauled the _Kestrel_, passing her at a distance of about twenty yards to wind’ard, the brass-buttoned helmsman favoured the Sea Scouts with a superior sort of smile.

“What a comic outfit!” exclaimed Craddock to his chum. “That chap evidently thinks he’s the goods.”

“He’s certainly pleased with himself at having overhauled us,” rejoined the Patrol Leader. “But wait a bit. There’s a patch of broken water ahead. Let’s see how that old orange-box will take it.”

Just then Mr. Grant came on deck. He had been writing in the cabin, and on hearing the noise of the motor had glanced through the scuttle. He, too, had not failed to notice the supercilious grin on the fellow’s flabby features.

“That man’s looking for trouble,” he observed. “There ought to be a ‘Society for the Protection of Guests of Half-Baked Amateur Marine Motorists.’ Up helm a little Peter; keep in his wake. Unless I’m much mistaken, that freak craft will be in difficulties before very long.”

The _Kestrel_ was now about four hundred yards to the sou’west of Old Harry, that well-known chalk pinnacle forming the eastern extremity of the Isle of Purbeck. The motor boat was by this time a couple of hundred yards ahead and making straight for a well-defined tide-rip caused by the tidal current flowing over a ledge of submerged rock running out from Standfast Point.

The greenhorn at the helm of the motor boat failed to notice the popple of disturbed water. His attention seemed to be centred upon the _Kestrel_, as if he were still gloating over his superior speed.

Soon the boat began to pound heavily. Her narrow stern dipped. Spray flew over the engine, putting it out of action. The metal rudder was totally inadequate to keep the flat-bottomed craft on its course. A puff of wind filled the sail, causing the boat to pay off and heel.

Too late the brass-buttoned novice realised the danger. When he did, he could do nothing beyond attempting to restart the engine. His weight as he leant over the narrow stern made matters worse. A sea poured completely over the weather quarter. The boat still lived although half full of water.

Panic seized the man. He had lost his yachting cap—it was floating on the water that swirled over the bottom-boards—and abject fear was plainly written on his face, while his long hair streamed in the breeze.

The while the sail was taking the full force of the wind, for no attempt had been made to free the sheet.

Suddenly, as the boat shipped more water, the mast became unshipped and disappeared over the side, taking the sail with it. The boat, no longer making way, fell into the trough of the sea and took in water on both sides.

“Cut away your gear and ride to it!” shouted Brandon, for the _Kestrel_ was now within hailing distance.

The advice, intelligible to anyone acquainted with even an elementary knowledge of seamanship, was lost as far as the bewildered and panic-stricken owner of the motor boat was concerned. He could only wave his arms wildly and shout for help. The women, although obviously badly scared, at least had the sense to keep still.

The Scoutmaster glanced at Brandon and nodded. The Patrol Leader understood. It was a silent intimation that he was to exercise his discretion in the operation of bringing the _Kestrel_ alongside the fast-foundering boat.

“Stand by to go about!” ordered Brandon.

Two of the Sea Scouts jumped to tend the head-sheets. Heavitree, boat-hook in hand, took up his station at the main-shrouds. Craddock was at the tiller. The others stood by ready to help the “crew” of the motor boat into safety.

“Up helm a bit . . . at that!” exclaimed Brandon.

The _Kestrel_, with the wind well abaft the beam, flew past the now almost waterlogged boat. Mistaking the nature of the manœuvre, the brass-buttoned man waved his arms in redoubled frenzy and literally howled when he thought the ketch was leaving him to his fate.

Brandon knew quite well what he was doing. To attempt to bring the _Kestrel_ alongside with a quartering wind would result in the boat being crushed, or at least it would have been impossible to get a hold and retain it. There was only one course practicable, and that was to run to lee’ard, go about, and shoot up into the wind, losing way within a few feet of the object for succour.

“Lee-o!” exclaimed Brandon, loudly and clearly.

Peter put the helm down. Talbot and Symington let fly the jib and foresail sheets; while Wilson hauled away at the slack of the mainsheet. Still keeping the tiller hard over, Craddock attended to the mizzen-sheet.

The _Kestrel_ came about as gracefully as her namesake, turning slowly and unfalteringly. Then, kept down in the eye of the wind, she forged ahead with gradually diminishing way until Heavitree could grip the gunwale of the motor boat with the boat-hook.

By this time the boat had been swamped. Her stern, weighted down by the outboard engine, was six feet beneath the surface, while the bows, kept afloat by the air under the fore-deck, were about a couple of feet above water. To the still floating portion the “crew” clung, while the owner, his face green with terror, abandoned his waterlogged craft and made a jump for the _Kestrel’s_ shrouds. Forgetting the difficulties of “taking off” from a submerged platform, he leapt short but continued to grip the rail. There he hung, submerged to his shoulders, puffing like a grampus as he struggled in vain to haul himself on board the yacht.

The sight of the selfish, cowardly man made Mr. Grant lose his temper—a thing he rarely did. He realised that with the fellow’s bulk between the yacht’s side and the sinking motor boat the difficulty of getting the rest of the party on board was enormously increased. Time, too, was precious, for the _Kestrel_ would soon “pay off” and gather way, in which case the manœuvre of getting alongside the waterlogged craft would have to be repeated.

“Let go, you idiot!” roared the Scoutmaster. “Haven’t you heard of ‘women and children first’?”

The man refused to do so.

“Stamp on his fingers, Heavitree!” exclaimed Mr. Grant, realising that if a calamity likely to become a fatality were to be avoided, drastic measures were absolutely imperative.

Heavitree was unable to carry out these instructions. All his efforts were concentrated upon an attempt to retain a hold on the boat and to prevent it sinking still further as the women strove to raise themselves out of the water.

Just then the partly submerged boat surged against the _Kestrel’s_ side. The craven owner’s generous proportions acted as an animated fender, but the shock well-nigh winded him and caused him to relax his grip.

In a trice Talbot grasped him by his long hair and dragged him aft, where Craddock assisted in hauling the man on deck.

Meanwhile Brandon and Symington set to work like Trojans to tranship the badly scared women and children. They were not a moment too soon. The _Kestrel_ was forging ahead.

“I can’t hold her much longer, sir!” exclaimed Heavitree.

“Let her go,” replied Mr. Grant briefly.

Heavitree disengaged the boat-hook. The swamped motor boat drifted astern. Bubbles of air were escaping from the uptilted fore-deck.

“Shall we have a shot at salving her?” asked Brandon.

The Scoutmaster shook his head.

“Let her go,” he replied. “She won’t have another chance to drown anyone. . . . There she goes! Bon voyage!”

The freak craft disappeared from view. Mr. Grant glanced dispassionately at the late owner, who was still in an abject state.

“The yellow streak has shown itself, I notice,” remarked the Scoutmaster. “Well, it’s no use asking _him_ questions. We’ll have to land the crew somewhere. I wonder where they came from?”

“Where shall we make for, sir?” asked Brandon.

“Studland,” replied Mr. Grant. “It’s just round the corner. Give that point a wide berth.”

With a fair tide and beam wind, the _Kestrel_ opened into the wide expanse of Studland Bay. It would have meant a tedious beat shorewards owing to the cliffs blanketing the wind, but fortunately a motor passenger-boat happened to be leaving the shore, and in response to a semaphored message she ran alongside the yacht.

Five minutes later the still considerably scared survivors of the sunken boat were transhipped to the passenger craft, and the _Kestrel_, running before the wind, resumed her attempt to overhaul the far-distant _Merlin_.

By this time Mr. Grant had recovered his customary even temper.

“After all, perhaps the silly ass couldn’t help being in a fearful funk,” he remarked. “When all’s said and done, bravery largely consists of being afraid of being afraid. . . . What’s that, Wilson? They’ve made the saloon slopping wet? Well, mop it up. That’ll be another Good Turn to your credit.”