for the next two days the spindrift remained at st. ives, alternately rolling like a barrel or lying well over on the bottom of the harbour, according to the state of the tide. on the first of those two days it would have been sheer madness to attempt to put to sea: the yacht would have been dismasted or sunk before she came abreast of pendeen. on the second the brief summer gale had moderated. the spindrift might have made the passage round the land successfully, but mr. graham deemed it prudent to wait until the sea calmed down. it looked quiet enough when viewed from the heights above st. ives, but there were those long atlantic rollers between cape cornwall and land's end to be taken into account, to say nothing of the strong current setting towards the deadly brisons.
the greater part of the time was spent ashore. enthusiastic sailor-lads though they were, the sea scouts found that life afloat under these conditions was neither comfortable nor instructive. sleeping on board, with the deck at an angle of 45 degrees was bad enough, but when it came to eating and living in a confined space that was rolling monotonously until the yacht's planks were awash, it was too much for the crew to endure.
at length, the glass began to rise slowly, after suffering a relapse that threatened a harder blow. the weather reports stated that a cyclone of considerable violence and with a narrow path had shifted towards the north sea. vessels putting in from the west'ard reported calm seas, while on the morning of the third day a grey dawn prognosticated a return of fine weather. on a falling tide, and with less than a foot of water under her keel, the spindrift slipped the friendly mooring-chain—their blessing in disguise—and stood out bound round the land. a light nor'-westerly breeze was in her favour, although it was a case of long and short tacks until zennor hill was abeam.
"is that land's end, sir?" asked hayes, pointing to a bold promontory on the port bow.
"no," replied the scoutmaster, "that's cape cornwall. it looks to be the most westerly point of england, and its bold appearance rather bears it out. don't expect too much of land's end. viewed from seaward it has rather a disappointing aspect compared with cape cornwall."
the latter cape rounded, the spindrift stood well out to avoid the brisons, tall detached rocks connected with the shore by a submerged reef, over which the tide swirls furiously.
right ahead, a tall lighthouse reared itself from a low-lying ridge of rocks. it was the longships, one of the beacons lighting the "chops of the channel ".
"we don't have to go outside that, sir, do we?" asked desmond, who was taking his trick at the helm. "the chart shows plenty of water between the longships and the shore."
"no, inside," replied mr. graham. "you'll have to keep on a stern-bearing—keep the highest part of the northern brison west'ard of the highest part of the southern brison. that will take you through. there's land's end, lads."
before the noted promontory drew abeam, mr. graham saw something that caused him certain misgivings. he had wished to round the land in calm weather. that wish was being satisfied; but with the calm came a sea-fog. already the high ground above land's end was being obscured by a pall of fleecy vapour.
to make matters worse the wind died away, leaving the spindrift rolling sluggishly, with her canvas hanging idly from her swaying yards.
"we're in for a fairly thick fog, desmond," said the scoutmaster quietly. "take a compass bearing of land's end before it's shut out. good: now keep her head on sou'-by-east. jock, start up the motor. the sooner we get into the english channel the better."
five minutes later the spindrift was enveloped in the dense, clammy fog. from the cockpit it was impossible to see the bowsprit end, while the headsails, grey and grotesquely distorted, seemed baffling in their size and appearance.
somewhere astern, the longships lighthouse was throwing out its fog-signals—two explosive rockets every five minutes. faintly, and far ahead, came the hoarse bray of a steamer's syren. ashore a dog was barking dismally—the noise too close to be appreciated by the crew of the fog-bound yacht; while in the flat calm, the roar of the surf upon the iron-bound coast was an audible reminder of the fate a small craft might expect should she be carried upon that dangerous shore.
it was the scoutmaster's plan to hold on the present course until the yacht was well clear of the coast; then to shape a course up-channel until the fog lifted. he was of opinion that it would be far safer to spend a day and a night afloat, if necessary, with plenty of sea-room, than to attempt to find his way into penzance in a blinding fog, and to risk being swept ashore or being carried upon one of the numerous reefs or detached rocks which abound on the west side of mount's bay.
although the spindrift's compass had no deviation card, the scoutmaster had verified it by taking various bearings on the run from bude to st. ives. he found that the compass was remarkably accurate with the vessel's head pointing between west and sou'-west; but whether there was an error in the compass on an easterly course he had not the slightest idea.
consequently, he decided to take no undue risks on that score, and when, after an hour's steady progress under motor-power, the spindrift was, according to his calculation, four miles south of land's end, he ordered a course east-by-south.
the sea scouts had been caught out in fogs off the essex coast several times. then the usual procedure was to stand shorewards and drop anchor in about one fathom at low water, until the fog lifted. in such shallow water there was very little risk of being run down.
but in the present circumstances anchoring was out of the question. all they could do was to carry on with the utmost caution, until a lifting of the pall of vapour gave them a chance of verifying their position.
although the lads did not realize the gravity of the situation to the same extent as did their scoutmaster, they felt far from happy. it was an eerie experience, forging ahead at about three knots through the mist. no longer could they hear sound from the shore. the noise of the exhaust from the motor deadened everything, the sharp reports reverberating as the sound was thrown back by the enclosing vault of fog.
suddenly a loud whistling noise rent the air, its weird shriek outvoicing the roar of the motor.
"down helm!" shouted mr. graham.
findlay, who had relieved the patrol leader at the helm, put the tiller hard over. even as he did so, a faint light appeared through the fog almost on top of the yacht. then the crew had a brief glimpse of a large can-buoy, painted in black-and-white vertical stripes, as it swept past them, straining at its moorings in the strong tideway.
it was a narrow squeak. a few feet nearer and the spindrift would have crashed violently into the buoy. even her stout planks and heavy timbers could not have withstood the shock.
five seconds later the buoy was lost in the mist, but as a parting reminder it emitted another long-drawn whistle.
"it's the run-something buoy, sir," said desmond. "i saw the first three letters painted on the side."
"runnelstone," said mr. graham. "it marks a dangerous rock off the coast. fortunately, we were outside the buoy. put her east-sou'-east, jock."
mr. graham realized that there was something wrong. although he had allowed, as he thought, ample margin, the original course was not sufficient to give the coast a wide enough berth. either the compass was in error, or else a strong indraught of tide was setting the yacht ashore. by steering another point to the south'ard the spindrift ought to be clear of everything.
hour after hour passed in nervous tension. all the crew kept on deck, straining their eyes needlessly, and listening for the faintest sound. in spite of oilskins, they were wet through. the fog, cold and clammy, seemed to penetrate everything. at one time, the fog-horns and wrens of several craft were distinctly audible. at another a bell clanged dolorously. but for the most part the yacht was in a zone of silence, broken only by the noise of the engine and the sullen splash of the water against her bows.
"switch off the motor, jock," said the scoutmaster. "we haven't any too much petrol, and we may want the engine to help us into port."
"how far are we from penzance now, sir?" asked hayes.
"bother the boy: he does ask awkward questions," thought mr. graham. he could not say, for the simple reason that he was out of his course; and to state that fact would be an admission of incompetence as far as his crew were concerned. it might also tend to put them in a state of alarm.
"we are not making for penzance," he replied. "with the fog hiding everything it would be too risky to close the coast. so we are going to carry on all night, if necessary. with plenty of sea-room and a calm sea there's nothing much to worry about. now, then. all hands below for tea. i'll take the helm until desmond comes on deck to relieve me."
at length, the murky daylight began to fail. night was approaching. the fog was as thick as ever, notwithstanding a faint westerly breeze that had sprung up.
already canvas had been hoisted, and the spindrift was gliding through the water at about 3 1/2 knots—forcing her way through the dense bank of vapour that, in the gathering darkness, could be felt—actually felt.
for hours not a sound had been heard from without. an uncanny silence was in the air. even the breeze failed to give its tuneful song as it usually does when it hums through the rigging.
at ten o'clock a large steamer, going at high speed and blaring incessantly with her siren, passed within fifty yards of the little spindrift; for a temporary lift in the fog showed her port light like a gigantic blur of fire. so great was the steamer's speed, that her bow wave broke completely over the yacht's weather side, causing her to roll so furiously that hayes afterwards said it was as if the spindrift was standing on her head.
"not much use blowing our fog-horn," remarked findlay. "they didn't take the slightest bit of notice."
"there's one good thing: they missed us," said desmond.
within the next half-hour half a dozen other craft were heard at varying distances, fortunately not close enough to cause apprehension.
evidently the yacht was either crossing or converging upon one of the regular "lanes" of shipping; but curiously enough, mr. graham failed to detect any fog signals from shore stations. he had listened for the lizard, and later on, the eddystone, but in vain. he had to admit that he was completely out of his reckoning, but he made this admission to himself.
"turn in, lads!" he ordered briskly. "turn in all standing, except your shoes, in case you're wanted on deck in a hurry."
"how about you, sir?" asked the patrol leader. "can't i take a watch, and let you turn in? i'm not at all sleepy really, sir."
"all right, then," agreed the scoutmaster, inwardly glad to have company during the night watches. "you can do a trick with me on the understanding that you turn in at dawn. you others, watch below!"
scoutmaster and patrol leader, both clad in oilskins in addition to their pilot jackets, prepared for their long trick. desmond, supremely confident in his officer's capabilities, had lost that sense of dread which had gripped him in the early stages of the fog. he was rather enjoying the novelty of a night at sea in thick weather.
but not so mr. graham. the fog had upset all his calculations. added to this, the obvious unreliability of the compass had destroyed his sense of direction. the leadline was all but useless. it was but twenty fathoms in length, and at no time during the fog had the crew been able to strike soundings.
it was a long night. at intervals mr. graham consulted the luminous dial of his wristlet watch, and was surprised to find how slowly the hours passed. then there was more trouble with the compass. the light did not burn well, and condensation on the underside of the binnacle glass made it a matter of great difficulty to read the points. it was only by flashing his electric torch directly upon the card that the scoutmaster was able to shape a course.
yet he "kept his end up", chatting on various subjects with his youthful companion, the while stifling the ever-present suggestion that the spindrift was lost in the fog-enshrouded english channel.
at last the blackness of the night gave place to a greyish light that indicated dawn. the fog still held and showed no sign of dispersal, while the wind held steadily from the same quarter.
"daybreak, desmond!" exclaimed the scoutmaster, stretching his cramped limbs and yawning. "down below you go. turn findlay out, and get him to make some hot cocoa before you turn in."
five minutes later jock thrust a tousled head through the companion and sniffed inquiringly.
"where are we now, sir?" was the question mr. graham expected—and got.
"still running up-channel," was the scoutmaster's unsatisfactory reply. "until the fog lifts we must not close the shore."
"i'll give you a spell, sir, directly i've made the cocoa," said findlay. "we haven't much fresh water left, sir. only about a gallon."
left to himself, mr. graham threw a used match over the side and watched it drift until it was lost to sight in the fog. by the rate at which it drifted, the scoutmaster estimated the yacht's speed at three knots. assuming that that speed had been maintained from the time the spindrift rounded land's end, she had already covered a distance of forty miles in thirteen hours—the time the tide was against her being equalized by an equal period when it was in her favour. that meant that she ought to be fifteen or twenty miles east-sou'-east of the lizard, but mr. graham felt none too sure about that.
presently, findlay appeared with two cups of steaming cocoa and half a dozen dry biscuits on the lid of a tin.
"i've served out cocoa to the others, sir," he reported.
the scoutmaster drank his cocoa gratefully, and began to nibble a biscuit. it was only then that he realized how thirsty and hungry he was. he had carried on throughout the night without any desire to eat or drink, and maybe could have held on much longer had not jock brought the meal on deck.
then came the almost overpowering desire for sleep. more than once, findlay, who was as fresh "as paint", caught mr. graham nodding his head over the tiller.
"won't you turn in, sir?" asked the lad. "i'll keep her going and call you if there's anything to report."
mr. graham shook his head.
"i'll stick it," he declared. "when the fog lifts i may snatch a few minutes."
but alas for the scoutmaster's resolution! five minutes later he awoke with a start as the yacht ran up into the wind, and the slatting of canvas brought the three sea scouts hurriedly on deck.
"take her, jock," said mr. graham wearily, as he handed over the helm. "i must have a spell-o. i'll turn in on the cockpit floor. kick me if you want me."
