CHAPTER XX
Salvage
Punctual to a minute, the "liberty men" reassembled on the tumble-down wharf at Keyhaven on the following morning, to embark upon the last stage of their voyage. They felt like weather-beaten salts, and doubtless had regaled their parents and friends with stories of their adventures.
Already arrangements had been made for Mr. Murgatroyd's comfort during the absence of the future crew of the Olivette. Two Sea Scouts, who had been prevented from joining the rest of the troop, volunteered to remain on board Mr. Murgatroyd's craft, using the cutter as a makeshift for a dinghy. They were on duty when the Rosalie, under power, glided past the Olivette on her way to Poole, and cheers were exchanged between the crews of the two boats.
"Not much chance of using canvas today," observed Mr. Armitage, as the Rosalie entered the strong tidal race between Hurst Castle and the Isle of Wight. "It blew fairly stiff last night, but now it looks like falling away to a flat calm."
"Hullo! what's that?" asked Mr. Jackson, as a booming sound trailing away to a mournful wail was heard in the distance.
"Fog siren," replied the Scoutmaster. "From the Needles Lighthouse. We ought to see the Needles distinctly from here, but we can't. That means local fog."
Mr. Jackson followed the direction of his companion's outstretched hand. He could see the uncovered shoal known as the Shingles, over which a ground swell was breaking heavily. Farther away, and more on the port quarter, he could discern the cliffs of Totland Bay. There the view of the Isle of Wight ended. Alum Bay and the detached chalk masses known as the Needles were blotted out in a thick but invisible mist that blended with the grey sky.
"It's stopped, sir," exclaimed Hepburn.
"What's stopped?" inquired Mr. Armitage.
"The fog-horn, sir," replied Alan, who, like the rest of the Sea Scouts, knew the character of the Needles "fog reed-horn" well, since Milford is within six miles of the lighthouse. "It's a blast of five seconds every fifteen seconds. I haven't heard it for more than a couple of minutes."
"The fog's lifted out there, perhaps," suggested Roche.
"It certainly doesn't look like it," observed Mr. Armitage. "Most likely we have struck a zone of silence. You remember how we saw an inverted phantom image of Dungeness Lighthouse? That was caused by irregular layers of air. Sound is similarly affected. The volume of noise leaps, as it were, and although we might not hear it fairly close to, vessels much farther away might hear it distinctly. There it is again, Alan. We have passed through the zone of silence."
Attention was then turned in a new direction. The Rosalie, having "made her numbers" to Hurst Signalling Station, was passing within a quarter of a mile of Milford. The Sea Scouts could discern their hut, perched half-way up the low, gravelly cliff, and, what was more, every lad was able to distinguish, by the aid of the glasses, the features of some relative, for parents and other kith and kin had gone down to the beach to watch the Rosalie pass.
"Give Christchurch Head a wide berth, Peter," cautioned the Scoutmaster. "Although there's plenty of water for us over the ledge, there'll be a nasty sea after the recent gale. Can you see the Ledge buoy?"
"Yes, sir," replied Stratton, after a brief survey. "A point on our port bow."
"Then starboard a point. Note the compass bearing in case it comes on thick. I rather fancy it will before long."
Before the Rosalie was abreast of the buoy the Scoutmaster's forecast proved to be correct. Insidiously the white, dank mist swept down, until the bold outlines of Christchurch Head were blotted out. Then the fog thickened until the range of visibility was limited to about twenty yards.
"We're all right so far," said Mr. Armitage cheerfully. "Out of the way of Channel traffic, and, even if the fog doesn't lift, we'll pick up the entrance to Poole Harbour by taking soundings. Plenty of time for that, however. Keep her on West by 1/2 South for the present, Peter. Warkworth and Woodleigh, get your oilskins on and go for'ard. Keep a sharp look-out, especially for lobster lines. There are a lot off this ledge."
"What would happen if we struck one?" asked Flemming.
"It might get round our props and stop both motors," replied the Scoutmaster. "But I'm looking at it from a fisherman's point of view. Lobster pots cost money, and take a lot of labour to bring out and place in position, and no one but an incompetent navigator or a malicious individual would deliberately cut away the lobster-pot lines. I think we'll slow down to five knots, Roche. It will give us a better chance if there are any fishing-boats in the bay."
Mr. Armitage glanced at his watch. Working by "dead reckoning", he knew that even with the west-going tide an hour would elapse before the Rosalie approached the dangerous Hook Sands off the entrance to Poole Harbour.
"Weird sort of business, eh, Peter?" remarked Roche, joining his chum in the wheel-house.
Stratton nodded, and peered into the compass-bowl. The windows of the wheel-house were wide open, and the dank mist settled on the glass of the binnacle so that the helmsman had to be constantly wiping it to be able to observe the compass-card.
"All in a day's work, I suppose," he replied. "This is the thickest fog we've struck. I don't think I'd care about it if I were on my own bat," he confided; "but Mr. Armitage knows this part, so that's all right."
Mr. Armitage, although he did not overhear the remark, was less sanguine. Part of his time in the R.N.V.R. had been spent at Poole in the M.-L. flotilla, and he had seen the bar under almost every possible condition, from the flat calm of a perfect August day to the shrieking, howling, south-easterly gale of mid-December. He had a wholesome respect for Poole Bar, and, with fog limiting the range of vision to a few yards, he realized that an error of judgment might result in the Rosalie ending her career either upon the dangerous Hook Sands or on the surf-swept shoals of Studland Bay.
Half an hour after the Rosalie passed Christchurch Head a breeze sprang up from the south-east—a breeze that speedily developed into a hard blow.
"That's better," exclaimed Mr. Armitage. "This ought to disperse the fog."
Another twenty minutes passed, but the fog showed no signs of lifting. Rolling banks of vapour eddied athwart the yacht's course, producing a strange optical effect, as if the Rosalie were drifting bodily to wind'ard. Occasionally, during a lull in the wind, the thunder of distant surf could be heard.
"We ought to be picking up Anvil Point fog signal," Mr. Armitage remarked. "Stand by with the lead-line, Hepburn."
"I hear a syren, sir," declared Woodleigh.
"That's not Anvil Point, then," rejoined the Scoutmaster. "Anyone else hear it?"
Almost immediately came the strident blasts of a steam-whistle—a long blast followed by a short one; a pause, and then long, short, long, short.
Every one of the Rosalie's crew knew what that meant. It was the Morse N.C., signifying: "In distress; require immediate assistance".
It was a call—to which no true seaman would hesitate to respond—to hasten, regardless of risk, to the assistance of the distressed vessel.
"About a couple of miles to the south'ard, I imagine," said Mr. Armitage. "Starboard four, Peter."
"What's happened, I wonder?" inquired Roche.
"Some sort of disaster, I'm afraid," replied the Scoutmaster. "A small tramp in distress."
"Why small, sir?" asked Woodleigh.
"Because she used her syren to signal in Morse instead of using the wireless S.O.S. All large ships, and many small ones, have wireless installation. It's compulsory for large ships. Hence it is safe to assume that the appeal emanated from a small steam vessel; a sailing ship would use a fog-horn worked by air, or perhaps a Klaxon horn. There it is again. Nearer now. Reply, Hepburn, FGI—I will assist you."
Roche went below, in readiness to work the clutches should the deck controls fail. Mr. Armitage stood just outside the wheel-house, in order to give directions to Stratton at the helm, while the rest of the crew stood by with heaving-lines and fenders, in case they had to run alongside the distressed vessel.
They could now hear the hiss of escaping steam and distinguish the strident tones of someone giving orders.
"'Stern both engines!" ordered Mr. Armitage. "Hard-a-port!"
The Rosalie swung round just in time to avoid collision with a towering wall of iron, looming suddenly on them out of the fog.
A rift in the mist revealed the presence of a tramp well down by the head, and with such a great amount of damage to her bows that it appeared impossible for her to keep afloat.
"Ahoy!" hailed the same loud-voiced man. "Can you take us in tow?"
A series of hurried questions resulted in the information that the tramp was the S.S. Pen-y-coote, bound from Christiana for Bristol with timber. In the fog she had collided with, or rather—as her "Old Man" was careful to state—had been run into by, an unknown vessel somewhere between St. Catherine's and the Shingles.
"Cut clean through my bows for'ard of the hold bulkhead," declared the skipper. "Carried both anchors away, and then as we went astern we fouled something and fractured our main shaft. The other vessel? I don't know what happened to her. She was ten times my size, and cracked on at the rate of knots. Stop? Not she. A dirty Hun most likely; sort of thing they would do if they got a chance. You haven't much horse-power, Cap'n. I thought you were a tug."
"We'll have a shot at it anyway," declared Mr. Armitage. "We'll take you into Poole. Pay out a hawser; we'd better tow you stern foremost."
Manoeuvring to leeward of the helpless tramp, the Rosalie approached sufficiently near for a heavy line to be thrown from the Pen-y-coote's stern.
[Illustration: "STAND CLEAR OF THE HAWSERS AS SHE TAKES UP THE STRAIN">[
The hawser was then brought on board and bent to a wire span between the two after bollards.
It was a tough proposition for the 35-ton motor yacht to tow the disabled 650-ton tramp, but the crew of the Rosalie were on their mettle. If they failed, then the result would be much the same as if they had not put in an appearance—the tramp, unable to anchor, would be driven ashore either against the cliffs of the Isle of Purbeck or upon the treacherous sands in the vicinity of the mouth of Poole Harbour.
"How much water are you drawing?" hailed the Scoutmaster.
"'Bout thirteen for'ard, and eleven aft," was the reply.
"Good enough," declared Mr. Armitage. He knew that eleven feet represented the minimum depth on the bar at low-water springs. It was now close on the neaps, which meant possibly another two feet over the deepest part of the entrance, and the young flood would soon be making.
"Stand clear of the hawser as she takes up the strain," continued the Scoutmaster, addressing Woodleigh and Warkworth. "We don't want broken limbs on this packet. Now, Peter, easy ahead both engines."
By dint of careful manoeuvring the towing-rope tautened without anything carrying away, and presently the Rosalie's motors were running all out. The Pent-y-coote gathered way, and was presently moving at a modest three knots in the wake of her small helper.
The fog was still as thick as ever it had been, while the deviation of course and manoeuvres that had taken place had resulted in Mr. Armitage losing his bearings. Whether he was off Poole Harbour, or farther to the west'ard, he had only the haziest notion. He decided to steer north magnetic, and by the aid of soundings arrive sufficiently close to shallow water to enable him to recognize the coast-line.
For the best part of an hour they held on, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, until the dull rumble of the breakers dead to leeward became audible.
The Scoutmaster was far from easy in his mind. Hampered by a heavy and unwieldy tow, and with the wind right aft, he realized that unless he hit the entrance he would be embayed and possibly driven ashore. If only the fog would lift! The sea, too, was getting considerably confused, a sure indication that the bottom was shoaling.
The roar of the surf prompted the Scoutmaster to alter his plans. He decided to turn and make for the open. Even if the Rosalie and her tow could only hold their own until the fog lifted, the result would be justified. Other help might then be forthcoming. The question was, had the yacht sufficient fuel in the tanks for a prolonged struggle against the wind?
"Hard-a-starboard!"
The Rosalie turned, slowly and jerkily. The Scoutmaster feared for the towing bollards, for the hawser was sagging and snubbing as the tramp began to face the open sea.
"Buoy right ahead, sir!" shouted Hepburn.
Less than fifteen yards off, was a barrel-buoy, painted red and white, and surmounted by a battered top-mark.
Mr. Armitage felt like shouting with sheer delight. He could scarcely believe his eyes. Surely there was a special working of Providence. Unknown to anyone on board either the yacht or her tow, the Rosalie had groped her way over the bar without so much as catching a glimpse of the bar buoy, and the alteration of helm had brought her close to the second of the line of buoys marking the port-hand side of the Swash Channel leading to Poole Harbour.
Nowhere else on the South Coast is the port-hand side of a channel marked in this fashion. The red-and-white barrel-buoy Mr. Armitage recognized instantly. He felt like a lost man who has been suddenly placed upon his own doorstep.
"Hard-a-port!" he ordered, somewhat to Stratton's amazement at the quick change of course. "Nor' by west. Keep her at that."
It was now a case of making her way up from one buoy to another. For intervals of a couple of minutes or so there would be a blank expanse of sea and fog, then slightly on the port bow would appear another of those blessed red-and-white barrels, each one as it was passed representing a certain distance made good in the direction of a sheltered anchorage.
On either hand the surf was roaring, but the Rosalie and the tramp were in comparatively deep and smooth water, with a young flood tide to aid them.
"Land on the port bow!"
There was a long, low stretch of sand dunes covered with coarse grass.
"Land on the starboard bow!"
Again there was no mistake. Through the now lifting fog could be discerned a large white building, with a small pier a little beyond.
"Thank God!" ejaculated Mr. Armitage fervently, wiping the moisture from his brow. "We're in."