CHAPTER XIII
A Find on the Gunfleet
The Scoutmaster's prognostics of a fine day were justified. Up at dawn, the crew of the Rosalie found the sky was cloudless; not a ripple disturbed the harbour, while the smoke from a couple of destroyers getting up steam rose almost vertically in the still air.
The only fly in the ointment was what would be termed in Admiralty communiqués "low visibility". Without being actually foggy, the weather was hazy, so that from the Felixstowe side, where the Rosalie lay, it was only just possible to discern the outlines of the town and dockyard of Harwich.
"Morning mists," remarked optimist Roche. "It'll clear when the sun's up properly."
"Let's hope so," added Mr. Armitage.
He had no great desire to grope his way across the Thames estuary in thick weather, trusting to the aid of a compass to thread his course between the numerous sand-banks. The Rosalie's compass did not possess a deviation-card, and one or two bearings that the Scoutmaster had already taken showed an error of from half to one and a half points.
"Starboard's duty watch," observed Mr. Armitage, when the yacht had drawn clear of the basin. "Stratton, you take the helm. How's the tide?"
"One hour's flood, sir," replied the Patrol-leader promptly.
"Right-o! that will give us a chance to cut across most of the banks," continued the Scoutmaster. "Keep her sou' by east; I'm trying to make the N.E. Gunfleet buoy."
Clear of Harwich harbour, the Rosalie settled down on the given compass-course. Even in the open sea the water was as smooth as glass, but the mist showed no tendency to disperse. If anything, it grew thicker, patches of vapour drifting slowly over the placid surface, rendering the range of visibility a matter of anything from a quarter to two miles.
With both engines going at easy speed—Mr. Armitage never believed in giving the motors full throttle except in cases of necessity—the yacht was doing a good eight and a half knots, leaving a clean wake astern.
"Bit of a difference to the Olivette," remarked Peter Stratton to Roche.
The latter, having finished with the engines for the time being, was exchanging the fume-laden atmosphere of the motor-room for the pure, early morning air of the North Sea.
"Aye," agreed Dick. "She'd be able to go up the Thames without scooping half the water out of the river and chucking it over the banks. And she's a clinking pair of motors—easy to start and very little vibration. Pre-war engines," he added, with a supreme contempt for anything built in these days of dear labour and inferior material.
"Getting on all right?" inquired the Scoutmaster, as he entered the wheel-house and glanced at the compass. "Steady, Peter, you're half a point out."
"It's jolly awkward steering by compass," remarked Stratton, as he swung the yacht back to the correct bearing.
"It is," agreed Mr. Armitage; "especially when you've no fixed object to steer by except the lubber's line. But be careful. I don't want to miss the North-East Gunfleet if I can help it."
By this time the low-lying Essex shore was lost in a haze. According to the chart, the Naze was three miles away on the starboard quarter, but as far as visibility went it might have been fifty. Not a buoy nor another vessel was in sight. The limited horizon was unbroken.
"It's pretty thick ahead," said the Scoutmaster, rubbing the moisture from the lenses of his binoculars. "Keep a good look-out, Woodleigh; we ought to be somewhere near the buoy by this time."
"Something white ahead," reported Woodleigh, who, as look-out, was perched "in the eyes" of the yacht.
"Broken water," declared the Scoutmaster, peering through the mist. "It's a tide-rip over the edge of the Gunfleet. We've missed the buoy, and if we carry on we'll pile ourselves up on the sand. Port helm, Stratton; that's right; keep her at that."
Mr. Armitage consulted the chart.
"See anything of a red lighthouse on piles, Woodleigh?" he asked. "It ought to be in that direction."
The Sea Scout looked in the direction indicated, but could distinguish nothing in the shape of a building.
"There's sand showing on our starboard beam, sir," he reported, as the mist temporarily dispersed. "I can hear a dog bark."
"So can I," agreed Mr. Armitage. "A dog on board a fishing-smack, most likely. See anything of a boat?"
"No, sir," replied the look-out.
The Scoutmaster levelled his glasses upon what looked to the naked eye like a short, weed-covered stump on the edge of the sands. The binoculars revealed it to be a dog sitting on its haunches and yelping and barking dolorously.
"How did it get there, I wonder?" asked Roche.
"Lighthouse-keeper's dog, perhaps," hazarded Stratton.
"Stand in a little closer," ordered the Scoutmaster. "Give a cast with the lead, Woodleigh."
The sounding gave six fathoms.
"Good enough," declared Mr. Armitage, again referring to the chart. "The Gunfleet is fairly steep-to on this side. Give her half-speed, Peter."
By means of the throttle-levers in the wheel-house speed could be varied without the necessity for Roche to be below. At a modest four knots the Rosalie groped her way towards the north-western edge of the sand-bank known as the Gunfleet.
"There's the lighthouse," declared Mr. Armitage, indicating a lobster-pot-like building perched upon several massive piles. A partial lifting of the mist revealed its outlines a good two miles away. "If your theory's right, Stratton, the dog stands a good chance of being drowned before it can regain the lighthouse. The tide's making pretty rapidly."
"We must rescue it, sir," declared Stratton.
"Certainly," agreed Mr. Armitage. "Carry on, Peter. I'll take the wheel whilst you are gone."
There was no necessity for the Patrol-leader to turn out the port watch. Already the "watch below" had heard the news and were on deck.
Quickly the dinghy was cleared away, the davits swung out, and the boat prepared for lowering. Directly the Rosalie lost way Stratton, Warkworth, and Hepburn jumped into her. Peter steered and the others rowed, pulling lustily at the tough ash oars until the dinghy almost leapt through the water.
Upon drawing close to the sands, Stratton saw that there was a considerable "tumble" over the edge. To attempt to land would be highly dangerous, in spite of the fact that the sea was quite calm elsewhere.
"Way 'nough!" order the coxswain.
The boat stopped fifty yards from the broken water. The dog had ceased barking and yelping, and was now wagging a stumpy tail.
"You'll have to swim for it, old fellow," declared Peter. "Come on, good dog."
But the good dog drew the line at plunging into the water. Several times it attempted to do so, but the creamy, broken seas frightened it.
"Poor little beast!" exclaimed Hepburn "it's got the wind up."
"It'll be drowned if it doesn't make a dash for it," declared Warkworth. "The tide's risen a good distance over the flats since we've been here."
"There's water all round the dog now," said Peter, standing up in the stern sheets. "It's on a sort of little island separated from the main sands. Come on, you! Good dog!"
"Nothin' doin'," reported Warkworth. "The little beast hasn't any pluck."
"Perhaps it's been knocked out of him," said Peter quietly. "I'm going to fetch him. Stand by to pick me up, but don't go any nearer."
Stripping off his clothes, the Patrol-leader took a clean header over the stern, and struck out with slow, steady strokes towards the sands. It was a comparatively easy matter to swim through the surf. The difficulty, he knew, would be the return journey.
The dog, perceiving the approach of the swimmer, barked joyously, and as Peter touched bottom and waded through the shallow water the animal plucked up courage to meet him.
"Why, it's only a big pup!" exclaimed the lad. "No wonder he funked it. Now, come along, old boy."
The dog had no collar, so Peter gripped him by the scruff of the neck and waded deeper and deeper on the return journey.
The dinghy looked quite a long way off, and the broken water far more formidable than when viewed from seaward. The lad was conscious, too, of a very considerable set of tide that tended to carry him in a south-westerly direction.
Still holding the dog by the scruff, Peter took to swimming. It was a tough struggle. Baffled by the breakers, and hampered by being able to use one hand only for propulsion purposes, Stratton had quite enough by the time he had successfully fought his way through the broken water.
"Now, swim for it by yourself, pup," he exclaimed breathlessly. "Follow me and you'll be all right."
He released his hold and took to an easy breast stroke. For a few seconds the dog swam independently; then, possibly afraid that he was being deserted by his rescuer, the pup begun clawing Peter's bare back, and attempted to clamber upon his shoulders.
Turning, Peter placed one hand over the animal's muzzle and pushed him away. The dog promptly swam round, and began swimming back towards the sandbank.
"Come here," gurgled Stratton, who had just swallowed a mouthful of salt water.
The dog obeyed. The Patrol-leader gripped him by the neck and again struck out towards the boat. He no longer attempted to hold up the pup's head. The animal was now swimming powerfully, and Peter derived a certain amount of support from the sturdy four-legged swimmer.
Meanwhile Warkworth and Hepburn, disregarding the Patrol-leader's instructions, backed the dinghy towards the swimmers, and it was with feelings of relief that Stratton saw the rescued animal lifted into the boat.
"Give way," he ordered, hanging on to the transom. "Tow me clear. You're too near the surf."
[Illustration: IT WAS WITH FEELINGS OF RELIEF THAT STRATTON SAW THE RESCUED ANIMAL LIFTED INTO THE BOAT]
It was not until the dinghy was in quite calm water that Peter got on board. He was so exhausted that Hepburn had to help him over the stern, while Warkworth crouched in the bows to prevent the dinghy dipping under the combined weight of the two Sea Scouts. They knew how to manage small boats, and the lessons learnt on the Solent served them in good stead.
Five minutes later the dinghy was hoisted out, and the three Sea Scouts with the trophy stood on Rosalie's deck.
"What a miserable little beast," exclaimed Flemming, regarding the soaking wet little pup.
"Look here, young fellah-me-lad!" said Peter, in mock reproof. "When I ask your opinion of my pup, you can give it; not before."