CHAPTER VII
THROUGH THE FOG BANK
"We'll have that jack-yarder aloft, lads!" exclaimed Scoutmaster Grant as the yacht Puffin cleared the entrance to Aberstour Harbour. "It's going to be a fine day and a light wind from the south'ard."
The Otters were having their turn afloat, and, on the principle that a voyage is all the more enjoyable if made with a definite object in view, they had planned a run out to the Vang Lightship with a consignment of papers and magazines to help liven the monotonous existence of the lightship's crew.
Quickly the topsail was set. The yacht being "stiff," she could carry this additional canvas with ease even in a much stronger breeze. Now she was slipping through the dancing, sunlit water at a very modest three knots.
"Jolly sight better than sitting in a stuffy court," remarked Peter Craddock, referring to the recent trial of a certain Harry Benz, who, under the name of George Gregory, had attempted to smuggle a quantity of cocaine.
"I didn't like having to give evidence a bit, sir. And it seemed rough luck that the fellow should get all the punishment and his pals go scot free."
"A case of honour amongst thieves, I expect," remarked Mr. Grant. "He wouldn't divulge the names of his accomplices, and apparently there was a pretty big gang at work."
"I suppose, sir," said Patrol-leader Frank Brandon, "they won't try to pay us out."
"Hardly," replied the Scoutmaster, shaking his head. "They'll look upon our part of the business from a level-headed point of view. They used us as instruments to further their ends—and that without consulting us. They took their chances and got let down. Revenge rarely enters into the case as far as an Englishman is concerned, even amongst rogues."
"Of course, with Spaniards and Italians the case is different. No, I don't think we have any cause for anxiety on that score. Slack off that lee runner a bit, Carline. That's right. Now, Peter, another couple of feet home with that mainsheet."
A couple of hours' run brought the Puffin within hailing distance of the Vang Lightship. The shipkeepers knew the Sea Scouts and guessed their errand.
"Coming aboard, sir?" inquired the mate, who happened to be in charge of the lightship in the absence of the master on shore leave.
"Not to-day, thank you," replied Mr. Grant, noticing that the Vang was riding stern to tide, and was in consequence pitching considerably. "We've just had our topsides painted. Stand by for papers."
One of the men produced a landing-net lashed to the end of a boathook. The Puffin, with staysail a-weather, crept slowly under the lee of the huge, lobster-red hull.
Deftly Brandon transferred the packet of newspapers to the net, receiving in return a small waterproof bag containing the lightship's "mail."
"Righto!" shouted Mr. Grant. "We'll post that little lot for you well before post time. Sheet home, Peter. Up helm, Tom."
"Plenty of time yet, sir," remarked Brandon as the Puffin drew clear of the securely-moored lightship. "Can't we have a run seaward and come back on the young flood?"
"Just what I was about to suggest," agreed the Scoutmaster. "The wind's dropping, I fancy. Plenty of petrol in the tank, I hope?"
"Filled up this morning, sir," was Brandon's reassuring reply.
For the next hour the Puffin held on, her crew basking in the glorious sunshine. Then, with remarkable suddenness the sun disappeared in a watery haze, the temperature dropped considerably, and the crew actually found themselves shivering.
"Fog banking up," announced Mr. Grant. "Luckily we're inside the steamer track. All we'll have to mind is the cross-Channel traffic in and out of Aberstour. Put her about, Brandon. Tide's against us still. If we get closer in-shore we may dodge the worst of it."
The Patrol-leader knew his work. He was well-equipped for his position. Mr. Grant stood aside, ready to correct or criticise; but there was no occasion. The yacht ran up into the wind, fell off on the other tack and gathered way without the faintest hitch.
"Well done, Brandon!" exclaimed Mr. Grant. "I see we shan't escape the fog. It's banking up on all sides. Now I want you to carry on and take all necessary precautions."
In a few minutes the Puffin was enshrouded in a thick, clammy bank of vapour. At times it was impossible to see the bowsprit-end from the cockpit. The wind, too, had dropped until the saturated canvas was barely drawing.
Meanwhile Brandon had told off Phillips to go for'ard as look-out; Wilson was instructed to stand by with the fog-horn; Hopcroft was given the hand-lead with instructions to sound occasionally, while the rest of the crew were to tend sheets and runners, should it be necessary to "go about."
"There's a foghorn, sir," announced Phillips after twenty minutes had elapsed since the arrival of the fog. "Two blasts—that's a sailing vessel on the port tack."
"How does the sound bear?" asked the Patrol-leader.
"On our starboard bow," replied Phillips.
"I thought it was on our port bow!" exclaimed Hopcroft.
"No fear, it was there!" declared Carline, pointing over the yacht's starboard quarter. "Wasn't it, sir?"
Thus appealed to, Mr. Grant had to confess that he was unable to say.
"Wait another minute and you'll hear it again," he added. "Sound plays strange pranks in a fog. Keep our horn going, Wilson; one blast at a time 'cause we're on the starboard tack."
The blare of the stranger's fog-horn grew louder and louder. Still there was no definite indication of the direction from which the sound came. Then a cock crew loudly and brazenly.
"We aren't near land already!" exclaimed Carline.
"No," replied the Scoutmaster. "That shows that the vessel's a fairly large one, since she carries poultry coops. Give her another blast, Phillips."
The resounding echoes had hardly died away when the swish of water from the unseen vessel's bows became unpleasantly audible. Then through a temporary lifting of the mist, appeared the ghostly outlines of a huge full-rigged ship.
A hoarse shout given in a foreign tongue resulted in the stranger porting helm sufficiently to enable her to run under the Puffin's stern. It was a close call, but even in the moment of suspense the Sea Scouts could not help gazing with admiration at the towering canvas and graceful outlines of the craft that had narrowly avoided sending them to the bottom.
"Ohé!" hailed the skipper of the ship. "'Ow ze land bears it?"
"Oldbury Head seven miles nor'-nor'-east," shouted Mr. Grant in reply.
The captain waved his hand in acknowledgement. The great ship glided past, giving the Sea Scouts time to read the words, "Achilles, Nantes," on her stern before she was swallowed up in the fog.
"Frenchman!" exclaimed Craddock. "And isn't she shifting, although there's hardly enough wind to make us answer our helm."
"At any rate, we've done her a Good Turn," remarked Mr. Grant. "She's going about already. Cautious chap, that skipper. Now, Hopcroft, try a cast and let's see where we are."
The lead-line showed a depth of seventeen fathoms, while when the lead was brought on deck the "arming" was thick with fine grey sand.
"Good enough," said the Scoutmaster. "We're still eight miles from land. I gave that fellow a generous amount of scope, which is on the safe side. Now, lads, grub. Watch and watch. Starboard watch will remain on deck while the port watch goes below."
With an appreciative "Ay, ay, sir!" Craddock was about to dive into the cabin when Symington, who had relieved Phillips in the bows, suddenly yelled:
"Vessel dead ahead, sir!"