Chapter XXIII: A Dead Heat

The _Kestrel’s_ crew had only just finished their much-appreciated tea when the _Merlin’s_ dinghy came alongside.

“Hello, Pendennis!” exclaimed Mr. Grant, going on deck to receive his visitor. “What happened to you?”

“A slice of bad luck,” replied the Cornishman. “Our anchor tripped during the night when we lay off Newtown. When we turned out we found ourselves bumping on Warden Ledge. We must have drifted nearly seven miles without knowing it. Then, in trying to get off, we strained one of our propeller blades and had to put into Yarmouth to get it straightened. After that we came on here.”

“And when did you arrive?”

“Early this morning,” replied Mr. Pendennis. “In fact, so early that you lazy fellows were fast asleep. We felt tempted to give you a hail. Heartiest congratulations, Grant, in getting second in that race.”

“Thanks. Sorry you didn’t compete.”

The Cornishman smiled.

“My lads were a bit fagged out,” he replied. “We’ve stood some long tricks this trip. ’Sides, they’re keen on the ex-Service boats’ pulling race and are conserving their strength for that event.”

“We’re entering, too, sir,” announced Talbot.

“The more the merrier,” rejoined Mr. Pendennis.

While the two Scoutmasters were chatting upon various subjects relating to the Jamboree the rest of the _Kestrel’s_ crew went ashore to complete their preparations.

The Portsmouth Sea Scouts were as good as their word, for quite a serviceable gig was hauled up on the hard for the _Kestrel_ lads’ use. More than a dozen other ex-Service boats were also out of the water, their respective crews busily engaged in making ready for the fray or, rather, contest.

“What’s that stuff you’re putting on?” enquired Craddock of a lad who hailed from Pembroke.

“Black lead, look you,” replied the young Welshman. “Want some? We have plenty, look you.”

Seeing that several of the competing boats were being treated in a similar fashion, Peter accepted the generous offer and soon the bottom of the borrowed gig was shining in a coat of black lead thinned down with stale beer—a preparation which, although filthy to handle, is in high favour amongst rowers of racing craft.

As soon as the _Kestrel’s_ crew had applied the “dope,” the gig was uprighted and a thorough examination made of her oars and stretchers. Craddock, as coxswain of the boat, meant to leave little to chance, although he was quite aware of the disadvantage of racing in a strange craft without even the opportunity of having a preliminary practice. But, he reflected sagely, there were other crews similarly handicapped.

Just before six o’clock fourteen boats faced the starter. By this time the ebb-tide was running strongly against a steady sou’westerly breeze, with the result that farther down the main channel there was quite a sea running.

“Back there, No. 5!” shouted the somewhat harassed starter through a megaphone.

No. 5’s crew dropped their oars and obediently “toed the line.” They were hefty, bronzed-featured lads from Margate. It was their first race, and in consequence they were a bit excited.

“Tough lot, aren’t they?” remarked Heavitree, stroke of the _Kestrel’s_ gig, as he moistened the loom of his oar with salt water.

“Eyes on the boat,” cautioned Peter. “Stand by!”

The starting gun crashed. Fifty-six backs bent to the first stroke; fifty-six oars dipped almost as one, and the fourteen competing boats leapt forward, the coxswains shouting encouragement to their men.

For the first hundred yards the line retained its comparative straightness, but already some of the rowers were splashing unnecessarily, and they lost their “first wind,” and hadn’t begun to find their second.

Then five of the boats shot ahead, amongst them the _Kestrel’s_ borrowed gig. Her crew were working with a will and getting every ounce of power out of their backs and legs. They had a style about them, and Peter, as he watched their long, steady, and regular strokes, felt proud of his chums.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Craddock noticed that the Nottingham Sea Scouts’ boat was level on her starboard beam. Her crew, admirably trained, were rowing with the regularity of clockwork. Instinctively, Peter felt that here was a rival to be treated with respect.

To port, No. 7—the Pembroke crowd—was forging ahead. The crew were rowing a quicker stroke, but would they last? On the extreme left, No. 14, the Whitby boat, had already established a useful lead. Although losing the advantage of the ebb-tide she was in smoother water close to the bank, but at the first bend that advantage would be lost.

Yet, Peter knew, there was little to be judged by position at this stage. It was the stayer, not the spurter, who seemed most likely to lead the procession over the finishing line.

He looked at his crew. They were bearing up bravely. Talbot looked a little flustered, but was still rowing strongly. None of them had reached the gasping stage yet, although rivulets of perspiration trickled unhindered down their faces.

At the first bend the competitors met the full force of the wind ’gainst tide. The lean bows of the boat threw apart showers of spray, as the knife-like stem cleft the curling waves.

It was here that the Nottingham lads found themselves handicapped. Used to pulling in a river, they had never had the opportunity of rowing in a fairly high seaway. Their style, admirable in smooth water, was at a decided disadvantage in this “popple.” More than once “bow” missed his stroke, his blade encountering nothing more resistant than air as the boat rose on the crest of a short, steep wave.

“We’re overhauling her all right,” thought Peter.

Five lengths ahead the Portsmouth Sea Scouts were leading. Pulling splendidly, they were steadily increasing their lead, when misfortune descended upon them. “Stroke’s” oar broke just above the blade. The lad, falling backwards, temporarily put No. 3 out of action. By the time the latter had recovered and resumed his oar, the boat had dropped to the seventh place. Nevertheless under extremely adverse conditions the lads continued their gallant struggle, the oarless “stroke” sitting up and moving with the rest to preserve the rhythm of the swing.

The mark buoy at last!

“Back, port! Pull, starboard!” ordered Peter. Round swung the gig, rolling as she swung broadside to the weather-going tide.

“Together!”

Now came the strenuous part of the whole race—the last lap. The _Kestrels_ were visibly tiring. Even Heavitree’s Adam’s apple was working convulsively, while the veins in his bared arms stood out like whipcord. Talbot, looking utterly blown, was pulling almost mechanically, gasping through his wide open mouth in his efforts to fill his painfully stifled lungs.

There was but one boat ahead. That was the Pembroke one. The Welshmen were in a far worse plight than Craddock’s crew. They had let themselves go at the start, and were reaping the consequences; yet they, too, were “sticking it” with the fervid tenacity of their race.

For the present Peter dare not call upon his loyal crew for an extra spurt. They were gaining all the time, yet without the final and spectacular burst they would not be able to overlap their rivals. And, of course, the Welshmen would almost certainly respond.

Three hundred yards from home the _Kestrel’s_ gig’s bows were level with the Pembroke boat’s stern. The coxswain of the latter could be heard calling to his men for the final effort. It was now Peter’s chance, provided his jaded crew could respond to it.

“Whack her up, lads!” he shouted. “Last lap!”

Both boats were now in calmer waters. Nobly the _Kestrels_ responded to their coxswain’s call. Blinded with perspiration, with bursting lungs and violently throbbing hearts, aching muscles and blistered palms, they were unconscious of everything but the desire to make that extra spurt.

Now they were dead level with the Welshmen.

“Keep it up, lads!” yelled Peter.

That was as much as they could do. To increase the number of strokes was out of the question. They were perilously close to the breaking-point. Could they stay the course?

The _Kestrel’s_ gig drew ahead. The Pembroke coxswain in a shrill falsetto called upon his men for a final effort. They tried. There was a sharp crack. One of their stretchers had broken.

“Hard lines on them,” thought Peter. “But we were winning, anyway.”

Then for the first time on the homeward run Craddock glanced over his shoulder. He had a shock. The nearest of the remaining competitors was quite five lengths astern. Nothing short of a disaster to the _Kestrel’s_ gig would give any of the boats astern a chance to overtake her now, for the finishing line was less than eighty yards ahead.

But—and that it was that gave Peter a most disconcerting jar—close to the edge of the channel and out of the full force of the adverse tide was the Nottingham boat.

By dint of sheer doggedness she had fought her way through the choppy sea. Then, edging over towards the mud-flats, she found herself under conditions very similar to that of her native Trent. The Nottingham Sea Scouts, admirably trained and in the pink of condition, were not slow to take advantage of the change of fortune. They were now almost level with Craddock’s crew, although separated by about fifty yards of water.

“Pull, lads, pull!” shouted Peter. “For all you’re worth!”

The spirit was willing, but exhausted flesh was unable to respond to the dictates of the brain. Gallantly the crew bent their aching backs, tugging ferociously at the tough ash oars. Then Talbot missed a stroke, the badly trimmed blade slithering ineffectually on the surface.

Before the lad could recover his stroke the gun went.

“Way ’nough!” gulped Peter, and the thoroughly exhausted rowers collapsed, sobbing in their efforts to recharge their bursting lungs.

Completely bewildered, Peter looked in the direction of the Nottingham boat. She was over the line, her crew paddling easily towards the flagship. The _Kestrel’s_ gig was also across the line—but there had been only one gun. What did it mean?

Everyone in the anchored yachts seemed to be cheering. So were the crowd on the beach. Then another competing boat crossed the line with her crew on the verge of utter exhaustion. They received a gun.

Still puzzled, Craddock was dimly aware of the _Kestrel’s_ dinghy coming alongside and of Mr. Grant leaning over the gunwale and patting him on the back.

“Well rowed!” exclaimed the Scoutmaster. “Well rowed! Dead heat with the _Avalon_. Let’s have your painter; we’ll tow you to the beach. Yes, by Jove! you’ve tied with that crack Nottingham crew, and honestly I never expected you to have a look-in. Well done!”