CHAPTER XVII
On her Beam Ends
Peter Stratton had a weird dream. Perhaps it was the effects of the lobster that a friendly fisherman had given to the Rosalie's crew to supplement their sadly depleted larder.
He dreamt that he was lying on a slippery shelving rock, with his feet dangling in the water. There was a lobster tugging at his toes—a big fellow, tugging and biting hard. He wanted to shout for assistance, but a man, who strongly resembled the thief who had stolen the Olivette's warp, was cold-bloodedly ramming a rope's end into the Sea Scout's mouth. Peter couldn't prevent him. He had all his work cut out to hang on to the slippery rock with both his hands. Yet, in spite of his efforts, he was slowly yet surely sliding into the water, where myriads of crustacean fishes were awaiting him.
With a thud he alighted, not in the sea, but on the shelving floor of the fo'c'sle. He awoke with a yell, to find himself out of his bunk and lying in the angle formed by the floor and the rise of the opposite locker. Beating a tattoo with his bare foot upon Peter's face was Roche, while Bruin, thinking it was a rare bit of fun, was nibbling the Patrol-leader's toe.
For some minutes Stratton failed to grasp the situation. Then it dawned upon him. It was daylight—eight o'clock in the morning. The Rosalie was heeling badly, lying right over on her starboard side. The occupants of the three bunks on the port side had been unceremoniously ejected—mattresses, blankets, pillows, and all. Woodleigh, Warkworth, and Hepburn, occupying the starboard berth, had merely slid against the skirting, and were slumbering unconcernedly.
It was raining heavily. Drops were pelting on deck, and a considerable amount of rain was driving in through the partly-closed fore-hatch.
"What's happened?" asked Roche, struggling into his clothes.
"Hanged if I know," replied the Patrol-leader, still rather hazy as to which was a dream and which solid fact.
Just then Mr. Armitage, clad in oilskins, sou'wester, and sea-boots, made his way into the fo'c'sle—a matter of considerable difficulty, owing to the angle of the slippery ladder.
"Morning, lads!" he exclaimed. "I meant you to sleep as long as you liked, but the Rosalie won't let you, I see. Hallo! three still slumbering sweetly."
"What's happened, sir?" asked Roche.
"Nothing very serious, I hope," replied the Scoutmaster. "We've been driven on the edge of the mud by the strong east wind—it's blowing half a gale—and the tide has fallen. Consequently we're high and dry, and heeling rather badly."
Above the howling of the wind could be heard the loud roar of the waves breaking over the east pier. During the night the wind had shifted to the south-east, and the sea was surging violently in the Channel.
Donning oilskins, Stratton accompanied Mr. Armitage on deck. The aspect of things in general, and the Rosalie in particular, was not a cheerful one. Against the dark-grey sky showers of white foam showed up distinctly as the waves lashed themselves against the wooden piers. A cold rain added to the discomfort of the morning.
The Rosalie was heeling at a sharp angle, with her rail on the starboard side amidships within a few inches of the slimy mud. In the fairway, only ten yards distant, the ebb tide, swollen by the rain, was surging furiously.
Sheltering in the wheel-house, with his feet hard against the edge of a locker, was Mr. Jackson, disconsolately surveying the inclined plane represented by the listing yacht's wet deck.
"Think she'll lift to the flood tide, Armitage? Frankly, I don't think she will."
"There's a chance she won't," agreed Mr. Armitage. "She's heeled more since I left you. The difficulty is, that we can't run a warp ashore till there's enough water to float the dinghy. By that time——"
He broke off abruptly.
"I'll manage it, sir," volunteered Peter. "I don't suppose the mud's softer than it is at Keyhaven."
"Perhaps there'll be someone ashore who will make a line fast for us," suggested Mr. Jackson.
But the river banks were deserted. Right at the pier-head, underneath the flagstaff from which was displayed the storm-cone, were a couple of oil-skinned figures, but their attention was centred upon something in the offing—a fishing smack attempting to run for shelter, but compelled to await sufficient depth of water on the bar. The men were looking through telescopes. Every few minutes they were hidden from sight by showers of spray, yet, oblivious to their immediate surroundings, they kept their attention fixed upon the craft attempting to make the harbour.
Under Mr. Armitage's direction everything that could be done to assist the Rosalie to rise on the flood tide was undertaken. The scuttles were tightly closed, the dinghy swung out and lowered on to the mud so that her weight would not tend to retard the vessel's lift.
Stratton, with a light line made fast round his waist, lowered himself over the side on to a grating that he had previously dropped on the mud. Then, by the aid of a second grating, he moved a couple of feet nearer dry, or, rather, hard ground, lifting the first grating and placing it in front of him. It was a slow business, but at last the surface became sufficiently stiff to walk upon without the assistance of his improvised mud-pattens.
To the other end of the light line was bent the four-inch hawser. This Peter hauled ashore and made fast to a massive warping-post, repeating the process till a second rope was secured to the same post.
While the Patrol-leader was making his way back to the yacht the four-inch hawser was led to the for'ard winch, and the small rope taken aft and a watch-tackle clapped on to it.
"That's all we can do for the present," declared Mr. Armitage. "It's no use putting a strain on the ropes until the tide flows round her. Pipe all hands to breakfast, Peter."
Breakfast was a matter of inconvenience, not to say difficulty. The Primus stoves, not being gimballed, had to be propped up in a horizontal base and wedged to prevent them sliding bodily to leeward. The Sea Scouts ate their meal squatting tailor-fashion on the piled-up cushions. The only member of the crew who didn't take kindly to the novel situation was Bruin, whose attempts to walk the shelving floor caused roars of laughter from the boys.
"Time for action, lads," exclaimed Mr. Armitage, glancing through one of the cabin scuttles. Where the outlook formerly consisted of mud, there was now water. The rising tide was lapping round the side of the yacht.
Everyone on board realized the danger. Unless the Rosalie became waterborne before the rising tide flooded her cockpit and poured below, she would be covered to a depth of five or six feet at high water.
Scrambling on deck and holding on as they moved to their appointed stations, the Sea Scouts prepared for the coming ordeal.
A heavy strain was taken on both ropes leading ashore to assist the vessel to lift, while all hands not employed at the winch and the watch-tackle hung over the port side, clinging to the shrouds so that their weight would help in levering the yacht on an even keel.
It was a spiritless job hanging on and waiting for the tide to rise. Buffeted by the wind and driving rain, the Sea Scouts stuck it gamely, until the period of inaction was broken by at quite unexpected turn of events.
The two men on the pier-head-who had been keeping their telescopes fixed seaward were now in a state of activity, shouting and gesticulating to an approaching vessel, which, however, was invisible from the sloping deck of the Rosalie.
A few minutes later, pitching and rolling heavily, a large motor-boat staggered in between the pier-heads, her deck glistening with water that came inboard over her bows.
"She's the Olivette!" exclaimed Stratton.
"Looks uncommonly like her," agreed Mr. Armitage. "But she's one of a class. May be one of the same type."
In the shelter of the harbour, although the "gush" was fairly heavy, the heavy motor-boat ceased to pitch. Out of the cockpit climbed a man wearing a mackintosh coat and a "deerstalker's cap", the latter secured by a scarf tied under the chin.
"By Jove, you're right, Peter!" declared the Scoutmaster. "It is the Olivette. That's Mr. Murgatroyd. Wonder what he's doing here?"
Evidently Mr. Murgatroyd was expecting to find his former crew at Littlehampton, although he had never seen the Rosalie, and one of the first craft that caught his eye was the listing yacht with the Sea Scouts at "Action Stations".
"Give her a cheer, lads," called out Mr. Armitage.
The boys complied with the utmost enthusiasm, the owner of the Olivette waving another scarf in reply. Then, losing way under the reverse action of her propeller, the new arrival made fast to a buoy about fifty yards higher up stream than the still-stranded Rosalie.
"Seems rather a shame to be found in this position," declared Hepburn. "Mr. Murgatroyd will think we're everything but a posh lot of navigators."
"She must have had a dusting outside," said the Scoutmaster. "We'll go alongside directly we're afloat. Now, lads, water's lapping over the lee gunwale. Heave away on the capstan and haul away with the luff-tackle."
For ten minutes it was touch and go whether the water would swamp the yacht before she lifted. The level of the rising tide was within a couple of inches of the cockpit coaming when the Rosalie shook herself clear of her muddy bed. With a weird gurgling noise as the tremendous suctional powers of the ooze were overcome, the yacht recovered herself, and in a few minutes was on an even keel.
"Thanks be!" ejaculated Mr. Armitage fervently as he wiped the moisture from his face. "We'll shift our berth at high water. No more of these tricks for us."