“I see them, too,” added Talbot.
“So do I,” agreed Mr. Grant. “Well, now we know where we are, more or less. That’s the Eddystone.”
He took a rough compass bearing and went below to apply the reading to the chart. The result rather surprised him. According to the calculation, the Kestrel ought to have been farther to the south’ard. Either there was considerable deviation of the compass, or else the yacht had been carried northwards by a tidal current. Leeway did not enter into the problem, as the Kestrel had been running free—except for two brief intervals—from the time she picked up the breeze.
It was something to be able to pick up the Eddystone light, but the knowledge alone could not determine the Kestrel’s position. A second bearing cutting the first as near as possible at right angles would fix that.
By the aid of his night glasses, the Scoutmaster swept the horizon away to the nor’ard, hoping to pick up St. Catherine’s light at the entrance to Fowey Harbour. But the night was still hazy, and the light was invisible.
A tramp steamer passed at about a cable’s length to port. The moon emerging from a bank of scudding clouds showed her plunging heavily into the head seas. Frequently showers of glistening spray completely hid her bows and flew high over her bridge. Yet the Kestrel, flying before the wind, was making easy weather of it.
Mr. Grant was now confronted with a difficult problem: whether to carry on or to bear up and run for shelter into Plymouth Sound. On first thoughts he favoured the latter alternative. With an injured man on board, and having several hours before dawn to make for shelter, this seemed the obvious thing to do. Then he considered the difficulties. He had never been into Plymouth before. He was a stranger to the intricate currents inside the breakwater. The Sound and Hamoaze were generally crowded with shipping. The numerous navigation and riding-lamps were apt to be particularly perplexing to a stranger, and there was no small risk of disaster should an error of judgment occur.
On the other hand, the Kestrel was proving herself to be a capital sea-boat. Better then to hold on, keeping plenty of sea-room, and gain the sheltered waters of Start Bay at daybreak.
Mr. Grant chose the latter alternative and stuck to it. Indecision he held to be worse than incompetence. A person in charge of a vessel and unable to make up his mind was a menace to his crew; an incompetent skipper, although a despicable character, could be superseded in a critical situation by a better man.
Keeping Craddock and Heavitree on deck, the Scoutmaster took the helm and told the rest of the crew to turn in. The two hefty Sea Scouts were sufficient to assist him in the management of the yacht in a stiff blow at night. The others would only be in the way. In addition they would be as limp as rags in the morning.