CHAPTER III

RUN DOWN

A FEW years ago a commander-in-chief is reported to have declared that our seamen are the worst boat-sailors in the world, while another naval officer of high rank has written: "I don't think there is any foreign navy that is not better than us in the handling of their boats--ours is a disgrace." Thanks, however, to the forethought of the Admiralty in providing fore and aft rigged cutters for the use of the cadets at Dartmouth this stigma is gradually being removed.

Owing to the opportunities thus provided Gerald Tregarthen was no novice on board a yacht. He had steered the college cutters to victory on several occasions, and, now once having acquired the knack of dealing with the _Playmate's_ peculiarities, he was quite capable of taking charge of the tiller while Jack Stockton attended to the numerous duties so necessary when about to make a long passage.

Gallantly breasting the young flood the _Playmate_ thrashed her way down the well-lighted channel, passed between the sandy dunes that mark the entrance to Poole Harbour, and negotiated the long, buoyed passage under the lee of Studland Heath. Then, the outer bar-buoy being rounded, the yacht was gybing, and her course shaped for the as yet invisible Needles Light.

This done Jack Stockton put on his oilskins, in anticipation of a "dusting," and Gerald Tregarthen turned in for a few hours' rest.

Left to himself the skipper of the _Playmate_ settled down to his night's vigil. Lighting his pipe he took up a position on the lee side of the cockpit, whence, by occasionally raising himself, he could command a view ahead. Then, keeping the lee shrouds in line with a conveniently placed star, he was able to dispense with the inconvenience of having his eyes glued to the compass-card. Jack was an old hand at the pastime of yachting. Scorning the use of a motor as being detrimental to the joys of sailing, he relied upon his weather lore, the judicious use of the barometer, and a thorough knowledge of the tides to make his voyages, and rarely did he fail to make his desired port. He was an ideal yachtsman--calm and resolute in difficulties, patient in adverse circumstances, loth to run unnecessary risks, yet full of courage and reliance.

With the pale grey dawn the _Playmate_ was within the influence of the mighty St. Catherine's Race, where, fair weather or foul, the tide surges over the uneven bed of the sea at a good five knots.

"Pity to wake him," exclaimed Stockton, as he put the helm hard up, jibbed, and headed for the distant French coast. "Still it can't be helped."

With the gybe Gerald Tregarthen's berth on the leeward side was transformed into the windward one, and the heel and pitching of the little craft deposited him bodily on the floor of the cabin.

"Hallo! Where are we?" he asked, sleepily.

"You, my dear fellow, are wedged in between the swing-table and the floor; I am still at the helm, waiting to be relieved; and the _Playmate_ is approximately two miles southwest of St. Catherine's. Have I made clear our relative positions?"

"Quite, old fellow," replied Tregarthen, scrambling out of the partially closed sliding hatchway. "I'll give you a spell."

"Here you are, sou' by west quarter west," said Stockton, indicating the course; and crawling into the fo'c'sle, he was soon hard at work preparing breakfast.

Having satisfied himself as to the course Tregarthen looked astern. It was a magnificent picture. Away on the port hand a huge man-of-war was heading towards Spithead. By her tripod masts and the peculiar arrangement of her funnels and upper works the sub-lieutenant recognised her as the _Foudroyant_, the latest phase in British naval construction. A mile ahead was a topsail schooner, close-hauled on the starboard tack, her brown and patched canvas gilded by the slanting rays of sunshine, while still further away a few tramps were steaming steadily up Channel, their outlines barely discernible against the morning mist. "How's the glass?" asked Gerald, as his chum regained the cockpit with a deep tray covered with eatables.

"Steady as a rock. Here, wedge this tray in somewhere, and I'll bring out the coffee. We must rough it a bit when we are having meals under way."

In spite of the pitching of the yacht both members of the crew did full justice to the meal. This over, Jack resumed his place at the helm, and Gerald proceeded to his task of "washing up."

The young sub-lieutenant could not help laughing at the ludicrousness of his position. Here was he--an officer of H.M. Navy--cooped up in a most uncomfortable posture in a cramped fo'c'sle, and undertaking a task that he had never before performed. How his brother-officers would roar with amusement could they but see him. Yet he had to confess that the novelty of the whole thing was delightful.

"What about a wash?" he asked, some time later.

"You'll have to whistle for one," replied Jack. "At least, till we reach port. Fresh water's precious at the present time. I'll tell you what--we'll have a bathe over the side."

Gerald looked at the wake of the little craft. The _Playmate_ was bowling along at a bare three knots, and having passed the disturbed waters of the race was now sailing more steadily in the gentle, regular heave of the open Channel.

"How will you manage it--heave-to?"

"No; one at a time. Keep her as she is." Jack quickly divested himself of his clothing, and, grasping the bight of the slackened-off main-sheet, he lowered himself into the sea. There he hung, towed through the waves, with a miniature cascade pouring over his head, till, having had enough, he dexterously regained the yacht.

"Capital!" he exclaimed, shaking the dripping water from his face. "But it's much colder than one would expect for the time of year."

"Deep water always is," replied Gerald, as he prepared to follow his companion's example.

"Are you going to get the dinghy aboard?" he asked, after the ablutionary exercises had been completed. "She's a bit of a drag astern, I fancy."

"No; let her stop. I'm going to turn in now. If it comes on to blow--I don't think it will--give me a shout, and we'll soon whip the dinghy aboard and lash her down securely. In any case turn me out at eight bells."

Gerald thereupon took charge of the helm. The _Playmate_ had already reeled off more than thirty miles of her cross-Channel passage. But though the atmosphere astern was perfectly clear, ahead the horizon was obscured by a haze that blended sea and sky together in an indistinct blurr. The wind, too, was slowly yet gradually dying away, and the yacht was doing little more than two knots.

With the falling of the wind the haze increased in density, so that, two hours after Gerald had taken the helm, the _Playmate_ was fairly in the thick of a dreaded sea-fog.

"Jack, old man, have you a fog-horn aboard?"

Stockton was wide-awake in an instant.

"By George! This is thick," he exclaimed, for already the yacht's bowsprit end was lost to view in the white, curling vapour. "No, I've no fog-horn; I always use a rowlock. Here's one. We'll lash it up to the sliding-hatch."

This done, he struck the suspended rowlock a couple of sharp taps with a mallet.

"There's enough noise to warn any vessel within a cable's length of us," he continued. Gerald grunted. He knew the ways of the sea. A tramp steamer, forging through the fog at a steady eight knots--as they frequently do--would not pay much heed to anything less than a siren.

"All right," he assented; "I'll see to that. You may as well turn in again."

"I've had enough sleep to last me for a time," replied Jack. "I'll keep watch with you. Here, put this on, or you'll get soaked to the skin," he added, producing an oilskin from one of the lockers, and proceeding to don a second one himself.

"What's that?" asked Gerald, after a prolonged interval, as a dull, pulsating sound, quite unlike the noise of a steamer's engines, was borne faintly to their ears.

"Hanged if I know! Here, old chap, get a sweep out, and keep way on her. I'll sound the fog-bell."

Tregarthen did as he was asked, for the yacht was now practically becalmed, while Stockton made a vigorous onslaught upon the improvised fog-bell with his mallet.

Nearer and nearer came the mysterious vibrating sound; then, with appalling suddenness, a shrill, long-drawn blast from a siren sounded as if from overhead.

"By Jove! We'll be run down!" exclaimed Jack, calmly, though he fully realised the danger.

The next instant a hoarse voice shouted: "Ahoy there! Starboard your helm!"

Instinctively Jack thrust the tiller hard over; the yacht, responding slowly to the helm, commenced to describe a wide curve; but in less than ten seconds from the time of the hail a ponderous monster of grey-coloured steel loomed out of the fog, its upper portion lost to view in the mist.

_Crash!_

Although doing a bare five knots the sharp steel bow of the huge vessel caught the _Playmate_ fairly on the port side amidships. The stout planks were shorn through as if made of match-board, the mast snapped off close to the deck, and, as the stick with its spread of canvas fell over the side the water poured in a cataract over the lee-coaming, and through the huge rent in the side of the doomed yacht.