“Perhaps they thought that we gave them the slip at Falmouth,” suggested Talbot. “One or two of the fellows looked a bit doubtful, as if we were pulling their legs, when we explained how it happened. So they’re taking a rise out of us.”
“Stop arguing!” exclaimed Brandon. “Don’t go hanging on to the slack, but get your breakfasts. The sooner we get under way the better.”
By the time the meal had been dispatched and everything below made ship-shape the tide had slackened. There was a light southerly breeze which would enable the Kestrel to romp full and bye up the Solent, and, unless the wind changed in direction, would take her to Chichester Bar without having to tack. It was now nine o’clock. High water at Spithead would occur at four, and if the Kestrel were to make the rendezvous that day, she must arrive off the bar not later than five.
All plain sail was set, the anchor was weighed, and then main and mizzen topsails were sent aloft. Finally, the spinnaker was set with the tack at the bowsprit-end. In fact, every stitch of canvas that could be set was brought into use.
It was a delightful sail. On the starboard hand the crew could enjoy a close view of the well-wooded Isle of Wight, while to port they could discern an expanse of the New Forest and the entrance to Southampton Water.
Through Cowes Roads the Kestrel tore with wind and tide. Here they saw for the first time the Mecca of the yachting world with its swarm of pleasure craft of all sizes and types either anchored or under way. Sailing yachts, motor craft, pleasure steamers thronged the Roads; while further out liners, tramps, and warships added to this picture of merchant activity. There were aeroplanes and flying boats manœuvring, the latter “taking off” from the surface of the water with surprising ease.
Just abreast of the Old Castle Point buoy, Brandon called attention to a couple of cutters, both of which flew the burgee with the fleur de lys. They were on a converging course to that of the Kestrel, and in all probability they would soon come within hailing distance.
But Brandon did not wait for that. Producing a pair of hand flags, he proceeded to semaphore the approaching craft.
“They are Sea Scouts making for the Jamboree, sir,” he announced. “One is from Poole, the other from Weymouth. I’ll ask them if they’ve seen the Merlin pass, since they brought up in Cowes Harbour last night.”
The reply was in the negative; but, the Poole cutter’s signaller added, a large motor yacht passed making for the east’ard with two Sea Scouts’ galleys in tow.