It was a long stretch across Rye Bay, the shore being uninteresting, but when the cliffs of Fairlight came into view the monotony of the shore changed to a picturesque aspect. Cliffs, backed by grassy downs, were the predominant feature, whilst coast towns were frequently passed—Hastings, St. Leonards, Bexhill, and then Eastborne—sheltering under the frowning heights of Beachy Head.
"A breeze!" shouted the Patrol-leader, as the hitherto placid surface of the water was ruffled by little cat's paws. "Right aft."
"Set sail," ordered the Scoutmaster; then, under his breath, he added, "the breeze has come at the wrong end of the day's run; hope it won't freshen too much."
By the time Beachy Head Lighthouse—built on a rocky ledge at the base of the lofty cliff—was abeam, a fairly heavy ground swell was beating against the serrated line of rocks.
The Rosalie was now doing practically her maximum speed under both motors and canvas, but with the wind right aft she rolled heavily.
"Is that Newhaven, sir?" asked Stratton, who was now at the helm, pointing to a wide depression in the cliffs.
"You're not the first to make that mistake," remarked the Scoutmaster. "That's Cuckmere Haven. Once, during the war, an M.-L. barged into the haven under the impression she was making Newhaven. It was a pitch-dark night, and before she found out her mistake she was nearly aground. Her crew fired Very lights, to see what sort of show they had got into, and the poor folk ashore thought that the Huns had landed in force. No, Newhaven's a good four or five miles farther along. You'll see it when it opens out beyond Seaford Head."
At that moment Mr. Jackson, who had been spinning yarns to the watch below, came up.
"We're making a good passage, Armitage," he observed. "We ought to make Newhaven by three o'clock."
"I hope to go farther than that," replied the Scoutmaster. "Shoreham, or even Littlehampton. There's bad weather coming, I fancy."