Chapter VIII: The Man they Rescued

The _Kestrel_ was in an unfavourable position to withstand the first of the squall. She was running almost dead before the present breeze. Should the blast come from even a slightly different direction there was the great risk of an involuntary gybe. The main and mizzen booms would swing over with terrific force and either carry away the runners or else spring one or both masts.

Fortunately, Craddock kept his head. Shouting to Talbot to ease the head-sheets, he put the helm down gently.

The squall came. In spite of the canvas shaking as the wind “spilled” it, the ketch heeled till her lee rail was awash; then, recovering, she leapt forward like a racehorse as Peter cautiously took a strain on the mainsheet.

At a warning shout, Mr. Grant hurried up from below, saw what Craddock had done, and nodded approval.

“She’s as stiff as a house,” he exclaimed reassuringly. “All the same, we’ll have the mizzen sail off of her while it’s still light . . . and the big jib as well. Bear a hand, Brandon, to get our patient below. He may get knocked about if he remains here.”

The injured man was showing signs of returning consciousness. He moaned as he was being lifted, opened his eyes, and gazed blankly into the Scoutmaster’s face.

“You’re all right,” said Mr. Grant consolingly.

The patient closed his eyes and gave no further sign of movement. With difficulty, owing to the erratic motion of the yacht, they carried him down the narrow companion way and into the Scoutmaster’s cabin.

While this was being done Craddock put the _Kestrel_ into the wind and hove-to, while canvas was being reduced. Stowing and furling the mizzen sail was accomplished with little difficulty; but the task of taking in the No. 1 jib and substituting the No. 3 took some doing. The yacht pitched so violently in the rapidly rising sea that Heavitree and Symington, on whom this task devolved, were frequently waist-deep in water as they knelt on the fore-deck and struggled with out-haul and jib-halliards and sought to muzzle the fiercely flapping canvas.

At last the business of reducing sail was accomplished, and the _Kestrel_ put on her former course. With whole mainsail, staysail, and baby-jib she made splendid weather of it. In fact, she could have stood more canvas; but in view of night approaching it was prudent to keep her well under control, especially as the now hard wind might increase in force.

Meanwhile the side-lights had been placed in position. Both had been tested during the process of fitting out, but now for some unaccountable reason the starboard lamp refused to keep alight.

“This is no light matter on a dark night,” said Heavitree. “No joke intended, Peter! Any good trying a handkerchief round the ventilation holes?”

“Might do it,” replied Craddock. “It seems as if the thing isn’t getting enough air as it is. However, see what you can do.”

Cautiously making his way for’ard, Heavitree grasped the shrouds with one hand and with the other removed the lamp from the screen. He had to take it into the saloon to relight it, and at the same time he wound his handkerchief loosely round the lower part of the lamp. Almost as soon as he regained the cockpit the light went out.

“You’re whacked, old son!” exclaimed Craddock.

“Am I—you see!” retorted Heavitree as he went below again with the extinguished lamp.

In a few minutes he returned with the green light gleaming exceptionally brightly. Curiously Peter watched his chum go for’ard, expecting every second to see the light vanish. It didn’t.

Heavitree refixed the lamp and came aft. It gave no further trouble. The resourceful Sea Scout had removed the oil reservoir and had substituted his small electric flash lamp.

The _Kestrel_ was now maintaining quite a good speed. Peter took it to be at least eight knots, but perhaps like most amateurs he was apt to overestimate the vessel’s rate. In spite of the curling, crested waves, she came through with hardly any water on her decks, and although at times the following seas appeared high and menacing, she rode them in a manner that gave everyone the greatest confidence in her seagoing qualities.

“Light on the port bow, sir!” reported Wilson.

“Your eyes are sharper than mine, then,” rejoined the Scoutmaster, after a prolonged look in the direction indicated.

“There it is again, sir,” declared the lad. “Two quick flashes!”

“I see them, too,” added Talbot.

“So do I,” agreed Mr. Grant. “Well, now we know where we are, more or less. That’s the Eddystone.”

He took a rough compass bearing and went below to apply the reading to the chart. The result rather surprised him. According to the calculation, the _Kestrel_ ought to have been farther to the south’ard. Either there was considerable deviation of the compass, or else the yacht had been carried northwards by a tidal current. Leeway did not enter into the problem, as the _Kestrel_ had been running free—except for two brief intervals—from the time she picked up the breeze.

It was something to be able to pick up the Eddystone light, but the knowledge alone could not determine the _Kestrel’s_ position. A second bearing cutting the first as near as possible at right angles would fix that.

By the aid of his night glasses, the Scoutmaster swept the horizon away to the nor’ard, hoping to pick up St. Catherine’s light at the entrance to Fowey Harbour. But the night was still hazy, and the light was invisible.

A tramp steamer passed at about a cable’s length to port. The moon emerging from a bank of scudding clouds showed her plunging heavily into the head seas. Frequently showers of glistening spray completely hid her bows and flew high over her bridge. Yet the _Kestrel_, flying before the wind, was making easy weather of it.

Mr. Grant was now confronted with a difficult problem: whether to carry on or to bear up and run for shelter into Plymouth Sound. On first thoughts he favoured the latter alternative. With an injured man on board, and having several hours before dawn to make for shelter, this seemed the obvious thing to do. Then he considered the difficulties. He had never been into Plymouth before. He was a stranger to the intricate currents inside the breakwater. The Sound and Hamoaze were generally crowded with shipping. The numerous navigation and riding-lamps were apt to be particularly perplexing to a stranger, and there was no small risk of disaster should an error of judgment occur.

On the other hand, the _Kestrel_ was proving herself to be a capital sea-boat. Better then to hold on, keeping plenty of sea-room, and gain the sheltered waters of Start Bay at daybreak.

Mr. Grant chose the latter alternative and stuck to it. Indecision he held to be worse than incompetence. A person in charge of a vessel and unable to make up his mind was a menace to his crew; an incompetent skipper, although a despicable character, could be superseded in a critical situation by a better man.

Keeping Craddock and Heavitree on deck, the Scoutmaster took the helm and told the rest of the crew to turn in. The two hefty Sea Scouts were sufficient to assist him in the management of the yacht in a stiff blow at night. The others would only be in the way. In addition they would be as limp as rags in the morning.

At 1 a.m. the Eddystone was abeam at a distance of about two miles. It was still too hazy to pick up the powerful Start light, and there was no object in “cracking on” and arriving off that dangerous headland before dawn.

Accordingly a couple of reefs were taken in the mainsail, and the staysail was lowered and “bonneted” to the bowsprit. Even then the _Kestrel_ maintained a fair speed and rode the waves like a cork, with the dinghy’s bows high in the air as she strained at the end of a double length of stout 50-feet rope.

“Isn’t this top-hole, sir?” exclaimed Peter enthusiastically. “I’d rather be in the _Kestrel_ than in that tramp which passed us some time ago.”

Before the Scoutmaster could offer any remark Brandon came out of the cabin.

“The man has come to,” he announced oracularly.

“How does he feel? Did he say?” asked Mr. Grant.

“Said he was thirsty, sir.”

Telling Craddock to take the helm, Mr. Grant went below.

He found the rescued man quite rational in spite of the serious injury to his head. Reiterating the fact that he was thirsty, he continued by asking where he was.

The Scoutmaster explained.

“You’re quite safe,” he continued. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with the limited accommodation on board until we can put you ashore. I’ll give you something to drink; after that you must try all you can to get to sleep.”

“It du seem queer loike tu wake up an’ find myself here,” said the man, as he watched the preparation of the beverage. “Last I remember wur I wur sittin’ in——”

“Don’t worry about that now,” interrupted Mr. Grant. “After you’ve slept a few hours it will be interesting to hear your story. What’s your name, by the by?”

“Marner—Dick Marner,” was the not altogether unexpected reply.