CHAPTER XXIII
CAUGHT BY THE SQUALL
"I can trust young Craddock to do anything or go anywhere within the bounds of possibility," declared Scoutmaster Grant. "He's a bit imaginative, I admit, and apt to jump to conclusions, but he's got the makings of a fine, trustworthy man."
"He is certainly plucky," agreed Mr. Clifton. "And he has proved himself very useful on board the Thetis. He seems to have distinguished himself in several ways while I was off the yacht, visiting my brother, who was taken suddenly ill. Yes, young Craddock's a smart youngster, who would make a rattling good officer of the Mercantile Marine, although I shouldn't be at all surprised if his parents didn't shove him into a bank or make him cram up for the Civil Service. I've known heaps of cases like that—strong, healthy fellows condemned to a sedentary life when their one desire is to go to sea. Hullo! here he comes."
Hurrying along the tow-path came Peter Craddock. The Thetis was lying at Ravensholm. For one thing, a spell of very bad weather had detained her, and for another, Mr. Clifton had been compelled to make several hurried journeys to his home and could not spare time to take the yacht round to her laying-up port.
Craddock had remained on board almost continuously, but his holiday was drawing to a close, and very soon he would have to bid farewell to the sea until Easter.
Then, by what Peter considered to be a rare slice of luck, Scoutmaster Grant found an opportunity of coming round to Ravensholm to help Mr. Clifton take the Thetis home. That meant that Craddock would have what he had long been hoping for—a long sea passage in the capable little yacht.
It was Tuesday morning. Craddock had been sent into the town to purchase provisions for the voyage. The water tanks had already been filled. All that remained on Peter's return was to unmoor and set sail, then good-bye to Ravensholm and its fresh-water river, and "yo ho!" for the rolling billows of the English Channel. Even Rex, the sheep dog, seemed to have an inkling of what was in his master's mind, for he had shaken off his usual lethargy and was frisking about on deck as if to hurry on the process of getting under way.
The wind was well aft going down the river, and the Thetis made short work of the run. Instead of a series of short tacks, requiring constant work with the sheets, as was the case when the Thetis ascended the river, there was little to be done beyond an occasional gybe when a bend in the course made such a manoeuvre imperative.
In a little over an hour the Thetis had crossed the bar and was responding to the gentle lift of the English Channel.
"Jolly fine, sir, to taste the spray," commented Peter as a feather of foam flew in over the yacht's weather bow. "How long will the passage take?"
Mr. Grant shook his head.
"Can't say," he replied. "It depends entirely upon whether the breeze holds, since Mr. Clifton doesn't care to use the motor. At this rate, we ought to make Mapplewick before dark."
Alas, for that surmise! Just about noon the wind failed entirely, and the Thetis, with jack topsail set above her mainsail and a jib-headed topsail over her mizzen, was helplessly becalmed. She had set every possible stitch of canvas, but to no purpose. There she lay, rolling sluggishly, with the main-boom swinging from side to side with a succession of jerks that every sailing man knows and has good cause to hate.
The rays of the sun beat pitilessly down upon the deck, while the oily surface of the water reflected the glare and seemed to throw off as much heat as that from the orb of day.
Mr. Grant gave an inquiring glance at his chum, but Mr. Clifton shook his head.
"No," he replied, "we won't use the engine. Bad seamanship—very. Motors weren't known in my young days, and we yachtsmen got on very well without them. Always managed to fetch somewhere after a calm."
So they stuck it.
It was a tedious experience. Nothing could be done. The Thetis wallowed and rolled, swept slowly and imperceptibly along by a steady two-knot tide. The low-lying shore was invisible, there were no buoys or beacons in sight, not even another sail—nothing to be seen but an expanse of cloudless sky and mirror-like sea.
"How about grub?" inquired the owner of the Thetis, shaking off his drowsiness and stretching his cramped limbs.
The suggestion met with unqualified approval.
"All right," added Scoutmaster Grant. "Craddock and I will get the food ready, if you'll stand by the tiller."
Accordingly Peter made for the fo'c'sle and started up the Primus stove, while Mr. Grant prepared the saloon table and foraged in the tiny pantry.
The kettle was almost on the point of boiling when Mr. Clifton shouted down the companion.
"On deck, you two! There's a brute of a squall coming!"
The warning was instantly acted upon. On gaining the deck Craddock saw that it was not an exaggerated one. Less than a quarter of a mile away the hitherto tranquil sea was being lashed into a triangular sheet of white foam—one of those sudden squalls that, although rare, are to be met with in British waters, and of which the barometer gives little or no warning.
"Down with the jack-yarder!" ordered the skipper. "Take the helm, Peter, and luff her up when the squall strikes her."
The two men sprang to the topsail halliard, sheet and downhaul. The two latter "rendered" without a hitch, but the halliard obstinately refused to run through the block.
"Jammed!" exclaimed Mr. Clifton, bringing all his weight to bear upon the downhaul in a vain effort to lower the canvas. "Lower away the peak! That'll ease her."
Before the peak halliard of the mainsail could be cast off from the fife-rail belaying-pin, the squall struck the yacht. With a shrill, eerie shriek the first puff hit the hitherto becalmed vessel, and in spite of her stiffness threw her over almost on to her beam ends, so much so that water poured in torrents over the lee coamings into the water-tight cockpit.
The canvas groaned and shuddered at the furious blast, while the jack-yard topsail blew out like a banner.
Vainly Craddock, hanging on like grim death, thrust the tiller hard down. The Thetis refused to answer to her helm. Sheets of white-crested water flew completely over the cabin-top, wetting the mainsail half-way up to the hounds. As for Mr. Grant and Mr. Clifton, all they could do was to grip the nearest object of a substantial nature and await developments. It was impossible to release the head sheets, since the lee waterways were more than knee-deep.
Above the noise of the elements came a report like the bark of a quick-firer. A cloth of the mainsail had been slit from top to bottom. Simultaneously the clew of the jib carried away, and the sail flapping violently in the wind, added to the deafening din.
That proved a blessing in disguise. The carrying away of the jib assisted the Thetis to come up into the wind. More like a submarine than a yacht, she sluggishly shook herself clear of the water and began to gather way.
The worst was now over. The squall was of short duration, and although the Thetis was travelling fast, she was no longer in danger of being capsized or dismasted. Yet in all conscience the damage was serious.
"Where's Rex?" shouted Mr. Grant, knowing that the sheep dog had been lying under the lee of the cabin skylight.
"Rex is all right," replied the dog's owner reassuringly. "He's a knowing customer. Bolted down below a good twenty seconds before the squall came. Righto, Peter, I'll take the helm."
A couple of short barks came from below. Mr. Clifton turned to the Sea Scout.
"Nip below, Peter," he said, "and see what's wrong. I know the meaning of that bark."
Craddock hurried down the companion-ladder. The saloon was in a state of confusion. The heel of the yacht during the squall was too great for the maximum inclination of the swing-table, consequently the tea-things had slid off and were lying in a disordered heap on the floor, together with the best part of the ship's library and the cushion of the wind'ard bunk.
But it was not for that that Rex had given alarm.
The violent motion had unshipped the Primus stove from its gimbals and the fierce blue flame had burnt a considerable part of the fo'c'sle floor, notwithstanding the wet state of the boards. It was owing to the latter circumstance that the fire was not more serious. As it was, Peter replaced the stove, taking care to release the air and quickly beat out the flames with a damp towel.