“Why, the Race is coming towards us!” remarked Symington.
“No, it isn’t,” rejoined Brandon drily. “We’re going towards it. Hang on to something solid, you fellows. We’ll be getting wet shirts in a brace of shakes. . . . You all right, sir? Mind that arm!”
The fellows on the Merlin had by this time noticed the danger that threatened them. Two of her crew hurriedly paid out more hawser, an act that at first looked as if the Merlin was about to cast off her well-nigh helpless consort. Some of the former’s crew who had been sitting comfortably on the fore-deck came aft hurriedly when they saw the wall of breaking water approaching.
A minute later and both yachts were in the thick of it. True, it was but the tail end of the dreaded Race, but the sight of the agitated mass of water was none the less awesome. At one moment the Merlin was towing the Kestrel through a calm sea; at the next both craft, pitching, heeling, and staggering, were being assailed by the furious waves.
Again and again the Kestrel dipped her bowsprit, flung her bows high as her stern dropped into the trough of the sea. Spars and solid gear rattled, canvas shook and flapped furiously as boom and gaff, bringing up with disconcerting jerks, threatened to shake the mast out of her, the while the Merlin, similarly assailed, was doing her best to win through. Suddenly a particularly vicious breaker surged over her quarter. The motor stopped. Both yachts were now helpless in the grip of the dreaded overfalls.
CHAPTER XV
“To be Returned in Due Course”
The situation was desperate. The Merlin was now a source of peril to the yacht she had done her best to aid. There was no wind. The fiercely flapping canvas was useless; equally out of the question was it to attempt to make use of the oars, for at one moment the blades would be high in the air, at another buried by the rush of the irregular and foaming waves. Held by the towing hawser, the two yachts were in momentary danger of colliding as they swung round almost parallel to each other and with less than five yards of chaotic water between them.
In a trice, Brandon realised the danger, made up his mind, and acted. At the imminent risk of being either jerked or washed overboard he fought his way for’ard, hanging on desperately as he battled towards his goal. One moment thigh deep in water; at another sprawling on the ridge formed by the steeply heeling cabin-top, he progressed foot by foot. With bleeding knees and broken finger-nails, well-nigh breathless with his struggle, the Patrol Leader contrived to throw himself flat upon the heaving fore-deck. Then, hanging on with his left hand, he succeeded in casting off the rope that held the Kestrel to the Merlin.
Then, obtaining a grip with both hands, Brandon waited to witness the fruits of his hazardous task. At first it seemed as if the act were in vain. The two craft showed no tendency to drift apart; on the contrary, it looked as if they would close. Had they done so, the fate of each would have been sealed, for the strongest yacht ever built would not be proof against the terrific hammering of the two hulls in that tumultuous sea.
After a few minutes of anxious suspense, the distance between the two vessels began to increase. The Merlin swung round until her bows pointed in the opposite direction to her previous course. As she rolled, the crew of the Kestrel could see the Cornish Sea Scouts struggling desperately in a futile attempt to restart the motor.