CHAPTER V
THE PERIL IN THE FAIRWAY
"This has been a dud cruise, if you like!" observed Patrol-leader Brandon to his particular chum, Craddock. "Mind, I'm not saying that it hasn't been awfully enjoyable, but nothing's happened."
"Do you want anything to happen?" asked Peter. "I don't. I'm quite content to take things as they are in the Puffin."
All the same the weekly cruise had been uneventful. The Puffin had stood well out into the Channel, and after beating to the westward had put into Crabhaven for the night. She was now on her way back to Aberstour, running with spinnaker set and mainsheet slacked right out before a gentle sou'westerly breeze.
Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The Sea Scouts' log contained no entries beyond the customary records of the state of the tide and the force and direction of the wind. They hadn't had to reef; they hadn't missed their tide; they hadn't even run aground on making the intricate entrance to Crabhaven. They were now within five miles of their home-port, and dead in the centre of the fairway between the grey cliffs to port and the submerged shoal known as the Grab to starboard. With a fair wind and tide there was every reason to expect that the remaining five miles would be reeled off in quick time and without incident.
"Those fellows are a time having their tea," commented Peter, as the sound of chattering voices came from the cabin where the rest of the crew were doing full justice to good fare with their healthy appetites. "Aren't you peckish, Frank?"
"Just about," agreed the Patrol-leader. "But I'd rather hang on to the tiller than waste time over grub. Hello! Wind's dropping. Does it mean we'll have to sweep the yacht the rest of the way?"
The breeze was certainly falling off. Already the Puffin's mainsheet was dropping in the water, and her spinnaker was no longer curving before the following wind. Yet she was still making way and answering to her helm.
"What's that right ahead, old son?" asked Peter, pointing in a line with the bowsprit end.
"What's what?" rejoined his chum. "I can't see anything."
"It's less than twenty yards away. Up helm a bit, or we'll hit it. Looks like a water-logged barrel."
Brandon altered the helm a little. Peter grasped a boathook.
The object drifted slowly past the yacht's side. The slight alteration of course had enabled her to clear it by about five or six feet. Craddock was about to satisfy his curiosity by prodding it with the tip of the boathook when Brandon grasped him by the wrist.
"Hold on!" he exclaimed earnestly. "Be careful! It's a mine."
Before the astonished Craddock could offer any comment the Patrol-leader called to Mr. Grant to come on deck.
The Scoutmaster appeared promptly, followed by the rest of the crew, who, judging rightly by the Patrol-leader's anxious tone, were anxious to know the reason for the urgent summons.
"A mine, sir!" reported Brandon.
"By Jove, yes!" agreed Mr. Grant. "We've only just missed it."
The sinister object had evidently been under water for years. Its globular shape was thickly encrusted with barnacles and seaweed. Only a small portion of it was above the surface, but even that relatively diminutive part displayed a pair of aggressive-looking horns. These, composed of brittle material, had only to be fractured and the explosive contents of the mine would be detonated.
"Right in the fairway," remarked Peter.
"Yes," agreed the Scoutmaster. "Right in the line of shipping. It's up to us, lads, to do our best to scotch it. Carline and Phillips! You two keep aft and watch that mine. Don't lose its position whatever you do! Now, lads, down spinnaker! Smartly, now!"
The huge light triangular sail was lowered and unbent in double-quick time, and the spinnaker-boom topped-up into its usual place.
"Down helm!" ordered Mr. Grant. "Mainsheet home! Stand by headsheets!"
The Puffin came round slowly yet surely into the wind, close-hauled on the starboard tack.
"How does the mine bear?" asked the Scoutmaster.
"Two points on our starboard bow, sir," replied Carline.
"Good!" continued Mr. Grant. "Now, lads, listen! We've got to buoy that mine. We can't tow it. That's too risky, because the thing might go up and us with it. On the other hand it might not, since it's probably been under water for eight or nine years. Last week's gale parted it from its moorings, I should imagine. Lee-o! We'll beat up to it as close as we dare."
As soon as the Puffin had settled on the other tack, Mr. Grant continued:—
"Get up one of our water-beakers and empty it, Brandon. You, Talbot, get Letter B flag from the signal locker, and lash it to the boathook staff. Now, Peter, you're a splendid swimmer. Are you willing to run a possible risk? Good, you are! Off with your things, then. You and I are going for a swim."
Scoutmaster and scout began to divest themselves of their clothing. Meanwhile the boathook staff with the red swallow-tail flag attached, had been thrust into the bung-hole of the now empty beaker. A length of stout rope was bent to the barrel and coiled up ready for further use.
The Puffin was now hove-to at about fifty yards from the drifting mine. Mr. Grant and Craddock dived overboard. The beaker was dropped into the water, and the two swimmers, towing their make-shift mark-buoy, made for the mine.
"Near enough!" announced the Scoutmaster. "Keep the buoy as she is, Peter. Don't let it bump alongside, whatever you do. I'm going to dive."
Taking the slack of the rope, Mr. Grant approached to within a few feet of the mine, and disappeared from view. Ahead, and at about six feet underneath the sinister object, he saw what he hoped would be there—a length of rusty iron chain secured to a ring at the base of the mine.
Working rapidly, yet with extreme caution, he bent the end of the line to one of the links of the chain; then, striking out until he was well clear of that barnacle-encrusted menace, he broke surface.
"All secure!" he spluttered. "Let's hope the buoy won't bump before we're well away. Strike out, Peter."
Both swam their hardest. Breathlessly they clambered over the yacht's side, and without loss of time the Puffin gathered way and drew clear of the danger zone. Peter and his Scoutmaster went below to dress.
As soon as possible they regained the cockpit. Brandon was keeping the yacht tacking at about a quarter of a mile from the square of red bunting that indicated the position of the now invisible menace.
"Now for a little signal-practice," said Mr. Grant briskly. "Where's the Code Book. Let's hope our letter B won't be required."
The Puffin was within visual signalling distance of Dungale coastguard station. Her signal, reporting the presence of a floating mine was seen and acknowledged.
"We may as well hang on and see the fun," observed Mr. Grant, and the suggestion met with unanimous approval.
Within half-an-hour the fishery protection gunboat appeared upon the scene, and the highly interested Sea Scouts watched the proceedings with zest.
The gunboat opened fire with rifles and a machine-gun. The red signal flag disappeared as if by magic. All around the spot the water was churned by the hail of bullets. Yet the mine did not explode.
"Probably a dud," commented Brandon when the firing ceased. "They've sunk it, more than likely."
But after a brief interval the gunboat reopened fire. Suddenly a huge column of water was flung high in the air, to be followed almost immediately by the terrific crash of the explosion.
"Good-bye to our beaker, boathook and signal-flag," remarked Peter.
"Lost in a thundering good cause," added the Scoutmaster gravely. "Now, lads! up helm. We've got to look slippy if we're to save our tide!"